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Chapter 41
THE DRIVE TO Film City passed in silence. Jack was in shock. A part of him was simply unable to believe that Lara had been killed. He had tried to convince himself over many years that what they had was just a casual fling, but seeing her in Mumbai had awakened feelings that he could not understand. He was not in control of himself, and Jack Morgan—ex-marine—hated that.
Jack, Santosh, and Nisha reached Lara’s vanity van and saw that the police had taped off the entire area. Rupesh was standing at the door, barking orders to his men. The place was swarming with khaki-clad policemen.
Rupesh wordlessly made way for them to enter. On the sofa inside the lounge of the vanity van was the body of Lara Omprakash. She was dressed in the same clothes that she had been wearing during the morning shoot—jeans with an Indian-silk kurta top. The familiar yellow garrote was around her neck and a bluish hue in her skin at the point of strangulation was discernible. Her body had been left in a semi-upright position on the sofa.
“What’s that on her lap?” asked Santosh, his eyes scanning the crime scene almost in slow motion. “What is it?”
Nisha kneeled down near Lara’s body and looked at the object on her lap. It was a plastic baby doll. One of the hands of the doll had been tied to Lara’s with string so that it would not fall off.
What’s inside your sick, perverted mind? thought Santosh. Why was Lara Omprakash your fifth victim? Is there a predetermined order in which you are proceeding? How are you choosing them? What do these symbols mean? How do you …?
Jack’s voice brought Santosh out of his trance. “Where is the driver?” he asked. “When I was here earlier, Lara tipped him and told him to go have his lunch.”
“He’s missing,” replied Rupesh. “We’ve put out an alert to trace him.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Turning to Santosh, Rupesh said, “I cannot allow this investigation to remain with Private India any longer.”
“Why?” asked Santosh.
“Your boss—Mr. Morgan—spent the first half of the day with Lara Omprakash,” replied Rupesh. “He was in her vanity van for quite some time before he left. I have no option but to include him as a possible suspect. That being the case, leaving this investigation with Private India would create a conflict of interest.”
“You’ve got to be joking, Rupesh,” said Santosh. “Jack was not even in India during the previous murders. He reached here only on the day of the Filmfare Awards.”
“Ah, but that isn’t true,” said Rupesh. “Information I have received from immigration authorities at Chhatrapati Shivaji Airport shows that Mr. Morgan arrived a full two days before the Filmfare Awards. In fact, he was here in town when the first murder was committed—Sunday night.”
“Is this true, Jack?” said Santosh softly.
His boss nodded silently.
“What brought you here on Sunday? And why did you keep it a secret from me?” asked Santosh.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that at the present moment,” said Jack, staring intently and rather defiantly at Rupesh.
The policeman had a triumphant look on his face. “I shall need you to surrender your passport to me, Mr. Morgan. You are not at liberty to leave the country till such time as our investigations are complete. Is that clear?”
Jack reached inside his jacket and handed over his passport to Rupesh without demur.
“I will need all the evidence and investigation reports that you have accumulated so far in this case,” Rupesh instructed Santosh. “Where are Mubeen and Hari?”
“They’re still bagging evidence at the principal’s cottage in the girls’ school,” explained Nisha. “They should be back in the office within an hour.”
“Fine. I shall expect all information to be fully shared with my team at headquarters no later than today,” replied Rupesh, placing Jack’s passport into his pocket and simultaneously searching for something else. He was unable to find what he was looking for. Calling out to one of his constables, he barked an order.
“Bring the tobacco,” he said as he escorted the Private India team out of the van.
Chapter 42
THE TWO MEN strolled along Chowpatty Beach. It was evident that they were not friends, more likely business acquaintances. Chowpatty Beach, though, was an odd choice of location for a business meeting.
Apart from Juhu Beach in the suburbs, Chowpatty had always been Mumbai’s favorite leisure area. During working hours it remained the haunt of the contentedly jobless, who would nap under the canopy of its dwarfish trees. At sunset, though, its character turned distinctly carnival-like, with children screaming for Ferris wheel spins and pony rides. There was entertainment for adults too. Pavement astrologers, palmists, and fortune-tellers would target hapless tourists and for a fee tell them whatever they wanted to hear. Monkey shows, street plays, tightrope walkers, and gymnasts displaying incredible yogic positions would take over the beach, while at the other end a row of bhelpuri shops selling Mumbai’s most famous street snack—roasted puffed rice and fried semolina, drenched in sweet-and-sour chutney—would do brisk sales as hordes of hungry visitors took time off from the drudgery of their day-to-day lives.
It was unexpected to catch sight of Santosh strolling along the beach with an unidentified man. His companion was enjoying a kulfi—a traditional Indian ice cream—on a stick. The man was neatly dressed in a short-sleeved shirt, casual cotton slacks, and soft leather loafers. He wore all the accessories of a privileged lifestyle—designer sunglasses, expensive wristwatch, and pen. Such things usually acted like magnets for the pickpockets and petty thieves that dominated the Chowpatty stretch, but this particular man would never be a target. Every beggar, performer, and pickpocket in the crowd knew that it would be foolish to target the man in question.
There was only one peculiarity that made him distinct from the rest. It was the fact that his left arm had been amputated at the elbow. The story of the man’s rise to his present position was almost the stuff of legend and the street dwellers talked of it with awe.
Escaping from a drunk and violent father in the rural heartland, he had arrived in Mumbai on a train as an eleven-year-old boy. When he had got off the train at Mumbai Central station, he had been tired, disoriented, and broke. He had spent the next couple of hours begging for food until, miraculously, a middle-aged couple had approached him. They had given him hot tea and samosas, promising him that they would help him earn a better life. Unfortunately, he had not realized that the food was drugged.
