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How delicate is the fine line between life and death. At a given moment a person could be living, breathing, talking, and walking. At another moment she could be a cold, unmoving corpse. Of course, most people live like corpses in the humdrum grip of their prosaic and pathetic lives. Not much difference between life and death for the world’s living cadavers.
I hold the yellow scarf in my hand and run it through my fingers lovingly. I bring it to my face and hold it under my nose. I breathe in the unique smell of death. There’s an almost orgasmic quality to asphyxiation, isn’t there? I could easily see myself getting addicted to the adrenalin rush.
Life has no meaning without the presence of death. Life is simply the absence of death. The fools of this world labor to prevent death, unmindful of the fact that it is death that will set them free.
I stand in front of the mirror and look at my naked body. I have shaved every inch of it. I run the scarf along my hairless arms. I feel the tingle of the fabric against my skin as I allow myself to lower the scarf to my thighs. The sensation is simply incredible.
I pull away the scarf and hold it before me at face level. I quickly tie a knot in it and pull the ends with all my might until I see the knot morph into a tiny lump.
Two down, but I have many more to go.
Chapter 13
THERE WAS A half-bottle of Scotch in his desk, but for the time being Santosh ignored its lure. He felt something. A sense that the tempo of the hunt was increasing. Give me one murder to solve and I’ll show you an enigma, he thought. Give me two, and I’ll show you a puzzle to solve. And he offered up a silent apology to the souls of the two women whose deaths made up the pieces in his puzzle, and promised to do his best to find the man responsible.
Two women killed within twenty-four hours of each other, both with a yellow scarf, both with trinkets attached to them, one an Indian journalist, the other a Thai doctor. Discovering what connected them, that was the key.
They had a call scheduled with Dr. Jaiyen’s boss, a Dr. Uwwano. “Nisha,” he called from his office.
Sitting at her desk, her head bobbed up. “Yes, boss?”
“What time is she expecting us?”
She glanced at her watch. “Five minutes.”
“Join me. And bring what you have on Dr. Jaiyen.”
As she came into the office he stood and moved to a magnet board, wrote d
own the two names on record cards: Bhavna Choksi and Dr. Kanya Jaiyen, placed them beside each other. Added a question mark.
“Bhavna we know,” he said. “A journalist working for the Afternoon Mirror. But what about Dr. Kanya Jaiyen? What do we know about her?”
Nisha pulled a face. “That she lived in Bangkok. That she was a reconstructive surgeon. More than that I can’t say.”
Santosh nodded. “Plastic surgeon covers a multitude of sins. Plenty of people might have reason to silence a plastic surgeon.”
“Half of Bollywood,” tried Nisha, and was rewarded for her attempt at a joke with pursed lips from Santosh. She cleared her throat. “But it wasn’t really a ‘silencing’ sort of crime, was it? What we’ve seen is more considered and ritualistic. The work of a serial killer.”
Santosh’s eyes sparkled behind his glasses. He was pleased with his protégée. “Exactly. And yet, on the other hand, perhaps these trinkets are red herrings, designed to throw us off the scent. Either way, these women were chosen, and finding out what connects them will help us understand how and why they were chosen. We need to speak to Bhavna Choksi’s editor, find out who she’d spoken to recently. And as for Dr. Jaiyen …” He gestured to Nisha. “Do you have the number?”
She passed a slip of paper across and Santosh dialed the Bangkok Hospital and Medical Center, and then was treated to a recording of the Thailand Philharmonic Orchestra before a female voice at last came on the line.
“Uwwano,” she said.
“Good evening, Dr. Uwwano. This is Santosh Wagh. I believe you’re expecting me.”
She sounded tired. “I am, Mr. Wagh.”
“I apologize for the circumstances of my call. My condolences on your loss.”
She sighed. Santosh had the sense that she had sat down. It was late there in Bangkok. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Wagh. This is very, very sad. We’re all in a state of shock. How may I be of help?”
“Dr. Jaiyen was a reconstructive surgeon?”
“She was. A very good one. And if you’re thinking that that’s the usual kind of disingenuous rubbish I’d trot out in the circumstances then you’d be wrong. She really was a good surgeon. One of the best.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Uwwano. Please be reassured that myself and my colleagues are doing everything we can to try and catch her killer. If you’ll allow me to ask some questions. I’m given to understand that Dr. Jaiyen reported to you, is that right?”
