Private India (Private 8)

“Come on now,” said Nisha under her breath, “make your move.”

Her ph

one rang and she answered it without taking her eyes off the shadow-figure standing on the other side of the window. It was Ajay.

“What can I do for you, Ajay?”

“Plenty, but not right now. There was something I should have told you.”

The figure—it seemed to melt away from the window. Devika was on the move. Out of the front door? Nisha didn’t think so. After all, the only car parked out here was hers. There had to be a back entrance. And what was the betting Devika was about to use it to give her the slip?

“What’s that, Ajay?” she said. She was getting out of the car now, clicking it locked, reaching to the Glock at her waist and drawing it. She held it discreetly, close to her thigh, pleased to have the feel of it in her palm as she looked left and right along the near-deserted street, then trotted across the road, back toward Yoga Sutra. She tried the door.

“Right, well, it was something I should have mentioned before …” Ajay was saying, “maybe nothing important but I thought you’d like to know.”

She cradled the phone between her cheek and neck, cupped a hand at the glass and tried to peer through the window, seeing nothing inside but the vague shapes of an empty reception area, an open door leading through to the studio. No movement. No sign of Devika.

No—no, she couldn’t have lost her already.

“Actually, couldn’t this wait, Ajay?” she said with a touch of irritation. She moved to the side of the building and glanced up a narrow alley that lay between the studio and a picturesque apartment block next door. She looked more carefully at the apartments. Probably had parking at the rear. Probably parking for Yoga Sutra, too.

“It’s very quick,” said Ajay.

“Okay, then fire away,” she said, crabbing sideways down the alley, gun still held down at her leg, phone to her ear.

“It’s that information you asked for about Lara.”

“What about it?”

“The system lets you see the last person to access that information.”

She cocked her head. “Yes?”

“Well, you wouldn’t expect information like this to have been accessed for a while.”

“Maybe somebody checking up since her death, like we were?” she suggested, realizing she was speaking in a whisper now.

“Right. But as far as I can tell, I’m the only person to have looked at it since she died. I’m talking about before she died.”

“How long before she died?”

“A month or so.”

“And are you able to say who it was that accessed the information?”

There was the sound of a car engine from the far end of the alley and Nisha began to move more quickly now, cursing.

Can’t lose her. Whatever I do, I can’t lose her.

“Yes, it was Rupesh,” said Ajay.

By now she had reached the rear of the building and peered carefully around the corner. The car was reversing from garages to her left, one of the apartment block’s residents. The rear of Yoga Sutra, meanwhile, was silent. Two cars in the parking bays, a silver Mercedes and metallic-blue Audi, both exactly the kinds of cars you’d expect in an area like this. Exactly the kinds of cars you’d expect someone like Devika to be driving. Maybe she hadn’t left.

There was a rear door, a glass-panelled back entrance, the kind that stars in dark sunglasses use when they wanted to be discreet. It was ajar.

“Thanks, Ajay,” she said, even more quietly now. “That’s really, really important. I owe you one.”

“Why are we whispering?” said Ajay.