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I have been stalking you but you do not seem to notice my presence. What a shame! Later tonight, my face will be firmly emblazoned on the retinas of your eyes. You will be incapable of forgetting it—forever.
I was seated in the visitors’ gallery of the Legislative Assembly when you rose to address the speaker during question hour. I was among the crowd that listened to you with rapt attention at Azad Maidan. You have so much concern in your heart for the poor and downtrodden women of Mumbai! Your words almost brought tears to my eyes! You know that I’m fibbing, right? Just like I know that you don’t give a rat’s ass about the exploited women who live in this hellhole.
I was way ahead of your car with the flashing red beacon as I drove from the public meeting to your constituency home in Alibaug, on the outskirts of Mumbai. So very nice of you to drop in and check on your constituents. I wonder how many of them will attend your funeral, Ragini Sharma?
I am quietly working along with the team that is planting saplings in the front garden of your bungalow. Luckily, all the workers are temporary hires and do not recognize each other. I am wearing a casual labourer’s dirty clothes and my head is covered with a soiled cap to protect me from the harsh sun. I ensure that I keep my cap lowered so that my face remains mostly hidden from the prying eyes of the policemen in your security detail. I am invisible to you and your men.
Your arrival in the constituency results in a long line of people queuing up to request favors and dispensations. It is late by the time you retire for the night. By that time I have already moved into your bedroom.
You are completely unaware of my presence. A good hunter must wait patiently for hours, not allowing the prey to pick up the slightest suspicious scent. I am lying in wait for you—right under your bed—up toward the headboard so that my feet are not visible.
Your maid walks in to deliver your customary glass of milk and then leaves. You toss and turn for a while, reading a Mills & Boon in bed, but after twenty minutes you switch off the lights.
I wait for another hour to ensure that you are fast asleep before I crawl out from under the bed. In one rubber-gloved hand I hold a yellow scarf and in the other I carry a rolled-up wall calendar and a specimen bag. It’s time for me to get some work done.
Sleep, whore, sleep, slut … deeper … deeper … breathing shut.
Sleep, bitch, sleep, cunt … deeper … deeper … while I hunt.
Chapter 52
YELLOW GARROTE STRANGLER arrested, screamed the headline of the Afternoon Mirror. The byline was that of Bhavna Choksi’s chain-smoking editor, Jamini.
Rupesh leaned back in his swivel chair and placed his feet on his desk. He peered through the angle formed by his shoes to observe the expression on Santosh’s face as the Private India chief perused the article. Besides the other details, special prominence had been given to the photograph of ACP Rupesh Desai, mentioned as the no-nonsense cop who had captured the killer.
“Policing is about keeping as many balls as one can in the air while simultaneously protecting one’s own,” remarked Rupesh as he smiled at Santosh.
“This is crap, and you know it,” Santosh replied, throwing down the newspaper on the desk.
“Is it only crap because I solved a case that your fancy team with all its sophisticated methods couldn’t?” asked Rupesh slyly.
“It’s not about that—” began Santosh.
“Then what exactly is it about, my friend? I thought we had a clear understanding that all credit for solving this case would be mine alone. Since when did you begin to fancy the spotlight?”
“I am
more than happy to let you have all the publicity you want, Rupesh,” said Santosh. “But please do remember that I know what extra-legal methods are used to extract confessions. Most importantly, the driver—Bhosale—had no motive for murder at all.” He thumped his walking cane on the floor to emphasize his point.
“He may have been blackmailing his boss, Lara Omprakash,” argued Rupesh. “He may have known some of her secrets. Possibly he wanted more money and she refused. He killed her in a fit of rage.” Rupesh seemed determined to make the jigsaw puzzle pieces fit together even if he had to hammer and chisel them into place.
“Nisha has managed to get hold of an extract from the security register in Film City, where Lara’s movie was being filmed,” Santosh told him. “It would be worthwhile for you to have a look at it.”
Rupesh took the list and glanced at it casually. “What exactly do you want me to see?”
“The list shows the date and time that any given vehicle passes through the main gate of Film City,” explained Santosh. “The security agency is duty bound to log all registration numbers, time in, and time out.”
“So?” asked Rupesh.
“Look at the registration number highlighted in yellow. It’s Lara Omprakash’s vanity van. You will see that it was there several times during the past few days,” explained Santosh.
“Why are you wasting my time like this?” complained Rupesh. “The city wanted the killer nabbed. He’s safely in a lock-up.”
Santosh ignored this comment. “The problem,” he continued, “is that your hypothesis is unable to explain how the fuck this man—your prime suspect—could have been driving Lara Omprakash’s vanity van in and out of Film City on Sunday night when Kanya Jaiyen was murdered, as well as on Monday night when Priyanka Talati was killed!”
Chapter 53
THE THICK GREEN strip that separated most of Mumbai’s coastline from the Arabian Sea was almost entirely submerged at high tide. It was only when the waters receded that the band of vegetation would become visible. Clusters of densely packed trees criss-crossed by slender creeks constituted Mumbai’s natural defense barrier against floods—the mangroves.
