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.