THE CATERING VAN WEAVED ITS WAY through the grand streets of Marathi, as fast and nimble as a mouse. Ajay Jassal followed, struggling to keep control of his large, squat surveillance vehicle while the usually mild-mannered Danny McGuire screamed at him to “Keep up! Don’t lose him!”
Jassal knew the streets well. But surveillance vans were not designed for high-speed chases. They were designed to stay parked for long, wearisome hours and to blend in with their surroundings. It was a tribute to Ajay’s skill that he managed to keep the smaller vehicle in sight at all, bouncing over cobblestones and careering precariously around corners, often into unlit streets. God knew what the ride was doing to their expensive audiovisual equipment.
The catering van was taking them on a tour of South Mumbai’s most upscale residential neighborhoods: Walkeshwar Road, Peddar Road, Breach Candy, all of them distinctive for their British architectural leanings. The driver avoided the commercial thoroughfares such as Cuffe Parade or Carmichael Road, preferring to duck and dive through the quieter streets. Clearly, he realized he was being followed.
After twenty minutes, much of it spent driving around in circles, the van headed north toward Wankhede cricket stadium. As they got nearer, the streets thronged with crowds of young men. The blazing stadium floodlights could be seen from miles away.
“Must be a match night,” said Ajay Jassal. “I doubt if we’ll get much farther. Not by car.”
Danny McGuire could hardly see the van now through the dark, heaving mass of bodies. Was Matt Daley planning to make a run for it? Danny looked at his watch. Eight forty-five. David Ishag’s dinner date would soon be over. They had to get back to the house.
Without thinking, McGuire threw open the door of the surveillance vehicle and began pushing his way through the mob, shouting, “Police!” and grabbing shirts and jackets indiscriminately as he literally flung bystanders out of his path.
Within seconds he’d reached Matt’s van. It too was empty, abandoned only a few yards from the gates of the cricket ground. Desperately McGuire looked around, scanning the crowd for Matt’s distinctive blond mop of hair. Nothing.
Then suddenly he saw him, right at the stadium entrance, about twenty yards away. By the time Danny got there, Matt would be inside, subsumed into the crowd. Gone. Instinctively Danny’s fingers tightened around his gun, but he knew he couldn’t use it. Fire a shot here and you’d trigger a stampede. Just as despair began to wash over him, Danny saw Ajay Jassal sprinting past him, parting the crowds like Moses at the Red Sea, his long legs powering over the hard ground like a cheetah. There was a scream and a scuffle. Danny forced his way forward, waving his Interpol badge as if brandishing garlic at a vampire.
Jassal had pounced, knocking Daley clean off his feet and pinning him to the ground.
“I have apprehended the suspect, sir,” he panted.
Danny McGuire wheezed up behind him. “Good job, Jassal. Matthew Daley, I’m arresting you on suspicion of attempted—” He stopped midsentence.
The man on the ground had turned to face him. His cheek was badly bruised and his brown eyes were wide with confusion and panic.
He was as Indian as the Taj Mahal.
DAVID ISHAG STARED AT THE BATHROOM mirror, clutching the marble countertop for support.
This is it. Any moment now, she’s going to let him in.
My killer.
He splashed cold water on his face, willing the dizziness to stop. Remember what McGuire said. He’s right outside. All I need to do is collapse to the floor with chest pains the second the guy walks in. Easy.
“David? Darling?” Sarah Jane stood swaying in the doorway. “Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?”
Swaying? That’s weird. Why’s she swaying?
Spots began swimming before David’s eyes. “I…I don’t feel good.” Now the whole room was lurching, like a ship in high seas. All of a sudden he felt violently ill. Never mind a faked collapse. At this point he was about to have a real one.
Then suddenly it dawned on him.
“Do you like the soup? I made it myself.”
She’s poisoned me! The bitch put something in my soup!
He tried to look at Sarah Jane, but there were at least six identical versions of her leaning over him as he slid to the floor, clutching his stomach. “Why…?” he gasped. “Why are you doing this?”
Tears filled her eyes. “It’s all right. Don’t panic. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
The sympathy in her voice sounded so real. But he couldn’t let himself fall for it, couldn’t allow himself to slip. He had to stay awake, stay focused. McGuire’s mikes were all in the bedroom. He had to get in there, let the SWAT team outside know what was happening. With every ounce of his remaining strength, he shouted, “Bed!”
He could feel his throat muscles swelling up, his breath getting short. Soon he wouldn’t be able to speak at all.
“Have to lie down. Please.”
“Of course, darling, of course.” Sarah Jane helped him into the bedroom, a look of deep concern and worry on her face. Why is she still keeping up the charade? thought David. It makes no sense. Falling back on the bed, he clutched at his tie. He had to loosen it! He couldn’t breathe! He waved frantically to Sarah to help him, but she had turned her back and was heading toward the phone.