Her phone rang and she answered it without taking her eyes off the shadow-figure standing on the other side of the window. It was Ajay.
“What can I do for you, Ajay?”
“Plenty, but not right now. There was something I should have told you.”
The figure—it seemed to melt away from the window. Devika was on the move. Out of the front door? Nisha didn’t think so. After all, the only car parked out here was hers. There had to be a back entrance. And what was the betting Devika was about to use it to give her the slip?
“What’s that, Ajay?” she said. She was getting out of the car now, clicking it locked, reaching to the Glock at her waist and drawing it. She held it discreetly, close to her thigh, pleased to have the feel of it in her palm as she looked left and right along the near-deserted street, then trotted across the road, back toward Yoga Sutra. She tried the door.
“Right, well, it was something I should have mentioned before …” Ajay was saying, “maybe nothing important but I thought you’d like to know.”
She cradled the phone between her cheek and neck, cupped a hand at the glass and tried to peer through the window, seeing nothing inside but the vague shapes of an empty reception area, an open door leading through to the studio. No movement. No sign of Devika.
No—no, she couldn’t have lost her already.
“Actually, couldn’t this wait, Ajay?” she said with a touch of irritation. She moved to the side of the building and glanced up a narrow alley that lay between the studio and a picturesque apartment block next door. She looked more carefully at the apartments. Probably had parking at the rear. Probably parking for Yoga Sutra, too.
“It’s very quick,” said Ajay.
“Okay, then fire away,” she said, crabbing sideways down the alley, gun still held down at her leg, phone to her ear.
“It’s that information you asked for about Lara.”
“What about it?”
“The system lets you see the last person to access that information.”
She cocked her head. “Yes?”
“Well, you wouldn’t expect information like this to have been accessed for a while.”
“Maybe somebody checking up since her death, like we were?” she suggested, realizing she was speaking in a whisper now.
“Right. But as far as I can tell, I’m the only person to have looked at it since she died. I’m talking about before she died.”
“How long before she died?”
“A month or so.”
“And are you able to say who it was that accessed the information?”
There was the sound of a car engine from the far end of the alley and Nisha began to move more quickly now, cursing.
Can’t lose her. Whatever I do, I can’t lose her.
“Yes, it was Rupesh,” said Ajay.
By now she had reached the rear of the building and peered carefully around the corner. The car was reversing from garages to her left, one of the apartment block’s residents. The rear of Yoga Sutra, meanwhile, was silent. Two cars in the parking bays, a silver Mercedes and metallic-blue Audi, both exactly the kinds of cars you’d expect in an area like this. Exactly the kinds of cars you’d expect someone like Devika to be driving. Maybe she hadn’t left.
There was a rear door, a glass-panelled back entrance, the kind that stars in dark sunglasses use when they wanted to be discreet. It was ajar.
“Thanks, Ajay,” she said, even more quietly now. “That’s really, really important. I owe you one.”
“Why are we whispering?” said Ajay.
She grimaced. “The same reason I can’t talk right now.”
“Whatever you’re doing, be careful,” he said. There was no mistaking the genuine concern in his voice.
“I will be,” she whispered, ending the call, resolving to tell Santosh the news as soon as possible. Just as soon as she investigated this open door.
Coming closer now, she peered into the gap. Inside, the scented air of the yoga studio, shrouded in an after-hours darkness.
“Hello? Miss Gulati?” she said. “I wonder if I could just ask you a couple more questions.”
There was no answer. But there was a movement from inside, a shuffling sound.
“Hello?”
Nothing. She raised her Glock. Stepped into the threshold of the door. “Hello? Is everything all right, Miss Gulati? Are you all right?”
She took another step inside, then another. Squinting in the half-light, she reached into the pocket of her jeans for a small flashlight, fumbling as she pulled it out so that it fell to the carpet. Raising her Glock slightly, not taking her eyes off the corridor ahead of her, she crouched, fingers reaching for the flashlight, not liking this. Not liking it at all.
Suddenly from behind her came the slam of a door, just as her fingers gripped the flashlight and she wheeled, raising the gun and the light at the same time.
She saw the shape looming. Something hit her before she could pull the trigger and she pitched back with a cry of pain, twisting too late as something came down over her mouth and nose. She inhaled chemicals. In her pocket, her phone buzzed.
Chapter 89
“NISHA WAS ENGAGED—NOW she’s not answering,” said Santosh impatiently. “Let’s go.”
“Santosh, we’ll go in my Jeep,” said Rupesh. “A siren might help us get there more quickly.” Santosh flashed him a grateful look, waving for Mubeen to leave.
Mubeen was already pulling away by the time Santosh and Rupesh clambered into the Assistant Commissioner’s Jeep and set off.
“Don’t worry, Santosh,” said Rupesh. “I called for backup. Nisha will be fine.”
“Thank you,” said Santosh. He clasped his cane and gazed out of the window, seeing but not seeing a riot of Mumbai color. Caught in the overspill from Colaba Causeway, the Jeep moved slowly at first, Rupesh leaning on the horn and every now and then thrusting his head out of the window to curse at cyclists and unwary pedestrians.
Santosh, meanwhile, was lost in thought. He was thinking about Aditi Chopra, unwanted child of Lara Omprakash. Had Aditi changed her name to Devika Gulati? Was she writing her biography in blood, each corpse a new chapter?
And there was something else as well. Another question hanging around on the outskirts of his mind.
They had pulled away from the main throng now, were traveling faster, but not a route Santosh recognized. Not the way to Devika Gulati’s studio.
He glanced at Rupesh. “Where are we going?”
The gun was in Rupesh’s fist before Santosh had time to react, the barrel of it pointing across the seat at him. He grimaced. Fool. What a fool—so wrapped up in the Aditi Chopra lead that he hadn’t questioned why Rupesh needed to leave the room to supposedly call for backup.
“This is something to do with Munna, isn’t it?” said Santosh. “You’re working for him now, aren’t you?”
Rupesh gave a rueful smile. “Let’s just say that this is an opportunity to mix business with the resolution of a little personal matter, Santosh.”
“Where are we going?” asked Santosh.
“You’ll find out—when we arrive,” said Rupesh.
Chapter 90
THE RASP OF the vultures overhead. The dry flapping of their wings in the night sky. And the stench. The terrible, terrible stench of death—of corpses laid out to rot in the sun, dozens of bodies left as carrion for the maggots and the flies and the scavenging birds that constantly circled overhead.
This was where Rupesh had brought them. To the Tower of Silence on Malabar Hill, an oasis of green within the concrete hustle and bustle of Mumbai.
But a deserted one. The Tower of Silence was where the Parsis disposed of their dead—an individual’s final act of charity, providing scavengers with food that would otherwise be destroyed. There, bodies were laid out to be shredded and eaten by the vultures that were a permanent feature of the sky above the tower.
With Santosh at gunpoint, he and Rupesh entered through an iron door o
n the east side—the only way in or out—and found themselves on the inside of a vast basin, a huge sunken ossuary pit in the middle.
A full moon illuminated bodies laid out on the stone, men in an outer ring, female corpses in the middle, and children in the innermost ring. Once the flesh had been pecked by vultures, and the bones bleached by the sun, the remnants would collect in the pit, where they would gradually disintegrate into fine powder.
“Go to the pit,” said Rupesh.
Though he had one hand over his mouth, Santosh was still retching at the overpowering stench of rotted flesh and bird-shit. He turned and limped toward the edge. The moon cast the stone in a silvery glow. Tendrils of light reached into the pit where a mix of festering blood and tissue and human bones lay coagulating and decomposing.
Glancing to Rupesh, he saw the other man doing the same. Supposedly, the tower could only be entered by a special class of pallbearers, who would be asleep in their quarters. How had Rupesh gained entry? Perhaps, when you counted Munna and Nimboo Baba among your friends, anything was possible.
“Alas, the story must end here, my friend,” said Rupesh. He reached into his back pocket with his left hand while his right continued to hold the Glock, pulling out something that he held up for Santosh to see. A pair of handcuffs. And in a voice from the heart of a nightmare said, “You killed them, you drunk bastard.”
For a second, Santosh forgot the stink, the vultures, the corpses at their feet, and the gun pointing at him. He simply stared at Rupesh. It was almost as though every second had been stretched into an hour. He felt woozy. Rupesh’s words echoed inside his mind as it went into flashback. “You killed them, you drunk bastard!”
And he had, hadn’t he? He had killed them.
Chapter 91
THEY’D LEFT IMMEDIATELY after breakfast, Isha, and Pravir, happy and content. Thankfully there had been no discussion of Santosh’s extended absence from home and they’d enjoyed a wonderful break at a resort recommended by …
Rupesh’s sister.
Yes, Rupesh’s sister. Santosh and Rupesh were the best of friends: Rupesh had been godfather to his son, even filling in for Santosh at school events.
They drove. The lush green hills were partially covered by monsoon clouds and the gentle spray of rain made the view even more magical. His son, entirely absorbed in his hand-held game, was seated in the rear seat of the car as Santosh drove, wondering why he had allowed himself to ignore the most important people in his life. He vowed that he would give more time to his wife and son, become more disciplined about his own habits and split his time more evenly between work and family. He needed to take care of himself too. Exercise, eat healthily, and cut down on the alcohol.
He cast looks at Isha, seated next to him. She seemed worried, almost as though she were trying to tell him something. When she noticed him staring at her, she smiled self-consciously. Her hands were in her lap, the fingers of her left hand fiddling with the wedding ring on her right.
“Papa, look at my score!” cried his son from the rear of the car. He crouched in the footwell and held the game through the space between their seats, urging his father to take a look.
And because the boy was excited. And because, even though it was just a silly game, Santosh wanted to be a good father and tell him well done, he took his eyes off the road to look at the game.
Just for a second. That’s all it was. Enough to miss the bend.
“Watch out, Santosh!” screamed his wife, and he stamped on the brakes and wrenched at the wheel and a million thoughts crowded his head but none were enough to save them and the car spun into the thick trunks of the banyan at the crest of the turn, its horn stuck and blaring like a piercing scream.
Santosh did not know how he reached the hospital or who took him there. He had a vague recollection of dark corridors and of being wheeled on a gurney into the operating theater. He lost count of the days and nights that he was in the hospital. He also lost track of waking and dreaming, the two states mingling effortlessly to make his dreams seem eerily real and his reality a jumbled dream. The only recurrent theme was of a policeman—sometimes at his bedside, sometimes running alongside his gurney, sometimes towering over him—holding a pair of handcuffs and saying, “You killed them, you drunk bastard!”
Both dead. Him the only survivor. What he would have given for it to be the other way around.
Slowly, Santosh returned to the present. He had been staring without seeing, his gaze on the barrel of the gun, but now his eyes rose slowly to Rupesh.
“You were the cop who accused me of being drunk?” he said dreamily.
Rupesh shook his head as though dealing with a fool. “You never had time for them!” he sneered. “I was the one who was always there for them. Attending your son’s school play, lending money to Isha when you disappeared for days, comforting her when your uncaring and selfish attitude was too much for her to bear. They became my life, and you killed them.”
“You were having an affair with her?” asked Santosh quietly. He was in a state of shock. Later the news would hit home, and he’d wail with the pain of knowing Isha had been unfaithful. But right now there was nothing. Just numbness and shock.
“She was going to leave you,” said Rupesh. “But before she could do it, you cut her life short.”
“It wasn’t my fault, Rupesh,” said Santosh.
Or maybe it was.
“Papa, look at my score!”
Rupesh scoffed. “You were never there. And when you were, you were drunk. You killed them before they died.”
“If you hated me so much then why did you visit me at the hospital?” asked Santosh.
“You were in a coma for days,” replied Rupesh. “I came so I could ease my own grief by blaming you. I would stand by your bed and tell you that you had killed them. I used to hold out my handcuffs and imagine myself cuffing you.”
“You killed them, you drunk bastard,” said the cop, holding out a pair of handcuffs to Santosh.
“Isha was the finest woman I ever knew. You didn’t deserve her. She made the biggest mistake of her life when she chose you over me.”
Santosh’s head was spinning. He had met Isha through Rupesh’s sister. They had all become friends and would often go out to movies or for meals together. Santosh had never realized Rupesh had feelings for her.
“Look at you,” spat Rupesh. “Look at you now. You’re a lame drunk.”
“The doctor says my limp is psychosomatic,” said Santosh. Rupesh gave a short, contemptuous laugh but Santosh continued, “He says I don’t need the cane, but I do. The pain in my leg is as real as the pain of their loss that I feel every single day, and none of the hatred you feel for me could ever be as strong as the hatred I feel for myself. You say I was responsible. Well, maybe I was, but not because I was drunk, Rupesh, you’re wrong about that. But I made an error of judgment, that’s right. I made an error of judgment and two people I loved died. If you want revenge, you’re getting it, because if you kill me now I suffer now, but by living I suffer every day.”
Rupesh gestured with the gun, backing Santosh further toward the edge of the pit. Overhead the vultures circled, cawing, dark shapes against a gray sky, around and around. Below them in the pit, the silence of death.
“I’m afraid I have a taste for vengeance, Santosh. You remember my sister, found dead at Andheri railway station,” said Rupesh.
Santosh remembered with a twinge of shame. Too wrapped up in his own grief, he’d had no room to admit more. Hadn’t contacted Rupesh; hadn’t attended the funeral.
“Two men had taken turns raping and torturing her. Turned out they were both seventeen. They would have served three years in a remand home. Just three years for what they did to her. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“So you went to Munna?”
“I did,” replied Rupesh.
“What did he want in return?” asked Santosh.
“Nothing,” answered Rupesh. “He said he valued my friendship
.”
Santosh gave a short laugh. How many times had he heard that before?
“The warden was on Munna’s payroll,” continued Rupesh. “When the boys reached the remand home, they were picked up by Munna’s men. They were taken to his weekend retreat on the outskirts of Mumbai where they were castrated in front of me. Munna had them thrown into his private lake—infested with crocodiles.”
Santosh nodded sadly. “And now you’re in deep with Munna?”
“We value each other’s friendship.”
“Then you know he has links with the Mujahideen? They could be planning an attack, Rupesh.”
Rupesh nodded. “They are. Tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night,” Santosh gasped. “Rupesh, we can’t allow this to happen. Please, why are we standing here when we should be out there?” He indicated across the city he loved and hated in equal measure, a city he’d once pledged to protect. And though he’d since left the Indian intelligence service, he had never rescinded that pledge, not in his heart. “We need to stop this, Rupesh,” he urged, rapping the point of his cane on the stone for emphasis.
Rupesh snorted. “God, you’re so arrogant. Why do you think I need your help? I’m quite capable of handling this myself, thanks for the kind offer. I can talk to Munna. I can talk to Nimboo Baba. They listen to me.”
The cawing of the vultures. Bizarrely it reminded Santosh of trips to the zoo as a little boy. Huge birds with a five-foot wingspan. In the zoo you were protected by wire fencing but there was no fencing here.
Santosh shook his head. “No, Rupesh, they won’t. You work for them, not the other way around.”
“Don’t concern yourself, Santosh. You’ll be dead.”
Santosh looked at him, breathing heavily, sure now that there was nothing left of the man he had once called a friend. “The garrote killings,” he said. “You knew about those too, didn’t you?”
Rupesh smiled ruefully. “Only that the killer enjoys the benefit of Nimboo Baba’s affections. They are lovers, it seems.”
Private India: (Private 8) Page 20