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“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.”
