“My condolences. As I said, I’m not interested in drugs.”
“You are not another crawling narcotic agent who wants rupees to keep her silence?” Watching her, he took a deep lungful of hashish, retained it and then exhaled a dragon’s breath of grey smoke towards her.
Rana was determined not to cough. “I’m from Homicide, Iqbal, and I can’t be bought off.”
His hooded eyes regarded her as he lazily scratched a nose the size of a samosa. He grunted a laugh. “They send a young girl to question me now! I am insulted. What do you want?”
“I understand you knew the businessman Ali Bhakor?”
“What of it?”
“When was the last time you spoke to Bhakor?”
He turned his palm in a lazy gesture of consideration. “Now let me see… it would be, yes, perhaps five weeks ago. He came around to share a pipe.”
Five weeks ago… one week before his murder.
“Can you tell me if he had arranged to meet anyone at the Hindustan Plaza hotel on the evening of the sixth of July?”
Iqbal shook his head. “He does not discuss his business deals with me.”
“Did he mention making any new acquaintances of late?”
Iqbal regarded her, something unpleasant in his eyes. He gripped his obscenely fat big toes and used them to haul himself forward. “Officer, Bhakor is a man who juggles many fire-brands. He does not shout about his business for fear of dropping them, or burning his hands.”
Rana watched Iqbal as she said, “Ali Bhakor was murdered on the evening of the sixth of July at the Hindustan Plaza hotel. He was shot in the head with a laser charge.”
She disliked the way his every movement, his every gesture, was conditioned and limited by his corpulence, but she was sure his reaction, minimal though it was, was genuine: his slit eyes widened fractionally. He had not known before now of his friend’s death.
“I was expecting a call… We meet every five or six weeks for a pipe and conversation.”
“I’m sorry I had to break it to you like this. It is an unpleasant affair. I’m doing my best to get to the bottom of it. I would appreciate every little bit of help I can get.”
Iqbal inclined his elephantine head. “Ah-cha. Of course.”
“Did Bhakor mention anything, anything at all, that might suggest who he was meeting that night?”
Iqbal leaned forward and stanchioned his head on all ten fingers and thumbs, a dramatic gesture of total concentration.
He looked up with a swiftness totally out of character. “Why… he did say something. I am sure it meant nothing.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” Rana said.
Iqbal adjusted the white lace skullcap on the summit of his bald head. “I don’t know if it will help, but he did say that he might have an interesting business deal with a certain… contact.”
Rana stared at him. “A contact?”
“That is what he said. He had met him once. The man was offering to supply Ali with a quantity of high-grade slash at a cut-rate price. He referred only to the dealer as the Man in the Black Suit.”
“The Man in the Black Suit,” Rana repeated.
“A very expensive black suit, woven from a bright material Ali had never seen before. The man looked rich. Ali said that he was considering the deal.”
Rana stared at the bulbous water-pipe standing between the callused soles of the man’s feet. She felt something flutter in her chest, told herself not to feel too excited, yet. It was nothing more than another lead, one of many.
“Are you sure he said nothing else about this man? How old he might be? His nationality?”
Iqbal shook his head. “I am truly sorry. He mentioned the man briefly in passing, and then only as the Man in the Black Suit.”
Rana nodded. “That might be helpful, anyway.” She stood and paused by the door. “Thank you for your time.”
“Would you care to join me in a pipe, officer?”
Rana smiled. “While I’m on duty, Iqbal? I think not.”
Iqbal gave a sly smile of disappointment. “So goodbye, and may Allah go with you.”
Rana hurried down the narrow staircase and made her way to the car. She slipped into the back seat and said to the driver, “Do you know a good tailor?”
“Excuse me?” The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror.
“Please take me to Calcutta’s most expensive tailor.”
He gave Rana an odd look and spoke hurriedly into his communicator. Seconds later he turned to her. “Ah-cha. I’ll take you to Nazruddin’s, yes?”
The car started up and edged through the alleyway. Monsoon clouds were gathering to the east, great blue thunderheads stacked over the sea. Seconds later the deluge began, drumming on the roof of the car.
Rana sat back and considered what a break this might be, so early in her career on the eighth floor. But no, it was too much to hope for—that her last interview should provide the clue. But wasn’t it often the case? The very last key of a bunch was the one that opened the door; the last bazaar tried had the finest papayas—as if all along fate had been tempting you to give in and abandon your search.
They entered the relatively new district of the city, the business sector boasting skyscrapers and the latest poly-carbon architecture, domes and ziggurats and pyramids, like something from a travel brochure for the colonies. The driver parked the car outside a double-fronted store with a platoon of mannequins in the window dressed in the latest fashions.
Rana jumped from the car and sprinted through the downpour and into Nazruddin’s.
At the sight of her uniform, the manager ushered her into a back room, fearful of what his customers might think. “How might I be of help?”
“Do you stock sabline, a material produced on Madrigal?”
The manager blinked. “You wish to make a purchase?” he asked. “You see, I’m sure that on the salary of’—he glanced at her stripes—‘a Lieutenant—”
“I’m here on police business.” She showed her ID card. “Rana Rao. Homicide. Now—”
“Sabline. Of course. We are the oldest established tailors in Calcutta, after all.”
“Have you recently sold suits made from the material?”
The manager laughed. “Suits? My dear, we have never sold suits of sabline. Do you have any idea of the expense? Please…”
He gestured for her to follow him, and moved along an aisle between racked garments. He came to a series of thin drawers extending all the way up the wall, positioned a pair of step ladders and pulled out a drawer high above Rana’s head. He descended with a slim box perhaps the size of a pix album. With a flourish he lifted the lid. Within folds of tissue was a cravat or neckerchief with the lustre of midnight made tangible.
The manager said, “Go on, feel it.”
Rana reached out and touched the sabline neckerchief. It was as soft as down, finer even than silk. She wanted to lift it from the box and bury her face in its heavenly folds.
“Sabline is manufactured from the pelt of an animal native to Madrigal,” the manager told her. “These animals shed their pelts only once a lifetime—the sabline is damaged if taken from a dead animal. It is ludicrously expensive. For example, this cravat… what do you think?”
“A thousand rupees?” Her wage for a month.
“Six thousand would be nearer the mark. A suit…” He shook his head. “There is no demand for sabline suits, unfortunately. You would be talking about a figure approaching two hundred thousand rupees. The material is hard-wearing. A suit is guaranteed to last the lifetime of its owner without deterioration.”
Rana ran her fingers through the material for the last time. “Do you know if any tailor in India sells sabline suits?”