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Placing the bag on a side table by the bed, the prowler slipped the scarf around the principal’s neck and pulled on both ends firmly. Mrs. Xavier woke from her dreams only to find that she was in the midst of a nightmare. She gasped for air but her windpipe was obstructed. Her terrified eyes pleaded for mercy but there was none forthcoming. She reached out with both hands to try to free her neck from the excruciating grip of the garrote but all strength seemed to have abandoned her. The strangler continued to pull until Mrs. Xavier’s body went limp.
Staring at her bulging eyes, the killer felt an inner rage bubble up. Spitting on her face, the perpetrator called her a cunt and a whore. Quickly realizing the mistake, the murderer went back to the closet, retrieved a tissue, sprayed it with bleach, and used it to carefully remove any traces of saliva from her face.
The intruder then headed over to the thermostat unit near the bedroom door and adjusted the temperature to the highest possible setting. The carton was removed from the bag and each egg carefully placed on the bed. Soon Mrs. Xavier’s body was surrounded by a dozen eggs, arranged in an oval around her.
Chapter 35
SANTOSH WAS LIVID. His face was flushed red and he was breathing heavily as he strode into Rupesh’s office. He threw down a newspaper on the desk and asked,
“How do I solve this case if you do not heed my advice?”
“No idea what you are talking about,” said Rupesh, picking up the paper casually to read the front page.
YELLOW GARROTE KILLINGS, read the headline of the Afternoon Mirror. The article went on to reveal that three murders in the city—including one involving the newspaper’s reporter, Bhavna Choksi—had been perpetrated by a strangler who left a signature yellow scarf at the crime scene. The story went on to say that the police were covering up the news in order to avoid having to answer questions about their inefficient and half-hearted investigations. The report had been picked up by Indian newswires and every hack in town was now chasing the story.
“I took your advice,” said Rupesh, slowly and deliberately chewing on a lump of tobacco in his mouth. “I did not speak with any reporter.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” countered Santosh. “You pick up a phone and tell me about a reporter with suspicions. I request you to avoid answering her questions. In less than a day it’s front-page material.”
Rupesh folded the newspaper calmly and stood up. “Think about it, Santosh,” he said. “If I had given this reporter an exclusive, why the fuck would she trash the cops? This story makes it bloody difficult for me to handle the flak that will come my way from the Police Commissioner and the Home Minister. Tell me, why would I want to put myself in such a mess?”
Santosh was silent as he digested Rupesh’s reasonable argument. “I would suggest that you should look within your own team and see if someone has been indiscreet,” suggested Rupesh craftily as Santosh attempted a graceful exit.
As soon as he was out of the room, Rupesh picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. “Namaskar bhau,” he said by way of greeting when Munna answered his gold-plated phone.
“Did you leak the story?” asked Rupesh, almost whispering.
Munna laughed. “When one has been sitting in the pub all day, one often takes a leak. I have no need for the other variety,” he said mischievously.
Chapter 36
NOT MUCH HAD changed in the newsroom of the Afternoon Mirror. It was mostly as it had been twenty-five years ago when established by a wealthy Parsi industrialist. But the newsroom had been a hive of activity the previous day.
There were sixteen desks, clustered in groups of four. Each desk was designated for specific verticals—politics, entertainment, city news, business, sports and the like. Toward one corner of the newsroom was the glass-walled office occupied by the paper’s chain-smoking editor.
She had picked up the receiver of her desk phone without a second thought. In her profession, it was common to spend the better part of the day on calls.
“Am I speaking to Jamini—editor of the Afternoon Mirror?” a male voice had asked. It had a mysterious quality to it. Commanding yet slightly nervous; strong yet wavering.
“Yes, you are,” the editor had replied, stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette into the overflowing ashtray on her desk. “Who is this?”
“Did you like the gift that I sent you?” the voice had said, not bothering to offer any introduction.
Jamini had suddenly been on full alert. A parcel containing a yellow scarf had been received by her in the morning and she’d immediately realized that the caller was referring to this.
“What is the scarf for?” Jamini had asked, trying to keep the conversation going as she signaled through the glass walls for her senior reporter to come inside. Find out if you can trace this call, she’d scribbled on a piece of paper that she hurriedly handed to him.
“Do not bother tracing this call,” the voice had said. “It is a prepaid SIM registered to a false identity. It will tell you nothing about me.”
Jamini had realized that she was dealing with a highly intelligent individual. “I’m not interested in tracing the call,” she’d lied. “I simply want to know if there is a story in this for me.”
“That pesky reporter—Bhavna Choksi—was killed with a yellow scarf, just like the one you received earlier today. Is that story enough for you?”
“That still doesn’t explain why you are calling me,” the editor had said, warming to the game. “Bhavna was no friend of mine … only an employee. Why should the manner of her death be a story?”
“What if I told you that the singer—Priyanka Talati—was also killed in the same manner? Is that a story?” the confident voice had asked.
“It could be,” the editor had said, attempting to hide her excitement. Her colleague from the newsroom had returned with a slip of paper reading: Have spoken with crime branch. They’re trying to pinpoint the location. Stay on the line.
