They were the four symbols — discus, mace, conch, and lotus — of the ninth and final form of Durga, Siddhidatri.
She felt a stinging on her upper back, the prickly sensation of surgical tape, and knew at once that her RFID chip had been removed. The bitch had taken it out while she was under.
Okay, okay, keep calm. They couldn’t locate her using the RFID chip but they could trace her—
Laid out on the bed by her hip was her cell phone, the battery placed neatly on top.
Bitch.
Instead Nisha tried to figure out her location by taking note of her surroundings. Above her were ominously high ceilings criss-crossed by rafters of rusting metal. She seemed to be in a massive industrial space, the hard concrete floor on all sides of the bed stretching into infinity, meeting up with exposed brick walls containing vast boarded-up windows. Huge ducts and pipes ran overhead, giving the place a creepy feel. A single naked bulb hung on a wire from an ancient beam overhead, casting an eerie glow over the bed, itself incongruous in the warehouse-like space.
She fought back tears as she remembered her adoptive parents, her husband, and her daughter. She tried not to think about them, but couldn’t help herself.
Four arms. A four-poster bed. A discus, a mace, a conch, and a lotus.
She’d been laid out here to die.
Chapter 97
Come on. Come on.
The story of Aditi’s life was forming on the board in front of him but still there were names left: Priyanka Talati, the doctor, the journalist.
“How did they piss you off, Aditi?” mumbled Santosh. “Why did they deserve to die?”
And what connected them?
Okay. Cell phone records showed that Dr. Jaiyen and Bhavna Choksi had spoken to each other. In fact, they’d spoken to each other several times on the day of Dr. Jaiyen’s death. The next day, Bhavna Choksi was also killed.
“So was it something they were cooking up between them?” Santosh asked an empty room.
Dr. Jaiyen had been in Mumbai on a personal matter, according to her colleague in Thailand, Dr. Uwwano. Maybe she was mixing work with pleasure, granting an interview to the journalist at the same time.
“Boss?”
Hari startled him, skulking in the doorway.
“Sorry, Hari, come in.”
“You were right, boss,” he said. “The jail times coincide.” Again his eyes swiveled to the floor, as though he could hardly bear to look at Santosh.
“Are you all right, Hari?” Santosh asked him.
A smile flicked on and off. “I’m fine, boss, fine.”
“What you’ve been through — nobody should have had to suffer that. You need time to recover. Later, perhaps, try to rest.”
“No,” said Hari, so quickly and so sharply that Santosh almost flinched, “I’m not resting until we’ve caught the bitch.”
“Good man,” said Santosh. He went to clap Hari on the shoulder. He’d felt reassured when Jack had done it to him, that easy brotherly way Jack had. So American. And yet he, Santosh, couldn’t bring himself to do it and instead sounded like a relic of empire: “Good man, good man. It’s most appreciated.”
The awkward moment passed, then Hari said, “The cooperation of the police is proving useful. We should have a picture of Aditi Chopra come through any second now.”
Santosh felt his pulse quicken.
Chapter 98
“Are you there?” she called.
“Aditi, isn’t it? Aditi, I know it’s you.” She raised her head from the mattress, tried to squint into the gloom at the foot of the bed. Just beyond the reach of her eyesight was a figure who stood in the shadows, watching her.
“I was an orphan too,” she called into the dark, trying to establish some kind of bond. “She abandoned you, didn’t she, to the orphanage?”
Nisha had been doing some thinking in the hours since she’d recovered consciousness.
“Lara Omprakash, the film director. The world saw her as this gorgeous, talented director, glamorous boyfriends like my boss Jack Morgan. But we know the truth about Lara, don’t we, Aditi? We know Lara for what she really was — gutless. A coward. She abandoned you, didn’t she, Aditi? Or have I got it wrong? Perhaps you know something I don’t. Perhaps Lara was simply trying to protect you. Was that what it was? Aditi?”
In reply, silence.
Nisha let her head fall back to the mattress in frustration. Then tried again. “Aditi, please, talk to me. I can help you. I know how you feel because I was an orphan too. I went to the Bombay City Orphanage. You were there, weren’t you? Elina, she was a bitch, right? Corrupt, right? You know, a lot of the grievances you have, a lot of people are going to look upon those as being perfectly justified. You’ve been treated badly, Aditi. But one thing I need to know. You’ve got to tell me, Aditi. Why me? What did I do to hurt you, Aditi, and how can I put it right?”
There was no response. There was just a titter in the darkness and then the figure moved away.
Chapter 99
The journalist and the doctor had been talking. They were talking — but about what? What did the journalist want from the doctor?
Or what did the doctor wants from the journalist?
She had a story for her, perhaps. Something she had come to Mumbai to expose.
But what? Santosh paced his office, eyes going to the remaining three names on the magnet board.
Singer.
Doctor.
Journalist.
The doctor was from Thailand. The singer spent time in Thailand. The doctor traveled from Thailand to Mumbai. The killer was a woman — a woman who wore men’s shoes, who looked like a man on the CCTV. Who clearly had the strength of a man...
Or were there two killers? Was that it?
A woman? Or a man?
And then it hit him. The mistake he had made — a question he had failed to ask.
He snatched up the lid of his laptop, retrieved a number, jabbed it into the phone, dialing incorrectly in his haste, hissing with frustration, having to dial again. He thought he knew the answers to his questions. He had to ask them anyway.
“Dr. Uwwano, please?”
Please let her be there. He glanced at his watch, realizing that he had no idea of the time, and it was morning, and Bangkok was an hour and a half ahead, so she should be at work.
“Mr. Wagh,” she said, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
She sounded guarded. He knew he’d have to proceed carefully. “It’s... well, it’s a bit embarrassing, I’m afraid. Call myself a detective, but when we spoke the other day, there was something rather important I wasn’t quite sure of. You were telling me about the type of reconstructive work that Dr. Jaiyen was responsible for. Cosmetic surgery in the aftermath of a car crash, for example, and I’m afraid something you said hit a nerve and I rather cut you off.”
“Yes,” she said slightly impatiently. “What was it you weren’t sure about?”
“The other applications for her work: what are they?”
“Well, Mr. Wagh, really any instance in which plastic surgery might be needed. I don’t really know what you’re—”
“Gender reassignment, Dr. Uwwano. Was Dr. Jaiyen responsible for gender reassignment?”
“Yes. She was one of the country’s most skilled surgeons in that regard.”
Oh God.