Rupesh had stood. “I’ll call for backup at once,” he said, and hurried out of the room, his phone to his ear.
Santosh watched him go then whirled, his hand at his forehead. A woman? But the killer was anti-women. He hated women. His mission was one of destruction of women — the destruction of strong, successful women: a doctor, a pop star, a film director — and not out of envy, oh no, everything about the ritual of the killings, the corruption of the Durga symbols, suggested that his was a mission to desecrate women.
And all this time it wasn’t a he, but a she...
How? It didn’t make sense.
He’d thought the killer was a man. He’d assumed the killer was a man. The figure caught on CCTV looked like a man, the MO was that of a man who had a deep-seated hatred for women, but what if... what if it was a woman?
Just now he’d assumed that Devika was covering for D’Souza. But what if he were covering for her? What if she were killing on his orders? After all, he had good reason to kill Anjana Lal.
Or maybe there were two killers. Strangers on a Train-type stuff. One of the killers was Nalin D’Souza, the other was Devika Gulati.
“There’s something else,” Mubeen was saying, watching his boss carefully. “The DNA from the hair belonging to Nalin D’Souza tells us that he is this particular female’s father.”
Santosh froze. He glanced out into the main operations room where Rupesh stood at the far side, his back to the office as he made his call.
“The Attorney General is the killer’s father?” he whispered to Mubeen.
“It would seem so, sir, yes.”
Santosh hobbled over to the board. “Okay, let’s think about this. What if Nalin D’Souza was Aditi’s father, Lara Omprakash the mother? But Lara turned her over to the orphanage, where she was brutalized by Elina Xavier.” Santosh was pointing to the magnet board. “That’s motive for two of the murders.”
“It would make the Attorney General a potential victim,” said Rupesh from the doorway. Santosh grimaced, fearing the worst, but Rupesh was brushing past him to the magnet board, forgetting to strut for once, intrigued by what he was witnessing.
“It would, wouldn’t it?” Santosh said, looking at his old friend, and for a moment it was as though the two of them had forgotten their differences.
“Mubeen,” he said, without taking his eyes off the board, both he and Rupesh gazing intently at it now, “run the name Aditi Chopra through PrivateTracker.”
Mubeen left them and for a few moments Santosh and Rupesh stood, each lost in thought.
“No,” said Santosh, “I don’t think so somehow — I don’t think D’Souza is a potential victim, not in the way we’re thinking: the yellow garrote, the icons. It’s women — women who are the targets.”
“What about Mayank Patel, the security guy?”
“True,” said Santosh. “But that was a killing of convenience. To hide his...” he corrected himself, “her tracks. There was no ritualistic element. And I don’t think she’d allow the Attorney General to die in such a prosaic manner, not if our theory is correct. If we’re right,” he waved a hand at the magnet board with its emerging pattern, “and this has something to do with avenging the injustices of the past, then she’d have something special planned for the Attorney General. Something special that won’t interrupt the pattern.”
Something struck him, and gripping his cane, he hobbled to the other side of the desk, flipping up the lid of a laptop and hammering at the keyboard until he straightened with a triumphant noise.
“She bought the shoes,” he said. “An ‘A. Chopra’ is on the list of fulfilled orders for the Oakley shoes.”
Rupesh frowned, though his eyes shone. “Right. Well, I don’t understand what you’re talking about and we’ll have words about that presently, but for the time being why don’t you explain what you mean.”
“I mean she was trying to set D’Souza up. The shoes, the hair. That’s it,” he exclaimed, and his cane was a drumbeat on the floor as he moved over to the magnet board and raised the stick to point at the names.
“Lara Omprakash was Aditi’s mother. Let’s say Lara gave her away to the orphanage, where she came into the orbit of Elina Xavier. But the orphanage burned and she was turned out on the street, only to be picked up by Ragini Sharma. Didn’t Nisha say...?”
Something struck him.
Something that turned his skin cold.
“Oh dear God,” he said.
“Sir.” Mubeen had arrived at the door. “I have a match for Aditi Chopra on PrivateTracker.”
“It’s an arrest, isn’t it?” said Santosh. He closed his eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
“And the arresting officer,” said Santosh, “it’s Nisha Gandhe, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
She’d been sent the yellow garrote.
Nisha was the next victim.
Part Three
Chapter 88
Nisha sat in the Honda, watching the front of Yoga Sutra. She could have sworn that there was a figure standing behind the window, looking out at her, made indistinct by the frosted glass of the frontage. It was little more than a shadow but even so — she couldn’t shake the sense that while she was watching Devika, Devika was watching her.
“Come on now,” said Nisha under her breath, “make your move.”
Her phone rang and she answered it without taking her eyes off the shadow-figure standing on the other side of the window. It was Ajay.
“What can I do for you, Ajay?”
“Plenty, but not right now. There was something I should have told you.”
The figure — it seemed to melt away from the window. Devika was on the move. Out of the front door? Nisha didn’t think so. After all, the only car parked out here was hers. There had to be a back entrance. And what was the betting Devika was about to use it to give her the slip?
“What’s that, Ajay?” she said. She was getting out of the car now, clicking it locked, reaching to the Glock at her waist and drawing it. She held it discreetly, close to her thigh, pleased to have the feel of it in her palm as she looked left and right along the near-deserted street, then trotted across the road, back toward Yoga Sutra. She tried the door.
“Right, well, it was something I should have mentioned before...” Ajay was saying, “maybe nothing important but I thought you’d like to know.”
She cradled the phone between her cheek and neck, cupped a hand at the glass and tried to peer through the window, seeing nothing inside but the vague shapes of an empty reception area, an open door leading through to the studio. No movement. No sign of Devika.
No — no, she couldn’t have lost her already.
“Actually, couldn’t this wait, Ajay?” she said with a touch of irritation. She moved to the side of the building and glanced up a narrow alley that lay between the studio and a picturesque apartment block next door. She looked more carefully at the apartments. Probably had parking at the rear. Probably parking for Yoga Sutra, too.
“It’s very quick,” said Ajay.
“Okay, then fire away,” she said, crabbing sideways down the alley, gun still held down at her leg, phone to her ear.
“It’s that information you asked for about Lara.”
“What about it?”
“The system lets you see the last person to access that information.”
She cocked her head. “Yes?”
“Well, you wouldn’t expect information like this to have been accessed for a while.”