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.