“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.