Private Delhi Page 4

  “No cancellations this time, I promise,” she said.

  Maya brightened up more. Nisha passed her a box of tissues to wipe away her tears.

  “Now, what about that essay you were supposed to write for your school competition? The one about how to improve the health of Delhi’s citizens?” asked Nisha.

  Maya rolled her eyes. “It was due earlier today. It’s already been submitted.”

  “I see. And does it have a title, this masterwork?”

  “It’s called ‘Health Care, Fair and Square?’ It’s about how everybody should have access to health care whether they’re rich or poor, young or old, whatever their nationality. How we should treat health care a bit more like we do education, so more people get a fair shot.”

  Nisha awarded Maya with an impressed look. “Wow, well, that’s very, very commendable, Maya. I’m delighted. Can I have a copy to read?”

  “I saved one,” beamed Maya. She fetched it then snuggled back into position. “I’m pretty pleased with it, actually. Especially as most people have just talked about, like, how many hospitals there are in the city and stuff.”

  “Yours has got a bit more substance,” said Nisha, leafing through the A4 pages.

  “Well, I don’t want to be big-headed, but …”

  “You’re going to be anyway.”

  “Yeah,” laughed Maya. “Fingers crossed I’ll win.”

  “You never know.”

  “The prize is being handed out by some real bigwig, a guy called Amit Roy from the government.”

  “Very good. With any luck you’ll meet him.”

  Mother and daughter cuddled on the couch, hugging each other in a home that felt empty. The winter winds of Delhi howled outside and the branches of the Indian lilac tree that touched their living-room window tapped a rat-a-tat-tat rhythm on the pane.

  With Maya snoring gently beside her, Nisha lifted the essay to read but had only got through a few sentences before she felt her eyelids grow heavy.

  She laid it down, guiltily, promising herself she’d return to it first thing.

  Chapter 16

  THE KILLER WAS disappointed. Rahul’s murder had been relegated to a short piece in the newspaper. Little more than a sidenote.

  What disappointed him even more—though of course he was not in the slightest bit surprised—was the fact that no publicity had been given to the find in Greater Kailash. All those corpses. All that evidence. It should have been the lead item on the news. And yet there had been nothing.

  The usual suspects were once again covering their asses. But he knew who they were; he had done his research.

  Arranged on the surface before him was a series of photographs, a selection of Delhi’s great and good. Men who would whimper when they died. The killer was choosing his next victim. He knew the method, of course.

  Now to decide who died next.

  Chapter 17

  DELHI’S GOVERNMENTAL HUB was the Secretariat, based in the area known as Indraprastha Estate. There, Chief Minister Mohan Jaswal was to preside over a press briefing.

  Santosh sat alone, one eye on the lectern at the front of the room from where Jaswal would conduct the press conference, another on the journalists around him. To his left sat Ajoy Guha, a familiar face from DETV. Broadcasting from Delhi’s media hub at Noida, and boasting twice the viewership of the other news channels put together, DETV was known for its fierce reporting, outspoken views, and hard-hitting investigations, and the fiercest and most outspoken show of all was Guha’s Carrot and Stick.

  Guha was tall and lanky with slightly thinning hair and a narrow face accentuated by wire-framed glasses. He sat scribbling into a notebook. Santosh admired his methodical approach. You didn’t become the country’s highest-paid news anchor for nothing, he reasoned.

  Guha stopped writing and put the notebook away. He took out a box of Nature’s Way lozenges and popped one in his mouth.

  Next Santosh saw Jaswal, standing just outside the door. The Chief Minister took a puff of his bronchodilator then entered, approaching the lectern and adjusting the microphone.

  He wore a pale yellow turban, color-coordinated with the kerchief in his pocket. Perfect for TV cameras. There were advantages to being Sikh—the turban and white beard instantly caught the attention.

  Like the seasoned campaigner he was, he began to field questions from the press. Innocuous queries at first. Camera flashes went off like little bombs. Santosh watched with interest as the conference rumbled on, wondering if the issue of the corpses in Greater Kailash would come up.

  And then India’s most fearless reporter weighed in.

  “Just one final question, sir,” said Guha, waving a sheaf of papers. “I have with me copies of police reports indicating that up to eleven corpses were discovered in the basement of a house in Greater Kailash. The question to you, Chief Minister, is this: why didn’t you tell us?”

  Who leaked? wondered Santosh. Let’s see how Jaswal gets himself out of this.

  Jaswal didn’t miss a beat. “Neither the police nor the Lieutenant Governor have informed me of this matter,” he said.

  Good play, thought Santosh. It wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t quite the whole truth either.

  At the lectern, Jaswal went on, raising a statesmanlike finger to make a point. “But if what you say is true then heads will roll,” he said.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the Chief Minister has another official engagement and hence the press conference must end here,” said the press secretary as Jaswal turned to leave. There was a mad scramble as reporters fired off further questions while cameras whirred and flashed.

  Santosh followed Jaswal out. He needed a few minutes with him.

  Chapter 18

  IN HIS OFFICE, Jaswal seethed. “Who is feeding them information, Santosh? Why is it that my own sources of information are being throttled, yet a … toad like Guha knows all about it?”

  Santosh gave a small shrug.

  Jaswal reddened. “But this is what I’m paying you to find out.”

  “Are you? I thought we were being paid to look into the murders.”

  “Anything. Just bring me anything.”

  “In order for you to make political capital out of it? I’m not sure that’s Private’s style.”

  “Jack Morgan has no such qualms. If the ethics of the investigation bother you, I suggest you take it up with him. Better still, why not just get on with the case, find the killer, and leave the rest to me. Then we’ll all be happy.”

  Santosh nodded. The man was right. It wasn’t up to Santosh to question why they were investigating, nor what the long-term ramifications might be. It was up to him to get on with the investigation and try to find the killer or killers. Let the politicians slug it out between themselves afterward.

  Outside the building he met Nisha, fresh from procuring information at the Public Works Department.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “They huffed and puffed but I fluttered my eyelashes, opened my purse, and got the information I needed.”

  Santosh stopped and adjusted his scarf. “Go on,” he said.

  “Okay, well, the house at Greater Kailash is no ordinary house.”

  “Apart from the fact that there was a corpse-disposal factory in the basement,” said Santosh drily.

  “Yeah, apart from that. Get this—it was last occupied by the director of the Central Bureau of Investigation. No one has been allocated the house for the past three years, something to do with a missing structural stability certificate.”

  “I see,” said Santosh, chin raised, eyes gleaming behind his glasses.

  “So I need to find out who was heading the Central Bureau of Investigation three years ago,” said Nisha.

  “There’s no need. I can tell you. It was the present Lieutenant Governor, Chopra,” replied Santosh, whose memory for such information had not diminished.

  Nisha whistled. “Then we have a prime suspect.”

  Santosh shook his head. “
Chopra is a killer who hid the bodies in his own basement? No, Nisha. Somehow I don’t think it will be that easy. If only it were. But one thing we do know is why Chopra and Sharma are blocking information from reaching Jaswal. It’s not because they hope to hurt Jaswal, it’s because the truth is potentially embarrassing for Chopra.”

  “Are you going to tell Jaswal?” she asked.

  “I should, shouldn’t I? Given that our original brief was to find that out for him. Except that just now he asked me to continue looking into the murders and for the time being that’s exactly what I plan to do.”

  Chapter 19

  HER VISITOR’S PASS bounced against her chest as Nisha strode through the open-plan offices of the Indian Times on Parliament Street.

  Pratish rose from his cubicle to meet her with a peck on the cheek. In response she gave him a hug and for a moment the two old friends simply enjoyed seeing one another again.

  “How have you been, Pratt?” she asked him, taking the seat he indicated.

  He pulled a face.

  “Oh dear,” said Nisha. “Want to share?”

  For the next few minutes they talked: he about his messy divorce, bitchy ex, and grueling hours at the paper; she about losing Sanjeev and the difficulty of caring for Maya.

  “We make a fine pair,” he said at last. “Now, I don’t suppose you came here just to trade hardships. What do you need?”

  “Political gossip,” said Nisha. “You are, after all, the foremost authority.”

  He preened. “Subject?” he asked.

  “Ram Chopra,” replied Nisha.

  Pratt whistled. “Smooth operator. Rather hoity-toity … smokes Cohibas like a chimney. Speaks the Queen’s English with greater flair than Englishmen. Can’t stand Jaswal.”

  The mention of Chopra’s Cohibas made Nisha frown. “Does he ever smoke cigarettes?”

  “Not to my knowledge. The cigar is something of a trademark. Why?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. What about Jaswal?”

  “Ah! One of our own. You know he used to work for this paper? Our Chief Minister was a hack for the Indian Times. Who knows, maybe I’ll be Chief Minister one day. Anyway, he hates Chopra’s guts. Mutual antagonism.”

  “Who are Chopra’s friends?” asked Nisha.

  “Follow me,” he said, and led the way to the archive room, where he typed “Ram Chopra” into a terminal that gave reel number references. Next he switched on the reader and fed a reel onto the spindle, carefully threading the film under the small rollers. He began advancing the film using manual knobs.

  Moments later he had the image he was looking for: Chopra, Honorable Minister for Health and Family Welfare Nikhil Kumar, and another man in a bush shirt.

  “Who’s that?” asked Nisha, indicating the third guy.

  “Samir Patel, the chairman of Surgiquip, one of the largest Indian health care equipment companies. Most of the new hospitals in India have used Surgiquip’s services and technology—and according to my sources, that’s because Chopra swung a huge deal in favor of Surgiquip. Kumar’s in on it too. Eyebrows were raised. Jaswal was livid, especially with Kumar being part of his cabinet. But the matter remained buried.”

  As Nisha left Pratt with a kiss and a promise to meet again soon, her mind raced. So—Delhi’s Lieutenant Governor, Ram Chopra, was the last to occupy a house in which body parts had been discovered. Chopra was at war with Jaswal. And Chopra was dirty—doing shady deals with medical corporations.

  Somehow all this was connected, she knew. But how? What Private needed was a break in this case.

  They were about to get one.

  Chapter 20

  NEEL MEHRA ADJUSTED his jacket and muffler in the mirror of the entrance foyer of the Olive Bar and Kitchen. He wanted to look good for Ash. It had been a long time.

  He headed into the open courtyard, where outdoor heaters compensated for the cold weather and diners nibbled on thin-crust pizzas and sipped chilled Sancerre. There waiting for him was Ash—Dr. Ashish Lal, the police medical examiner.

  Ash was only a few years senior to Neel, but thanks to his gray sideburns and dark circles beneath his eyes he looked a lot older—one of the perks of working for the police department and bosses like Sharma.

  The two had met at the Department of Forensic Medicine at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences. Neel had been working on a difficult case that needed a complicated diagnostic test to be performed. The only one capable of handling it had been Ash. The two had become friends, then lovers. Neel was the younger, more desirable of the two men, but Ash had been something of a mentor to him. A strong, lasting relationship had formed.

  “Thanks for seeing me at short notice, Ash,” said Neel, taking a seat.

  Ash smiled and poured Neel a glass of wine, and for a moment or so the two regarded each other, both stirred by the other’s presence. “I’m happy to help,” smiled Ash, breaking the spell. “But this particular meeting never happened. You know why.” He joined the fingers of his hands together—almost like two spiders performing push-ups against one another.

  “My lips are sealed,” said Neel, taking a sip of his wine.

  “It’s about the house at Greater Kailash, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “And your interest?”

  Neel gave a theatrical look left and right. “Can I let you into a secret?”

  “Isn’t that the purpose of our meeting?”

  “The purpose of our meeting is so that we can trade secrets.”

  “Ah, well then, you better tell me yours before I divulge any of mine.”

  The waiter arrived, and the conversation paused as pizzas were ordered, and—Ash looked over the table with inquiring eyes—yes, “another bottle of Sancerre, please.”

  “So, your secret?” asked Ash.

  Neel saw a new light in his friend’s eyes and was gratified to think it was he who had put it there. “Private Delhi is looking into the bodies at Greater Kailash.”

  “I see. On whose dollar?”

  “Now we really are into the territory of secrets. If I tell you that, do you have details of the investigation to trade?”

  Ash shrugged. “Well, as the medical examiner on the case I do indeed have some details. However, they are very scant. The killer is not only extremely good at covering his own tracks but also those of his victims. There’s one cadaver that’s slightly better preserved than the others. I’ll be examining it over the next couple of days.”

  “And do you think you’ll be at liberty to share your findings?”

  Ash smiled. “I certainly won’t be at liberty to do that, no.” His smile broadened lasciviously. “But I might just do it all the same.”

  “That would be very much appreciated. Anything else you can tell me?”

  Ash nodded. “I have something that might be of interest to you. I’m still curious to know who’s employing Private, though.”

  “It’ll go no further?”

  “Of course not. But you better hurry. Our pizzas will be here soon. Not to mention that second bottle of wine.” Ash’s tiredness seemed to have disappeared.

  “We’re being employed by Mohan Jaswal.”

  Ash smiled, rolled his eyes. “Figures,” he said. “And I suppose Jaswal is keen to catch the killer, is he?”

  “As I’m sure you can guess, Jaswal is far more concerned with putting one over on Chopra or making sure Chopra doesn’t put one over on him. We’re stuck someplace in the middle. Such is life. But what else is it you’ve discovered?”

  Ash pulled a face. “Like I say, it’s precious little.” He reached into his jacket, retrieved a small plastic bag from his inside pocket, and placed it on the table between them. Inside was a tiny piece of fabric. “How do you fancy analyzing that on some of that fancy gadgetry you have at Private?”

  “You scratch my back …”

  Ash twinkled. “I’ll happily scratch yours.”

  Neel pocketed the evidence bag. “You’ve had a good loo
k at it, presumably.”

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m fairly sure I know what it is. I’d be interested to see if you concur.”

  “Give me a clue. We’re trying to catch a killer here, not play forensic noughts and crosses.”

  “All right, then. You win. I think it’s a piece of a hospital gown.”

  Chapter 21

  “I THINK HE’S right,” said Neel the following day.

  He was hunched over a powerful microscope, scrutinizing the tiny piece of fabric given to him the previous night. The thought of Ash made him stop suddenly and he raised his head from the eyepiece, allowing himself a smile of remembrance, and then went back to the job at hand.

  Behind him stood Nisha and Santosh. “You think it’s a piece of hospital gown?” said Santosh, leaning forward, hands clasped over the head of his cane.

  “I do.”

  “That is very interesting,” said Santosh. “It means we have a connection.”

  “We do?” said Nisha.

  “May I?” said Santosh. He laid his cane on the table, shifted his glasses to the top of his head, and took over from Neel at the microscope. For some moments there was silence, broken only by Santosh murmuring his agreement that yes, it was a fragment of hospital gown. “Here,” he said to Neel, bidding him scrutinize the evidence again. “Do you see traces of a black marking?”

  Neel looked, then nodded. “You think you know what they are?”

  “Dhobi marks,” said Santosh. “Some public hospitals don’t do their own laundry. They outsource the job to teams of dhobis, a specific community that specializes in washing clothes the traditional Indian way—soaking them in hot water and then flogging them against laundry stones in vast open-air concrete pens. Each dhobi uses indelible ink to mark the garments to stop them going missing. So where there is a dhobi mark, there has to be a dhobi. Finding that dhobi will reveal which hospitals those bodies came from.”