He was brusque as he opened the door. ‘Now, what do you want to show me?’
I walked over to the bar, my evidence kit in hand.
‘I don’t know what you think we missed,’ he said.
‘You missed nothing. Your team simply found something it shouldn’t have.’
‘I won’t pretend to know what you mean by that.’
‘Let me show you.’
I opened the kit and took out the dusting powder, brushes and transparencies.
‘Press your whole palm on the surface of the bar, please,’ I said.
‘How?’
‘Just press down with a moderate amount of pressure.’
Ajay did as I asked.
‘Perfect,’ I said. He raised his hand and crossed his arms. I quickly brushed powder over where his imprint should have been.
‘What do you see?’ I asked.
‘Not much,’ he said.
‘Exactly.’ I then took the transfers and scanned them. ‘See this?’ I said, as the first image opened on my laptop. ‘There is absolutely no ridge detail available here. Only a broader sort of smudge.’
‘Why?’
‘Because this screen has been specially treated with a product designed to repel both water and oil. And as you know, fingerprints are the traces left behind by our body’s natural oils.’
‘I’ve never heard of such a screen before.’
‘The coating has been designed for numerous purposes, mostly industrial. It is used on touchscreen surfaces to reduce the smudges and smears that appear with use. This being a cutting-edge professional bar, designed for handling by many people while displaying high-definition advertising images, it has received that treatment.’
‘How did you figure this out?’
‘Viraat spilled a glass of water on it the day Afreen died. It behaved very oddly. It didn’t hit me then but when I considered that highly improbable fingerprint more closely, it eventually came to me.’
No need to mention the moment of epiphany over a salad, or beads of suspended fluids dancing in my vinaigrette.
‘Try it again at a different spot,’ said Ajay. ‘This time with your own prints.’
‘This is no magic trick.’
‘I know. I just need to be sure.’
I wiped away the residual powder and repeated the demonstration.
Ajay stood there, jaw clenched. ‘You know I still can’t release Shayak. Not on the basis of this alone.’
‘Why?’
‘The gun.’
‘But doesn’t this prove someone is trying to frame him?’
‘It’s not enough.’
‘Even though anyone could have fired the gun that shot Afreen?’
‘Reema, you don’t know how these things work.’
A phone call from the right person was far more powerful than evidence from a nobody. ‘Ajay,’ I said, exasperated, ‘I think I know exactly how it works.’
I got back home and reassembled my makeshift team of Terrence and Neeraj. It was time for the gloves to come off.
I first turned to Neeraj. ‘How do you feel about hacking the e-mail ID of a murdered woman?’
‘Like it is something that might land me in jail.’
‘What if the same rules apply as yesterday?’
‘Double pay? I’d say the fastest way to my heart is through my wallet.’
I gave him Afreen’s e-mail ID.
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Anything that connects with Shayak Gupta, Titanium, Kimaaya Kapoor, Ashutosh Dhingre or George Santos.’
Terrence raised a brow. ‘George Santos?’
‘Yes. You are from Goa, right?’
‘Originally, yes. Lived in Calcutta all my life, though.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Spiritual, self-help type guru. There is plenty of information in the public domain.’
‘Seeing as how I do my best to avoid the gossip columns, I apparently missed it all.’
‘Give me half an hour and I’ll put together a document for you.’
I turned my attention back to the chart paper, which was now overrun with what would look to an outsider like random neural firings, when I received a call from Shakuntala Padhy.
‘Prashant Parashar has surfaced,’ she said.
‘Where has he been?’
‘He says he was being held in a house somewhere on the outskirts of the city.’
‘Can he identify his captors?’
‘He says there were two men, but he didn’t see their faces.’
‘Can I meet him?’
‘I am with him at his home. Why don’t you come over now?’
I took directions and hung up. ‘I need to go,’ I told Neeraj and Terrence.
‘This will take me a while, so I’ll be here,’ said Neeraj.
‘Do you have anything yet?’ I asked Terrence.
‘Not much, but I will soon.’
‘Can you mail me if you find anything of interest? I’ll read it on my phone.’
In the half hour it took me to reach Parashar’s residence in Andheri, I received a mail from Neeraj marked ‘Urgent’.
Your girl received some pretty unfriendly mails from an unknown sender I have not yet been able to identify, digging for information on what was going on at Maaya Island the day after the murder. No sign that she replied. Sender’s bases covered pretty comprehensively.
My pulse quickened. Here at last was a definitive link between the two murders. Afreen either knew something – or someone believed she might know something – about the death of Ashutosh Dhingre. The conversation I had overheard was surely someone trying to get information from her – using George Santos’ motto as emotional leverage. Now if I could only figure out what it all meant.
At the home of Prashant Parashar, I composed my thoughts as I waited at the door. Shakuntala let me in and led me to a small living room. There sat Parashar, a small man wearing a blue half-sleeved shirt and baggy khakis, feet bare. His wet hair told me he had showered but he had not shaved, and his grey-peppered beard sat uneasy on his face and contributed to the general air of shell shock.
Shakuntala introduced us. ‘He was abducted not far from our office the day you spoke,’ she said.
‘Can you tell me anything about where you were taken?’ I asked.
‘It seemed like it was the middle of nowhere,’ he began. ‘For much of the way it was quiet and took a long time to get to. My head was covered with some sort of bag, so I had no idea where I was going. The only thing I can tell you for sure is that before we reached our destination, we were travelling on a highway for some time.’
‘Did you see your assailants?’
‘No. Not then or later. They were very careful. I thought from their voices that there were two of them, but mainly it was just one guy staying in the house.’
‘How did they restrain you?’
‘I was tied,’ he said, holding up raw, red-ringed wrists. ‘But I also think I was drugged. There are periods of time I can’t really remember.’
‘How did they release you?’
‘Same way they abducted me – drove me, bag over my head, to an empty field off Navi Mumbai. I called Shakuntala who had me picked up.’
‘They were nice enough to give your cell phone back?’
‘Fully charged.’
‘You want to tell me how you really came by that pen drive?’
He looked contrite. ‘Someone had contacted me by e-mail after I had written a piece about Kimaaya being dropped from one of her film projects.’
‘What did they say?’ I asked.
‘That they had information that would give me the scoop of the year. At first I thought it was a hoax but I kept getting these mails and then, when I showed an interest, the person said the information was mine on condition that I didn’t seek out the sender’s identity. And that we didn’t contact Kimaaya before publication.’
‘Did you?’
‘No – the on
ly thing we were concerned about is the authenticity of the information.’
‘So what you wrote in your article about not being able to reach Kimaaya for comment …’
‘Wasn’t true.’
I stole a glance at Shakuntala. Her lips pursed for just a second, displeasure quickly filed away for another time.
‘Then why did they abduct you?’
‘To tell me that if I spoke to you or any other investigators again, I would be sleeping with the sharks or something to that effect.’
‘That’s a lot of effort and time for a threat.’
Parashar shook his head. ‘I am as confused as you are, but I really wasn’t in a position to ask them about their motive, or to expect them to answer.’
‘Did they mention me by name?’ I asked.
‘No, now that I think of it, they didn’t.’
They had known within moments of our conversation that we were planning to meet. The killer had also known Dhingre was on his way to warn Kimaaya.
‘Had Dhingre called you before heading to Maaya Island?’
‘Not just before, but he kept calling, threatening to tell her everything.’
‘Where is your cell phone now?’
He held it up.
‘I wouldn’t use it if I were you.’
His eyes widened.
‘How did they treat you?’ I continued.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did they feed you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of food?’
‘Uh … bread and cheese. Maggi. Roti-sabzi one day. How does it matter?’
‘What about water?’
‘Yeah, they gave it to me when I asked. Tea too, a couple of times.’
‘Are you sure you never heard or saw anything that might tell us where they held you? Think hard.’
Parashar looked uncertain. ‘It’s all so hazy … but there was a phone call, during which one of the men said something about being near the Paras Hills food factory.’
‘Paras Hills?’ asked Shakuntala.
‘Yes,’ replied Parashar.
‘You know where that is?’ I asked.
Shakuntala nodded. ‘It’s right next to a piece of land that was acquired for a factory which then went under dispute. It was in the headlines quite a lot about six months ago. About an hour outside the city.’
‘What else is out there?’
‘Some factories, fishing villages, not much else. It’s an uninspiring stretch of coast. Industrial run-off and politics have ensured its unsuitability as a home for resorts or luxury housing, even though it is on the water.’
‘It could be worth a trip,’ I said.
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘I’m pretty sure it is not.’
From what it sounded like, the abductors had merely wanted Parashar out of the way to obscure the source of the information they had leaked. Someone had panicked when they realized he might be speaking to me. When his silence had no more value, they had released him.
Ordinarily I would have called in reinforcements – armed reinforcements – to scope out the place. But I didn’t have good information – and it definitely was not enough to put both myself and Vinod at risk.
In the absence of Titanium’s long arm, I would have to work smart. I went back again to that whispered conversation on the island, and the bridge that had been built between Parashar and Dhingre at the intervention of the newspaper, which had prompted Dhingre’s desperate measures to protect an unreceptive Kimaaya. ‘Shakuntala,’ I said, ‘would it be possible to bring in Bindu Bisht?’
‘Why?’
‘She is holding a piece to this puzzle. I can’t tell you more than that right now.’
She nodded and made the call. ‘My office, 6 pm,’ she told me, striding off.
SEVENTEEN
‘Quite a piece of work, this George Santos,’ Terrence said as I walked in. ‘Guru for all seasons. Spiritual, corporate, relationship – he seems to have an answer for everything.’
‘Who is he?’ I asked.
‘No one seems to be clear about that. British expat. Has lived around the world according to various interviews, and was a regular in the Goa 1970s scene in his youth. He only settled down there in the past few years, during which time he has been doing the rounds of the Goa-Mumbai celebrity circuit. Everyone who wants to be anyone goes to him for these transformational workshops he holds at his retreat.’
‘What is he selling?’
‘Enlightenment.’
‘God man-style?’
‘He leaves God out of it. His focus is on self-awareness in “all its many facets”, cutting through all the bull that holds us back from becoming our best self.’
‘Jeez. Where does he fit into our picture?’
‘Adil Khan met him while researching a role he had a couple of years ago.’
That still didn’t explain how Afreen fit in. ‘Anything about Afreen and Adil, or George?’ Mona aka Miss Sara had mentioned a sugar daddy who helped her get her break. Could that be George?
‘There is nothing on her. But she would be too small a name to be mentioned in any of these puff pieces.’
I turned to Neeraj. ‘Anything from Afreen’s mail that can shed light?’
He shook his head. ‘She doesn’t seem to have been much of an electronic communicator.’
‘Nothing on Santos?’
‘Nope. Not much of anything except e-mail forwards, spam and those strange mails I told you about.’
‘Can I see them?’
Neeraj pulled up a file. ‘He expects your loyalty. Answer your phone. Reply to this mail. Anything to prove your commitment.’
And the next morning: ‘What is happening out there? What do you know? If you don’t respond, expect a visit.’
A visit – and a threat. ‘Run a search for Bindu Bisht and George.’
‘Coming up.’
What he found was not just any article but an experiential narrative of a week in a workshop with George. I skimmed through it and learned how he was surrounded by celebrities in search of self-discovery, foreign patrons who had given up on raves in favour of finding the path to their ‘best self ’, sporting the latest designer resort wear and chowing down detox food – organic, of course. It was eastern exotica meets western self-help set against a deliciously luxe backdrop. And Bindu Bisht had signed up for the full package.
‘Yes, I know George Santos. So does half of Mumbai.’
Bindu was seated before Shakuntala and me, in the editor’s office. She was right too: the part of Mumbai in which Bindu moved was Santos’ happy hunting ground.
‘Somehow, Bindu, you have a connection with a number of elements of this case,’ I said. ‘I am just trying to understand them.’
‘What are you going on about?’ she said with a wave of the hand. Gone was Bindu’s veneer of decency; she had no time for me or my questions.
‘You were acquainted with Ashutosh Dhingre, a fact that Shakuntala leveraged to verify explosive information, making you one of the very few people who knew Kimaaya’s secrets before they were printed in the paper.’
‘Yes, I was at the meeting.’
‘And you also know George Santos, who is somehow connected to Afreen.’
‘She was one of his many students.’
‘Did he get her the role in the MTM film?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘What was he? Her sugar daddy?’
Bindu laughed. ‘George doesn’t need to sleep with two-bit starlets.’
‘So he did it out of the kindness of his heart?’
‘More likely a favour for someone.’
‘And you wouldn’t happen to know who that someone might be?’
‘No.’
‘It was you who mentioned to George this information about Kimaaya, which is how he knew about it before it made its way into the paper.’
‘Definitely not.’ Her outrage seemed like it might be genuine.
Bindu had a pretty game poker face, but even she couldn’t conceal her surprise at this.
‘That was nothing, just a message delivered,’ she said at last.
‘He wanted to know what was happening on that island. Why do you think that is?’
‘He didn’t tell me any of that! He just said that he was expecting a call from Afreen and was annoyed at not having heard anything.’
‘So annoyed that he had to send you to make contact? That didn’t strike you as suspicious?’
‘I was going to meet Kimaaya anyway. This was just one more reason to make the trip.’
‘Bindu, I think you can be a little more helpful than that,’ said Shakuntala.
‘Look, as far as I know, the only thing connecting George and Afreen is this film he is helping Adil make.’
‘George is the producer?’
‘No, but he is involved somehow. You really should be asking him these questions, not me.’
‘Did he say why he wanted you to send this message?’
‘He only said he needed to know what was going on, that he wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important. He couldn’t go himself as he was in Europe then.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘As is the rest of the world. He’s been delivering talks around the globe that are being streamed live online. When we talked, he said he was in Germany somewhere.’
‘But I met him on the set soon after.’
‘He must have got back subsequently.’
‘You took it as a matter of course that he would call you from overseas to go have a chat with a perfect stranger on his behalf?’
‘Not a matter of course, no, but also not a matter of murder.’
I would check his tour dates, but I didn’t doubt Bindu’s words, nor did it really matter where George was. Even if he
Once home, it didn’t take long to confirm that George had just returned from Zurich the night before we met. The days of the Dhingre and Afreen murders, he was in Berlin and Paris respectively.
‘Neeraj,’ I said, ‘I need something more on this man.’
‘Permission to hack?’ he said.
Dead in a Mumbai Minute Page 25
