“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.”