Rupesh leaned back in his swivel chair and placed his feet on his desk. He peered through the angle formed by his shoes to observe the expression on Santosh’s face as the Private India chief perused the article. Besides the other details, special prominence had been given to the photograph of ACP Rupesh Desai, mentioned as the no-nonsense cop who had captured the killer.
“Policing is about keeping as many balls as one can in the air while simultaneously protecting one’s own,” remarked Rupesh as he smiled at Santosh.
“This is crap, and you know it,” Santosh replied, throwing down the newspaper on the desk.
“Is it only crap because I solved a case that your fancy team with all its sophisticated methods couldn’t?” asked Rupesh slyly.
“It’s not about that—” began Santosh.
“Then what exactly is it about, my friend? I thought we had a clear understanding that all credit for solving this case would be mine alone. Since when did you begin to fancy the spotlight?”
“I am more than happy to let you have all the publicity you want, Rupesh,” said Santosh. “But please do remember that I know what extra-legal methods are used to extract confessions. Most importantly, the driver — Bhosale — had no motive for murder at all.” He thumped his walking cane on the floor to emphasize his point.
“He may have been blackmailing his boss, Lara Omprakash,” argued Rupesh. “He may have known some of her secrets. Possibly he wanted more money and she refused. He killed her in a fit of rage.” Rupesh seemed determined to make the jigsaw puzzle pieces fit together even if he had to hammer and chisel them into place.
“Nisha has managed to get hold of an extract from the security register in Film City, where Lara’s movie was being filmed,” Santosh told him. “It would be worthwhile for you to have a look at it.”
Rupesh took the list and glanced at it casually. “What exactly do you want me to see?”
“The list shows the date and time that any given vehicle passes through the main gate of Film City,” explained Santosh. “The security agency is duty bound to log all registration numbers, time in, and time out.”
“So?” asked Rupesh.
“Look at the registration number highlighted in yellow. It’s Lara Omprakash’s vanity van. You will see that it was there several times during the past few days,” explained Santosh.
“Why are you wasting my time like this?” complained Rupesh. “The city wanted the killer nabbed. He’s safely in a lock-up.”
Santosh ignored this comment. “The problem,” he continued, “is that your hypothesis is unable to explain how the fuck this man — your prime suspect — could have been driving Lara Omprakash’s vanity van in and out of Film City on Sunday night when Kanya Jaiyen was murdered, as well as on Monday night when Priyanka Talati was killed!”
Chapter 53
The thick green strip that separated most of Mumbai’s coastline from the Arabian Sea was almost entirely submerged at high tide. It was only when the waters receded that the band of vegetation would become visible. Clusters of densely packed trees criss-crossed by slender creeks constituted Mumbai’s natural defense barrier against floods — the mangroves.
A small fishing boat dropped anchor near the trees with their dark, waxy leaves and finger-like aerial roots. Two men jumped off the boat into the knee-deep water and began wading toward land, holding a basket between them. To any casual observer they would have resembled fishermen hauling their catch back to shore. Their actual purpose was a lot more sinister.
Once safely on land, they were greeted by a third, delicate and gaunt-looking man who had been patiently awaiting their arrival. “As-salam alaykum,” said the waiting man to the two boatmen.
“Wa alaykumu s-salam,” they replied, carefully lowering the basket onto dry ground.
“Do you have the entire consignment with you?” asked the waiting Mujahideen man.
“Thirty kilos. Have a look,” said one of the boatmen as he pulled off the plastic sheet that covered the basket. Inside it were several small wrapped parcels containing a white crystalline solid. It was not a drug-smuggling operation that was underway in the mangroves of Mumbai. The cargo was far more deadly: a consignment of a nitramine commonly known as RDX.
The three men quickly lifted the basket and hauled it over to the waiting vehicle. “Are you sure you will not be stopped by the cops?” asked one of the boatmen.
The Mujahideen man raised his hands to the heavens. “Insha Allah, there should be no problems. We’re hoping to rid the world of a satanic organization that prevents us from achieving our holy and pure aims. With Allah on our side, how can there be any obstacles in the way?”
“Is your access in place?” asked one of the boatmen.
“He is ready and willing. He hates the Americans more than we do,” said the thin man, getting into the driver’s seat of the vehicle.
The two boatmen took their leave and waded back into the water. The small craft would help them reach a fishing trawler anchored in the Arabian Sea. The trawler would take them back to their point of origin — Karachi, Pakistan.
Chapter 54
The house belonging to Ragini Sharma, the Honorable MLA from Alibaug constituency, was a hive of activity. A company of armed police had been deployed around the perimeter in order to keep her political supporters at a distance. Unfortunately rumors of her death had leaked out and a mob of Sharma’s constituents stood shouting slogans of support near the gate.
Within the bungalow grounds were parked several police vehicles, some marked and some unmarked. All the staff, including security personnel, gardeners, cook, and maid, had been assembled by Rupesh’s subordinates and were being questioned. The bungalow had been cordoned off with security tape and a further roll of police tape had been unfurled outside Ragini Sharma’s bedroom door.
Inside lay the corpse of the politician, her bed sheets showing clear signs of a struggle. Ragini Sharma had fought back, it seemed. Like many middle-aged women in India, she slept in the blouse and petticoat of her saree, finding these inner garments much more comfortable than nightclothes. Around her neck was the now-familiar yellow garrote embedded within a bluish band of discolored skin.
Santosh looked around the room. “Did we find any surveillance equipment?”
“Negative,” replied Hari as he continued checking the room. “The Alibaug region has erratic power supply. It would not have been possible to run sensitive cameras and data recorders. The killer possibly knew that this house did not have an electronic security system in place.”
“Any luck with trace evidence?” asked Santosh. He walked over to Mubeen, who was busy swabbing Ragini Sharma’s face. Nisha watched from the sidelines, staring intently at the victim’s face.
Noticing her concentration, Santosh said, “What’s the matter? Seen something?”
Nisha remained quiet. Where had she seen this woman before? Was it simple familiarity with the face of a public figure or was it a faded memory? The harder she tried, the more her memory seemed to fail her. Her thoughts were interrupted by Mubeen.
“The killer spat on the school principal’s face,” he announced. “I’m checking to see if there has been a repeat performance here.”
“You never told me that you found saliva on Elina Xavier,” reprimanded Santosh, his usual contemplative expression turning into a scowl.
“In addition to the usual strand of hair,” replied Mubeen. “The saliva sample was infinitesimally small so I wasn’t sure if it would lead to anything. Furthermore, there is no guarantee that it actually belonged to the killer. Someone had tried to clean it off with bleach but missed an exceedingly small trace that landed on one eyebrow. The chances of finding the killer’s DNA here are much greater. This victim fought back, so there’s a chance we may find interesting evidence under her fingernails. Hello, what have we here?”