Private Delhi Page 5

“And that’s the connection,” said Nisha, stepping forward. “It’s hospitals, isn’t it? Ram Chopra is doing deals with medical companies. Fragments of a hospital gown found at Greater Kailash …”

  “Precisely,” said Santosh.

  “Then surely this brings Chopra even further into the frame?” pressed Nisha. “Or … maybe not Chopra himself, then at least his associates. Whatever his dealings with Surgiquip, perhaps they’re being blocked and this is him cleaning house?”

  “Maybe,” said Santosh. “It would be convenient, wouldn’t it?”

  Nisha rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Just because it seems obvious doesn’t mean it can’t be the truth.”

  “Noted,” said Santosh. “But the important thing is we now have a thread, and we have to keep pulling at it and see what unravels.”

  He waved his hands at Neel and Nisha like a crazed scientist releasing his flying instruments of death. “Go. Go. Keep pulling that thread.”

  Chapter 22

  SANTOSH ASKED THE taxi driver to drop him off near the main gate of the Delhi Memorial Hospital. He heard barking and wondered why a hospital needed guard dogs as well as security officers.

  He took the elevator to the tenth floor. It was one of Delhi’s largest hospitals and was part of the state government’s health service. It had over five hundred beds but the corridors were usually to be found overflowing with patients awaiting a free bed. Santosh tuned out wailing babies as he knocked on the door to the office of the chief administrator—a South Indian man whose full name was an awe-inspiring Mangalampalli Gopalamenon Thekkaparambil, everyone simply called him MGT. He and Santosh had known each other at college although they hadn’t really been friends. In those days MGT had hung out with either the stoned or the drunk. Santosh had been neither.

  “Come in,” announced the voice from inside and Santosh entered, instantly reminded by the stench that MGT was a chain smoker. Out of deference to his visitor, MGT was moving an ashtray from his desktop and waving ineffectually at smoke that still hung in the air.

  “Good to see you, Santosh,” he said, reaching to shake Santosh’s hand. He was tall and lanky, with a full head of jet-black hair and a stubbled chin.

  “You too,” said Santosh. “Why in heaven’s name do you have guard dogs at the gate?”

  “Oh, there’s a separate VIP wing in the hospital,” answered MGT. “Usually top politicians. We need dogs to protect the dogs.” He laughed, revealing stained yellow teeth, and then changed the subject with the expertise of a true bureaucrat. “So what was it that you wanted to meet me about?”

  “Private has been recruited by a medical services firm to find out the average turnaround time of hospital beds in India,” said Santosh. “I was hoping you could help me with that.”

  “That’s privileged information, Santosh.”

  MGT’s secretary knocked, entered, and handed him a small slip of paper. He looked at it, opened his desk drawer with a key, and placed the slip inside, locking the drawer afterward. Santosh watched impassively, wondering what was so important it needed locking away.

  MGT fixed Santosh with a hard stare. “Why don’t you stop bullshitting and tell me why you’re really here?”

  Rumbled. “Apologies, MGT—old habits die hard,” he said, shifting in his seat. “Can you keep a secret?”

  MGT gave a slightly noncommittal shrug. “Try me.”

  “This is about murder,” said Santosh and, careful not to reveal too many salient details, went on to explain his theory concerning the body parts at Greater Kailash.

  “A serial killer at large?” asked MGT, his eyes widening theatrically.

  “It’s one of the ideas I’m working on, yes. Whatever the motive, the fact remains that there’s a common theme.”

  “And what would you like me to do about it?”

  Santosh looked sharply at him. “Well, I thought you might appreciate being informed.”

  MGT gave a tight smile. “You wondered if we might have a killer stalking the corridors of the hospital?”

  Santosh felt himself shunted to the back foot, not somewhere he liked to be, especially as he wasn’t sure whether MGT was mocking him or not. He pressed on. “As well as thinking you might like to know, I also wondered whether anything I might say would have any relevance to you; whether it might ring any bells?”

  “Well, I’m afraid it doesn’t.”

  “I see. And this doesn’t worry you, this …”

  “Theory of yours? No, Santosh, funnily enough it doesn’t.”

  Chapter 23

  AMIT ROY, THE new Principal Secretary of the Department of Health and Family Welfare, looked at the material on his desk yet again. He took his time over it, like a man eager to commit its contents to memory, which was exactly what he was. He hated getting rid of the stuff but there was no other option: keeping it was a security risk.

  Once more he scanned the various photographs laid out on his desk, arranged side by side and in neat rows, like a fleshy tarot reading. A smile played on his lips as he recalled the moments portrayed. His hands wandered and he closed his eyes to allow his fantasies to play out, revisiting the screams, the pleadings, the sheer transgressive pleasure known only to his kind.

  But enough. He tore himself away, thinking again how he hated to dispose of such precious things but knowing it was a necessity, and then gathered the material from his desk and scooped it into a carrier bag. He went into his back garden, where a barbecue unit sat, and he opened the hood. Into that went the photographs. Save them, urged an inner voice. Save one at least. But no. He doused the lot with lighter fluid, lit a match, and watched his prized possessions burn.

  Chapter 24

  NIKHIL KUMAR TAPPED at the keys of his laptop. Even in the dead of night he was perfectly turned out in a well-pressed kurta and pajama, his hair neatly brushed, his skin radiant from the exfoliating face wash he used every night.

  He was drafting another letter to Jaswal requesting that Roy be transferred. He had no option but to type the letter himself because he simply could not dictate it to the department stenographer. The entire ministry leaked like a sieve and anything he dictated invariably reached everyone else before the intended recipient.

  He was in his ground-floor study, which opened into the living room of his official residence at Mayur Vihar, a residential zone of East Delhi located just east of the Yamuna river. Two policemen were on guard at the driveway gate, and his wife and son were asleep in a bedroom on the upper floor. His son, only eight years old, always managed to find reasons why he couldn’t sleep in his own bed, and Kumar’s wife would fly into one of her famous temper tantrums if ever Kumar suggested he try harder.

  He typed on. At the gate the two policemen stamped their feet to warm themselves in the cold.

  All were oblivious to what was happening in the garden.

  Chapter 25

  TOWARD THE REAR of the house was a vegetable and herb garden managed by Mrs. Kumar. In one corner was a manhole topped by a solid cast-iron cover. The manhole cover received a little nudge from below and, once it had popped up, was gently pushed to one side.

  An intruder dressed in black protective clothing—gloves, boots, and helmet—emerged. On his back was a rucksack containing the tools of his trade. He headed to the service entrance of the house that opened into the kitchen. He tried the door. Locked.

  He removed his helmet, boots, and gloves and deposited them near the door. Pulling out a pair of surgical gloves from his rucksack, he snapped them on and removed a lock-picker’s tool containing the twelve most commonly used picks. Choosing two of the twelve, he unlocked the door in less than a minute.

  He tiptoed into the kitchen in his socks. Empty. Kumar’s servants had retired for the night. He reached into his bag, first for the balaclava and then, when that was fitted, his hypodermic syringe. Then he crossed to nudge open the door, seeing Kumar hunched over his computer, his back to the doorway.

  But the hinges were old, and the door squeaked
as it opened.

  Chapter 26

  KUMAR SWIVELED IN his chair, irritated, expecting to see his wife, son, a member of staff or security—an unwelcome presence, interrupting his train of thought.

  But it was none of those. The figure in the doorway was dressed in black, complete with balaclava covering all but his eyes, and his nose and lips that protruded obscenely through the mouth hole. And for a second, frozen by shock, Kumar dithered, unable to decide whether to scream for help or make a dash for the panic button, when what he should have done was both at the same time. The intruder lurched forward. At that moment Kumar saw what he held. A hypodermic syringe, whose needle was jabbed into his neck.

  And for Kumar, the lights went out.

  When he regained consciousness it was to find that he’d been duct-taped to his office chair and moved to the other side of the desk. The man in black stood before him, still wearing his balaclava. Using a flashlight, the intruder checked Kumar’s pupils and then stepped back, satisfied, his eyes gleaming in the eye holes of the balaclava, his bulging lips wet.

  “I injected you with etorphine, an opioid possessing three thousand times the analgesic potency of morphine,” he said. “I find it very useful indeed. However, I’m not going to give you the pleasure of dying while you’re asleep. No, you must be fully awake.”

  The attacker was disguising his voice, yet there was something familiar about it.

  “Who are you?” managed Kumar. He was wondering if there’d been enough noise to rouse his sleeping family. Probably not. He was too weak to scream now. The intruder was clearly no madman. He gave every indication of having a well-thought-out plan. It was this more than anything that terrified Kumar. Here he was in a house surrounded by staff and security and yet he was going to die.

  But not yet.

  “Who are you?” he repeated. “I know you, don’t I? If you’re going to kill me then why not reveal yourself to me? Tell me what you want.”

  “Tell you what I want? Very well. I want you, who has done so much taking, to give.”

  “What are you talking about, ‘give’? Give what?”

  “I’ll show you.” The attacker turned to reach into a small rucksack, retrieving a pair of blood bags, each attached to a length of surgical hose and a needle. He arranged the bags on the floor at Kumar’s feet. It was only then that Kumar realized his arms had been duct-taped a certain way, palms upward, like a man offering a peace settlement.

  The only light in the room was the glow of the laptop screen. In the gloom of his office Kumar looked down to see his attacker peering up at him, and he gazed into the man’s eyes hoping to see some shred of mercy or pity, but found none.

  “Please don’t do this,” he whimpered. “I’m a very powerful man. There is so much I can do for you. Name it. Name your price.”

  “I have already named my price, Honorable Minister for Health and Family Welfare. I have already named it. You are about to pay it. You ask if there is anything you can do for me—the answer is no, you have already done enough. You are corrupt and venal and you have done enough.”

  The intruder rose, and in his hand he held one of the needles. Kumar’s struggles were futile as the intruder used his index and middle fingers to tap up a vein in Kumar’s left forearm. The radial artery. In went the first needle. Blood flowed along the opaque medical tube and began to fill the bag below.

  “Please …”

  But the man in black was not listening. He was now holding the other needle, repeating the process in the other arm.

  “Are you feeling your heart rate increasing?” he said, and drew over a second chair in order to sit opposite Kumar and watch the show. Kumar could indeed feel his heart beating rapidly, suddenly accompanied by a clammy sensation.

  “You will now feel dizzy,” said the man in black.

  Again, that voice. Kumar recognized the voice.

  “Soon you will turn pale. Then shortness of breath will kick in. Once your blood pressure has dropped far enough, you will lose consciousness. Anywhere between twenty and thirty minutes’ time.”

  Kumar watched helplessly as the man in black moved over to dismiss the screensaver of his laptop and read the letter on his screen. “Very interesting,” he said after some moments. “Very interesting indeed.”

  And then he deleted the letter. Next he began opening other documents, reading emails, pleased at what he learned.

  Ten minutes passed. The only sound in the room was Kumar’s whimpering, and even that began to fade as he felt his strength recede. As the blood was taken from him so was the will to live, as though his spirit and soul were being taken too. Suddenly he was gripped by a desire to say sorry for everything he had done, but knew the sudden need for what it was—a hypocritical, self-serving reaction to his imminent death. A need to salve his conscience.

  His eyelids began to flutter. His blood flowed into the bags more slowly now. With it went hope. With it went everything he had ever been or ever would be. With it came the end.

  And then, just as he was about to die, the man in black leaned forward in his chair, took hold of the balaclava from the bottom, and peeled it up over his face.

  The last word Kumar ever said was “You.”

  Chapter 27

  THE BELL KEPT ringing. It was a big brass bell splashed in blood. And it was clanging because a swaying corpse was suspended from it.

  Shut up, thought Santosh, but the bell kept clanging. Louder than ever.

  It took a few more minutes for him to realize he’d been having another nightmare. With a gasp, he pulled himself from its claws, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand. He put them on and then saw the time on his bedside clock. Six in the morning, and the bell in his nightmare was really the ringing of his cell phone. He took the call. Neel.

  “Nikhil Kumar is dead,” said Neel. “Just got the news.”

  “Murdered?” asked Santosh.

  “Let’s put it this way: the circumstances are highly suspicious,” replied Neel.

  Santosh felt a headache lurking behind his eyes. There was throbbing in his head. While working in Mumbai, he had used to drink himself into a stupor before crashing out on the couch. Rehab had advised him to take sedatives instead, and in place of the whisky hangover he had one from the sedatives. At least the whisky had been enjoyable.

  “I’ll meet you there in half an hour,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Have you informed Nisha?”

  Chapter 28

  THE CRIME-SCENE UNIT was at the house, but temporarily too preoccupied to register Private entering. In keeping with the Sherlock Holmes maxim of hiding in plain sight, the three investigators simply walked in as though they had a perfect right to be there, and at their head, Santosh crossed the entrance hall and entered the downstairs office quickly, knowing that despite what Holmes said, it wouldn’t be long before they were challenged.

  The sight in the office brought him up short. In the midst of the scene-of-crime officers in protective suits and masks was the victim, Nikhil Kumar. Wearing elegant pajamas, he’d been taped to a chair but his head lolled on his chest and by the look of him—his skin a grotesque chalky color—he had been drained of blood.

  According to Neel—in other words, according to Neel’s contact, Ash—Kumar’s wife had discovered her husband’s body early in the morning. Not finding him in the bedroom, she had assumed he would be asleep on the couch in his study. She had brewed him a mug of tea and carried it into the study, only to be greeted by his exsanguinated corpse.

  Neel and Nisha entered the room behind Santosh. The investigators were paying them more attention now, exchanging puzzled glances. A challenge was imminent, Santosh knew, and he moved forward to inspect the corpse, noting the way in which the arms had been bound, not to mention the pinpricks that indicated where the blood had been taken. At the same time he ever-so-casually brushed the laptop on the desk to get rid of the screensaver, but the screen was blank. That’s odd, he thought. Laptop on, but no document, no web page showing
.

  “Excuse me …” said a SOCO.

  But then from the doorway came the raised voice of Sharma: “Who the fuck allowed you inside?”

  Santosh turned to see the corpulent, red-faced figure of the police chief.

  “Why?” asked Santosh. “Is this your house?” He had no plans to reveal that it was Ash who’d tipped off Neel about Kumar’s death. Ash stood beside Sharma and Santosh could see the nervousness on the medical examiner’s face.

  “It’s a goddamn crime scene!” shouted Sharma, indignant. “I need all of you to get the fuck out of here, right now!”

  At the same time, Neel snapped on his gloves and strode into the study confidently. Ash shouted after him, “Hey, you can’t go inside there. I’ll have you booked for interfering with a crime scene!”

  To the uninitiated the altercation between Ash and Neel was a mere shouting match, but to those in the know—Santosh and Nisha—it was a choreographed argument that served two purposes: first, it would ensure that Sharma didn’t suspect Ash of leaking information; second, it would give Santosh time to observe the crime scene.

  Santosh seized the opportunity to do a walkabout, leaving the house while Neel and Ash kept up their bickering. He looked at the main gate. A small guardhouse was located to the right of it. It would have been impossible for someone to enter with guards on duty at night. Unless it was an inside job.

  He looked at the walls that surrounded the house. They were around six feet high, and solid iron spikes, each about a foot long, were grouted at the top. Glass shards had been embedded into the top surface of the wall. Thin cables ran between the iron spikes. Santosh noticed little yellow signs indicating electrified cables. Difficult for someone to clamber over the wall without doing serious damage to themselves.

  He walked to the rear garden and looked at the neat little rows of herbs and vegetables that Mrs. Kumar had planted. Something was out of place. He examined the soil. In one corner it had been disturbed. Santosh gazed at it a little longer. It seemed to be a cylindrical pattern with a rounded end. The manhole cover. If it were shifted sideways, wouldn’t it create a similar pattern?