Private India

2006

THEY EXPLODED DURING rush hour.

Pressure-cooker bombs hidden in the first-class carriages of commuter services running from Mumbai’s financial district to its suburbs. Survivors would speak of bodies flung from trains, carriage floors awash with blood, screams and screams and screams...

The first bomb had gone off at exactly 6:24 p.m. All seven exploded in the space of eleven minutes. Over two hundred dead, over seven hundred injured.

And even Mumbai, no stranger to terrorist action, was shocked by the ferocity of the attacks. A city of thirteen million people, home to Bollywood, temporarily paralyzed, its airports on lockdown, its transport networks frozen.

And amid the hunt to find those responsible, fresh battle lines were drawn.

Chapter 1

Fourteen minutes per room was all she had.

Whether it was tidy or left smeared with chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and telltale buttmarks on the recliner, fourteen minutes was what she had to clean each room. Start in the bathroom, change the towels, change the bed, clean the cups, dust and vacuum, and then on to the next room.

And though she would never have admitted it to her colleagues at the Marine Bay Plaza, Sunita Kadam took a pride in meeting (and especially beating) that fourteen-minute time limit. In fact, on her housekeeping cart was a stopwatch she carried for that very purpose. She picked it up as she arrived at room number 1121 and knocked smartly — maid’s knock, loud but gentle — then began the stopwatch.

Twenty seconds. No answer. With a deliberate jangle of master keys she let herself in.

“Hello? Housekeeping.”

Again no answer. Good. And what’s more, the room was tidy. Though an evening dress hung from a handle of the closet, the bed looked as if it hadn’t been slept in. Nets at the window billowed beneath a blast of air conditioning, giving the room a clean, aired feel. Six minutes to service this room, thought Sunita. Maybe seven.

Unless, of course, there was a nasty surprise in the bathroom.

From her cart she collected towels and toiletries and went there now, clicking on the light at the same time as she reached for the door handle and pushed.

She came up short. The door would only budge an inch or so. Something on the other side — probably a wet towel that had slipped off a rail — was preventing it from opening.

Inside, the fluorescents struggled, flickering as she pushed the door. With an exasperated sigh she gave it one last shove and there was a splintering sound. Something heavy fell to the floor on the other side and, finally, the lights came on — and Sunita Kadam saw what was inside.

On the tiles lay a woman’s corpse. She wore a white nightshirt and her face was colorless. In contrast, the yellow cotton scarf around her neck was a bright yellow. The marks it had made were a livid red.

Sunita stared at the body. A numbness crept over her. A sense of wanting to run but being rooted to the spot. Later she’d look back and stifle a guilty laugh about this, but her next thought was: How the hell am I going to clean this up in fourteen minutes?

Chapter 2

“You killed them, you drunk bastard.”

With a gasp, Santosh Wagh pulled himself from the grip of his nightmare, fingers scrabbling for his spectacles on the nightstand. He pushed them on, squinted at the numbers on his bedside clock and groaned.

4:14 a.m. Drinker’s dawn.

He pulled himself from bed, avoiding his own reflection in the mirror as he lolloped out of the bedroom. Who wanted to see a hungover man at 4:14 in the morning, a craggy, 51-year-old vision of guilt and shame? Not him. Right now what he wanted was a little something to guide him gently into the morning. Something to chase away the headache lurking behind his eyes. Something to banish the residual nightmare image seared into his brain.

His apartment was empty, stale-smelling. On a coffee table in the front room was a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker, a glass, and his Glock in its holster. Santosh dropped with a sigh to the couch, leaned forward, fingertipped his Glock out of reach, then drew the bottle and glass toward him.

He stared at the drink in his hand, remembering, casting his mind back to 2006 and the seven Mumbai train bombs. At the time he’d been an agent with RAW, India’s intelligence agency, and the investigations into the bombings had brought him into contact with Jack Morgan.

Two years later, the car accident that plagued his dreams.

It was Jack who had asked him to head up Private India; Jack who had picked him up when he’d needed it most. And if he drank this drink then it would lead to another drink, and another, and with each subsequent drink he’d fall a little harder and fail Jack a little more.

He placed the glass back on the coffee table, pulled his knees up toward him. Decided to wait the morning out. He dozed, then woke, then dozed again, and each time he woke the drink was still there, waiting for him. He ignored its call. He chose Jack over Johnnie.

Even so, it was a relief when the phone rang and duty called.

Chapter 3

Santosh leaned on his cane and scrutinized the dead woman who lay on the bathroom floor of room number 1121.

“Name?” he said, without taking his eyes off the corpse.

Nisha Gandhe, mid forties, head-turningly attractive, even dressed down in cotton shirt, T-shirt, and jeans, marveled that her boss could be an investigative genius and still not know that breath mints were useless at disguising the smell of whisky.

“Dr. Kanya Jaiyen,” she replied, reading from notes made on her phone. “Mean anything to you?”

“No,” he said. He angled his head to study the face of the deceased. She was South-East Asian, middle-aged. Her sharp, attractive features looked incongruous pressed to the hard tiles of the bathroom.

“She’s Thai — from Bangkok apparently,” continued Nisha. “Her body was found by the maid. It had been hanging on a hook on the back of the door but when the door moved the hook gave way, and...”

Santosh glanced at the damaged door then back at the body. He scratched salt-and-pepper stubble on his cheek.

“No signs of sexual assault,” he said, part question, part statement.

“Apparently not, but Mubeen is on his way. We should have a clearer idea once he’s through,” replied Nisha.

Mubeen was Private India’s full-time medical examiner. Time of death, cause of death, manner of death — death was his specialty. He’d arrive with Hari, Private’s technology geek, who’d be dusting for prints, scanning the cell phone that Santosh had spotted by the bed. Tech-wizard stuff.

Santosh shifted his weight on his cane. The car accident had left him with a limp.

“You do realize it’s psychosomatic, don’t you?” a doctor had told him.

“I’m keeping the cane,” he’d replied.

“Have it your own way.”

He did. One of the few advantages of being Santosh Wagh was that he had things his own way. Plus it was useful to have a cane sometimes. On a morning like this, for example, when he felt as though it was the only thing keeping him upright.

He palmed sweat from his forehead. “Okay, let’s not touch anything until we get the go-ahead from the police. There’s nothing to prevent us from observing though. And I’m especially interested in this...”

With the tip of his cane he indicated the victim’s hands, both wrapped with string. A flower was bound to one, an ordinary fork to the other.

“And this,” he said, motioning his cane at her foot. “What do you make of that?”

Tied to one of the dead doctor’s toes was a small toy Viking helmet.

Nisha bent down to take a closer look. “Could the killer be a nut job with a Viking fetish?” she asked.

“Maybe. But if he was a genuine Viking enthusiast he’d know that real Viking helmets didn’t have horns,” said Santosh. “The bull horns are an artistic contrivance.”

“Okay. So...?” said Nisha. You could almost see the cogs of his encyclopedic mind turn, she thought.

“So — either our killer doesn’t know about the horns. Or he doesn’t care. Or the Viking bit isn’t significant but the horn bit is.”

“Right...” she said, uncertainly. “And what about the flower on her hand? A lotus. And the fork? Maybe she snatched it to defend herself?”

“No,” said Santosh, lost in thought. “They were tied to her hands to look as if she’s holding them.”

Crouched down close to the body, Nisha noticed a black hair on the otherwise spotless tile floor. “There’s a hair here I’d like to bag, when we can,” she said. Santosh nodded.

“When do you think she was killed?” asked Nisha.

He glanced at her. “Look at the body. Consider the bed. The nightdress. When do you think she was killed?”

“Last night?”

“Exactly. Mubeen can tell us for sure, but yes — this happened last night. Did you check for signs of forced entry?”

“The windows are hermetically sealed. There’s no sign the bedroom door was forced nor any indication of lock tampering,” replied Nisha, glancing at her notes.

Santosh nodded. He looked from the body to Nisha with eyes that had seen too much pain. “This isn’t the last, Nisha,” he said. “Of that you can be certain.”

Chapter 4

“We had rather hoped to avoid involving the police,” said the general manager, Mr. Singh — a nervous man who wanted nothing more than for the whole affair to go away. “After all, the hotel employs Private India for that very reason. Are you not the world’s biggest detective agency...?”

Santosh found his eyes drawn to a bottle of whisky tucked away in a corner of the office but Singh was pouring coffee instead. Probably just as well.

“We are indeed. But unfortunately we do not manage your internal CCTV system. Furthermore, this is a murder investigation, Mr. Singh,” he said regretfully. “There is no avoiding the police, I’m afraid. However, as your advisor may I suggest the call is better coming from you than from me.” He passed a card across the desk. “Ring this number, tell them there has been a suspected murder and that you have appointed the hotel’s detective agency — that’s us — to represent you in this matter.”

Singh picked up the card. “ACP Rupesh Desai,” he read. “This is the policeman I should call?”

Santosh nodded. “Rupesh is the Assistant Commissioner at the Mumbai Crime Branch. I can promise you his cooperation and discretion. We’re...”

He stopped himself saying “old friends”; even just “friends.” Not since the accident that broke everything.

“...we go back a long way. Now, tell me everything you can about Dr. Kanya Jaiyen.”

“All we have is the information she gave us when she checked in,” explained Singh. He passed a paper folder to Santosh, who scanned it quickly. A copy of her passport, a printout of online booking data.

“Excellent. You have a record of when the door was used?”

“Yes. It’s on its way.”

“And CCTV footage?”

“Also coming,” said Singh.

“Good,” said Santosh.

“So what now?” said Singh. “Can we assume the hotel will be kept out of any... unpleasantness?”

Santosh opened his mouth, then remembered that the Marine Bay Plaza Hotel was a client of Private India, and as the head of Private India he had to kiss ass every now and then.

“You can rest easy, Mr. Singh,” he said with what he hoped would be an ingratiating smile. “Leave it to us.”

Chapter 5

“What’s Private India’s interest in this case?” asked Rupesh bluntly, his hands pushed into his pockets.

He and Santosh stood in the corridor outside room 1121, now an official crime scene. For the moment Santosh had conveniently forgotten to mention the hair Nisha had recovered from the bathroom. And hopefully, if all went to plan, things would stay that way.

“The hotel chain employs Private globally,” replied Santosh. “If it isn’t a bother, Rupesh, we’d like to manage the investigation.”

Rupesh looked him up and down with disdain, as though Santosh were wearing an expensive, tailored suit rather than the same shabby beige two-piece he’d worn for years. “Private India,” he sneered. “You certainly landed on your feet there, didn’t you, Jack Morgan’s little favorite? Just think, without those train bombings you two might never have met. They were the best thing that ever happened to you, weren’t they?”

Santosh tried to remember that he wanted Private India to handle this case. And for that, he needed Rupesh onside. So instead of sweeping the cop’s feet from beneath him and ramming the point of his cane down his throat, he merely gave a thin smile. “To business, Rupesh, please.”

Rupesh avoided his eye as he pondered the matter for a moment. “Wait here,” he said. “I need to make a call. See what the Commissioner says.”

He moved out of earshot, his back turned and his phone to his ear as he made the call. Moments later he returned with a smile that went nowhere near his eyes. “The Commissioner is fine with it.”

“And you?”

Rupesh shrugged. “The Police Forensic Science Lab at Kalina has a six-month case backlog and half my men are on VIP duty. I’m happy to offload this case onto you.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a pouch of chewing tobacco, placing a pinch of it in a corner of his mouth. Mumbai had long since banned the sale of all processed tobacco products. Not that the ban applied to Rupesh, apparently.

Just how deep are you getting, old friend? wondered Santosh.

“So that’s settled,” added Rupesh. “Private India can spearhead the investigation provided all information is shared with us in a timely manner. Oh, and as long as any credit for successfully solving the case comes to us.” His grin was shark-like. “Mubeen will be doing the autopsy, I take it?”

“With your consent.”

“Granted. Provided the corpse is first taken to the police morgue and that the state’s medical examiner is present during the final examination. Fine?”

Santosh nodded and the two men parted. Rupesh back to the crime scene. Santosh headed to Private HQ. What happened to us? wondered Santosh as he waited for the elevator. What happened, when we used to be so close?

Had life come between them? Or was it death?

Chapter 6

The cocktail party on the rooftop of the Oberoi Hotel was what’s known as a “page-three event,” where guests came to strut and pose like peacocks, hoping that the shutterbugs’ lenses would alight upon them.

Events like this made Bhavna Choksi feel inadequate. Even the white-gloved waiters made her feel inadequate. Not for the first time she wondered how her dreams of great journalism had been reduced to this, eking out pathetic tidbits for the Afternoon Mirror gossip column.

She hated the fact that she was familiar with these people. Priyanka Talati, the “singing sensation.” So what? Lara Omprakash, “Bollywood’s hottest director.” Sure, until next week, when there would be a new one. She hated the fact that she’d be reporting on what the politician Ragini Sharma was wearing, rather than her policies.

Keeping her eye on the door for new arrivals, Bhavna saw Devika Gulati — a yoga guru to the hip set — waft in through the doors at the rooftop, the cutouts of her gown emphasizing her body. Devika accepted a drink from a waiter, then stood, surveying the room.

Bhavna took her chance and moved over before any of the rooftop’s single men made their move. “Hello,” she said, extending her hand to shake. “It’s Bhavna Choksi, from the Afternoon Mirror. May I say that’s a beautiful gown.”

Devika’s gaze traveled over Bhavna’s shoulder, still scanning the rooftop.

“Miss Gulati?” prompted Bhavna. “We spoke on the phone. I was wondering if you’d had second thoughts about an interview.”

At last Devika focused on her. “I’m sorry. Yes, of course. I’m sure we can arrange that. Please, call the studio, speak to Fiona, and she’ll fit you into the diary.”

“Thank you.” As Bhavna moved away, she was able to see what it was that had caught Devika’s eye. Or, in this case, who it was: India’s Attorney General, Nalin D’Souza.

Interesting, she thought as she heard the faint buzzing of her phone inside her tote. Pulling it out, she answered the call.

“Ah, it’s you,” she said. The voice at the other end spoke for twenty seconds before Bhavna replied. “Sure. Tomorrow morning is fine. I usually leave for work by nine thirty but I can wait for you. Do you need my address?”

Chapter 7

Several floors below the party that still raged on the rooftop of the Oberoi Hotel was a room, dark apart from the glow of a dim lamp, and silent but for low moans from the bed. Puddled on the carpet was Devika Gulati’s metallic-blue gown. Beside it a pair of boxers belonging to the Attorney General, Nalin D’Souza.

In bed the couple moved to their own urgent rhythm. Naked, Devika was on top, skin bathed in a thin film of sweat. Beneath her Nalin arched upwards each time that she ground herself into him. He reached to cup her breasts as he felt his climax approaching. Some moments later they had switched positions and he rode her with double the passion.

Spent and tired, the couple remained intertwined under the bed sheets, breathing heavily. She switched positions again, clambering on top of him in order to gaze upon his handsome features, pushing a hand through his hair.

“You’ve had it cut,” she said.

“The other day. Do you like it?”

“It makes you look younger. Where did you go?”

“The Shiva Spa Lounge. I’m told that Mumbai’s trendy young things are flocking there. Talking of which, was that a newspaper reporter I saw you with earlier?”

“An irritating woman from the Afternoon Mirror.”

“What did she want?”

Sensing a change in him, Devika moved off him and lay with her head propped on her hand, tracing his chest hairs with her fingertips. “She wants to speak to me.”

Tickled and irritated, he brushed her hand away. “Why does she want to speak to you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased.

But he had lost patience. “I’ve got to go,” he said, shoving her to one side.

She pulled him back toward her and kissed him deeply, twining her tongue around his. “Sure you don’t want to go again?” she asked playfully.

“I need to be back in New Delhi to prepare for a case tomorrow,” he said, pulling away. “I’ll give you a call sometime.”

“That’s crap and you know it,” sneered Devika. “You will be too busy with your wife. The one who wants you to fuck her but can’t inspire you to get it up.”

“That’s not true,” said Nalin impatiently. “Her inability to produce a child has absolutely nothing to do with any failure on my part. You should know that by now.”

“There are many stories about your other women,” said Devika. “It’s a bloody exhaustive list. How long before you tire of me — and what will happen to me when you do?”

The Attorney General smiled at her. She had one of the best bodies he had ever had the pleasure of pleasuring. Besides being beautiful, Devika was a seductress. There was an erotic charge to virtually everything she said or did. He still found it difficult to believe that she had once been in prison. What an amazing transformation.

He grasped the edge of the sheet and whipped it back, leaving Devika lying on the bed, resplendent in her nakedness. He felt the tumescence between his legs once more.

She laughed. “Don’t you need to be back in the office?” she asked.

“Fuck the office,” he snarled as he got back on top of her.

“I thought the fucking was reserved solely for me.”

Chapter 8

Santosh stepped out into a scorching October morning for his walk to work. He never drove. Driving meant revisiting the screeching tires and the burned-rubber smell of his nightmares.

Mumbai — once known as Bombay — was a throbbing metropolis with the attitude of New York City, the chaos of Kathmandu, the vibe of Miami, and the infrastructure of Timbuktu. It was the fifth most populous city in the world, its population nudging a little over thirteen million.

It could be charming yet repulsive. Old British monuments jostled for space with corporate glass towers and filthy slums. At traffic signals, handcart pullers slowly made their way to warehouses, their bodies bathed in sweat, while chauffeur-driven Mercedes-Benzes transported their millionaire owners to luncheon meetings. Long queues of people waited patiently outside temples to catch a glimpse of their favorite deity while an equally long line of people waited to get inside the stadium for a celebration of India’s alternative religion — cricket. Mumbai was a study in contrasts and people tended either to love it or to hate it. Santosh loved it when he was drunk — which was often — and hated it when he was sober.

It was a long walk but he made brisk progress on the way from Crawford Market to the Regal Cinema. Crossing the streets, he was greeted by beggars, bums, and vagabonds, as though he were a celebrity to them. A young boy wearing patched clothes smartly saluted him. Santosh nodded in reply.

“Tell your boss that I need to meet him. Chowpatty, usual day and time,” he instructed.

At the Regal Santosh turned toward Colaba Causeway, a street notorious for its pubs, pimps, and pushers, not to mention hundreds of pavement stalls selling porn DVDs, vibrators, and electronic goods smuggled in from China, Taiwan, and Dubai.

He walked a couple of blocks down the main road until he reached an old and decrepit building. The ground floor was occupied by a well-known watering hole that sold the cheapest beer in town. Tables covered in pink checkered tablecloths were occupied by an odd mix of locals and hippies, while high above them ancient ceiling fans groaned and squeaked in an unsuccessful effort to keep cool air circulating in the stifling October mugginess. Above the heads of the patrons floated a thick haze of weed smoke.

Ignoring the pub, Santosh slipped inside a nondescript side entrance that led to a flight of creaking wooden stairs. Climbing to the top floor, he stood before a battered door, locked with an ancient padlock. On either side were cream-painted walls punctuated by peeling plaster. To the right of the door was a dented mailbox and above this a small ornate mirror with a cracked frame. To the casual observer it looked like the entrance to someone’s home — and someone without much in the way of money.

However, an investigator looking closely would have found several inconsistencies. The old padlock could not be opened because there was no key slot. The apparently crumbling plaster could not be broken away. The door could not be rattled because it was entirely sealed. The mailbox was glued shut and the mirror stuck solidly to the wall, not hanging by a nail or hook.

Santosh stood in front of the mirror for a few seconds. Moments later the entire wall — with door, padlock, mailbox, and mirror intact — slid open with an efficient whoosh, like Aladdin’s cave. Santosh entered and the wall closed equally efficiently behind him.

Unknown to the casual visitor was the fact that the dilapidated mirror held within it a sophisticated retina-scan unit. Only staff members of Private India identified by the biometric system could access the office. Established clients communicated with the firm via a dedicated helpline. New clients were only accepted via referrals from old ones. Investigators from Private India visited clients at their homes and offices rather than the other way round. The offices of Private India remained invisible to the world outside.

There was a specific reason for this secrecy. Private India had helped law-enforcement agencies solve a few key cases related to deadly attacks by Pakistani terror groups on Indian soil. The result was that Private India was on the radar of several Pakistan-based jihadi outfits. It was absolutely necessary for the safety of those who worked for the company to keep the office impregnable.

Inside, the office was the exact opposite of its shabby exterior. Light maple floors, recessed illumination, silent air conditioning, and white Corian wall panels ensured that the space was a haven of light, comfort, and tranquility. A middle-aged woman sat at the reception desk handling incoming calls. Santosh waved to her as he picked up an apple from a bowl that stood on the coffee table in the lounge.

Spread over the top two floors of the building, Private India’s office was accessed via the higher floor containing the offices of Santosh, Nisha, Mubeen, and Hari. The lower floor contained the offices of support staff and junior investigators and could be accessed via a private elevator behind the reception desk.

All the window frames of the two floors had been preserved on the outside so that the exterior of the building retained its old and dilapidated character, but the frames had been supplemented by modern double-glazed windows on the inside.

Santosh’s room straight ahead was connected to Nisha’s smaller office and an oversized conference room equipped with videoconferencing and a 108-inch LCD screen. He took a bite out of his apple and headed right to Mubeen’s lab.

Chapter 9

Although Mubeen Yusuf was Private India’s forensic expert, and thus blessed with the strongest constitution imaginable, he looked as though a gust of wind would be enough to blow him away. His shoulders were stooped, he wore his beard unfashionably straggly, and though he regularly smiled his eyes behind his spectacles were often sad.

Mubeen had been working as a forensic pathologist in Baltimore when his life had caved in.

Walking home one night with his wife and six-year-old son, a group of neo-Nazis had surrounded them, jabbing and taunting, breathing beer fumes and screaming obscenities. When the kicks and punches had begun, Mubeen had tried to protect his wife and son. Oh dear God, he’d tried. He’d fought like a tiger. And the last words he’d heard before he’d lost consciousness were: “Dirty Indian scum... go back home.”

He had woken in hospital to the news that his son was dead, and after that no therapy in the world could keep him and his wife together. The guilt they had both felt at living while their son had died. It had been too much for them. Until finally they’d divorced and Mubeen had yearned to return home to India.

Thanks to Jack Morgan he’d gotten his wish. A murder case had brought Mubeen into contact with Jack, who had offered him a job at Private India’s new office in Mumbai. On his first day at Private he’d met Santosh Wagh, and the eyes of his new boss were the same eyes he saw in the mirror each morning. They had never spoken about their losses, but the sense of a kindred spirit was shared.

He looked up now as Santosh approached.

“Anything for me?” asked Santosh and Mubeen pulled away from the microscope.

“Nisha recovered a strand of hair from the bathroom floor,” he replied, and Santosh nodded. “I have compared it against a sample from the victim. It’s different.”

“So it should be possible to get DNA from the hair?”

Mubeen sighed. Forensic analysis of DNA was the most overhyped and misrepresented collection method. Santosh was making the same mistake most people made. They simply assumed that hair samples made ideal material for DNA testing.

“Unfortunately the successful extraction of DNA from a hair sample depends on the part of the hair that is discovered,” replied Mubeen with a grim expression.

“Enlighten me,” said Santosh, taking another bite of his apple.

“Hair is mainly composed of a fibrous protein known as keratin. This protein is also the primary constituent of skin, animal hooves, and nails. The hair root lies below the scalp and is enclosed in a follicle. This is connected to the bloodstream via the dermal papilla. The hair shaft does not contain DNA, which is only to be found in the root.”

“So what exactly is the problem here?” asked Santosh.

“This strand of hair has been sliced through cleanly. There is no root available for analysis.”

“So this was a cut strand of hair?” said Santosh.

Mubeen scratched at his unkempt beard. “It would appear so. Attached to someone’s clothes, perhaps?”

“Yes, unless our killer stopped to give his hair a trim,” said Santosh, thinking, then added, “Or perhaps it merely belongs to a former guest. I remember reading somewhere that in a small number of hair samples, forensic scientists are able to extract nuclear DNA from cut or shed hairs.”

Mubeen nodded. His boss always managed to spring a surprise on him whenever his knowledge was called into question. “The presence of biologically dead cells or keratinocytes in their last stage of differentiation may make it possible to extract a profile derived from nuclear DNA,” he replied. “It will take me some time to tell you whether that’s possible or not in this case. It’s highly probable that DNA will be absent.”

“Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence,” said Santosh. “Let me know if anything new emerges.”

Chapter 10

Santosh left Mubeen’s lab and walked into Hari’s office. At thirty-five the youngest member of the team, Hari Padhi was Private’s technology geek. If you needed a cell tracing, you went to Hari. If you needed to know the precise speed and trajectory of a naked corpse falling from the twenty-first floor of a building, then you went to Hari.

He looked somewhat like a wrestler. His chest bulged out of his shirt and his arms were thick and muscular. It was evident that he spent a substantial amount of his free time working out at the gym. His gray matter was also in peak form.

He was seated at his desk, closely examining the video feed from the hotel’s camera. His workspace was fitted out with high-capacity microprocessors, surveillance equipment, GPS trackers, signal jammers, bug-sweep equipment, password-decryption software, and wiretap-detection systems. Also available to Hari was a full suite of ballistics equipment including microscopes with digital imaging capability, sensitive measuring equipment, and instrumentation to check and record surface temperature, projectile velocity, internal gun pressures, trigger characteristics, and lock time.

He was using an ultra-high-resolution monitor and a high-density time-lapse deck with a built-in time base corrector to forensically examine the video feed from the hotel.

“Any news for me?” asked Santosh.

“We checked the room for fingerprints. Most of them were of the victim or assorted members of hotel staff. I’ve also been looking at the CCTV, and we have a guy going in and out of the room.”

“Excellent,” said Santosh. “Let’s see him.”

Hari scooted to the place on the tape and they watched as a man first entered and then, forwarding the tape, left.

He wore a baseball cap, jeans, his hands thrust in the pockets of a jacket. Conscious of the cameras, his head down.

“Not much help, is it?” said Hari with a pained face.

Santosh looked at him. “Everything’s a help,” he said. He looked back at the screen where the man was freeze-framed as he left room 1121, certain he was looking at the killer.

Hari looked up and wordlessly scanned the footage to the point at which the baseball-cap-wearing visitor had been recorded leaving the room. “See this? The time stamp shows two minutes past nine on Sunday evening.”

“So?” asked Santosh.

“Now let’s scan back further to see when he went in,” said Hari and pressed the deck’s rewind button to take the footage back by eleven minutes. “Ah, here we are. See this? Eight fifty-one p.m.”

“Yes.”

“Nisha spoke to receptionists and the doormen. Nobody remembers seeing anyone matching this description enter or leave, nor does he turn up on any of the reception CCTV.”

“So he used a back entrance?” said Santosh.

“Sort of. There’s a separate entrance from the bar at the rear of the hotel. There’s no doorman, the reception area is set back, there’s far less chance of being seen. But... they do have CCTV.”

With a showman’s flourish Hari clicked on his laptop’s desktop and a new picture appeared. Once again it showed the same figure, baseball cap on, head down, hands in pockets. Once again there was no hint of any identifying features.

“He certainly knew what he was doing,” hissed Santosh. “He must have known the location of every single camera in the place.”

“It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” agreed Hari. “Except. The image from the rear entrance is a slightly higher resolution and something caught my eye. Here...” He clicked again. “Look at the shoes.”

Santosh peered at the screen, in particular at the shoes. Expensive-looking, polished black shoes with a distinctive buckle at the sides, they were incongruous set against the baseball cap and jacket.

He straightened, nodding with satisfaction. His phone was ringing and he delved in his jacket pocket for it, gesturing from Hari to the image on the screen.

“Find those shoes,” he said, his finger hovering over the call-accept button. It was Rupesh. “Find where they’re sold and who’s bought a pair.”

Hari nodded and looked pleased with himself as Santosh answered the call. “Yes?”

“There’s been another murder,” said Rupesh. “And guess what? The victim has a yellow scarf around her neck.”

Chapter 11

Thane, a northeastern suburb of Mumbai, was home to several large housing cooperatives. The second body had been discovered in an apartment that was part of a gated community there.

Nisha drove past the security gate and down a long winding road surrounded by well-maintained lawns until the car reached the block that Rupesh had indicated. There were several police vehicles parked outside. Santosh, Nisha, and Mubeen got out of the car, picked up their equipment, and headed for the stairs. The police had already cordoned off the entrance to the third-floor apartment.

Rupesh was waiting for them at the doorway. “Her name is Bhavna Choksi, aged approximately thirty-seven. A journalist who worked for a tabloid — the Afternoon Mirror,” he explained as he led them to the bedroom where her body had been discovered.

The apartment was a compact one-bedroom unit. It was quite obvious that Bhavna Choksi was single but financially sound. The furnishings were simple yet elegant and the apartment was well organized and clean.

The body was suspended from a ceiling fan in the center of the bedroom. The room was completely still but for the barely noticeable pendulum-like movement of the corpse. Nisha shuddered.

Santosh sniffed, detecting the odor of urine. He looked down at the floor and noticed a puddle by the base of the bed. “She was strangled there,” he said. “She peed involuntarily as she was being choked. Urination or defecation are known body reactions that can be triggered by strangulation. Yes, triggered by strangulation.”

Unlike the first victim, who had been in her nightdress, the second was fully dressed in work clothes — cotton slacks and linen top — ideally suited to a journalist on the prowl in Mumbai’s hot and humid weather. The slacks were damp with urine. Around her neck was an unmistakable yellow scarf to which a rope had been attached in order to suspend her from the fan. Both her hands had string tied around them. In one hand the victim had been made to hold rosary beads, and in the other a plastic toy bucket — the sort that kids use to build sandcastles on the beach — containing a couple of inches of water.

“Who found her?” asked Santosh as he looked up at the hanging corpse.

“The cleaning lady let herself in with her key at nine thirty,” answered Rupesh. “She assumed that Bhavna Choksi had already left for work, which was the case most days.”

Santosh took advantage of the police ladder that had been placed under the fan. Handing his cane to Nisha, he climbed up several rungs so that he could look at the ligature. It was the same sort of yellow scarf as they’d found on Kanya Jaiyen. He peered into the victim’s wide-open eyes. Lifeless now, they must have been terrorized as a garrote choked the victim and deprived her lungs of air. Eyes are the windows of the soul... reveal your soul to me, woman, thought Santosh. Tell me your story, Bhavna.

“I need to swab her eyes,” said Mubeen, pulling out two cotton buds from his satchel. Santosh snapped out of his trance and descended the ladder so that Mubeen could use it.

He climbed up carefully and gently swabbed each of her eyes, placing the buds into specimen tubes. “Why the eye swab?” asked Rupesh, who had never seen any of his own police medical examiners do it.

“Notice the room’s temperature?” replied Mubeen as he came down the ladder and packed away the specimen buds. “The air conditioning has been left running and it’s bloody freezing. I can’t depend on the body’s ambient temperature reading to estimate the time of death. A diagnostic machine in my lab can analyze potassium, urea, and hypoxanthine concentrations present in the vitreous humor of the eye. It provides a far more accurate estimate of time of death than basal body temperature.”

“We saw the murderer on CCTV leaving Kanya Jaiyen’s hotel room at two minutes past nine last night,” said Santosh. “The cleaning lady discovered this victim at nine thirty this morning, leaving the murderer with a substantial window of around twelve and a half hours within which to kill a second time.” He paced the room carefully. “A window of twelve and a half hours.”

“Unless this second murder had actually happened before the hotel incident,” argued Nisha.

Crouching down, Nisha noticed a strand of hair on the floor exactly below the hanging corpse. She pointed it out to Mubeen, who immediately bent over to pick it up with forceps and bag it.

“Hopefully a comparison with the first sample should tell us whether it comes from the same person,” he said to Santosh. But Santosh’s mind was elsewhere.

“This murder scene is fresh,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Fresh, because the urine on her slacks is still wet, not dry, in spite of the air conditioning. This killing happened after the hotel murder, not before. And forget about the god-damned hair. It’s just another annoying prop!

“Crap!” he hissed suddenly under his breath, thumping his cane on the floor and giving everyone else around him a start. What did the objects mean? What was the killer trying to tell him? Why the single strand of hair at both murder sites? Come out of your hiding place, bastard!

“Unfortunately the CCTV system of the building was down owing to a technical glitch,” said Rupesh. “So we cannot get a visual of the murderer. No signs of forced entry either.”

“Any idea regarding the firm that handles security surveillance of the estate?” asked Santosh.

“Xilon Security Services,” replied Rupesh. “They were in the process of sending over an engineer to rectify the fault, but obviously it wasn’t soon enough.”

“In all probability,” said Nisha, “the victim knew her killer and allowed the murderer access, given that there are no signs of forced entry.”

Santosh pointed to Bhavna Choksi’s desk. “There’s a cell phone and a laptop. Get Hari to examine both of them. Let’s find out the last story that Bhavna Choksi worked on. Maybe she ruffled someone’s feathers?”

Turning to Rupesh, Santosh asked, “Do I have your permission to take over the case, assuming that the two crimes are related?”

“Why on earth would I have called you here if I didn’t think they were connected?” replied Rupesh, placing a rather generous pinch of premium black-market chewing tobacco in the corner of his mouth.

Rupesh stared at the suspended body while chewing his tobacco. In his mind he saw a naked woman. Beaten black and blue, subsequently raped. Repeatedly humiliated and violated until she died. Death was a wonderful balm indeed... Rupesh snapped back into the present when he realized that Santosh was studying him curiously.

“Good. It’s possible that someone may have seen the murderer enter or leave the premises. Let’s question the cooperative’s security guards, the neighbors as well as any nannies or children who may have been in the garden.”

Chapter 12

I can feel the smooth fabric of the garrote around my neck. I grasp both ends and gently pull. Oh, yes... I can feel the compression. A little more pressure and I’m gasping for breath. I’m about to black out as I release the garrote and allow myself to breathe once again, allowing myself back from the brink of darkness.

How delicate is the fine line between life and death. At a given moment a person could be living, breathing, talking, and walking. At another moment she could be a cold, unmoving corpse. Of course, most people live like corpses in the humdrum grip of their prosaic and pathetic lives. Not much difference between life and death for the world’s living cadavers.

I hold the yellow scarf in my hand and run it through my fingers lovingly. I bring it to my face and hold it under my nose. I breathe in the unique smell of death. There’s an almost orgasmic quality to asphyxiation, isn’t there? I could easily see myself getting addicted to the adrenalin rush.

Life has no meaning without the presence of death. Life is simply the absence of death. The fools of this world labor to prevent death, unmindful of the fact that it is death that will set them free.

I stand in front of the mirror and look at my naked body. I have shaved every inch of it. I run the scarf along my hairless arms. I feel the tingle of the fabric against my skin as I allow myself to lower the scarf to my thighs. The sensation is simply incredible.

I pull away the scarf and hold it before me at face level. I quickly tie a knot in it and pull the ends with all my might until I see the knot morph into a tiny lump.

Two down, but I have many more to go.

Chapter 13

There was a half-bottle of Scotch in his desk, but for the time being Santosh ignored its lure. He felt something. A sense that the tempo of the hunt was increasing. Give me one murder to solve and I’ll show you an enigma, he thought. Give me two, and I’ll show you a puzzle to solve. And he offered up a silent apology to the souls of the two women whose deaths made up the pieces in his puzzle, and promised to do his best to find the man responsible.

Two women killed within twenty-four hours of each other, both with a yellow scarf, both with trinkets attached to them, one an Indian journalist, the other a Thai doctor. Discovering what connected them, that was the key.

They had a call scheduled with Dr. Jaiyen’s boss, a Dr. Uwwano. “Nisha,” he called from his office.

Sitting at her desk, her head bobbed up. “Yes, boss?”

“What time is she expecting us?”

She glanced at her watch. “Five minutes.”

“Join me. And bring what you have on Dr. Jaiyen.”

As she came into the office he stood and moved to a magnet board, wrote down the two names on record cards: Bhavna Choksi and Dr. Kanya Jaiyen, placed them beside each other. Added a question mark.

“Bhavna we know,” he said. “A journalist working for the Afternoon Mirror. But what about Dr. Kanya Jaiyen? What do we know about her?”

Nisha pulled a face. “That she lived in Bangkok. That she was a reconstructive surgeon. More than that I can’t say.”

Santosh nodded. “Plastic surgeon covers a multitude of sins. Plenty of people might have reason to silence a plastic surgeon.”

“Half of Bollywood,” tried Nisha, and was rewarded for her attempt at a joke with pursed lips from Santosh. She cleared her throat. “But it wasn’t really a ‘silencing’ sort of crime, was it? What we’ve seen is more considered and ritualistic. The work of a serial killer.”

Santosh’s eyes sparkled behind his glasses. He was pleased with his protégée. “Exactly. And yet, on the other hand, perhaps these trinkets are red herrings, designed to throw us off the scent. Either way, these women were chosen, and finding out what connects them will help us understand how and why they were chosen. We need to speak to Bhavna Choksi’s editor, find out who she’d spoken to recently. And as for Dr. Jaiyen...” He gestured to Nisha. “Do you have the number?”

She passed a slip of paper across and Santosh dialed the Bangkok Hospital and Medical Center, and then was treated to a recording of the Thailand Philharmonic Orchestra before a female voice at last came on the line.

“Uwwano,” she said.

“Good evening, Dr. Uwwano. This is Santosh Wagh. I believe you’re expecting me.”

She sounded tired. “I am, Mr. Wagh.”

“I apologize for the circumstances of my call. My condolences on your loss.”

She sighed. Santosh had the sense that she had sat down. It was late there in Bangkok. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Wagh. This is very, very sad. We’re all in a state of shock. How may I be of help?”

“Dr. Jaiyen was a reconstructive surgeon?”

“She was. A very good one. And if you’re thinking that that’s the usual kind of disingenuous rubbish I’d trot out in the circumstances then you’d be wrong. She really was a good surgeon. One of the best.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Uwwano. Please be reassured that myself and my colleagues are doing everything we can to try and catch her killer. If you’ll allow me to ask some questions. I’m given to understand that Dr. Jaiyen reported to you, is that right?”

“Yes. I was her senior in the hospital’s Reconstructive Surgery team.”

“And what does that involve exactly — reconstructive surgery?”

“It’s as broad as it sounds, Mr. Wagh. Whether it be for cosmetic or psychological reasons, in the aftermath of a car crash...”

Santosh froze, feeling as though he’d been slapped. On the other side of the desk, Nisha watched him carefully, concern on her face, then leaned forward, whispering, “Boss?”

“Mr. Wagh?” the doctor was saying.

He composed himself. “Sorry, Dr. Uwwano. Do go on.”

“Well, I think I’d finished, really,” said Dr. Uwwano.

Nisha relaxed back into her seat, dragging a hand through her hair and watching him warily.

“Of course, of course,” said Santosh. He waved “everything’s okay” to Nisha. “Well, you could tell me, what was the purpose of Dr. Jaiyen’s visit to Mumbai?”

“It was a personal visit,” said Uwwano. “She told me it was to meet an old friend. She applied for a week’s leave of absence in order to take the trip.”

“Did she tell you the name of the friend she planned to meet?” asked Santosh.

“No,” replied Uwwano. “She was rather reserved about her personal life and I did not feel like prying.”

“Was anything troubling Dr. Jaiyen? Did she have any problems in her professional life? And what about her family life? Was it normal?”

“She was happily married,” replied Uwwano. “She did not have any kids, though. No, as far as I can tell, she had no worries. The only surviving family member other than her husband is her mother who lives in Chiang Mai.”

“Had Dr. Jaiyen performed any surgeries that went wrong?” asked Santosh. “Any instances of lawsuits or complaints by patients?”

“No. As I said, Dr. Jaiyen was one of our best surgeons,” explained Uwwano. “I’m having a hard time trying to find a suitable person to fill her shoes.”

Later, of course, Santosh would realize the mistake he had made when he spoke to Dr. Uwwano, but for now he wished her good day and ended the call. And then, when Nisha had left his office, he reached for the bottle.

Chapter 14

It was past eight that night when Mubeen reached Mumbai’s infamous police morgue at Cooper Hospital. Strong stomach or not, he’d been dreading his visit to this most dilapidated of the city’s facilities. What’s more, the man he was meeting, Dr. Zafar, had a certain reputation for eccentricity.

He got out of his van and crept past the muddy porch with a handkerchief held to his nose. The smell was overpowering, almost the equivalent of a few dozen dead rats decaying in a corner of the filthy building. Mubeen knew better, though. The overwhelming stench was not from dead rats but from rotting human bodies. It was the stench of death.

Mubeen could hear his own footsteps echo as he reached the dark entrance, a single light bulb casting an eerie glow. He began walking through the long, dimly lit passage. On both sides were gurneys bearing human forms covered in sheets. Despite his training, Mubeen felt a hollow in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed hard as he forced himself to cross the passage lined with cadavers.

He felt something move against his foot and looked down to see a massive gutter rat scurry away with a piece of flesh in its mouth. A shudder went down Mubeen’s spine and he felt his hair stand on end.

Further ahead he could see a glimmer of light emerging from a room. He quickened his pace to get there. As he crossed the doorway, he felt himself slipping and had to reach out and grab hold of a gurney to prevent himself from falling. He glanced downwards and realized that he was standing on a floor slick with blood, fluids, and human tissue. He pulled his hand away in shock as he realized that he was holding on to a frozen limb of a cadaver rather than the steel frame of a gurney.

“Never knew you would come so late,” boomed a voice behind him. Mubeen spun around to see a man dressed in green surgical scrubs, surrounded by a few dozen more gurneys containing decaying corpses. The voice belonged to Dr. Zafar, the police surgeon. Mubeen had reached the autopsy center in the police morgue of Cooper Hospital.

The morgue received around fifteen corpses daily and a third of these were without claimants. As per official policy, the police had to search for claimants for seven days before allowing disposal. Unfortunately, this was a slow process. Disposal happened at the rate of three or four bodies per day, thus resulting in a pile-up of more than a hundred cadavers in a fifty-five-rack morgue.

Dr. Zafar looked at Mubeen and smiled. He was wearing his surgical mask so the smile was only discernible from the twinkle in his eyes. “How can you keep cheerful in a hellhole like this?” asked Mubeen as he walked across to Zafar, carefully avoiding the puddles on the floor but grateful for the immediate presence of another living human.

“A smile is a curve that sets everything straight,” laughed Zafar, taking off his mask and applying some Vicks Vaporub under his nose to neutralize the permanently foul odor of the place. “I am used to this hellhole.”

Mubeen quietly thanked his stars that he did not have to work in conditions like those that Zafar worked in.

“Your bodies are ready,” announced the police surgeon, opening the door to the refrigeration chamber, like a baker announcing a fresh batch of bread from the oven. Mubeen helped him pull out the two tagged corpses and load them on gurneys.

“Would you like to carry out the autopsies here?” asked Zafar.

“No,” replied Mubeen. “I need the equipment in my own lab. If you don’t mind, I’ll simply take the bodies and share the results with you by email.”

“I need to be present during the autopsy, as instructed by Rupesh,” replied Zafar apologetically. “Either you carry out the autopsies here or I come to your lab.”

Mubeen thought about this. All he wanted was to get the hell out of Zafar’s ghoulish morgue. He made up his mind quickly. “Let’s get these loaded into my van. You may come with me.”

“I would have got one of my assistants to help move the corpses if you had showed up before eight o’clock,” explained Dr. Zafar. “Unfortunately at this time it’s only me in this place.”

Zafar discarded his scrubs and washed his hands with soap and hot water before helping Mubeen roll the gurneys back to the white van belonging to Private India. Both men loaded them inside then climbed in the front.

Mubeen drove out of Cooper Hospital and headed toward Colaba. On reaching Private India’s office block, he drove into a parking garage at the rear of the building. The door closed behind them and lights came on automatically. He flicked a switch on his hand-held remote and the floor of the garage began slowly rising. Within two minutes the van had been transported into Mubeen’s state-of-the-art medical and forensics facility in the heart of Private India’s office complex.

The contrast with the Cooper Hospital autopsy center could not be more apparent. Mubeen’s lab was sophisticated, modern, and spotlessly clean. Gleaming white tables illuminated by shafts of light supplied by overhead energy-efficient fixtures ran the entire length of the lab.

It was equipped with the very latest tools, including a new machine that combined multi-slice computed tomography with magnetic resonance imaging to produce a virtual autopsy in 3D that could easily detect internal bleeding, bullet paths, and hidden fractures, hard to find with a traditional autopsy. Spectrometers for detection of explosives and illegal drug residues dotted one side of the laboratory, while equipment for the analysis of bloodstains, fingerprints, DNA, hair, fibers, and other trace evidence occupied the rest. A newly acquired device that could accurately identify specific dyes in acrylics, cotton, and other fibers occupied a table of its own.

Having unloaded the corpses from the gurneys, Mubeen began by carefully examining the necks of both victims with a dermascope.

“What are we looking for?” asked Zafar, as he glanced around the facilities, somewhat awed by the infrastructure available to Mubeen.

“Inflamed edges,” replied Mubeen, continuing to scan the skin surface with his dermascope and handing over another one to Zafar so that he could work in parallel.

“Inflammation is absent,” he said into the cordless microphone on his collar. “A clear sign that these victims were dead before being strung up.”

Next, Mubeen and Zafar loaded each body into the MRI machine. As the neck scans of the victims showed up on the bank of high-resolution monitors, the answer became apparent.

Once again speaking into the microphone, Mubeen said, “The neck’s hyoid bone usually breaks during strangulation but rarely during hanging. In both corpses the hyoid bones are found broken. It is my considered opinion that we are dealing with a strangler, not a hangman.”

Chapter 15

“Have we checked the cell phones that were discovered at both crime scenes?” asked Santosh, turning to Hari.

Private India’s core investigation team was seated in the conference room for a meeting and Santosh was reviewing their progress.

Hari cleared his throat before speaking. “Both phones were in working order. The phone belonging to Dr. Kanya Jaiyen was only used for conversations with two other numbers. On the other hand, the phone of the journalist Bhavna Choksi was used much more extensively.”

“You say that the Thai doctor’s phone only communicated with two other numbers. Do we know whose numbers they were?” asked Santosh.

“That was very easy to figure out,” replied Hari. “One of the numbers belonged to Bhavna Choksi.”

“So it’s evident that our two victims knew each other,” observed Santosh. He shot Nisha a gleeful look. “There’s our connection.”

Hari nodded. “Oh yes. Kanya Jaiyen and Bhavna Choksi had several phone conversations on the day that Jaiyen was killed,” he said. “The problem is that the other number that communicated with Kanya Jaiyen was from a prepaid SIM. The name and address provided to register the SIM are false and there is simply no way to trace the actual caller.”

“Given the fact that there was no sign of a break-in at either crime scene, it’s highly probable that the murderer knew both victims,” said Santosh. “It’s very likely that the second SIM showing up on Kanya Jaiyen’s call logs belongs to the killer.”

“Either that or the killer knew enough about their routine to be able to get into their living spaces,” said Nisha, looking up from her smartphone.

“Do we know whether either woman was sexually assaulted?” asked Santosh, directing his question at Mubeen. “Any indications of rape?”

“No sexual assault in either case...” replied Mubeen, “no traces of blood, saliva, or semen. At both crime scenes we have single strands of hair. The strands match under the microscope... They came from the same head.”

“Any luck with DNA?” asked Santosh.

“No roots present, hence no DNA,” said Mubeen. “I tried searching for nuclear DNA in the hair shaft but none was present.”

“What about time of death?” asked Santosh, closing his eyes to think. “Do we now have a precise idea regarding when these women died?”

“Kanya Jaiyen was killed between eight and ten on Sunday night,” answered Mubeen. “This can be further narrowed down by the CCTV footage, which showed the suspected killer going into her room at eight fifty-one and leaving at two minutes past nine.”

“And Bhavna Choksi?” asked Santosh.

“My medical estimate is between eight thirty and ten on Monday morning. Given the fact that the cleaning lady discovered the body at nine thirty, we can safely assume that time of death is between eight thirty and nine thirty.”

There was silence. Santosh got up from the table and began to pace the conference room, an action that made everyone else rather uncomfortable. He had an annoying habit of popping up behind them unexpectedly.

“Do you mind if I leave you for a moment?” asked Mubeen. “I was in the middle of a critical test and should have the results in a few minutes.” Santosh nodded irritably as Mubeen got up to leave the conference room.

“Why don’t we release his picture to the press?” asked Nisha.

“He is waiting for us to do precisely that,” said Santosh. “Look at the crime scenes and all the props around the bodies. Consider the fact that the second victim is a newspaper reporter. The strangler is hungry for publicity. Give the murders some extra column inches and you will see the body count increase. Yes, the body count will go up.”

“You’re right,” agreed Nisha. “It may also send the city into a panic. No one knows that there have been two women strangled in similar fashion. As of now, they are simply two unrelated murders in a city that is famous for its high crime rate. Any public disclosure could make the murderer that much more careful. We would rather have a careless perpetrator.”

“We also need to keep in mind,” said Santosh, “the possibility that the person in question may simply have been a visitor. We have no clear evidence linking them to the murder. On the whole, it’s better that we keep this under wraps.” He settled down in his chair. Within a few seconds he was up again and over behind Hari.

“For a moment,” he said, “let’s focus on the fact that both women were discovered with a variety of objects tied to their hands and feet with string.”

“I’m stumped on that one,” Nisha admitted. “A lotus flower, a dining fork, and a Viking helmet at the first scene; a rosary and a bucket of water at the second. The murderer is obviously trying to tell us something but I wish I knew what.”

“Have we contacted Dr. Kanya Jaiyen’s relatives?” asked Santosh.

“We have informed her husband in Thailand,” replied Nisha. “Her body will be sent home via a Thai Airways flight to Bangkok this evening.”

“What about the suitcase in her hotel room? Anything of importance?”

“Just personal effects — clothes, shoes, toiletries, jewelry, makeup, and medicines,” said Hari. “We found her passport, some cash, and her American Express credit card. The card had not been used in Mumbai except to guarantee her reservation at the hotel.”

“Have we checked relatives and employers of the journalist?” asked Santosh.

“No family. Just a boyfriend,” replied Nisha. “He’s an investment banker and has been out of the country for the past five days. We’ve ruled him out as a suspect. I’m scheduled to meet Bhavna’s boss at the Afternoon Mirror in the next hour.”

Mubeen strode briskly back into the conference room. “I have some important information,” he interrupted. His face was flushed with excitement. “The fiber and dye analysis that we ran on the two garrotes used for the killings. Both are made from handwoven cotton. In both, the yellow dye is a natural one that has been used for centuries in India — Acacia nilotica.”

Nisha looked questioningly at Mubeen. “What exactly do the fabric and dye tell us?” she asked.

Santosh cut in before Mubeen could speak, his encyclopedic memory having been spurred into action. “Handwoven cotton or silk — dyed using Acacia nilotica — was used by an ancient Indian murder cult called the Thugs.”

Chapter 16

“Thugs?” asked nisha incredulously. “Didn’t the British wipe them out from India entirely?”

“Yes, but while it’s easy to destroy a cult,” replied Santosh, “it’s far more difficult to destroy the ideology that spawns it — an ideology that has thrived for five hundred years.”

“Five hundred years?” said Nisha. “I thought that the Thugs were a nineteenth-century phenomenon.”

“Actually, tales of an ultra-secret cult of killers roaming India go all the way back to the thirteenth century,” explained Santosh. “It’s just that the Thugs became famous only after the British took over India. In the 1800s India’s British rulers began getting sporadic reports of a substantial number of travelers going missing, but there was no proof to indicate that these were anything but isolated incidents of weary people becoming lost.”

“What’s your point?” asked Nisha, bemused by his historical digression.

“It was the discovery of several frighteningly similar mass graves across India that revealed the truth,” said Santosh, effortlessly recalling from memory details of the obscure group — information that no normal individual would bother to hold on to. “Each grave site was filled with the corpses of people who had been ritually massacred and buried. The uniform method of killing was strangulation with a rumaal — a yellow silk or cotton handkerchief.”

“Why strangulation in particular?” asked Nisha.

“Shedding blood was strictly prohibited. This was at the very core of thuggee belief. It was thus absolutely necessary that the murders were carried out in a perfectly bloodless manner.”

“But why exactly did these people murder others?” said Nisha.

Santosh tapped his fingers on the conference table excitedly. “The word thug actually means deceiver,” he began. “In fact the English word thug is etymologically derived from the Hindi word thag. The Thugs traveled across India in groups. They pretended to be pilgrims, traders, or soldiers and would mingle with fellow travelers, patiently gaining their trust and confidence. Thugs would often travel for days and miles with their targeted victims, cautiously waiting for an opportune moment to strike. When travelers least expected it, usually during camping hours at night, the leader of the Thugs would give a signal for the massacre — or thuggee — to begin.”

“What sort of signal?” asked Nisha.

“The leader would usually ask someone to bring the tobacco,” said Santosh. “This phrase was a signal to the other Thugs that the looting and killing could begin.”

“‘Bring the tobacco’? Are we now dealing with a reborn thuggee cult?” wondered Mubeen.

“This is not the work of a Thug,” replied Santosh.

“Why?” asked Nisha. “How can you be so sure?”

“Thuggee beliefs forbade them from killing certain classes of humans. Women, holy men, musicians, lepers, and foreigners were not considered legitimate targets. Our first victim — Dr. Kanya Jaiyen — was a foreigner, and both victims were women.”

His team digested the information. “How were the Thugs vanquished?” asked Nisha finally.

“Due to the efforts of a Bengal Army officer — Sir William Henry Sleeman,” answered Santosh robotically. “He devoted his life to the annihilation of thuggee. By analyzing murder sites, Sleeman and his troops predicted future attack locations. His men used the Thugs’ own modus operandi against them. Disguised as traders or pilgrims, the officers would stick around at predicted attack sites, waiting for a band of Thugs to draw near. They would be ambushed the moment they tried to attack. Information obtained through the interrogation of prisoners was also used to plan every ensuing operation. By the end of the nineteenth century, the British were able to declare that all Thugs had been exterminated.”

“Had they actually been finished off?” asked Nisha.

“Many have wondered if the British were too quick to pat themselves on the back,” said Santosh. “How a secret brotherhood that had withstood centuries could be annihilated in such a limited window of time has remained a puzzle. While it is true that mass murders and graves are a distant recollection, in some far-flung provinces of India rumors still persist about yellow-sashed wanderers who befriend travelers with their engaging smiles and chatter.”

One voice in the room had stayed absolutely silent. Its owner remained seated at the conference table, his face now ashen white. A build-up of sweat on his forehead had begun to trickle down his face in spite of the air conditioning. Hari Padhi attempted to maintain a calm expression as he digested the information offered by Santosh.

Chapter 17

It was early evening when Nisha entered the offices of the Afternoon Mirror in the old Fort district of Mumbai. She passed through the hustle and bustle of the newsroom to a glass-walled office that was occupied by the newspaper’s editor, a chain-smoking woman in her mid fifties.

Ignoring the fumes and the disconnected smoke alarm, Nisha strode in and introduced herself. After perfunctory pleasantries had been exchanged, she opened up a notes tab on her smartphone and began to ask questions.

“Were there any recent threats against Bhavna?” she said. “Anyone upset by anything that she had written?”

“Not that I can remember,” answered the editor, taking a deep drag from the Virgina Slim that dangled from her lips. “Last year she wrote an article about teenage pregnancies at a famous Mumbai girls’ school. The principal was very upset and stormed into her office. That was a while ago, though.”

Nisha held out a photograph of the man who had been caught on CCTV leaving Dr. Kanya Jaiyen’s hotel room. “We believe that this man may have visited Bhavna at her home on the morning she was killed. Does he look familiar?”

The editor studied the photograph carefully and eventually shrugged. “You can’t see his face.”

“Even so...”

“Sorry, it doesn’t ring any bells. I don’t think I have ever seen this man before. I could give you a list of the names and phone numbers of contacts that Bhavna had scheduled to interview over the next few days. Maybe it could throw up a match?”

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” replied Nisha. “Anything that you can tell me about her personal life?”

“As far as I know, it was quite normal,” said the editor. “She wasn’t married but was seeing a guy — a decent bloke. She introduced him to me during our last New Year’s office party. A banker, I think.”

“Were they getting along? No fights?” asked Nisha.

“Not that anyone in this office was aware of,” said the editor. “As far as we could tell, she was on her way to eventually marrying the chap. She was working late during the last few days because he was on an overseas trip.”

“What was the latest story Bhavna Choksi was working on?”

“Ah, now that I can’t tell you, I’m afraid.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

The editor exhaled smoke and smiled wanly through the cloud. “A bit of both, Mrs. Gandhe. Bhavna had a workstation and I dare say we could boot it up and have a look at her files, but we’re a newspaper. To be helping... you’re not even the police, are you? To be assisting a law enforcement agency such as yourselves, well, it would seriously compromise our editorial integrity. Unless...”

“Yes...?” said Nisha carefully, thinking she knew exactly what was coming next.

The editor stubbed out her cigarette and leaned forward. “Unless we could perhaps come to an arrangement.”

“And what sort of arrangement would that be?” sighed Nisha.

“Perhaps we could help you with details of Bhavna’s assignment in return for details of the murder.”

“Details?” repeated Nisha.

“Mrs. Gandhe, all of us are devastated by the loss of Bhavna,” said the editor, “but we realize the show must go on. She would have wanted details of her murder to appear as an exclusive on the front pages of her own tabloid — not in some other newspaper. Come on now, what information on the case can you offer me?”

Nisha shook her head in disgust. “We’re trying to find a killer here—”

“And I’m trying to run a newspaper,” shrugged the editor. Her phone began to ring and Nisha thanked her stars. She signaled that she had to leave and made a quick retreat from the office before the editor could put down the receiver.

As Nisha left the office building she was being watched by a camera. Its telephoto lens whirred like a casino counting machine.

Chapter 18

“Hari?”

Private’s tech wizard turned at the sound of Nisha’s voice. “What can I do for you?” he asked, pleased to see her, and even more pleased when she perched herself on the edge of his desk.

“I went to the Afternoon Mirror today,” she explained.

“Looking for a job?”

She chuckled. “Looking for information on Bhavna Choksi, only her editor was far more interested in what I had to tell her about the murder than actually helping us find the killer.”

He pulled a face. “Newshounds, eh? Tsk.”

“We recovered a laptop from Bhavna’s home,” said Nisha. She pointed. “That one there, I believe. Could you crack it?”

“Of course,” he smiled.

“Brilliant.” She eased herself off the end of his desk, departing with her jacket slung over her shoulder and her Glock at her hip. “Let me know how you get on.”

“Will do,” he said, watching her go. Then he placed Bhavna Choksi’s Windows notebook before him on his workstation. This was going to be fun. The hacker in him always relished the prospect of entering forbidden territory.

He plugged in a USB flash drive preloaded with a program titled Ophcrack and held down the power button until the machine powered off. He then powered up the computer, entered the machine’s BIOS, changed the boot sequence, saved the changes, and exited.

Taking a deep meditative breath, Hari restarted the machine and waited for Ophcrack to load. The program used rainbow tables to solve passwords up to fourteen characters in length and Hari had found that it usually took less than ten seconds to pop one out. He began counting backwards from ten.

Exactly on cue, Ophcrack spat out Bhavna’s password. Hari wrote it down on a piece of paper, unplugged the USB flash drive from the computer, rebooted it, and logged in using the password supplied by the program. He then began examining the journalist’s computer for material that could be of use to Private India.

Besides previous articles on a variety of subjects, Hari began looking for Bhavna’s latest web searches. Within a few minutes he knew that she had been searching for travel coordinators, stylists, pet groomers, physiotherapists, public relations managers, nutrition experts, fashion designers, beauticians, psychiatrists, and fitness instructors. Not only that, but...

Hari picked up the intercom handset and dialed Nisha’s extension. “I can tell you what Bhavna Choksi was working on in the twenty-four hours before she was killed,” he said. “She’s got web searches galore, plus she was good enough to keep a list on her desktop.”

“Excellent,” Nisha beamed. “Apparently her most recent piece was a feature on the lifetstyles of the rich and famous...”

“I’m looking at it now. It’s a bunch of names, lots under the heading ‘possibles,’ just one under the heading ‘definite.’”

“All right,” she said, “let’s have the definite.”

“It’s a hairstylist. Name of Aakash — just ‘Aakash’ — at the Shiva Spa Lounge.”

“Excellent,” she said, “I owe you one,” and hung up.

In his own office, Hari replaced the receiver, feeling an odd mix of emotions: pride at having recovered the information Nisha needed, but something else too, and for a second he simply stared at the silent receiver in its cradle.

Then he stood, left his office, and took the stairs to Colaba Causeway, where he lit a cigarette. As he exhaled a cloud of smoke through his nostrils he made a call.

It was answered by a husky female voice.

“Can we meet later tonight?” Hari asked her. “It’s urgent. There’s something I need to discuss.”

Chapter 19

“It’s not a hair salon, it’s a hair lounge,” said Aakash the head stylist, his eyes ablaze.

The difference, as far as Santosh and Nisha could see, was that the Shiva Spa had a resident DJ who played deafening music. Stylists bobbed their heads in time to the beat as they dealt with trendy clients, all of whom regarded themselves with empty expressions in the mirror, as though to show an actual human emotion might be considered uncool.

Aakash, however, was allowed to show an emotion — something to do with his artistic temperament, no doubt — even if that emotion was best described as emphatic irritation. He wore an orange tailored jacket with the sleeves pushed up. Beneath it was a T-shirt that had been artfully ripped and stressed, and tight jeans with a chain hanging off the waistband. He was hairless.

“Well, perhaps we could find a place somewhere in the lounge that’s a little more private?” Nisha yelled over the din of a Bollywood tune.

Aakash glanced from her to Santosh, who stood at her shoulder, rolled his eyes as though the whole thing were a terrible inconvenience, then turned on his heel and strode toward the rear of the salon — sorry, lounge.

Nisha and Santosh swapped amused glances and followed, pleased to hear the music recede. Indeed, away from the DJ was where the place earned its spa status. Waltzing on ahead, Aakash led them through a section where slightly older patrons were being seen to by chic stylists wearing black, and back here the atmosphere was more serene. The music was classical, and the stench of hair products and eau de toilette was at least partly replaced by the smells of coffee and burning incense.

Finally they reached the office, where Aakash, still wearing an expression of exasperation, directed them to a pair of unnecessarily uncomfortable steel-tube chairs, while he sank himself into a sofa.

He kept them waiting while he studied his phone then dropped it, looked at them, sighed, and said, “Yes? What can I do for you?”

Santosh, his cane held between his legs, let Nisha do the talking.

“We’re investigating the murder of a journalist, Bhavna Choksi. We believe she’d been in contact with you.”

Aakash tilted his chin, thinking — or pretending to.

“No, I don’t think I know the name,” he said.

“She represented the Afternoon Mirror.”

“Oh, her.” He pulled a face. “Yes, she did get in touch, you’re right.”

“And you agreed to do an interview?” said Nisha.

“At first, but I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

Aakash looked haughty. “She told me she wanted to know more about my work but it was all false pretences.”

“Really? I thought she was writing a piece on those who look after the rich and famous. The support staff, if you like.”

He bridled. “I’ll have you know, I’m far more than ‘support staff.’ What I do...” he waved his hand airily “... is closer to art.”

“Be that as it may...”

Aakash frowned. “Look, she may have pretended to be writing a soft feature, but I could tell — she was digging for dirt.”

“And did she get any?” asked Nisha.

“No,” he sniffed.

Nisha threw Santosh a look and he raised his eyebrows. She leaned forward. “Mr....”

“Aakash,” he said, affronted. “It’s just Aakash.”

“...Aakash — I’m having difficulty understanding why you wouldn’t want to talk to the Afternoon Mirror. After all, the free advertising alone surely would have made it worthwhile. I’m picturing it now, the salon — sorry, the lounge — featured in the Afternoon Mirror, waiting lists stretching off into infinity. It would appear to me to be — what do you call it? — a no-brainer.”

“Well,” he said defensively, “that’s just where you’re wrong.”

“Why?” she pressed. Her voice was soft, but probing. “Was there something you were worried she might discover?”

By now Aakash was looking shifty. The office door was open. He got up, walked over, and closed it. The act was dropped a little. “Look,” he said, “I may have, um, overplayed the celebrity angle of my work.”

Nisha and Santosh exchanged a glance.

“In what way?” said Nisha.

“In the sense that the celebrity bit of my client list needs working on.”

“You are yourself becoming something of a celebrity, are you not? The very fact that Bhavna wanted to interview you attests to that.”

“I am,” said the hairdresser proudly.

“And yet this reputation is built on false pretences...”

Aakash froze as if the walls had ears. “All right,” he said, “keep it down. Don’t tell the world. I do have some celebrity clients, just not lots.”

“How many celebrity clients?”

“Three.”

They both looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“Okay,” he admitted. “None. Yet. But did you see the lounge? They’ll be pouring in soon, just you mark my words.”

“I see,” said Santosh, the first words he’d spoken since they’d arrived at the Shiva Spa. He looked at Nisha and saw his own disappointment reflected in her eyes. “I think we’re done here.”

Chapter 20

The man known only as Munna sat across two seats of the booth in the Emerald Bar, an illegal dance bar. Huge and perspiring heavily, he mopped his wet brow with a handkerchief every now and then, piggy eyes blinking as he spoke into his phone.

Munna liked gold. Under an open-necked shirt he wore gold-rope chains around his neck. His chubby fingers were made even chubbier by an assortment of thick gold rings. On the table in front of him was a pack of Marlboro Lights, a solid gold lighter, and a sleek gold-plated cell phone. He was rumored to carry a gold-plated Desert Eagle in his waistband.

There were other rumors about Munna. That the lake bordering his weekend home on the outskirts of Mumbai was used to breed crocodiles, an efficient and ecologically friendly means of disposing of human bodies.

In booths to the left and the right sat some of Munna’s men who, as well as drinking, smoking, and pawing the girls, provided an intimidating gauntlet to run before an audience with the gangster. But in Munna’s private booth were his personal bodyguards, standing to his left and right, their Glock 22 pistols in shoulder holsters under tailored cotton jackets.

Next to him a girl sat curled up. Not a day older than sixteen, she wore a tiny skirt and a bra top, had dark rings under heavy-lidded eyes, and track marks on her arms, visible if you looked close enough. With her legs tucked up beneath her she leaned into Munna and endured his wandering hands. Soon she would dance for him, once his business was concluded, and after the dance, perhaps he would bid his close protection to leave them, and they would stand outside the door of the booth and listen to her stifled screams.

Munna controlled most of the city’s drug traffic, bootlegging, prostitution, extortion, and illegal betting. Growing up in the slums of Mumbai, Iqbal Rahim had fought his way to the very top of the crime ladder by bumping off his rivals and accomplices in equal measure. He had somehow managed to retain a baby face, and hence came to be known as “Munna” — or baby boy.

There was absolutely nothing that Munna could not get done in the city and he often used that power to play Robin Hood to full effect. Whether it was the school admission of a child, the medical treatment of a cancer patient, or the out-of-turn allocation of a subsidized house for someone on an endless waiting list, Munna ensured that he was both loved and feared. There was no politician in Mumbai who could hope to win an election without Munna’s invisible support.

Barely two decades earlier, Mumbai had been in the throes of a deadly gang war. The police chief set up an encounter force to deal with the situation. In Mumbai police terminology, an encounter was a euphemism to describe extrajudicial killings in which a police team shot down suspected gangsters in carefully staged gun battles. It was all-out war.

The net result was that the Mumbai police had succeeded in crippling the underworld in Mumbai. Although “encounter specialists” within the police force were criticized by human rights activists, they were praised by ordinary citizens. Rupesh’s boss — the Police Commissioner — had started his own career as an encounter specialist and had worked his way up to his present position.

Only the most determined gangsters had remained in Mumbai during the encounter years and Munna was one of them. His mentors had fled to Karachi and Dubai while Munna had gobbled up the residual empire left behind by them. Several corpses later, he had emerged more powerful than any previous mafia don, someone who knew the value of working alongside the enemy.

A man walked into the bar’s dark air-conditioned interior. In the center of the garishly decorated place was a huge dance floor on which a few dozen young girls dressed in traditional Indian outfits gyrated to the rhythm of Bollywood songs. Seated at tables arranged around the dance floor were lecherous men who would get up every now and again to shower cash on girls who caught their fancy. Waiters unobtrusively served alcohol while quietly pocketing cash for arranging private encounters with the girls.

The man appeared at the door of Munna’s booth. “Hello, Munna bhau,” he said.

“Have you come to talk business?” growled Munna.

“Indeed I have,” replied Rupesh.

Chapter 21

Santosh unlocked the door and entered without bothering to switch on the lights. His second-floor apartment was close to the Taj Mahal Hotel, a short walk from his office in Colaba. The bright sodium-vapor street lights outside his windows bathed his dark living room in an eerie golden hue.

In the kitchen, he took out a glass from the overhead cabinet and placed it under the ice dispenser, enjoying the reassuring clink of ice cubes in the glass. He took it into the living room where he picked up the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label from the side cabinet, poured the golden liquid into the glass, listened to the ice cubes crackle as the whisky settled in.

Just one, he told himself. Just the one. Johnnie Walker or Jack Morgan — he’d made his choice. Jack had had faith in him, helped to pick up a broken man. And this — this was the biggest case Private India had handled so far.

He wasn’t going to let Jack down.

Santosh settled in too. He stretched out on the sofa, picked up the remote, and switched on the television set. He rarely watched TV but found the sound strangely reassuring. It was a news channel showing another uproar in the Indian parliament as the government and opposition benches traded charges of corruption and incompetence.

Santosh ignored the events on television, took a generous gulp of the whisky, and stared at an oversized photograph on the wall. It showed a laughing young woman holding a six-year-old boy in her arms. It was a photograph he had taken at a hill resort, a few hours away from Mumbai.

He had not known at the time that it was the last photograph he would ever take of his wife and son.

He downed the rest of his glass in a single swig and poured himself another. His drinking had increased over the past few years, but it numbed the pain. The drooping eyes, the graying hair and unsmiling face were the result of a combination of loneliness, aging, anguish, and the drinking. Santosh continued to gaze at the photograph until he fell into a slumber. Then the nightmare took over. It was a recurring theme and varied only minimally.

Santosh, Isha, and Pravir were returning from a weekend trip to the hill resort. It had been Santosh’s effort to reconnect with his family. His work had kept him so completely absorbed that he had begun to feel like an outsider when he was seated at the dinner table with his wife and son. Even though Isha had never complained, the distance between them had been growing. For the moment, though, they had succeeded in forgetting about it. Santosh was driving the car with his wife seated next to him. Pravir was playing a video game, seated in the rear. Santosh took his eyes off the road for a few seconds. He did not see the tree at the crest of a hairpin turn a few yards ahead. There was a sickening sound of crumpling metal as the car smashed into it. The screeching of tires, the car spiraling out of control, the smell of burned rubber and fuel... Darkness.

“You killed them, you drunk bastard,” said a cop, holding out a pair of handcuffs to Santosh as he woke to the sound of alarm bells ringing in a hospital.

The alarm bells continued ringing. Switch off those goddamn bells, thought Santosh. The bells persisted. Switch them off, motherfucker, he thought, but there was no respite. The bells continued to clang noisily in his head.

Santosh woke to find his telephone was ringing. He pulled his feet off the sofa and sat up. He rubbed his eyes groggily. The clock on the wall showed three o’clock in the morning. He picked up the cell phone that was persistently ringing next to the empty bottle of Johnnie Walker and took the call.

“What’s the matter with you? I’ve been trying to reach you for the past half-hour,” said Rupesh irritably.

“Sorry, the phone was accidentally switched to silent mode,” lied Santosh.

The answer seemed to mollify Rupesh. “We’ve got a third body,” he said without pause. “You need to get yourself over to Hill Road immediately.”

Chapter 22

Hill road wound through Bandra, a posh suburb favored by Bollywood actors, musicians, and artists. The house in question was toward a quiet stretch of the street, close to Mount Mary Church.

Santosh had asked Mubeen to pick him up. His head was aching and his stomach burning from alcohol-induced acidity. He had hurriedly dissolved a couple of Alka-Seltzer in a glass of water and gulped them down before jumping into Mubeen’s car.

There was virtually no traffic on the roads at this hour and Mubeen was able to get them to Bandra within fifteen minutes. They waited in the car at the closed gate for a few minutes before the steel grille was raised electronically to let them through. Mubeen parked in the private driveway of the bungalow next to several police vehicles and gathered his equipment from the boot of the car.

The house belonged to an Indian pop singing sensation — Priyanka Talati. A single song in a single Bollywood movie had fueled her meteoric rise to iconic status. That one song had made her a legend throughout India and all of South Asia. The soundtrack album had charted in sixteen countries worldwide, and the song had become the fastest-selling single in Asia. In a short career of five years, Priyanka had sung on over forty soundtracks across five languages and had won fifteen awards, including one National Film Award, two Filmfare Awards, and three International Indian Film Academy Awards.

Hari and Nisha were already at the crime scene, having been alerted by Santosh to the developments. Rupesh was there too, lips red with cardamom-flavored chewing tobacco.

“Your chap Hari Padhi has checked out the security system,” he told Santosh. “It’s a highly sophisticated one but it was never triggered. Either the intruder understood the technology or they were allowed in by the owner.” He led them through the entrance passageway into an elegant living room.

One of the walls was covered with awards, trophies, and gold and platinum disks while another bore a huge canvas by Indian painter Syed Haider Raza, the painting having been publicly acquired by Priyanka for three million dollars during a charity auction.

“Quite obviously the killer was not interested in either the painting or its value,” remarked Santosh, as he observed Nisha taking photographs of the crime scene. “Only a very wealthy individual would leave such an expensive painting on the wall. On the other hand, an intruder of modest means might not have fully appreciated its value.”

He shifted his gaze from the walls to the floor. Toward the center of a vast and expensive Pietra di Vicenza marble floor lay the body of Priyanka Talati, dressed in a designer tracksuit and expensive sneakers. Around her neck was the now-familiar yellow garrote.

“What is she lying on?” asked Santosh.

“It’s a faux tiger skin,” replied Nisha. “Rather cheap. It’s certainly not part of the expensive decor.”

“So it’s a prop. Yet another clue left by our killer,” said Santosh grimly. What the fuck are you playing at? he thought. Faux tiger skin? Why are you messing with my head?

“Did you notice this?” asked Nisha as she bent down to take a close-up shot of the victim’s face.

“Is that a rupee coin on her forehead?” asked Santosh, gripping his cane firmly in order to bend down a little.

“Yes, it’s a one-rupee coin,” replied Nisha. “But it’s been sawed in half down the middle.”

“Is that brass or gold?” asked Santosh, pointing to a small bell-shaped pendant that hung around the victim’s neck on a chain.

“We will have to examine it in the lab to check the exact metallic composition,” replied Mubeen, who was scanning the body with a dermascope. “Although it’s unlikely that a woman occupying a twenty-million-dollar home with a three-million-dollar painting hanging on the wall would be wearing a brass pendant.”

“You are right,” said Santosh. “If the pendant turns out to be cheap, we can safely assume that it’s a prop left by the killer. Any rough estimate of the time she died?”

“Judging by lividity,” said Mubeen, continuing with his examination, “I’d say that she’s been dead for at least four hours. That’s all I can tell you at this stage. Let Zafar and me examine her in the lab and we should be able to give you a more precise answer.”

Santosh look at his watch — 3:30 a.m. If Priyanka Talati had been killed four hours ago, it would make the time of death around 11:30. Turning to Rupesh, Santosh asked, “How was her body discovered?”

“There were complaints from neighbors that the music in her house had been turned up to full volume,” replied Rupesh. “The sanctioned noise limit in a residential area like Bandra is reduced from fifty-five decibels to forty-five by ten p.m. Her stereo was thumping out Bollywood numbers at over a hundred decibels. The neighbors called up the police control room to register a complaint. When the beat patrol got here there was no one to open the electrical gate. That’s when the beat sergeant called us.”

“What about her personal staff?” asked Santosh, eyes flitting around the room, mentally taking snapshots of everything. “Someone must have seen something.”

“Priyanka Talati had lived most of her life in Singapore,” explained Rupesh, who had already interviewed one of the neighbors. “She was uncomfortable keeping household staff, hence the high-tech security system in her house. She had a personal assistant who stayed with her for twelve hours in the day. A cook came in for about three hours in the morning to carry out the cooking for the entire day. A team of cleaners also arrived each day to do the housekeeping but they were usually out by eleven o’clock in the morning.”

“No security guard at the gate?” asked Santosh.

“It is remotely operated from within the house,” said Rupesh.

“In which case, there would be a CCTV camera at the gate, right?”

“Absolutely. There are two security cameras,” explained Rupesh, “one at the gate and the other at the entrance door. Both feed into a digital recording unit inside a closet. Unfortunately the hard drive containing the recorded material is missing.”

Rupesh was staring at Priyanka’s body. Even though she was fully clothed, he was seeing someone else... a naked woman, bleeding internally from wounds inflicted by objects inserted into her body. Repeatedly raped.

Santosh bent down to examine Priyanka’s forehead more closely. “Do you see what I see?” he asked Rupesh, breaking his reverie.

“A rupee coin cut in half...” said Rupesh tentatively.

“Yes, but look underneath,” said Santosh.

Rupesh bent down to take a closer look. “Ah, I see it now. It’s a single strand of hair.”

“Too much of a coincidence. I am convinced that the hair is a bogey — a prop left to mislead us,” said Santosh. “I’m pretty certain it will match the other two strands.” He stopped talking suddenly, squinted as he attempted to focus on the coin. “See the way that it has been placed... It looks like a half-moon. What day of the week is it today?” he asked animatedly. “Quick! What day?”

“Tuesday. But what does that have to do with anything?” asked Rupesh, wondering how many whiskies Santosh had downed before getting there. Very little remained secret among the members of Mumbai’s security establishment.

“If Priyanka Talati was killed at around eleven thirty then it means that the murder happened on Monday night, not Tuesday morning,” said Santosh, ignoring Rupesh’s impatience.

“What the fuck are you driving at, Santosh?” asked Rupesh, slightly annoyed by the trivial questions and statements.

Santosh turned to Nisha. “Do you have an almanac on your smartphone?”

“Yes,” she answered curiously. “What do you need to know?”

“The exact phase of the moon on Monday night.”

Nisha did a quick search on her phone. “Let’s see. We had a full moon a week ago, a waning gibbous on Thursday night... and, ah, here it is. Monday night was a third-quarter moon.”

“And a third-quarter moon is a half-moon!” exclaimed Santosh. Even though he did not smile, a look of satisfaction briefly crossed his face. “We have a rupee coin on Priyanka Talati’s forehead that looks like a half-moon. The night of the murder turns out to be a half-moon night. The murder happens on a Monday. The word Monday means day of the moon. Think about it. Isn’t it possible that this murderer is killing according to an astronomical calendar? Hmm? Isn’t it?”

Chapter 23

Rupesh was asked the same question six times. On each occasion, his practiced bland reply was delivered with the utmost patience. “At this time, we have a few leads that we are working on. Priyanka Talati’s murder is being treated as a high-priority case.”

The conference room of the Mumbai Police Headquarters was packed with reporters, photographers, and news channel crews, and provided standing room only. A fire in the room that day would have wiped out India’s fourth estate entirely.

Santosh and Rupesh had discussed the matter in great detail and had decided that not having a press conference about the inquiry into Priyanka Talati’s death would seem suspicious. She was simply too famous. “Just ensure that no one can link her murder to the previous two,” advised Santosh. “Let’s not give our killer the publicity he craves.”

“Is it true that she was strangled?” asked a gray-haired hack from a New Delhi-based news channel.

“It would hamper our investigations if we were to reveal details of the crime publicly,” replied Rupesh smoothly. “We are keeping such matters private so that we may bring investigations to a satisfactory conclusion as quickly as possible. I trust that everyone in this room will cooperate with us in this regard.”

“Is Priyanka’s killing an isolated murder or part of a wider pattern?” asked the editor of the Afternoon Mirror.

“We have no evidence at this stage to indicate that her murder is anything other than an isolated incident,” replied Rupesh, wondering from where this woman had obtained a tip-off.

A lady from a news channel known for its proximity to the opposition party got up to deliver a speech instead of a question. “Last year, two hundred and fifteen murders, four hundred rapes, two thousand, five hundred burglaries, almost eleven thousand thefts, and over eighteen hundred cases of cheating were reported in the city. Does the police force of Mumbai intend to do anything to stem this crime wave? It seems that more than half of the city’s force is assigned to VIP duties, protecting politicians and their family members, rather than being available for crime-fighting.”

“Madam, I understand your anguish,” lied Rupesh, knowing full well that the woman was speaking the truth. “Please understand that Mumbai’s police force is committed to reducing crime. Our Commissioner has instituted a high-level commission to find out how we can revamp our inquiry system.”

“The government has become expert at appointing commissions of inquiry and doing little else,” replied the woman sarcastically, ensuring that her two accompanying cameramen focused on her and Rupesh in parallel while they exchanged words.

“Have you received any information regarding the possible motive for the killing?” asked a young reporter from an Indian-language newspaper.

“At this stage we are pursuing multiple lines of inquiry and we shall have a clearer idea once all angles have been investigated,” said Rupesh, revealing absolutely nothing of any value.

Watching the press conference on the television in Private India’s office, Santosh smiled. Rupesh had handled it well.

Watching the press conference on television in another part of town, someone else frowned.

Chapter 24

Isolated incident? Trying to snatch away my hard-earned publicity? How dare they try to make Priyanka’s death look like a random killing? It’s time for me to increase the pressure on you chaps. It has been rightly said that one can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. It’s time for me to break a few more.

Do you like eggs? Personally, I have never cared for them but here I am in front of the stove, about to boil a dozen. I have a vague recollection of painting pretty designs on Easter eggs. I recall being told that one needed to hard-boil the eggs before painting them or else they would rot quickly.

I drop the eggs into the scalding-hot water. Do you like water? I used to hate it but now I love it. You know why? Because if you hold someone’s head in a tub of water, you can stop their breathing. Like a garrote, water is also a murder weapon. Be it a rumaal, a tub of water, or a pillow — they are all switches. Flick the switch and you can turn life into death.

Oh dear, I have completely forgotten. Where is the ironing board? Ah, there it is. Now, let’s see, how many yellow scarves do I need to steam the wrinkles from? I’ve already used three. The rumaal is such a versatile murder weapon... I wonder why it isn’t used more often.

Yellow was my mother’s favorite color, you know. She would wear yellow sarees. Ah, sarees! The Indian saree is the most sensual piece of clothing that one can wear. The six-yard piece of fabric requires some practice to drape but it hugs a woman’s body in all the right places. It’s exciting, not because of what it reveals but because of what it doesn’t. What an incredible feeling to have the soft fabric caressing your skin at all times of the day, even the most intimate of places.

I pull out my special scarf from my pocket. Three knots are firmly tied in it. I survey my work with some satisfaction but check my contentment. I still have lots more to do.

I’m coming to get you, bitch. Wait for me. Trust me, it’s worth waiting for.

Chapter 25

“This is the only store in Mumbai that sells these particular shoes?” asked Santosh incredulously.

They were illegally parked on Waterfield Road, looking warily at a line of designer boutiques, and one in particular called Michel that, according to Hari, was the city’s only supplier of the distinctive black buckled shoe. As modeled by Dr. Jaiyen’s probable killer in the Marine Bay Plaza.

They stepped out of the company Honda Civic and into the searing heat of Mumbai. Stopping to let a couple of stylish ladies pass, they crossed to Michel and tried to enter the store — only to find the door locked.

Santosh stepped back, puzzled. “Oh bloody hell,” he said, realizing the problem. It wasn’t the sort of shop where you just went inside. Oh no. You had to be allowed in.

Sure enough, a snooty sales assistant was watching them from a window, wearing the bored, expressionless look of the terminally trendy. Exactly the same look he’d seen on the customers at the Shiva Spa. “Aakash” would be right at home here, he mused.

“Can we come in?” he mouthed, and the bored-looking sales assistant did all but roll her eyes as she surveyed them from a distance. At last she relented and unlocked the door.

“Good day to you, sirs,” she said. “How may I help you?”

Another assistant, standing at the counter, momentarily glanced up from flicking through a magazine then looked back down.

“I’m looking for information about a pair of shoes,” said Santosh, casting his eyes around the shop.

The assistant smiled wanly as he looked for the pair. He found them with a triumphant “Ah!” and scuttled over to where they were displayed. “These,” he said, holding them up with a glance at Hari, who confirmed that they were indeed the shoes from the CCTV footage.

“Those shoes are for display purposes only, I’m afraid,” said the assistant, evidently relishing the terrible news she was about to impart. “They are custom-made to order and the waiting list is...” She called over her shoulder, “How long for the Oakleys, Ria?”

Without glancing up from her magazine, Ria said, “Two years.”

“Two years,” repeated Assistant One, unnecessarily.

“Ah, but I don’t want to buy a pair,” explained Santosh. “I want to know who else has bought a pair.”

“I’m sorry?” said the assistant, eyebrows shooting up.

Santosh looked at her, his already low expectations sinking further. He could tell how this one was going to end.

Sure enough, in a matter of minutes the two Private men were back in the Honda, with Santosh cursing — cursing his luck, the two snooty assistants; whatever there was to curse, he was cursing it.

“Hey, boss,” said Hari from the driver’s seat, and Santosh became aware that the IT guy was making no move to drive off. Indeed, he was sitting with the laptop on his lap, lid up, tapping away.

“What are you doing?”

“The shop’s router was behind the counter. That particular model came with a generic password you were supposed to change as soon as you’d set it up, but of course nobody ever does so — hey presto — we’re in.”

He beamed at Santosh, who craned over. “What do you mean? You’ve hacked into their computer?”

“No, I’ve hacked into the router. Now...” He jabbed a button with a flourish. “Now I’ve hacked into the computer. What were the shoes called again?”

“Oakleys.”

“Here we go. Oakleys waiting list. God, the lying cow — the waiting list is only six months.”

“Just go to the orders fulfilled,” said Santosh.

A list of twelve or thirteen names scrolled up on the screen in front of him; at least half of them had been shipped overseas. Those left would all have to be checked, of course, but there was one name in particular that jumped out at him.

N. D’Souza, the Attorney General.

Chapter 26

“Does that look like the Attorney General, Nalin D’Souza?” asked Santosh.

In the conference room, the members of the Private team were rewatching the CCTV footage for what must have been the thousandth time. Takeout containers were spread out on the table in front of them but for the time being went ignored.

“It’s difficult to tell from this angle,” said Nisha, studying the 108-inch LCD screen, everything bigger and blurrier than in real life.

“This guy doesn’t seem to have the AG’s bearing,” said Santosh, squaring his own shoulders as if to make the point.

“So it’s not him,” said Mubeen.

“No,” said Santosh, his thoughts far away, “but that’s not all there is to it. Show them, Nisha.”

Nisha, perched on the edge of the table, click-clicked on the laptop trackpad, and a picture of the handsome Attorney General appeared on the screen. “Look at the hair,” she said.

They looked at the handsome face of Nalin D’Souza, the dark Portuguese features that seemingly rendered him irresistible to women.

“That was taken about a week ago. Now look at his picture here.” She clicked to another shot. “He’s had his hair cut.”

Santosh turned from the screen to address his team with eyes that blazed with excitement. “You see? He’d had his hair cut. And what did we find at the murder scenes? Strands of black hair, same shade as D’Souza. Strands of cut black hair.”

“So he’s our man?” said Mubeen, sitting forward.

“No,” said Santosh abruptly. “It’s all too convenient. Even so, he’s the closest we have to a suspect right now.” He indicated the picture on the screen. “Where was this taken?”

“At a page-three party at the Oberoi on Sunday night,” said Nisha.

“The night of Kanya Jaiyen’s death. Does this give him an alibi?”

“He left it early.”

“Okay,” said Santosh slowly. “Let’s be careful about this. The last thing we want to do is ruffle enough feathers to get removed from the case, but we do need to know the AG’s movements at the times of the murders.”

They sat down to eat their dinner and let the screen go to TV, which was showing coverage of a function attended by a who’s who of the entertainment industry. It was the annual Filmfare Awards night — India’s equivalent of the Academy Awards — to host and honor the bold and the beautiful of Bollywood.

They watched it in silence, chewing their food, each of them pleased to have a respite from what had been an exhausting day. For his part, Santosh had spent most of the afternoon at the cremation ground, attending Bhavna Choksi’s funeral.

The tabloid journalist’s last rites had been held at Banganga Crematorium on the shore of the Arabian Sea. Her cremation had been attended mostly by her friends and colleagues from work. Draped in a white shroud, her body had soon been engulfed in flames atop a pyre of wood, bamboo, and grass, while a Brahmin recited verses from Hindu scriptures. Some distance away, her boyfriend and a group of mourners had prayed silently as thick billowing clouds of smoke curled into the sky. From speaking to a few of Bhavna’s friends, Santosh had discovered that the boyfriend had arrived on a morning flight from London in order to attend the funeral. Santosh had waited until the very end to observe and make note of each and every attendee. Experience showed that murderers often attended their victims’ funerals, because it helped them to relive the excitement of the kill.

Meanwhile, Mubeen had been busy with the autopsy of Priyanka Talati. As expected, the hair found at Priyanka’s home matched microscopically with the two other samples from the previous murders, but no DNA could be extracted from it due to the absence of the root. The preliminary autopsy results had been along expected lines — ligature strangulation with snapped hyoid bone. Metallurgical analysis had shown the bell pendant and chain to be of brass, thus confirming Santosh’s suspicion that it was a prop.

Dr. Zafar had joined Mubeen for the examination, having brought over the body on a gurney from the police morgue. “Do you mind if I leave the gurney here and have it picked up later?” he had asked.

“You seem to be in a hurry today,” Mubeen had observed curiously.

“I have visitors,” Zafar had said. “I need to be home a little earlier.”

“Not to worry. The gurney can be stored in this chamber.” Mubeen had pointed to a stainless-steel unit that allowed several gurneys to be placed side by side.

“I will need some time to complete the analysis,” he’d continued. “Santosh wants a complete drug toxicology done on her.”

“Why?” Zafar had asked. “Wasn’t she killed by strangulation?”

“Sure,” Mubeen had replied. “It’s just that I have stopped asking why. Santosh always has a reason for everything.”

“Do you need help or should I proceed?”

“You carry on,” Mubeen had said. “I have collected blood from her femoral vein as well as her heart. Luckily there was some urine in her bladder too. Combined with bile and tissue samples from her liver, brain, kidney, and the vitreous humor of her eye, I should be able to do a full report for him.”

Nisha had spent her time contacting the security firm that had installed the surveillance system and burglar alarm at Priyanka Talati’s house. They had disclosed that they’d offered her their remote monitoring service but she had not agreed, citing privacy concerns. The security firm had simply installed the equipment — alarm system, CCTV cameras, and recording unit — and was duty bound to react if the alarm was triggered. If the recording unit was removed from Priyanka’s home, there was simply no backup copy anywhere else.

There were far too many unanswered questions swimming around in Santosh’s head. What did all the props left by the murderer mean? Why were they different at each scene? What was the murderer trying to tell them? What was the motive for the three killings? How were the murders related to the thuggee cult? Why had the victims opened their doors to the strangler? Whose hair was being found at the crime scenes? What was the common thread that linked the three victims to one another?

“What was the name of the security firm that installed the CCTV equipment at Priyanka Talati’s house?” he suddenly asked Nisha.

She looked at her smartphone to check but was interrupted by Santosh. “Don’t tell me. I’ll bet you that it was Xilon Security.”

“You are right,” said Nisha, realizing where he was going with it. “All three murder sites have had the same security consultant.”

“Find out everything that you can about Xilon,” he said, “founders, owners, directors. Look into the backgrounds of all their site engineers and find out if anyone has a suspicious past.” He stared blankly at the television screen, looking straight through the glitter and glamor of the Filmfare Awards.

One person stood out that night, though. Her name was Lara Omprakash and she seemed to be picking up a substantial number of awards. Lara was an elegant woman in her forties. She had been a leading lady in several blockbuster films but had bowed out gracefully a few years previously. Bollywood was always in search of the sexiest body and prettiest face that it could find, and maturity carried no premium for women. From a career in front of the camera, Lara had switched over to a career behind it. She had turned director — and how. Challenging all the norms of a formula-driven industry, she had directed the previous year’s biggest hit, a cutting-edge suspense thriller about a woman leading a double life.

On the television screen, Lara stepped up on stage and gracefully accepted the award for best director. She was retaking her seat when she was requested to return on stage to receive the award for best picture also. Having delivered a short, witty, and dignified acceptance speech, Lara went back to her seat and sat down next to a familiar face.

Santosh was shaken out of his reverie as the TV cameras panned over the audience in the VIP section. Sitting next to Lara and looking rather dapper in his tuxedo was the man who had accompanied her to the awards ceremony that night.

It was Santosh’s boss from LA — Jack Morgan.

Chapter 27

Santosh sat watching the giant screen with his mouth agape, attempting to make sense of Jack Morgan’s presence at the Filmfare Awards. Nisha, Mubeen, and Hari were equally stumped but before they could recover from the surprise, they heard a familiar voice ask: “Anyone home?”

Jack Morgan — ex-marine and head of the world’s largest and most renowned investigation agency — strode purposefully into the Private India conference room, still dressed in his tuxedo but with the bow tie having been undone. His day-old stubble and rugged good looks were the ideal combination for a charm offensive, but underneath that was a smart and extremely driven individual who surrounded himself with intelligent and committed people. Jack Morgan only hired the cream of the crop and paid them the very best salaries in the industry.

Walking up to Santosh, he shook his hand and indulged in a bit of good-natured back-thumping. “Nice to see that the retina scan at the entrance still remembers me,” he said, turning to give Nisha an almost imperceptible peck on her cheek. He then quickly went around the conference table to shake hands with Mubeen and Hari.

“What brings you here, boss?” asked Santosh. “Why didn’t you keep me informed? I would have come to pick you up from the airport.”

“No need for formality, Santosh,” said Jack. “I’m here because of Lara Omprakash.”

“Had I known that you know her, I would have requested you to arrange for me to meet her,” said Hari, sputtering like an excited schoolboy.

“That could still be arranged,” said Jack, winking at Hari, who was still a little distracted by the Filmfare glitz on the screen. “Stop staring at her! Trust me when I say that she’s far prettier off camera.”

“I thought that the Filmfare Awards were broadcast live. How are you in two places simultaneously?” asked Mubeen rather naively, looking at Jack’s face on the screen.

“They buffer the broadcast by two hours so that they can do on-location edits,” replied Jack, “particularly for the song-and-dance sequences that all Indians seem to love.” He settled down into one of the chairs at the conference table.

“So, here I am in Mumbai,” he continued. “I wasn’t too sure if I would come but the pressure from Lara was simply too much. She almost forced me to board the flight.”

“How do you know her?” asked Santosh, the investigator in him taking over.

“Ah, the interrogation has started,” remarked Jack in jest. “Okay, here’s the condensed version. Lara Omprakash was doing brilliantly as a heroine in Bollywood. Unfortunately most leading ladies there have rather short careers. The film industry is notoriously sexist and retires them the moment that a younger, hotter, sexier alternative emerges. Lara was intelligent. She withdrew in good time.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you know her,” persisted Santosh, almost forgetting that Jack was his boss, not a suspect.

Jack ignored the impatience and helped himself to a kebab from one of the tandoori cartons. “She decided to switch careers from acting to direction and took two years off from Bollywood. She settled down in LA temporarily and enrolled at the world-renowned American Film Institute in order to make the transition.”

“How did you meet her?” asked Hari eagerly.

“While she was in LA, she became friends with another student — a young actor from Brazil,” answered Jack. “A stringer from an Indian gossip magazine took some compromising photographs of her with this Brazilian friend. She needed someone to help her retrieve those photos before they were published back home. My name was recommended to her by the associate dean of the institute.”

“Were you able to help her?” asked Nisha.

“What do you think?” said Jack, licking the tandoori spice off his fingers.

“I think it’s possible that Mr. Jack Morgan became better friends with Lara than the Brazilian,” joked Nisha.

“Lara has never had time for anything besides her work and hobbies,” said Jack, sidestepping the question deftly.

“That’s one of the ironies of life,” remarked Nisha cryptically.

“What is?” asked Jack.

“The fact that one woman’s hobby could often be another woman’s hubby,” she replied.

Chapter 28

“I saw your report,” said Jack to Santosh. “You seem to have a serial killer who has a fetish for yellow garrotes.”

“Three victims in roughly twenty-four hours between Sunday and Monday nights,” replied Santosh. “Worrying average. Unfortunately, we’re no closer to finding him than we were after the first murder.”

“Have you tried finding out whether there was anything to link the victims?” asked Jack. “Did they stay in the same locality? Did they work in similar professions? Did they eat at the same restaurant? Did they use the same hairdresser or dry cleaning service? Do they have a common friend or boyfriend?”

“I’ve been plugging data into PrivatePattern since this morning but can’t find anything to link them,” said Nisha. PrivatePattern was the Private organization’s proprietary analysis tool. Investigators from all over the world fed case data into the system and allowed the software to throw up possible links and matches.

“The first victim was a doctor from Thailand, the second was a journalist working for a Mumbai tabloid, and the third was a famous pop singer,” she continued. “I have tried cross-referencing various elements from their lives but have drawn a blank. The main link so far is the security consultant — Xilon — whose technology was in use at all three locations. The only other definite link is the fact that the first two victims spoke to each other extensively over the phone.”

“What about the third?” asked Jack. “Any phone conversations with the other two?”

“Priyanka Talati — our singing sensation — did not believe in keeping an intrusive cell phone by her side. Her personal assistant answered phone calls for her but he is quite emphatic that Priyanka never received a call from either Kanya Jaiyen or Bhavna Choksi.”

Santosh perked up. “The reporter — Bhavna Choksi — was writing a story about people that work with celebrities, right? Was the singer — Priyanka — on Bhavna’s list of contacts?” he asked Nisha.

“No,” she replied, glancing down at her notes. “There were no celebrities on Bhavna’s list. Only people that worked alongside celebrities — helping them with their travel arrangements, physiotherapy, styling, pets, public relations, psychiatric counseling, clothes...”

“Okay, let’s forget that angle and focus on the murders. What was common to them?” asked Jack.

“All the victims were women,” replied Santosh mechanically. “None of them was sexually assaulted. All of them were killed by strangulation with a yellow garrote. The security firm at all three murder sites was the same. There was no forced entry at any of the locations. There was no trace evidence except for a single strand of hair — minus any DNA — at all three murder sites. The strangler left props — varying across the killings — at all the murder sites.”

“Refresh my memory a little,” said Jack. “What were the props?”

“The first victim was left with a lotus flower and a dining fork tied to her hands, and a toy Viking helmet tied to her feet. The second was found with a rosary in one hand and a bucket of water in the other. The third was found lying on a faux animal skin, half a rupee coin placed on her head, and a small brass bell-shaped pendant hung around her neck.” Santosh rattled off the details from memory.

“If you can’t find a link between the victims then try finding what connects the props. The killer is trying to tell you something,” said Jack quietly. “Find the pattern that fits the props and you will crack this case wide open.”

Under the conference table, Hari nervously clutched a small pendant in his right hand as he prayed to God that his secret would remain buried. He anxiously hoped that the husky-voiced woman he had spoken to earlier remained unaware of the latest developments.

Chapter 29

Blue Magic Tantra Records was no backstreet operation. Everything about the studio where Priyanka Talati had made her chartbusting albums screamed “big time.”

Santosh felt shabby, old, and out of touch as he and Nisha were led through the swish studio then deposited in the control room. Through floor-to-ceiling glass they watched as Priyanka’s music producer moved up and down a huge mixing console on a leather-backed swivel chair, his fingers dancing over sliders, head bobbing to music they couldn’t hear.

In his late thirties, he wore Kai-Kai sandals, faded jeans, and a gray company T-shirt printed with the logo “Blue Magic Tantra” in electric blue. And something else — a yellow bandana.

Now that’s interesting, thought Santosh, as the producer swung on his chair and waved at them through the window of the control room. A yellow bandana. The same fabric and dye, perhaps?

Moments later they sat down for coffee with the producer. “Priyanka was one of the most talented and versatile singers that India has ever produced,” he said sadly. “I was convinced it was only a matter of time before she’d be nominated for a Grammy.”

“She lived most of her life outside India, is that right?” asked Santosh, using a sip of the brew to surreptitiously study the bandana.

“Yes,” said the producer. “She studied music at the Yong Siew Conservatory, part of the National University of Singapore. Her parents were divorced. Her mother lived in Singapore — working as an accountant, I think — while her father lived in Thailand from where he continued to work for the merchant navy. Priyanka’s growing-up years were divided between Singapore and Thailand.”

“What about her personal life?” asked Nisha. “Did she have a husband or boyfriend?”

“She married rather young — unfortunately to the wrong guy,” said the producer. “He turned out to have a serious drinking problem. Even worse was the fact that he used Priyanka for target practice when he was sloshed. She’d been single for several years now but the divorce proceedings were dragging on... Nasty.”

Santosh kept quiet. Any reference to drinking inspired loathing and longing within him almost simultaneously. Loathing for his lack of self-control. And longing for yet another drink.

“Could we have his name, please?” asked Nisha. “Any idea where he lives?”

The producer provided a name but was not sure of the exact address. He told them that the apartment was somewhere in Andheri.

“Was there anyone new in her life?” asked Santosh at last. “Was there anything strange or abnormal in her habits or routine?”

“She had been shooting for a new music video and had been rather tired due to extended cosmetic makeover sessions as well as extra power yoga classes,” replied the producer sadly. “We would have released the new album next month along with the video. The song was to be used as the soundtrack for an upcoming film.” It was evident that Priyanka’s death had affected him deeply.

“Which movie?” asked Santosh.

“A new thriller by Lara Omprakash,” said the producer. “It had taken us almost a year to find the right sound for the film. Lara too was very excited about it.”

“Would you know whether Priyanka had a drug habit?” asked Santosh suddenly.

“Why on earth would you think that?” the producer said indignantly. “Priyanka was on a perpetual high — from her music. She didn’t need drugs!”

“Another question,” said Santosh carefully. He had noticed the small blue logo of Blue Magic Tantra Records on the producer’s yellow bandana. It wasn’t the same type of scarf as the ones used in the murders. “What was your relationship with her?”

The producer looked directly at Santosh and tears welled up in his eyes. “I loved her — not only as my protégée but also as a special friend. Unfortunately Priyanka never thought of me as anything but her producer, so the matter ended there.”

“I have to ask this,” said Santosh. “Where were you at the time that Priyanka Talati was killed? Monday night between eleven and midnight.”

“I was here all night,” said the producer, not seeming to take any offense at the aggressive line of questioning. “We were recording a track for Shivaraman Mahadevan — the leader of the Indian fusion group Samudra. You can ask any of the musicians. They’ll tell you that I was here from eight p.m. onwards until the wee hours of the morning.”

Santosh and Nisha thanked the producer and left the air-conditioned interior of the Blue Magic Tantra office for the heat of Mumbai city.

“We will need to check the tabloid reporter’s contacts list,” said Santosh, “to see whether Priyanka’s cosmetician or yoga instructor were on it. Also, we should find out the exact address of the former husband in Andheri and pay him a visit.” Nisha nodded as she unlocked the doors of the car and got into the driver’s seat. Santosh settled into the passenger seat next to her. That was the precise moment at which both of them saw it.

Tied to the steering wheel was a bright yellow scarf, identical to the ones that had been used in the three killings.

Chapter 30

Hari Padhi got into the driver’s seat, belted up, and started the car. On most days he did not bother to drive his car to work, preferring to use a Meru Cab, one of the hundreds of air-conditioned aqua-colored taxi cabs that jostled for space alongside the older but less comfortable black-and-yellow cabs. But today was different.

After about fifteen minutes of driving along congested roads, he parked near a school. Locking the car, he stepped out, passed the school, and headed down a narrow lane that led to a famous temple.

As he drew closer to it, the lane became slightly more crowded with holy men, hawkers, and beggars. He stopped at a small shop to buy some incense sticks, sandalwood paste, basil leaves, flowers, a ritual stole, and a watermelon. He then passed through the small wooden gate that led to the Durga Temple.

It was early morning by Mumbai standards and the temple was almost empty. It took Hari less than a few minutes to reach the goddess. He lit the incense sticks before the large idol of Durga. Then he dipped the flowers into the sandalwood paste and placed them along with the basil leaves at the feet of the deity as part of the ritual offering. He draped the stole reverentially around the shoulders of the deity.

Next he placed the watermelon on a small platform in front of the statue. He bowed down to pray for a few moments before he lifted a pocketknife and split open the watermelon with a single swipe. The red insides of the melon lay exposed as bloody juices oozed out.

A watermelon or gourd was an acceptable alternative sacrifice in the modern age. In medieval times, an animal or human sacrifice would have been the norm.

Chapter 31

The scarf on the steering wheel had left Nisha and Santosh stumped. Santosh had immediately phoned Jack and they had agreed that the cloth should be given to Mubeen for comparison. His verdict had been quick — the fabric and the dye were identical to those used in the other three scarves.

Why would he do that? wondered Santosh. Why tie a scarf to the steering wheel of investigating detectives? Nothing about him suggested he was into playing games with cops. The ritual was his thing.

Santosh put aside his thoughts for a moment. He had to pay a visit to Priyanka Talati’s former husband, accompanied by Jack.

Nothing in his life to date had prepared Jack for the ordeal of traveling on a Mumbai Local train. Santosh had suggested that it would be more efficient to reach Andheri — where Priyanka’s ex lived — by train rather than car. He was absolutely right. Making the journey by commuter train cut the travel time by half. What Santosh had avoided telling Jack was the fact that getting on or off a Mumbai Local train at most times of the day was a test that could easily have been devised by the toughest marine.

Transporting an incredible eight million commuters daily, the train was the very lifeline of Mumbai, but the notorious Mumbai Local had the ability to make people shudder simply to think about it. Trains were usually badly overcrowded with people packed inside like sardines. The doors rarely closed and passengers were often left hanging out, clutching the guard rails for dear life.

Thankfully their journey from Churchgate station to Andheri was uneventful because it was not rush hour. Even though they had been unable to find seats for half the journey, the train was not too overcrowded and they were able to find comfortable standing room.

While they were in the train, Santosh’s phone rang. Holding the overhead bar with one hand, he passed his walking cane to Jack. Using his free hand, he pulled out the cell phone from his pocket. He looked at the screen to see who the caller was. Rupesh.

“We have a small problem,” began Rupesh.

“What is it?” asked Santosh.

“That editor from the Afternoon Mirror has been sniffing around. So far we’ve succeeded in keeping under wraps the fact that the three murders are related. We’ll be in a mess if this comes out.”

“What prompted the snooping?” said Santosh.

“She received a yellow scarf in a package,” said Rupesh. “As of now, she does not know the connection between the scarf and the three murders.”

“How did it arrive?” asked Santosh. “By post, courier, or hand-delivery?”

“Plain Manila envelope, postmarked Mumbai GPO. We’ve checked for fingerprints. There are none.”

“The address was handwritten?”

“Negative. Laser printer.”

“No chance of any handwriting analysis. What do you suggest?”

“I say that we call another press conference and reveal a little more, but keep the key details to ourselves,” proposed Rupesh. “At least that way we’ll be in control of what goes out.”

“I disagree,” Santosh told him. “This killer wants publicity. The clues at the various scenes are the perfect ingredients for a juicy crime thriller. It’s possible that Bhavna Choksi, the Afternoon Mirror reporter, was killed specifically with the intention of getting front-page visibility. The yellow scarf being sent to the tabloid’s office proves that the perpetrator desperately wants column inches. Provide a spotlight and you will have dead bodies piling up even faster.”

After persuading Rupesh not to take any further action until they’d had a chance to discuss it personally, Santosh hung up as the train rolled into Andheri station. From there they hailed a three-wheeled diesel-fume-spewing auto rickshaw to the address that Nisha had given them. It was the last known address of Priyanka’s ex.

They trudged up the stairs to the fifth floor because the building’s sole elevator was out of order, Santosh keeping up with Jack in spite of the cane. They rang the bell to an anonymous-looking door that bore only an apartment number. There was no response from within. Santosh rang the bell once again but still there was no answer. He knocked on the door with no success.

“Maybe he’s out,” said Jack. “Or he could have moved.”

“Or he could be lying dead,” countered Santosh. “We need to get inside.”

Without hesitation, Jack kicked in the door with ease. Once a marine, always a marine.

The shattered door revealed an unlit passage beyond. Lying slumped on the ground was a disheveled man who looked as if he hadn’t bathed for a month. His face was unshaven and his muddy-brown hair was almost shoulder-length. His nails were long and filthy, and a pungent odor of dried sweat emanated from his body.

“Firoze Quadri?” asked Santosh, as the man rubbed his eyes and scratched his week-old stubble.

“What if I am?” the man asked warily, an even more terrible smell emanating from his mouth. It was obvious that Quadri hadn’t used a toothbrush for a long time.

“We need just a minute of your time, sir,” said Jack, pulling up the dazed occupant by the scruff of his neck and almost carrying him further into the apartment before he could object.

It soon emerged that Priyanka’s ex was a down-on-his-luck alcoholic. While married to her, he had tried his hand at a variety of jobs but had never been good at any of them — writer, artist, interior designer. Eventually he had realized that his only claim to fame was the fact that he was married to Priyanka. His male ego utterly bruised, he had taken to drink and had filled the nondrinking hours with violent outbursts directed at his famous wife. One day when he had returned home after a long night of drinking at the local bar, he’d found that Priyanka had left. The next day her lawyer had gotten in touch.

The apartment was an extremely valuable piece of real estate in a city where every square inch commanded an outrageous premium. Priyanka had been attempting to evict him and take back possession of the apartment, but the case was stuck in the backlog of the High Court of Bombay.

For the present, though, the valuable property was little better than a dump with empty beer bottles and cartons of partially consumed takeout meals strewn all over the place. The stench of rotting food was sickening. Jack opened a window and attempted to switch on the ceiling fan.

“Don’t bother,” said the drunk. “The electricity has been cut for nonpayment of bills.”

Santosh had gone into ferret mode — sniffing around and turning over bottles and packages. He was wondering whether he might find a few yellow scarves lying around. “Did you know that your ex was murdered recently?” he asked, continuing his search. The dazed expression on Quadri’s face made it quite evident that he had not heard the news.

“The bitch left me penniless,” he snarled, not in the least bothered by the fact that his ex-wife had been tragically murdered. On the contrary, a smile of satisfaction crossed his face. “Since we haven’t been officially divorced as yet, would you know whether I can claim a share of her estate?”

“Where were you on Monday night between eleven and midnight?” Santosh demanded, ignoring the question.

“Can’t remember,” mumbled the ex blankly, scratching his crotch.

“You do realize that your divorce proceedings with Priyanka give you a strong motive for her murder?” said Santosh, using his cane to scare away a lizard on the doorframe nearby.

“I never leave this place,” replied the drunk. “Ask the neighbors or the security guards at the gate. I am always worried that the bitch may forcibly repossess the house while I’m out.”

Jack looked at Santosh and shook his head, pointing to the empty alcohol bottles scattered all over the floor. They were wasting their time with Quadri.

Santosh agreed. Quadri had unkempt shoulder-length hair. It seemed unlikely that the man would leave a murder scene without shedding some of it. Furthermore the hair samples at all three murder sites had been short strands of black hair, not the muddy brown color of Quadri’s.

While one could loathe Quadri, he was quite certainly not their man.

Chapter 32

The mustache was prominent, and combined with his height and build it gave him an imposing air. He used a discreet entrance next to a private hospital. There was no sign to indicate that what lay beyond the door was a maze of barriers, soldiers, and sniffer dogs. A single plainclothes officer with a pistol tucked away under his jacket directed visitors into the complex that sported the look of a well-funded university — manicured lawns, sparkling fountains, and well-tended buildings.

The imposing man occupying the chair in the central office on the top floor was the chief of the Inter-Services Intelligence — or ISI. The Director General of Pakistan’s premier intelligence service was a veteran, having served as a lieutenant general in the Pakistan Army. It was a powerful job, being the head of an organization that employed over ten thousand officers and staff members, not including informants and assets.

The Chief of Army Staff was his mentor, but occupying the post of Director General was always a balancing act. If one was too successful, one became a target of the political establishment. On the other hand, if one was incapable of delivering results then there were enough people baying for one’s blood in the army.

Headquartered in Islamabad, the ISI had been responsible for supporting the Afghan Mujahideen against the Soviet Union in the erstwhile communist Afghanistan and later providing support to the Taliban against the Indo-Iranian-backed Northern Alliance in the civil war in Afghanistan. Most importantly, the ISI was involved in covert operations in Kashmir and other parts of India, having nurtured and supported several outfits on the ground there that gave the ISI much-needed deniability of its own role.

Inside the Director General’s office was a massive desk capable of doubling up as an impromptu conference table. The Director General was holding a meeting with the head of the CAD — the Covert Action Division of the ISI — a youthful-looking man in his early forties.

“Do we have someone inside as yet or not?” asked the Director General, his voice tinged with a Punjabi accent.

“It has taken us several months,” replied the CAD head smoothly, “but, yes, I am happy to report that we finally do have access to Private.”

A smile hovered on the Director General’s face. “It will give me the greatest pleasure to see that outfit destroyed. Three key operations in India have been botched by the interference of that lot,” he said. “The train blasts, the hotel attack and the Air India hijack... In all instances we’ve had operatives captured or killed.”

“In that case, should I proceed with the next part of my plan?” asked the CAD head.

“Yes. If you have managed to penetrate the organization, then start making arrangements for the next phase. Use the Indian Mujahideen network to handle logistics,” responded the Director General, drawing in a deep breath of nicotine and tar. “By the way, who is this man who has managed to get inside the fortress?”

“He is a Muslim from the medical fraternity. He has strong anti-American leanings and is thus the perfect candidate for the job,” replied the CAD man.

“Good,” said the Director General. “Keep me posted regarding your progress.”

Chapter 33

The Haji Ali mosque was a unique structure in Mumbai’s architectural landscape. Built on an islet off the coast of Worli in the southern part of Mumbai, it was only accessible via a narrow causeway that ran for a distance of five hundred meters through the sea. During high tide the mosque was cut off from the mainland when the causeway was entirely submerged. Sensibly, Mubeen had made sure that he reached the mosque well within low-tide hours.

As he neared the whitewashed structure, he could see the eighty-five-foot-high minaret — a familiar feature on Mumbai’s sunset skyline. Upon arriving at the islet, he used the sculpted entrance to reach the marble courtyard containing the central shrine. He paused for a moment before the tomb, covered by a red-, green-, and gold-embroidered sheet and supported by a silver frame. He mouthed a silent prayer before making his way to the men’s prayer hall. Here he stood in a corner, silently reading the ninety-nine names of Allah that made up the Arabic patterns on the marble pillars.

The prayer hall of Haji Ali gave Mubeen a feeling of comfort. It allowed him to silently grieve for his son and remember happier times with his wife. It allowed him to draw sustenance from the prayers that surrounded him. He was particularly grateful for the presence of Sufi singers who filled the air with sweet melodies in honor of Allah.

“What makes man so cruel?” he asked himself. After pondering the question for a while, he realized there was no single answer that could adequately address the question. At that moment, he kneeled down on his prayer mat, faced west toward Mecca, and raised his hands to his ears, chanting, “Allahu Akbar,” and thus drowning out the pain of what he had undergone in America.

Chapter 34

The posh school for girls was very quiet at this hour. Even though it was a day school and none of the students remained on the premises after hours, the principal never left. The vast grounds had ceded space to accommodate a corner cottage for the principal. Separated from the volleyball court by a thick hedge and mango orchard, the cottage was a substantial perk afforded to the person lucky enough to occupy the post. Established by a Scottish missionary many years before Indian Independence, the school was one of the most prestigious girls’ academies in Mumbai.

There was never any reason for the principal to worry about security because the entire five-acre plot in the western suburbs of Mumbai was cordoned off by a high wall and barbed-wire fences. There was only one gate to the entire complex and a team of well-trained security guards patrolled it around the clock.

Within the walls and barbed-wire fences were buildings housing the classrooms, cafeteria, library, gymnasium, auditorium, laboratories, and swimming pools. A football field, cricket pitch, volleyball court, and tennis court occupied the remaining land.

Inside the principal’s cottage there were two floors. The lower one contained the living room, dining room, and kitchen, the upper floor two en suite bedrooms. Adjacent to the principal’s cottage were staff quarters containing a bedroom and bathroom for any domestic help that the principal chose to employ.

Inside the larger bedroom facing the front garden, the principal, Mrs. Elina Xavier — a widow in her mid fifties — was fast asleep. Given that it was the third day of the school’s annual examination week, Mrs. Xavier had taken time off to visit Mahim Church. Getting inside on a Wednesday could be a test of perseverance because of the long queue of devotees waiting for admission. Mrs. Xavier had been exhausted by the visit — particularly given the fact that she was undergoing the last few chemotherapy sessions that had been prescribed by her oncologist.

The full-time maid who cooked Mrs. Xavier’s meals and did the household chores was also asleep in the adjacent staff quarters. A few hours after Mrs. Xavier had slipped into dreamland, there came a very soft creaking noise in the cottage as one of the doors of the closet in the smaller bedroom opened slowly. Someone stepped out of this and tiptoed across the room to the door. The trespasser had been inside the closet for over five hours, having entered the house earlier in the day as part of the school’s outsourced housekeeping team.

Crossing the narrow passage that separated the two bedrooms, the intruder opened the door to the master bedroom and glanced over to where the substantial body of Mrs. Xavier lay asleep, heaving and snoring. Wearing a maintenance boiler suit, shower cap, and rubber gloves, the intruder approached the bed, holding a yellow scarf in one hand, and in the other a plastic bag containing a carton of hard-boiled eggs.

Placing the bag on a side table by the bed, the prowler slipped the scarf around the principal’s neck and pulled on both ends firmly. Mrs. Xavier woke from her dreams only to find that she was in the midst of a nightmare. She gasped for air but her windpipe was obstructed. Her terrified eyes pleaded for mercy but there was none forthcoming. She reached out with both hands to try to free her neck from the excruciating grip of the garrote but all strength seemed to have abandoned her. The strangler continued to pull until Mrs. Xavier’s body went limp.

Staring at her bulging eyes, the killer felt an inner rage bubble up. Spitting on her face, the perpetrator called her a cunt and a whore. Quickly realizing the mistake, the murderer went back to the closet, retrieved a tissue, sprayed it with bleach, and used it to carefully remove any traces of saliva from her face.

The intruder then headed over to the thermostat unit near the bedroom door and adjusted the temperature to the highest possible setting. The carton was removed from the bag and each egg carefully placed on the bed. Soon Mrs. Xavier’s body was surrounded by a dozen eggs, arranged in an oval around her.

Chapter 35

Santosh was livid. His face was flushed red and he was breathing heavily as he strode into Rupesh’s office. He threw down a newspaper on the desk and asked, “How do I solve this case if you do not heed my advice?”

“No idea what you are talking about,” said Rupesh, picking up the paper casually to read the front page.

YELLOW GARROTE KILLINGS, read the headline of the Afternoon Mirror. The article went on to reveal that three murders in the city — including one involving the newspaper’s reporter, Bhavna Choksi — had been perpetrated by a strangler who left a signature yellow scarf at the crime scene. The story went on to say that the police were covering up the news in order to avoid having to answer questions about their inefficient and half-hearted investigations. The report had been picked up by Indian newswires and every hack in town was now chasing the story.

“I took your advice,” said Rupesh, slowly and deliberately chewing on a lump of tobacco in his mouth. “I did not speak with any reporter.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” countered Santosh. “You pick up a phone and tell me about a reporter with suspicions. I request you to avoid answering her questions. In less than a day it’s front-page material.”

Rupesh folded the newspaper calmly and stood up. “Think about it, Santosh,” he said. “If I had given this reporter an exclusive, why the fuck would she trash the cops? This story makes it bloody difficult for me to handle the flak that will come my way from the Police Commissioner and the Home Minister. Tell me, why would I want to put myself in such a mess?”

Santosh was silent as he digested Rupesh’s reasonable argument. “I would suggest that you should look within your own team and see if someone has been indiscreet,” suggested Rupesh craftily as Santosh attempted a graceful exit.

As soon as he was out of the room, Rupesh picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. “Namaskar bhau,” he said by way of greeting when Munna answered his gold-plated phone.

“Did you leak the story?” asked Rupesh, almost whispering.

Munna laughed. “When one has been sitting in the pub all day, one often takes a leak. I have no need for the other variety,” he said mischievously.

Chapter 36

Not much had changed in the newsroom of the Afternoon Mirror. It was mostly as it had been twenty-five years ago when established by a wealthy Parsi industrialist. But the newsroom had been a hive of activity the previous day.

There were sixteen desks, clustered in groups of four. Each desk was designated for specific verticals — politics, entertainment, city news, business, sports and the like. Toward one corner of the newsroom was the glass-walled office occupied by the paper’s chain-smoking editor.

She had picked up the receiver of her desk phone without a second thought. In her profession, it was common to spend the better part of the day on calls.

“Am I speaking to Jamini — editor of the Afternoon Mirror?” a male voice had asked. It had a mysterious quality to it. Commanding yet slightly nervous; strong yet wavering.

“Yes, you are,” the editor had replied, stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette into the overflowing ashtray on her desk. “Who is this?”

“Did you like the gift that I sent you?” the voice had said, not bothering to offer any introduction.

Jamini had suddenly been on full alert. A parcel containing a yellow scarf had been received by her in the morning and she’d immediately realized that the caller was referring to this.

“What is the scarf for?” Jamini had asked, trying to keep the conversation going as she signaled through the glass walls for her senior reporter to come inside. Find out if you can trace this call, she’d scribbled on a piece of paper that she hurriedly handed to him.

“Do not bother tracing this call,” the voice had said. “It is a prepaid SIM registered to a false identity. It will tell you nothing about me.”

Jamini had realized that she was dealing with a highly intelligent individual. “I’m not interested in tracing the call,” she’d lied. “I simply want to know if there is a story in this for me.”

“That pesky reporter — Bhavna Choksi — was killed with a yellow scarf, just like the one you received earlier today. Is that story enough for you?”

“That still doesn’t explain why you are calling me,” the editor had said, warming to the game. “Bhavna was no friend of mine... only an employee. Why should the manner of her death be a story?”

“What if I told you that the singer — Priyanka Talati — was also killed in the same manner? Is that a story?” the confident voice had asked.

“It could be,” the editor had said, attempting to hide her excitement. Her colleague from the newsroom had returned with a slip of paper reading: Have spoken with crime branch. They’re trying to pinpoint the location. Stay on the line.

“What more do you want?” the voice had asked.

Jamini had been about to reply when the line had gone dead. “Hello?” she’d asked, a tad desperately, but had realized that the caller had hung up.

Just as she’d thought that she had blown it, her phone had rung once again. “It’s me calling from a different number,” the voice had said. “I don’t trust your type.”

“Did you kill Bhavna Choksi and Priyanka Talati?” Jamini had asked, scribbling notes on the ruled pad in front of her.

“Absolutely. All three murders have happened in Mumbai, all executed by the same person, in the same manner. The police are covering it up to prevent panic.”

“Who is the third? You mentioned Bhavna Choksi and Priyanka Talati,” Jamini had said rapidly.

“A foreign doctor. Her name was Kanya Jaiyen. She was staying at the Marine Bay Plaza Hotel when she was killed.”

“Why were the women murdered?” Jamini had asked.

“I have done my duty by calling you and telling you that all three murders are connected,” the voice had said. “Do some part of the fucking investigation yourself!”

The second call had lasted less than a minute.

Chapter 37

The man was extremely thin, almost gaunt. His eyes seemed to pop out of his face due to the fact that there wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh anywhere on his body. His delicate looks belied his intent, though. He was the chief of the Indian Mujahideen — an Islamist militant group dedicated to carrying out attacks against the Indian state — and one of the most feared individuals among those in the know about terrorism.

Investigations by security agencies had revealed that the Indian Mujahideen was actually a front for the Pakistan-based Lashkar-e-Taiba. The avowed purpose of the Lashkar was to create an Islamic caliphate across South Asia and, to that end, it had been sponsoring acts of terror in Kashmir as well as other parts of India, having been provided with moral, strategic, and financial support by Pakistan’s premier intelligence agency, the ISI.

The gaunt man exited the taxi and waited at the corner of Jai Prakash Road and Yari Road in the Versova district of Mumbai. Less than a minute later a black Mercedes-Benz pulled up beside him. Due to the dark sunblinds the occupant within was not visible to the outside world.

The front door opened and a bodyguard jumped out. He quickly patted down the gaunt man and opened the rear door for him. The Indian Mujahideen man got inside. Already ensconced in the rear was the owner of the vehicle.

“I am only meeting you because I like to consider all business proposals,” said the vehicle’s owner. “So speak.”

“Mumbai is your fiefdom,” replied the thin man. “Anything and everything is possible once you decide to make it happen.”

“What do you want?” asked Munna impatiently.

“I require thirty kilograms of RDX,” explained the Mujahideen man. “I am willing to pay a premium for the right quality, delivered to the right place at the right time.”

“And what makes you think that I can supply that?” asked Munna, playing innocent in his trademark style.

The thin man smiled. “Your reputation is glorious. Your name is mentioned in reverence not only in India but also in Pakistan. I am told that the only reliable source in India is you.”

Munna lit a cigarette with his solid gold lighter. He took a deep puff, exhaled, and thought about the matter for a minute. Without any warning, he stubbed out the cigarette on the Mujahideen man’s hand.

The man screamed in agony as the cigarette seared his skin. Munna laughed. “You can barely handle the heat of a cigarette. What makes you so cocky about handling thirty kilos of deadly explosives?”

The thin man cradled his burned hand in the other and, ignoring the pain, replied: “In your interest and mine, it is better that this transaction should remain a business one only. You do not need to know more than I have told you. Name your price.”

Within a moment, Munna’s vise-like grip was at the other man’s throat. Munna continued to clutch it with one hand, allowing his prey an occasional gasp for breath. Just as the thin man thought that he would pass out, Munna let go abruptly.

“I may have my faults, but I do not do business with terrorists. Got that?” he said gruffly. “Why on earth would you think I would support a terrorist attack — on Indian soil?”

The gaunt man tried one last angle. “Perhaps if I were to tell you the target?”

Munna looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“Go on,” he said.