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 look 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.”
“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?”