“I’m quite sure I have no idea what you mean.”
“What I mean is, why didn’t you tell me you’d spent time in prison on drug charges?” asked Nisha brightly.
Devika gave a short dry laugh. “You never asked,” she replied. “Why on earth would I volunteer information like that?”
“But now it’s out in the open,” said Nisha, “why don’t you tell me about it?”
Devika’s eyes were hard. “You seem very well informed. Why do you need me to tell you?”
“I could pull the file,” fibbed Nisha, “but I think I’d like to hear it from you.”
Devika’s smile widened. “I don’t think so. I don’t think you could ‘pull the file’ just like that. That, after all, is the sort of thing policemen do, and...” she gave Nisha a look of fake sympathy, “you’re not a policeman. So be a good girl and leave my office.”
“Sure,” said Nisha with a grin, “I’ll do that, go home, log on to social media, start spreadin’ the news...”
Devika’s face flared, a look in her eyes that made Nisha glad of the pressure of the Glock at her hip. And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the yoga guru’s anger died down and she gave a quick, gracious nod, as though defeated by a superior opponent. She waved Nisha to a chair opposite.
“I was young. And a fool,” she began. “A terrible combination. I left home and joined a psychedelic rock band. Headzone, they were called. Drugs, booze, and sex were all part of the territory. So much so that I was busted for possession.”
“Possession of what?” said Nisha.
“Smack.”
Nisha made a surprised O with her mouth.
“A kilo of it,” added Devika.
“A kilo?” said Nisha. “Why so much if you were just a user?”
Devika stood and walked behind Nisha’s chair. Nisha felt herself tense, grateful that she was able to see Devika’s reflection in a picture that hung opposite. On the pretext of shifting in her chair she brought her hand to the waistband of her trousers, reassured by her gun there.
“I was smuggling it for my lover — the singer in Headzone.”
Nisha watched in the picture’s reflection as Devika threw up her hands at her own naive stupidity.
“So why didn’t you tell the authorities that the stuff did not belong to you?”
“Headzone’s management had contacts with a man named Munna. I expect you know him.”
Oh, Nisha knew Munna all right. The rather few cops in Mumbai who wanted to see Munna behind bars were those not on his payroll.
“The management told me that they would ensure the police recorded the quantity as less than a kilo, in which case I’d serve less than six months. They also assured me they’d get Munna to have a chat with the police to suspend my sentence. I went along with it.”
“But that’s not how events played out, right?”
“Precisely,” answered Devika. “The consignment was more than a kilo and I was given the maximum sentence. Headzone cut off all communication with me — apparently I left the band because of creative differences. I’d been tricked by them: Headzone, Munna, Nimboo Baba... they hung me out to dry.”
“Nimboo Baba?” said Nisha. “What on earth does he have to do with it?”
“He works for — or with — Munna. He’s Munna’s money man.” She chuckled at the alliteration.
“How much time did you get?” asked Nisha. She watched Devika carefully in the reflection.
“I was awarded the maximum sentence under the Act — ten years. A stupid mistake had cost me a decade of my life,” said Devika softly.
“And that’s why you’re telling me this, is it?” said Nisha. “You want payback?”
“Maybe,” replied Devika airily. “Maybe if you chose to act upon the information I’ve given you the outcome would be satisfactory for me, yes.”
“Why now? Why not years ago?”
Devika fixed her with a look. “I expect you have heard the rumors that Nalin D’Souza has a fondness for making wild bets.”
Nisha spread her hands. Hadn’t everyone?
“Well, those rumors are true,” said Devika. “Nalin D’Souza owes Nimboo Baba millions. And I am in love with Nalin D’Souza. The downfall of Nimboo Baba would be my gift to him.”
Nisha nodded. “One more thing,” she said. “I have a name. I wonder if it might mean anything to you?”
“Yes?”
“Aditi Chopra.”
Chapter 87
“She turned white, boss, I swear,” said Nisha excitedly, back in her car. “Denied all knowledge of Aditi Chopra. But it was written all over her face. She was lying, I swear it.”
“Excellent,” said Santosh. Rupesh had taken a seat on the other side of the desk. With his arms behind his head, he listened to Santosh’s side of the conversation with interest. “What else did she have to say?”
“Very interesting stuff indeed,” said Nisha. “The jail time was drugs-related, and mixed up in it all were Munna and Nimboo Baba.”
“Right,” said Santosh carefully. He looked across the desk at Rupesh, who smiled back.
Was that it? In the car, Nisha pulled a face. She’d been expecting a better reaction at the mention of Munna. Some kind of reaction at least. “And Nimboo Baba,” she added, for emphasis.
“Right,” said Santosh, who was thinking that the rumors were right, that Munna and Nimboo Baba were partners. Across the desk, Rupesh was keeping his face blank. Who else could Munna and Nimboo Baba count as a business partner? Santosh wondered.
In her car, Nisha frowned. Then, glancing to her left, she saw the door to Yoga Sutra open and Fiona exit. By the look of her bag she was leaving for the night.
Next, the Yoga Sutra signage, a pastel yellow, blinked off. No doubt about it, Devika Gulati was shutting up shop early for the day.
“She’s closing,” she told Santosh.
“Early?”
“Oh yes.”
“Perhaps we’ve spooked her. Wherever she goes, follow her.”
“Right.”
They ended the call.
“Interesting developments?” asked Rupesh.
Santosh shrugged, saved from having to explain himself by Mubeen who had just entered his office in a hurry.
“You have to see this,” Mubeen exclaimed breathlessly.
“What?” asked Santosh.
“You remember we recovered saliva from the school principal’s eyebrow?”
Santosh nodded. He glanced at Rupesh. “Yes.”
“Well, humans have forty-six chromosomes. They come in twenty-three pairs in addition to some mitochondrial DNA,” began Mubeen.
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Santosh impatiently.
“Because twenty-two pairs are irrelevant. It is only the twenty-third pair that threw up this remarkable result,” gushed Mubeen, oblivious to Santosh’s irritation.
“What result?”
“There is absolutely nothing in the mitochondrial DNA and twenty-two chromosome pairs that can tell you whether a given sample of DNA came from a male or a female,” babbled Mubeen. “The genetic difference between males and females lies in the last chromosome pair — the sex chromosomes. Women have two X chromosomes, while men have one X chromosome and one Y chromosome.”
“And?” said Santosh, warming up to Mubeen’s excitement.
“I tested the sample for the presence of Y chromosome genetic material. I did not find any.”
“Tell me in simple language what that means,” said Santosh, his face flushed with excitement.
“The DNA we found on Elina Xavier is female DNA. Your murderer is a woman.”
“A woman?” repeated Rupesh. “The killer is a woman?”
“Devika Gulati,” snapped Santosh. He clicked his fingers at Mubeen.