Santosh nodded. The man was right. It wasn’t up to Santosh to question why they were investigating, nor what the long-term ramifications might be. It was up to him to get on with the investigation and try to find the killer or killers. Let the politicians slug it out between themselves afterward.
Outside the building he met Nisha, fresh from procuring information at the Public Works Department.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“They huffed and puffed but I fluttered my eyelashes, opened my purse, and got the information I needed.”
Santosh stopped and adjusted his scarf. “Go on,” he said.
“Okay, well, the house at Greater Kailash is no ordinary house.”
“Apart from the fact that there was a corpse-disposal factory in the basement,” said Santosh drily.
“Yeah, apart from that. Get this—it was last occupied by the director of the Central Bureau of Investigation. No one has been allocated the house for the past three years, something to do with a missing structural stability certificate.”
“I see,” said Santosh, chin raised, eyes gleaming behind his glasses.
“So I need to find out who was heading the Central Bureau of Investigation three years ago,” said Nisha.
“There’s no need. I can tell you. It was the present Lieutenant Governor, Chopra,” replied Santosh, whose memory for such information had not diminished.
Nisha whistled. “Then we have a prime suspect.”
Santosh shook his head. “
Chopra is a killer who hid the bodies in his own basement? No, Nisha. Somehow I don’t think it will be that easy. If only it were. But one thing we do know is why Chopra and Sharma are blocking information from reaching Jaswal. It’s not because they hope to hurt Jaswal, it’s because the truth is potentially embarrassing for Chopra.”
“Are you going to tell Jaswal?” she asked.
“I should, shouldn’t I? Given that our original brief was to find that out for him. Except that just now he asked me to continue looking into the murders and for the time being that’s exactly what I plan to do.”
Chapter 19
HER VISITOR’S PASS bounced against her chest as Nisha strode through the open-plan offices of the Indian Times on Parliament Street.
Pratish rose from his cubicle to meet her with a peck on the cheek. In response she gave him a hug and for a moment the two old friends simply enjoyed seeing one another again.
“How have you been, Pratt?” she asked him, taking the seat he indicated.
He pulled a face.
“Oh dear,” said Nisha. “Want to share?”
For the next few minutes they talked: he about his messy divorce, bitchy ex, and grueling hours at the paper; she about losing Sanjeev and the difficulty of caring for Maya.
“We make a fine pair,” he said at last. “Now, I don’t suppose you came here just to trade hardships. What do you need?”
“Political gossip,” said Nisha. “You are, after all, the foremost authority.”
He preened. “Subject?” he asked.
“Ram Chopra,” replied Nisha.
Pratt whistled. “Smooth operator. Rather hoity-toity … smokes Cohibas like a chimney. Speaks the Queen’s English with greater flair than Englishmen. Can’t stand Jaswal.”
The mention of Chopra’s Cohibas made Nisha frown. “Does he ever smoke cigarettes?”
“Not to my knowledge. The cigar is something of a trademark. Why?”