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“The exact phase of the moon on Monday night.”
Nisha did a quick search on her phone. “Let’s see. We had a full moon a week ago, a waning gibbous on Thursday night … and, ah, here it is. Monday night was a third-quarter moon.”
“And a third-quarter moon is a half-moon!” exclaimed Santosh. Even though he did not smile, a look of satisfaction briefly crossed his face. “We have a rupee coin on Priyanka Talati’s forehead that looks like a half-moon. The night of the murder turns out to be a half-moon night. The murder happens on a Monday. The word Monday means day of the moon. Think about it. Isn’t it possible that this murderer is killing according to an astronomical calendar? Hmm? Isn’t it?”
Chapter 23
RUPESH WAS ASKED the same question six times. On each occasion, his practiced bland reply was delivered with the utmost patience. “At this time, we have a few leads that we are working on. Priyanka Talati’s murder is being treated as a high-priority case.”
The conference room of the Mumbai Police Headquarters was packed with reporters, photographers, and news channel crews, and provided standing room only. A fire in the room that day would have wiped out India’s fourth estate entirely.
Santosh and Rupesh had discussed the matter in great detail and had decided that not having a press conference about the inquiry into Priyanka Talati’s death would seem suspicious. She was simply too famous. “Just ensure that no one can link her murder to the previous two,” advised Santosh. “Let’s not give our killer the publicity he craves.”
“Is it true that she was strangled?” asked a gray-haired hack from a New Delhi-based news channel.
“It would hamper our investigations if we were to reveal details of the crime publicly,” replied Rupesh smoothly. “We are keeping such matters private so that we may bring investigations to a satisfactory conclusion as quickly as possible. I trust that everyone in this room will cooperate with us in this regard.”
“Is Priyanka’s killing an isolated murder or part of a wider pattern?” asked the editor of the Afternoon Mirror.
“We have no evidence at this stage to indicate that her murder is anything other than an isolated incident,” replied Rupesh, wondering from where this woman had obtained a tip-off.
A lady from a news channel known for its proximity to the opposition party got up to deliver a speech instead of a question. “Last year, two hundred and fifteen murders, four hundred rapes, two thousand, five hundred burglaries, almost eleven thousand thefts, and over eighteen hundred cases of cheating were reported in the city. Does the police force of Mumbai intend to do anything to stem this crime wave? It seems that more than half of the city’s force is assigned to VIP duties, protecting politicians and their family members, rather than being available for crime-fighting.”
“Madam, I understand your anguish,” lied Rupesh, knowing full well that the woman was speaking the truth. “Please understand that Mumbai’s police force is committed to reducing crime. Our Commissioner has instituted a high-level commission to find out how we can revamp our inquiry system.”
“The government has become expert at appointing commissions of inquiry and doing little else,” replied the woman sarcastically, ensuring that her two accompanying cameramen focused on her and Rupesh in parallel while they exchanged words.
“Have you received any information regarding the possible motive for the killing?” asked a young reporter from an Indian-language newspaper.
“At this stage we are pursuing multiple l
ines of inquiry and we shall have a clearer idea once all angles have been investigated,” said Rupesh, revealing absolutely nothing of any value.
Watching the press conference on the television in Private India’s office, Santosh smiled. Rupesh had handled it well.
Watching the press conference on television in another part of town, someone else frowned.
Chapter 24
ISOLATED INCIDENT? TRYING to snatch away my hard-earned publicity? How dare they try to make Priyanka’s death look like a random killing? It’s time for me to increase the pressure on you chaps. It has been rightly said that one can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. It’s time for me to break a few more.
Do you like eggs? Personally, I have never cared for them but here I am in front of the stove, about to boil a dozen. I have a vague recollection of painting pretty designs on Easter eggs. I recall being told that one needed to hard-boil the eggs before painting them or else they would rot quickly.
I drop the eggs into the scalding-hot water. Do you like water? I used to hate it but now I love it. You know why? Because if you hold someone’s head in a tub of water, you can stop their breathing. Like a garrote, water is also a murder weapon. Be it a rumaal, a tub of water, or a pillow—they are all switches. Flick the switch and you can turn life into death.
Oh dear, I have completely forgotten. Where is the ironing board? Ah, there it is. Now, let’s see, how many yellow scarves do I need to steam the wrinkles from? I’ve already used three. The rumaal is such a versatile murder weapon … I wonder why it isn’t used more often.
Yellow was my mother’s favorite color, you know. She would wear yellow sarees. Ah, sarees! The Indian saree is the most sensual piece of clothing that one can wear. The six-yard piece of fabric requires some practice to drape but it hugs a woman’s body in all the right places. It’s exciting, not because of what it reveals but because of what it doesn’t. What an incredible feeling to have the soft fabric caressing your skin at all times of the day, even the most intimate of places.
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.
