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A small fishing boat dropped anchor near the trees with their dark, waxy leaves and finger-like aerial roots. Two men jumped off the boat into the knee-deep water and began wading toward land, holding a basket between them. To any casual observer they would have resembled fishermen hauling their catch back to shore. Their actual purpose was a lot more sinister.
Once safely on land, they were greeted by a third, delicate and gaunt-looking man who had been patiently awaiting their arrival. “As-salam alaykum,” said the waiting man to the two boatmen.
“Wa alaykumu s-salam,” they replied, carefully lowering the basket onto dry ground.
“Do you have the entire consignment with you?” asked the waiting Mujahideen man.
“Thirty kilos. Have a look,” said one of the boatmen as he pulled off the plastic sheet that covered the basket. Inside it were several small wrapped parcels containing a white crystalline solid. It was not a drug-smuggling operation that was underway in the mangroves of Mumbai. The cargo was far more deadly: a consignment of a nitramine commonly known as RDX.
The three men quickly lifted the basket and hauled it over to the waiting vehicle. “Are you sure you will not be stopped by the cops?” asked one of the boatmen.
The Mujahideen man raised his hands to the heavens. “Insha Allah, there should be no problems. We’re hoping to rid the world of a satanic organization that prevents us from achieving our holy and pure aims. With Allah on our side, how can there be any obstacles in the way?”
“Is your access in place?” asked one of the boatmen.
“He is ready and willing. He hates the Americans more than we do,” said the thin man, getting into the driver’s seat of the vehicle.
The two boatmen took their leave and waded back into the water. The small craft would help them reach a fishing trawler anchored in the Arabian Sea. The trawler would take them back to their point of origin—Karachi, Pakistan.
Chapter 54
THE HOUSE BELONGING to Ragini Sharma, the Honorable MLA from Alibaug constituency, was a hive of activity. A company of armed police had been deployed around the perimeter in order to keep her political supporters at a distance. Unfortunately rumors of her death had leaked out and a mob of Sharma’s constituents stood shouting slogans of support near the gate.
Within the bungalow grounds were parked several police vehicles, some marked and some unmarked. All the staff, including security personnel, gardeners, cook, and maid, had been assembled by Rupesh’s subordinates and were being questioned. The bungalow had been cordoned off with security tape and a further roll of police tape had been unfurled outside Ragini Sharma’s bedroom door.
Inside lay the corpse of the politician, her bed sheets showing clear signs of a struggle. Ragini Sharma had fought back, it seemed. Like many middle-aged women in India, she slept in the blouse and petticoat of her saree, finding these inner garments much more comfortable than nightclothes. Around her neck was the now-familiar yellow garrote embedded within a bluish band of discolored skin.
Santosh looked around the room. “Did we find any surveillance equipment?”
“Negative,” replied Hari as he continued checking the room. “The Alibaug region has erratic power supply. It would not have been possible to run sensitive cameras and data recorders. The killer possibly knew that this house did not have an electronic security system in place.”
“Any luck with trace evidence?” asked Santosh. He walked over to Mubeen, who was busy swabbing Ragini Sharma’s face. Nisha watched from the sidelines, staring intently at the victim’s face.
Noticing her concentration, Santosh said, “What’s the matter? Seen something?”
Nisha remained quiet. Where had she seen this woman before? Was it simple familiarity with the face of a public figure or was it a faded memory? The harder she tried, the more her memory seemed to fail her. Her thoughts were interrupted by Mubeen.
“The killer spat on the school principal’s face,” he announced. “I’m checking to see if there has been a repeat performance here.”
“You never told me that you found saliva on Elina Xavier,” reprimanded Santosh, his usual contemplative expression turning into a scowl.
“In addition to the usual strand of hair,” replied Mubeen. “The saliva sample was infinitesimally small so I wasn’t sure if it would lead to anything. Furthermore, there is no guarantee that it actually belonged to the killer. Someone had tried to clean it off with bleach but missed an exceedingly small trace that landed on one eyebrow. The chances of finding the killer’s DNA here are much greater. This victim fought back, so there’s a chance we may find interesting evidence under her fingernails. Hello, what have we here?”
“What have you found?” asked Santosh, forgetting his irritation.
Mubeen bent down to look at the pillow with a magnifying glass. Pulling out a pair of forensic forceps, he placed his find into a small specimen bag. Holding it up proudly to Santosh, he said, “We now have something that could help us. We have a strand of hair!”
“Big deal,” retorted Santosh. “We’ve found the same goddamn hair at all the murder sites.”
“Yes, but I can see that this one seems to be almost complete. I think that some part of the root is intact,” said Mubeen.
Santosh took the bag from him and looked carefully at the hair inside. It was short and black with nothing unique to mark it out. Turning his gaze toward the pillow and pointing with his cane to a piece of paper sticking out from underneath, he asked, “What is that under there?”
“I haven’t had a chance to examine it closely because the victim’s head is still on the pillow,” said Mubeen, “but it seems to be a page from a wall calendar.”
“Pull it out,” instructed Santosh. “I need to see it.”
Even though Mubeen would have preferred to wait and carry out each task in scientific sequence, he did not wish to aggravate his boss, who already looked irritable and impatient. Mubeen took a photograph of the position of Ragini Sharma’s head on the pillow and then gently lifted it. Reaching out with his other hand, he pulled out what Santosh wanted. He handed it over wordlessly to his boss, who took hold of it in his rubber-gloved hands.
