Private India: (Private 8)

by James Patterson

  “I’ve been plugging data into PrivatePattern since this morning but can’t find anything to link them,” said Nisha. PrivatePattern was the Private organization’s proprietary analysis tool. Investigators from all over the world fed case data into the system and allowed the software to throw up possible links and matches.

  “The first victim was a doctor from Thailand, the second was a journalist working for a Mumbai tabloid, and the third was a famous pop singer,” she continued. “I have tried cross-referencing various elements from their lives but have drawn a blank. The main link so far is the security consultant—Xilon—whose technology was in use at all three locations. The only other definite link is the fact that the first two victims spoke to each other extensively over the phone.”

  “What about the third?” asked Jack. “Any phone conversations with the other two?”

  “Priyanka Talati—our singing sensation—did not believe in keeping an intrusive cell phone by her side. Her personal assistant answered phone calls for her but he is quite emphatic that Priyanka never received a call from either Kanya Jaiyen or Bhavna Choksi.”

  Santosh perked up. “The reporter—Bhavna Choksi—was writing a story about people that work with celebrities, right? Was the singer—Priyanka—on Bhavna’s list of contacts?” he asked Nisha.

  “No,” she replied, glancing down at her notes. “There were no celebrities on Bhavna’s list. Only people that worked alongside celebrities—helping them with their travel arrangements, physiotherapy, styling, pets, public relations, psychiatric counseling, clothes …”

  “Okay, let’s forget that angle and focus on the murders. What was common to them?” asked Jack.

  “All the victims were women,” replied Santosh mechanically. “None of them was sexually assaulted. All of them were killed by strangulation with a yellow garrote. The security firm at all three murder sites was the same. There was no forced entry at any of the locations. There was no trace evidence except for a single strand of hair—minus any DNA—at all three murder sites. The strangler left props—varying across the killings—at all the murder sites.”

  “Refresh my memory a little,” said Jack. “What were the props?”

  “The first victim was left with a lotus flower and a dining fork tied to her hands, and a toy Viking helmet tied to her feet. The second was found with a rosary in one hand and a bucket of water in the other. The third was found lying on a faux animal skin, half a rupee coin placed on her head, and a small brass bell-shaped pendant hung around her neck.” Santosh rattled off the details from memory.

  “If you can’t find a link between the victims then try finding what connects the props. The killer is trying to tell you something,” said Jack quietly. “Find the pattern that fits the props and you will crack this case wide open.”

  Under the conference table, Hari nervously clutched a small pendant in his right hand as he prayed to God that his secret would remain buried. He anxiously hoped that the husky-voiced woman he had spoken to earlier remained unaware of the latest developments.

  Chapter 29

  BLUE MAGIC TANTRA Records was no backstreet operation. Everything about the studio where Priyanka Talati had made her chartbusting albums screamed “big time.”

  Santosh felt shabby, old, and out of touch as he and Nisha were led through the swish studio then deposited in the control room. Through floor-to-ceiling glass they watched as Priyanka’s music producer moved up and down a huge mixing console on a leather-backed swivel chair, his fingers dancing over sliders, head bobbing to music they couldn’t hear.

  In his late thirties, he wore Kai-Kai sandals, faded jeans, and a gray company T-shirt printed with the logo “Blue Magic Tantra” in electric blue. And something else—a yellow bandana.

  Now that’s interesting, thought Santosh, as the producer swung on his chair and waved at them through the window of the control room. A yellow bandana. The same fabric and dye, perhaps?

  Moments later they sat down for coffee with the producer. “Priyanka was one of the most talented and versatile singers that India has ever produced,” he said sadly. “I was convinced it was only a matter of time before she’d be nominated for a Grammy.”

  “She lived most of her life outside India, is that right?” asked Santosh, using a sip of the brew to surreptitiously study the bandana.

  “Yes,” said the producer. “She studied music at the Yong Siew Conservatory, part of the National University of Singapore. Her parents were divorced. Her mother lived in Singapore—working as an accountant, I think—while her father lived in Thailand from where he continued to work for the merchant navy. Priyanka’s growing-up years were divided between Singapore and Thailand.”

  “What about her personal life?” asked Nisha. “Did she have a husband or boyfriend?”

  “She married rather young—unfortunately to the wrong guy,” said the producer. “He turned out to have a serious drinking problem. Even worse was the fact that he used Priyanka for target practice when he was sloshed. She’d been single for several years now but the divorce proceedings were dragging on … Nasty.”

  Santosh kept quiet. Any reference to drinking inspired loathing and longing within him almost simultaneously. Loathing for his lack of self-control. And longing for yet another drink.

  “Could we have his name, please?” asked Nisha. “Any idea where he lives?”

  The producer provided a name but was not sure of the exact address. He told them that the apartment was somewhere in Andheri.

  “Was there anyone new in her life?” asked Santosh at last. “Was there anything strange or abnormal in her habits or routine?”

  “She had been shooting for a new music video and had been rather tired due to extended cosmetic makeover sessions as well as extra power yoga classes,” replied the producer sadly. “We would have released the new album next month along with the video. The song was to be used as the soundtrack for an upcoming film.” It was evident that Priyanka’s death had affected him deeply.

  “Which movie?” asked Santosh.

  “A new thriller by Lara Omprakash,” said the producer. “It had taken us almost a year to find the right sound for the film. Lara too was very excited about it.”

  “Would you know whether Priyanka had a drug habit?” asked Santosh suddenly.

  “Why on earth would you think that?” the producer said indignantly. “Priyanka was on a perpetual high—from her music. She didn’t need drugs!”

  “Another question,” said Santosh carefully. He had noticed the small blue logo of Blue Magic Tantra Records on the producer’s yellow bandana. It wasn’t the same type of scarf as the ones used in the murders. “What was your relationship with her?”

  The producer looked directly at Santosh and tears welled up in his eyes. “I loved her—not only as my protégée but also as a special friend. Unfortunately Priyanka never thought of me as anything but her producer, so the matter ended there.”

  “I have to ask this,” said Santosh. “Where were you at the time that Priyanka Talati was killed? Monday night between eleven and midnight.”

  “I was here all night,” said the producer, not seeming to take any offense at the aggressive line of questioning. “We were recording a track for Shivaraman Mahadevan—the leader of the Indian fusion group Samudra. You can ask any of the musicians. They’ll tell you that I was here from eight p.m. onwards until the wee hours of the morning.”

  Santosh and Nisha thanked the producer and left the air-conditioned interior of the Blue Magic Tantra office for the heat of Mumbai city.

  “We will need to check the tabloid reporter’s contacts list,” said Santosh, “to see whether Priyanka’s cosmetician or yoga instructor were on it. Also, we should find out the exact address of the former husband in Andheri and pay him a visit.” Nisha nodded as she unlocked the doors of the car and got into the driver’s seat. Santosh settled into the passenger seat next to her. That was the precise moment at which both of them saw it.

  Tied to
the steering wheel was a bright yellow scarf, identical to the ones that had been used in the three killings.

  Chapter 30

  HARI PADHI GOT into the driver’s seat, belted up, and started the car. On most days he did not bother to drive his car to work, preferring to use a Meru Cab, one of the hundreds of air-conditioned aqua-colored taxi cabs that jostled for space alongside the older but less comfortable black-and-yellow cabs. But today was different.

  After about fifteen minutes of driving along congested roads, he parked near a school. Locking the car, he stepped out, passed the school, and headed down a narrow lane that led to a famous temple.

  As he drew closer to it, the lane became slightly more crowded with holy men, hawkers, and beggars. He stopped at a small shop to buy some incense sticks, sandalwood paste, basil leaves, flowers, a ritual stole, and a watermelon. He then passed through the small wooden gate that led to the Durga Temple.

  It was early morning by Mumbai standards and the temple was almost empty. It took Hari less than a few minutes to reach the goddess. He lit the incense sticks before the large idol of Durga. Then he dipped the flowers into the sandalwood paste and placed them along with the basil leaves at the feet of the deity as part of the ritual offering. He draped the stole reverentially around the shoulders of the deity.

  Next he placed the watermelon on a small platform in front of the statue. He bowed down to pray for a few moments before he lifted a pocketknife and split open the watermelon with a single swipe. The red insides of the melon lay exposed as bloody juices oozed out.

  A watermelon or gourd was an acceptable alternative sacrifice in the modern age. In medieval times, an animal or human sacrifice would have been the norm.

  Chapter 31

  THE SCARF ON the steering wheel had left Nisha and Santosh stumped. Santosh had immediately phoned Jack and they had agreed that the cloth should be given to Mubeen for comparison. His verdict had been quick—the fabric and the dye were identical to those used in the other three scarves.

  Why would he do that? wondered Santosh. Why tie a scarf to the steering wheel of investigating detectives? Nothing about him suggested he was into playing games with cops. The ritual was his thing.

  Santosh put aside his thoughts for a moment. He had to pay a visit to Priyanka Talati’s former husband, accompanied by Jack.

  Nothing in his life to date had prepared Jack for the ordeal of traveling on a Mumbai Local train. Santosh had suggested that it would be more efficient to reach Andheri—where Priyanka’s ex lived—by train rather than car. He was absolutely right. Making the journey by commuter train cut the travel time by half. What Santosh had avoided telling Jack was the fact that getting on or off a Mumbai Local train at most times of the day was a test that could easily have been devised by the toughest marine.

  Transporting an incredible eight million commuters daily, the train was the very lifeline of Mumbai, but the notorious Mumbai Local had the ability to make people shudder simply to think about it. Trains were usually badly overcrowded with people packed inside like sardines. The doors rarely closed and passengers were often left hanging out, clutching the guard rails for dear life.

  Thankfully their journey from Churchgate station to Andheri was uneventful because it was not rush hour. Even though they had been unable to find seats for half the journey, the train was not too overcrowded and they were able to find comfortable standing room.

  While they were in the train, Santosh’s phone rang. Holding the overhead bar with one hand, he passed his walking cane to Jack. Using his free hand, he pulled out the cell phone from his pocket. He looked at the screen to see who the caller was. Rupesh.

  “We have a small problem,” began Rupesh.

  “What is it?” asked Santosh.

  “That editor from the Afternoon Mirror has been sniffing around. So far we’ve succeeded in keeping under wraps the fact that the three murders are related. We’ll be in a mess if this comes out.”

  “What prompted the snooping?” said Santosh.

  “She received a yellow scarf in a package,” said Rupesh. “As of now, she does not know the connection between the scarf and the three murders.”

  “How did it arrive?” asked Santosh. “By post, courier, or hand-delivery?”

  “Plain Manila envelope, postmarked Mumbai GPO. We’ve checked for fingerprints. There are none.”

  “The address was handwritten?”

  “Negative. Laser printer.”

  “No chance of any handwriting analysis. What do you suggest?”

  “I say that we call another press conference and reveal a little more, but keep the key details to ourselves,” proposed Rupesh. “At least that way we’ll be in control of what goes out.”

  “I disagree,” Santosh told him. “This killer wants publicity. The clues at the various scenes are the perfect ingredients for a juicy crime thriller. It’s possible that Bhavna Choksi, the Afternoon Mirror reporter, was killed specifically with the intention of getting front-page visibility. The yellow scarf being sent to the tabloid’s office proves that the perpetrator desperately wants column inches. Provide a spotlight and you will have dead bodies piling up even faster.”

  After persuading Rupesh not to take any further action until they’d had a chance to discuss it personally, Santosh hung up as the train rolled into Andheri station. From there they hailed a three-wheeled diesel-fume-spewing auto rickshaw to the address that Nisha had given them. It was the last known address of Priyanka’s ex.

  They trudged up the stairs to the fifth floor because the building’s sole elevator was out of order, Santosh keeping up with Jack in spite of the cane. They rang the bell to an anonymous-looking door that bore only an apartment number. There was no response from within. Santosh rang the bell once again but still there was no answer. He knocked on the door with no success.

  “Maybe he’s out,” said Jack. “Or he could have moved.”

  “Or he could be lying dead,” countered Santosh. “We need to get inside.”

  Without hesitation, Jack kicked in the door with ease. Once a marine, always a marine.

  The shattered door revealed an unlit passage beyond. Lying slumped on the ground was a disheveled man who looked as if he hadn’t bathed for a month. His face was unshaven and his muddy-brown hair was almost shoulder-length. His nails were long and filthy, and a pungent odor of dried sweat emanated from his body.

  “Firoze Quadri?” asked Santosh, as the man rubbed his eyes and scratched his week-old stubble.

  “What if I am?” the man asked warily, an even more terrible smell emanating from his mouth. It was obvious that Quadri hadn’t used a toothbrush for a long time.

  “We need just a minute of your time, sir,” said Jack, pulling up the dazed occupant by the scruff of his neck and almost carrying him further into the apartment before he could object.

  It soon emerged that Priyanka’s ex was a down-on-his-luck alcoholic. While married to her, he had tried his hand at a variety of jobs but had never been good at any of them—writer, artist, interior designer. Eventually he had realized that his only claim to fame was the fact that he was married to Priyanka. His male ego utterly bruised, he had taken to drink and had filled the nondrinking hours with violent outbursts directed at his famous wife. One day when he had returned home after a long night of drinking at the local bar, he’d found that Priyanka had left. The next day her lawyer had gotten in touch.

  The apartment was an extremely valuable piece of real estate in a city where every square inch commanded an outrageous premium. Priyanka had been attempting to evict him and take back possession of the apartment, but the case was stuck in the backlog of the High Court of Bombay.

  For the present, though, the valuable property was little better than a dump with empty beer bottles and cartons of partially consumed takeout meals strewn all over the place. The stench of rotting food was sickening. Jack opened a window and attempted to switch on the ceiling fan.

  “Don’t bother,” said th
e drunk. “The electricity has been cut for nonpayment of bills.”

  Santosh had gone into ferret mode—sniffing around and turning over bottles and packages. He was wondering whether he might find a few yellow scarves lying around. “Did you know that your ex was murdered recently?” he asked, continuing his search. The dazed expression on Quadri’s face made it quite evident that he had not heard the news.

  “The bitch left me penniless,” he snarled, not in the least bothered by the fact that his ex-wife had been tragically murdered. On the contrary, a smile of satisfaction crossed his face. “Since we haven’t been officially divorced as yet, would you know whether I can claim a share of her estate?”

  “Where were you on Monday night between eleven and midnight?” Santosh demanded, ignoring the question.

  “Can’t remember,” mumbled the ex blankly, scratching his crotch.

  “You do realize that your divorce proceedings with Priyanka give you a strong motive for her murder?” said Santosh, using his cane to scare away a lizard on the doorframe nearby.

  “I never leave this place,” replied the drunk. “Ask the neighbors or the security guards at the gate. I am always worried that the bitch may forcibly repossess the house while I’m out.”

  Jack looked at Santosh and shook his head, pointing to the empty alcohol bottles scattered all over the floor. They were wasting their time with Quadri.

  Santosh agreed. Quadri had unkempt shoulder-length hair. It seemed unlikely that the man would leave a murder scene without shedding some of it. Furthermore the hair samples at all three murder sites had been short strands of black hair, not the muddy brown color of Quadri’s.

  While one could loathe Quadri, he was quite certainly not their man.

  Chapter 32