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I AM SIPPING from my cup of freshly brewed coffee as I scan the morning newspaper. The body of an unidentified man was found inside the abandoned Shakti Mills premises in Lower Parel, reads the article.
The unidentified male victim, reportedly in his late twenties or early thirties, was found inside a disused tank of the erstwhile spinning and dyeing shed. This particular shed could be accessed directly from the main approach, Dr. E. Moses Road. Officers from the N. M. Joshi Marg police station are conducting the investigation.
Alas, Mr. Patel is not one of the trophies that I can publicly take credit for. For every act that happens onstage, some events must happen behind the scenes. This was a backstage event.
In fact, Mr. Patel was one of my first victims. It’s just that the incompetent cops did not find his body until several days later, hence the news item today.
Patel was very punctual, though. He had promised to be at Shakti Mills by seven o’clock in the evening and he was there a few minutes before that. I was waiting for him inside the shed, leaning against an old concrete tank that once must have contained dyes and pigments of all hues for fabric to be dipped in. He approached me hesitantly.
“Do you have it?” I asked.
“Do you have the money?” replied Patel.
I quickly opened the brown Manila envelope and showed him five neat bundles of one-thousand-rupee notes, a grand total of half a million.
Patel reached into his pocket and took out a 128GB USB flash drive. “It contains the plans and wiring of all the locations that we manage in Mumbai,” he said. “It also contains the passwords and master codes that allow remote access where such access is permitted.”
I wordlessly handed over the Manila envelope to him as I pocketed the flash drive.
“Don’t you want to verify the contents?” asked Patel.
“No,” I lied. “I trust you.”
He thanked me for the money and turned around, walking toward the exit. I attacked the moment that he had his back to me. The rock I held collided with the back of his head. The envelope containing the cash fell from his hands as he tumbled to the ground. He gasped for air as I bent over him and gripped my hands tightly around his neck.
“I don’t need to verify the contents because I have no intention of paying you,” I said sarcastically as I let go of his neck for a moment and pulled him up by his arms. He had been stunned by the ferocity of my initial attack and was babbling incoherently, pitifully pleading with me to spare his life.
I pulled him to the edge of the concrete tank that was filled with old rainwater. It was covered with a thick sludge owing to the abundant moss that had grown on the surface among the nasty-looking engine oil, turning to neon-green slime. Holding his head in my hands, I pushed his face into the murky water. Patel struggled valiantly and I allowed him to raise his head for a few quick gasps before forcing it back into the tank.
“Holding your breath?” I asked mockingly, obviously not expecting a reply. Patel’s respiratory system, in an attempt to protect itself, had initiated involuntary holding of breath but it was evident to me that water would soon enter his mouth, forcing his epiglottis to close over his airway. It was a matter of time before his body would shut itself down due to oxygen deprivation.
I suddenly felt him give a few violent jerks. Hypoxic convulsions. In a few seconds it was all over. I pulled him out and laid him on the ground in order to empty his pockets of his wallet, visiting-card case, kerchief, keys, and coins.
I looked at his visiting cards. Mr. Mayank Patel, Senior Engineer, Xilon Security Services. Pity that someone who brags about protecting hundreds of homes and establishments could not protect himself, I thought to myself as I quickly lifted him by his legs and tipped his corpse into the filthy slime of the tank.
Chapter 81
SANTOSH ANSWERED HIS phone immediately when he saw that the caller was Rupesh.
“What the fuck are you guys at Private India up to?” yelled Rupesh angrily. Santosh moved the phone some distance away from his ear and switched to speakerphone mode so that Nisha could also hear the conversation.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Rupesh,” said Santosh truthfully.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were investigating the goddamn Attorney General of India?” Rupesh demanded. “Why must I get a kick in the nuts from the Home Minister with a suggestion that I should lay off?” Santosh could visualize Rupesh’s face, his lips red with tobacco, the spittle shooting forth from his mouth as he yelled.
Santosh shrugged. “I wouldn’t say he was investigated, as such …”
“Then what’s this I hear about you having illegally accessed his DNA records?” asked Rupesh.
“We had no idea that the hair on Ragini Sharma’s pillow would throw up a match. In previous crime scenes the hairs that we found could not be used for DNA extraction,” Santosh answered calmly. “It was a matter of chance that our database search produced a match with the hair found at Ragini Sharma’s home. It happened to be the DNA of a sperm donor at an IVF clinic. That donor turned out to be the Attorney General. His sequence was on the clinic’s computer because he and his wife had been trying to have a baby through the IVF route. It’s not like we specifically went out looking to pin the blame on him.”
“You should have informed me of all developments,” insisted Rupesh. “The political shit from above lands on me, not you!”
“Since we are talking, Rupesh,” said Santosh gently, “there is something else that you should know.”
“What?” asked Rupesh, cooling down.
“You arranged for us to obtain a list of all case files that Mrs. Justice Anjana Lal had either delivered orders in or partially heard. You remember?”
