Private India

by James Patterson

  I pull out my special scarf from my pocket. Three knots are firmly tied in it. I survey my work with some satisfaction but check my contentment. I still have lots more to do.

  I’m coming to get you, bitch. Wait for me. Trust me, it’s worth waiting for.

  Chapter 25

  “THIS IS THE only store in Mumbai that sells these particular shoes?” asked Santosh incredulously.

  They were illegally parked on Waterfield Road, looking warily at a line of designer boutiques, and one in particular called Michel that, according to Hari, was the city’s only supplier of the distinctive black buckled shoe. As modeled by Dr. Jaiyen’s probable killer in the Marine Bay Plaza.

  They stepped out of the company Honda Civic and into the searing heat of Mumbai. Stopping to let a couple of stylish ladies pass, they crossed to Michel and tried to enter the store—only to find the door locked.

  Santosh stepped back, puzzled. “Oh bloody hell,” he said, realizing the problem. It wasn’t the sort of shop where you just went inside. Oh no. You had to be allowed in.

  Sure enough, a snooty sales assistant was watching them from a window, wearing the bored, expressionless look of the terminally trendy. Exactly the same look he’d seen on the customers at the Shiva Spa. “Aakash” would be right at home here, he mused.

  “Can we come in?” he mouthed, and the bored-looking sales assistant did all but roll her eyes as she surveyed them from a distance. At last she relented and unlocked the door.

  “Good day to you, sirs,” she said. “How may I help you?”

  Another assistant, standing at the counter, momentarily glanced up from flicking through a magazine then looked back down.

  “I’m looking for information about a pair of shoes,” said Santosh, casting his eyes around the shop.

  The assistant smiled wanly as he looked for the pair. He found them with a triumphant “Ah!” and scuttled over to where they were displayed. “These,” he said, holding them up with a glance at Hari, who confirmed that they were indeed the shoes from the CCTV footage.

  “Those shoes are for display purposes only, I’m afraid,” said the assistant, evidently relishing the terrible news she was about to impart. “They are custom-made to order and the waiting list is …” She called over her shoulder, “How long for the Oakleys, Ria?”

  Without glancing up from her magazine, Ria said, “Two years.”

  “Two years,” repeated Assistant One, unnecessarily.

  “Ah, but I don’t want to buy a pair,” explained Santosh. “I want to know who else has bought a pair.”

  “I’m sorry?” said the assistant, eyebrows shooting up.

  Santosh looked at her, his already low expectations sinking further. He could tell how this one was going to end.

  Sure enough, in a matter of minutes the two Private men were back in the Honda, with Santosh cursing—cursing his luck, the two snooty assistants; whatever there was to curse, he was cursing it.

  “Hey, boss,” said Hari from the driver’s seat, and Santosh became aware that the IT guy was making no move to drive off. Indeed, he was sitting with the laptop on his lap, lid up, tapping away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “The shop’s router was behind the counter. That particular model came with a generic password you were supposed to change as soon as you’d set it up, but of course nobody ever does so—hey presto—we’re in.”

  He beamed at Santosh, who craned over. “What do you mean? You’ve hacked into their computer?”

  “No, I’ve hacked into the router. Now …” He jabbed a button with a flourish. “Now I’ve hacked into the computer. What were the shoes called again?”

  “Oakleys.”

  “Here we go. Oakleys waiting list. God, the lying cow—the waiting list is only six months.”

  “Just go to the orders fulfilled,” said Santosh.

  A list of twelve or thirteen names scrolled up on the screen in front of him; at least half of them had been shipped overseas. Those left would all have to be checked, of course, but there was one name in particular that jumped out at him.

  N. D’Souza, the Attorney General.

  Chapter 26

  “DOES THAT LOOK like the Attorney General, Nalin D’Souza?” asked Santosh.

  In the conference room, the members of the Private team were rewatching the CCTV footage for what must have been the thousandth time. Takeout containers were spread out on the table in front of them but for the time being went ignored.

  “It’s difficult to tell from this angle,” said Nisha, studying the 108-inch LCD screen, everything bigger and blurrier than in real life.

  “This guy doesn’t seem to have the AG’s bearing,” said Santosh, squaring his own shoulders as if to make the point.

  “So it’s not him,” said Mubeen.

  “No,” said Santosh, his thoughts far away, “but that’s not all there is to it. Show them, Nisha.”

  Nisha, perched on the edge of the table, click-clicked on the laptop trackpad, and a picture of the handsome Attorney General appeared on the screen. “Look at the hair,” she said.

  They looked at the handsome face of Nalin D’Souza, the dark Portuguese features that seemingly rendered him irresistible to women.

  “That was taken about a week ago. Now look at his picture here.” She clicked to another shot. “He’s had his hair cut.”

  Santosh turned from the screen to address his team with eyes that blazed with excitement. “You see? He’d had his hair cut. And what did we find at the murder scenes? Strands of black hair, same shade as D’Souza. Strands of cut black hair.”

  “So he’s our man?” said Mubeen, sitting forward.

  “No,” said Santosh abruptly. “It’s all too convenient. Even so, he’s the closest we have to a suspect right now.” He indicated the picture on the screen. “Where was this taken?”

  “At a page-three party at the Oberoi on Sunday night,” said Nisha.

  “The night of Kanya Jaiyen’s death. Does this give him an alibi?”

  “He left it early.”

  “Okay,” said Santosh slowly. “Let’s be careful about this. The last thing we want to do is ruffle enough feathers to get removed from the case, but we do need to know the AG’s movements at the times of the murders.”

  They sat down to eat their dinner and let the screen go to TV, which was showing coverage of a function attended by a who’s who of the entertainment industry. It was the annual Filmfare Awards night—India’s equivalent of the Academy Awards—to host and honor the bold and the beautiful of Bollywood.

  They watched it in silence, chewing their food, each of them pleased to have a respite from what had been an exhausting day. For his part, Santosh had spent most of the afternoon at the cremation ground, attending Bhavna Choksi’s funeral.

  The tabloid journalist’s last rites had been held at Banganga Crematorium on the shore of the Arabian Sea. Her cremation had been attended mostly by her friends and colleagues from work. Draped in a white shroud, her body had soon been engulfed in flames atop a pyre of wood, bamboo, and grass, while a Brahmin recited verses from Hindu scriptures. Some distance away, her boyfriend and a group of mourners had prayed silently as thick billowing clouds of smoke curled into the sky. From speaking to a few of Bhavna’s friends, Santosh had discovered that the boyfriend had arrived on a morning flight from London in order to attend the funeral. Santosh had waited until the very end to observe and make note of each and every attendee. Experience showed that murderers often attended their victims’ funerals, because it helped them to relive the excitement of the kill.

  Meanwhile, Mubeen had been busy with the autopsy of Priyanka Talati. As expected, the hair found at Priyanka’s home matched microscopically with the two other samples from the previous murders, but no DNA could be extracted from it due to the absence of the root. The preliminary autopsy results had been along expected lines—ligature strangulation with snapped hyoid bone. Metallurgical analysis had shown the bell pendant and ch
ain to be of brass, thus confirming Santosh’s suspicion that it was a prop.

  Dr. Zafar had joined Mubeen for the examination, having brought over the body on a gurney from the police morgue. “Do you mind if I leave the gurney here and have it picked up later?” he had asked.

  “You seem to be in a hurry today,” Mubeen had observed curiously.

  “I have visitors,” Zafar had said. “I need to be home a little earlier.”

  “Not to worry. The gurney can be stored in this chamber.” Mubeen had pointed to a stainless-steel unit that allowed several gurneys to be placed side by side.

  “I will need some time to complete the analysis,” he’d continued. “Santosh wants a complete drug toxicology done on her.”

  “Why?” Zafar had asked. “Wasn’t she killed by strangulation?”

  “Sure,” Mubeen had replied. “It’s just that I have stopped asking why. Santosh always has a reason for everything.”

  “Do you need help or should I proceed?”

  “You carry on,” Mubeen had said. “I have collected blood from her femoral vein as well as her heart. Luckily there was some urine in her bladder too. Combined with bile and tissue samples from her liver, brain, kidney, and the vitreous humor of her eye, I should be able to do a full report for him.”

  Nisha had spent her time contacting the security firm that had installed the surveillance system and burglar alarm at Priyanka Talati’s house. They had disclosed that they’d offered her their remote monitoring service but she had not agreed, citing privacy concerns. The security firm had simply installed the equipment—alarm system, CCTV cameras, and recording unit—and was duty bound to react if the alarm was triggered. If the recording unit was removed from Priyanka’s home, there was simply no backup copy anywhere else.

  There were far too many unanswered questions swimming around in Santosh’s head. What did all the props left by the murderer mean? Why were they different at each scene? What was the murderer trying to tell them? What was the motive for the three killings? How were the murders related to the thuggee cult? Why had the victims opened their doors to the strangler? Whose hair was being found at the crime scenes? What was the common thread that linked the three victims to one another?

  “What was the name of the security firm that installed the CCTV equipment at Priyanka Talati’s house?” he suddenly asked Nisha.

  She looked at her smartphone to check but was interrupted by Santosh. “Don’t tell me. I’ll bet you that it was Xilon Security.”

  “You are right,” said Nisha, realizing where he was going with it. “All three murder sites have had the same security consultant.”

  “Find out everything that you can about Xilon,” he said, “founders, owners, directors. Look into the backgrounds of all their site engineers and find out if anyone has a suspicious past.” He stared blankly at the television screen, looking straight through the glitter and glamor of the Filmfare Awards.

  One person stood out that night, though. Her name was Lara Omprakash and she seemed to be picking up a substantial number of awards. Lara was an elegant woman in her forties. She had been a leading lady in several blockbuster films but had bowed out gracefully a few years previously. Bollywood was always in search of the sexiest body and prettiest face that it could find, and maturity carried no premium for women. From a career in front of the camera, Lara had switched over to a career behind it. She had turned director—and how. Challenging all the norms of a formula-driven industry, she had directed the previous year’s biggest hit, a cutting-edge suspense thriller about a woman leading a double life.

  On the television screen, Lara stepped up on stage and gracefully accepted the award for best director. She was retaking her seat when she was requested to return on stage to receive the award for best picture also. Having delivered a short, witty, and dignified acceptance speech, Lara went back to her seat and sat down next to a familiar face.

  Santosh was shaken out of his reverie as the TV cameras panned over the audience in the VIP section. Sitting next to Lara and looking rather dapper in his tuxedo was the man who had accompanied her to the awards ceremony that night.

  It was Santosh’s boss from LA—Jack Morgan.

  Chapter 27

  SANTOSH SAT WATCHING the giant screen with his mouth agape, attempting to make sense of Jack Morgan’s presence at the Filmfare Awards. Nisha, Mubeen, and Hari were equally stumped but before they could recover from the surprise, they heard a familiar voice ask: “Anyone home?”

  Jack Morgan—ex-marine and head of the world’s largest and most renowned investigation agency—strode purposefully into the Private India conference room, still dressed in his tuxedo but with the bow tie having been undone. His day-old stubble and rugged good looks were the ideal combination for a charm offensive, but underneath that was a smart and extremely driven individual who surrounded himself with intelligent and committed people. Jack Morgan only hired the cream of the crop and paid them the very best salaries in the industry.

  Walking up to Santosh, he shook his hand and indulged in a bit of good-natured back-thumping. “Nice to see that the retina scan at the entrance still remembers me,” he said, turning to give Nisha an almost imperceptible peck on her cheek. He then quickly went around the conference table to shake hands with Mubeen and Hari.

  “What brings you here, boss?” asked Santosh. “Why didn’t you keep me informed? I would have come to pick you up from the airport.”

  “No need for formality, Santosh,” said Jack. “I’m here because of Lara Omprakash.”

  “Had I known that you know her, I would have requested you to arrange for me to meet her,” said Hari, sputtering like an excited schoolboy.

  “That could still be arranged,” said Jack, winking at Hari, who was still a little distracted by the Filmfare glitz on the screen. “Stop staring at her! Trust me when I say that she’s far prettier off camera.”

  “I thought that the Filmfare Awards were broadcast live. How are you in two places simultaneously?” asked Mubeen rather naively, looking at Jack’s face on the screen.

  “They buffer the broadcast by two hours so that they can do on-location edits,” replied Jack, “particularly for the song-and-dance sequences that all Indians seem to love.” He settled down into one of the chairs at the conference table.

  “So, here I am in Mumbai,” he continued. “I wasn’t too sure if I would come but the pressure from Lara was simply too much. She almost forced me to board the flight.”

  “How do you know her?” asked Santosh, the investigator in him taking over.

  “Ah, the interrogation has started,” remarked Jack in jest. “Okay, here’s the condensed version. Lara Omprakash was doing brilliantly as a heroine in Bollywood. Unfortunately most leading ladies there have rather short careers. The film industry is notoriously sexist and retires them the moment that a younger, hotter, sexier alternative emerges. Lara was intelligent. She withdrew in good time.”

  “That still doesn’t explain how you know her,” persisted Santosh, almost forgetting that Jack was his boss, not a suspect.

  Jack ignored the impatience and helped himself to a kebab from one of the tandoori cartons. “She decided to switch careers from acting to direction and took two years off from Bollywood. She settled down in LA temporarily and enrolled at the world-renowned American Film Institute in order to make the transition.”

  “How did you meet her?” asked Hari eagerly.

  “While she was in LA, she became friends with another student—a young actor from Brazil,” answered Jack. “A stringer from an Indian gossip magazine took some compromising photographs of her with this Brazilian friend. She needed someone to help her retrieve those photos before they were published back home. My name was recommended to her by the associate dean of the institute.”

  “Were you able to help her?” asked Nisha.

  “What do you think?” said Jack, licking the tandoori spice off his fingers.

  “I think it’s possible that Mr.
Jack Morgan became better friends with Lara than the Brazilian,” joked Nisha.

  “Lara has never had time for anything besides her work and hobbies,” said Jack, sidestepping the question deftly.

  “That’s one of the ironies of life,” remarked Nisha cryptically.

  “What is?” asked Jack.

  “The fact that one woman’s hobby could often be another woman’s hubby,” she replied.

  Chapter 28

  “I SAW YOUR report,” said Jack to Santosh. “You seem to have a serial killer who has a fetish for yellow garrotes.”

  “Three victims in roughly twenty-four hours between Sunday and Monday nights,” replied Santosh. “Worrying average. Unfortunately, we’re no closer to finding him than we were after the first murder.”

  “Have you tried finding out whether there was anything to link the victims?” asked Jack. “Did they stay in the same locality? Did they work in similar professions? Did they eat at the same restaurant? Did they use the same hairdresser or dry cleaning service? Do they have a common friend or boyfriend?”

  “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.”