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.”