“Excellent,” she said, “I owe you one,” and hung up.
In his own office, Hari replaced the receiver, feeling an odd mix of emotions: pride at having recovered the information Nisha needed, but something else too, and for a second he simply stared at the silent receiver in its cradle.
Then he stood, left his office, and took the stairs to Colaba Causeway, where he lit a cigarette. As he exhaled a cloud of smoke through his nostrils he made a call.
It was answered by a husky female voice.
“Can we meet later tonight?” Hari asked her. “It’s urgent. There’s something I need to discuss.”
Chapter 19
“IT’S NOT A hair salon, it’s a hair lounge,” said Aakash the head stylist, his eyes ablaze.
The difference, as far as Santosh and Nisha could see, was that the Shiva Spa had a resident DJ who played deafening music. Stylists bobbed their heads in time to the beat as they dealt with trendy clients, all of whom regarded themselves with empty expressions in the mirror, as though to show an actual human emotion might be considered uncool.
Aakash, however, was allowed to show an emotion—something to do with his artistic temperament, no doubt—even if that emotion was best described as emphatic irritation. He wore an orange tailored jacket with the sleeves pushed up. Beneath it was a T-shirt that had been artfully ripped and stressed, and tight jeans with a chain hanging off the waistband. He was hairless.
“Well, perhaps we could find a place somewhere in the lounge that’s a little more private?” Nisha yelled over the din of a Bollywood tune.
Aakash glanced from her to Santosh, who stood at her shoulder, rolled his eyes as though the whole thing were a terrible inconvenience, then turned on his heel and strode toward the rear of the salon—sorry, lounge.
Nisha and Santosh swapped amused glances and followed, pleased to hear the music recede. Indeed, away from the DJ was where the place earned its spa status. Waltzing on ahead, Aakash led them through a section where slightly older patrons were being seen to by chic stylists wearing black, and back here the atmosphere was more serene. The music was classical, and the stench of hair products and eau de toilette was at least partly replaced by the smells of coffee and burning incense.
Finally they reached the office, where Aakash, still wearing an expression of exasperation, directed them to a pair of unnecessarily uncomfortable steel-tube chairs, while he sank himself into a sofa.
He kept them waiting while he studied his phone then dropped it, looked at them, sighed, and said, “Yes? What can I do for you?”
Santosh, his cane held between his legs, let Nisha do the talking.
“We’re investigating the murder of a journalist, Bhavna Choksi. We believe she’d been in contact with you.”
Aakash tilted his chin, thinking—or pretending to.
“No, I don’t think I know the name,” he said.
“She represented the Afternoon Mirror.”
“Oh, her.” He pulled a face. “Yes, she did get in touch, you’re right.”
“And you agreed to do an interview?” said Nisha.
“At first, but I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
Aakash looked haughty. “She told me she wanted to know more about my work but it was all false pretences.”
“Really? I thought she was writing a piece on those who look after the rich and famous. The support staff, if you like.”
He bridled. “I’ll have you know, I’m far more than ‘support staff.’ What I do …” he waved his hand airily “… is closer to art.”
“Be that as it may …”
Aakash frowned. “Look, she may have pretended to be writing a soft feature, but I could tell—she was digging for dirt.”
“And did she get any?” asked Nisha.
“No,” he sniffed.