“Excuse me …” said a SOCO.
But then from the doorway came the raised voice of Sharma: “Who the fuck allowed you inside?”
Santosh turned to
see the corpulent, red-faced figure of the police chief.
“Why?” asked Santosh. “Is this your house?” He had no plans to reveal that it was Ash who’d tipped off Neel about Kumar’s death. Ash stood beside Sharma and Santosh could see the nervousness on the medical examiner’s face.
“It’s a goddamn crime scene!” shouted Sharma, indignant. “I need all of you to get the fuck out of here, right now!”
At the same time, Neel snapped on his gloves and strode into the study confidently. Ash shouted after him, “Hey, you can’t go inside there. I’ll have you booked for interfering with a crime scene!”
To the uninitiated the altercation between Ash and Neel was a mere shouting match, but to those in the know—Santosh and Nisha—it was a choreographed argument that served two purposes: first, it would ensure that Sharma didn’t suspect Ash of leaking information; second, it would give Santosh time to observe the crime scene.
Santosh seized the opportunity to do a walkabout, leaving the house while Neel and Ash kept up their bickering. He looked at the main gate. A small guardhouse was located to the right of it. It would have been impossible for someone to enter with guards on duty at night. Unless it was an inside job.
He looked at the walls that surrounded the house. They were around six feet high, and solid iron spikes, each about a foot long, were grouted at the top. Glass shards had been embedded into the top surface of the wall. Thin cables ran between the iron spikes. Santosh noticed little yellow signs indicating electrified cables. Difficult for someone to clamber over the wall without doing serious damage to themselves.
He walked to the rear garden and looked at the neat little rows of herbs and vegetables that Mrs. Kumar had planted. Something was out of place. He examined the soil. In one corner it had been disturbed. Santosh gazed at it a little longer. It seemed to be a cylindrical pattern with a rounded end. The manhole cover. If it were shifted sideways, wouldn’t it create a similar pattern?
He bent down and grasped the manhole cover. He pulled and it came off easily. He removed his worn scarf and tied it to the underside handle of the cover. He then gently nudged the cover back into place.
Santosh made his way around the house, carefully observing the doors and windows. Nothing had been broken or tampered with. The intruder would have picked a lock to get inside. Which one? Front or rear? The manhole was toward the rear and the main door at the front was visible from the gatehouse. More likely that the killer had used the kitchen door.
“You have exactly five seconds to get the hell out of here before I ask my men to arrest you,” came Sharma’s voice from behind. He had noticed Santosh’s absence from the study and had stormed outside to find him.
Santosh turned. His breath bloomed in the garden. “Whoever executed this murder planned it perfectly. Lots of preparation went into it.”
“Murder? Who says it’s murder?” bawled Sharma. “Looks like suicide to me. Yes, let’s go with that.”
“He duct-taped himself to the chair?” asked Santosh.
“I don’t need your fucking help, Wagh. Now get out before I take you into custody.”
Chapter 29
“WHO HAD MOTIVE to kill Kumar?” asked Santosh as he, Nisha, and Neel made their way to Neel’s Toyota. “Who were his enemies?”
“Every politician has hundreds,” replied Nisha. “But no one hated Kumar more than Jaswal.”
“And who were his friends? Often, real enemies may appear like friends and vice versa,” said Santosh.
Nisha took a folded piece of paper from her shirt pocket and handed it to Santosh. It was a printout of a photograph that showed Kumar with Patel and Chopra.
Chapter 30
NISHA LOOKED AT the six names on her smartphone yet again. They were the six remaining Truckomatic customers who needed to be traced. She ran a Google search on each and then she made the first call.
“Hello, could you put me through to your administration department?” she asked brightly.
“Anyone specifically?” asked the switchboard operator.
“No,” replied Nisha. “I need to discuss an insurance policy that is due for renewal on one of your company’s vehicles.”
After a few minutes of elevator music, another voice came on the line. “How can I help you?” asked the man.
“Hello, my name is Sherry,” lied Nisha. “The insurance policy on a black van owned by your company is about to expire and I was wondering if you would be interested in renewing it at a lower rate with us.”