Dead in a Mumbai Minute (33 page)

Where had I seen that man? I got home and hit Google first thing.

‘George’ and ‘Manmohan T. Mahindra’ threw up nothing. There was precious little written about the film and there was no mention of a George anywhere, not even on MTM’s older projects.

Then I thought of his conversation with Adil Khan, what I knew about the film’s financiers. I entered ‘George’ plus ‘Adil Khan’.

No wonder he looked familiar – I must have seen his photograph in any number of lifestyle pages, possibly in the magazine I used to write for. George Santos, current guru to every mover and shaker in Mumbai, who had rehabilitated a string of disillusioned foreign millionaires through his enlightenment programme run in a camp tucked away in the farthest reaches in south Goa. There were several pictures of him arm in arm with film stars, including Adil.

He had no website, but I found a blog written by someone who had been through one of his workshops. George Santos’s motto? ‘See the way to the truth.’

The very same words Afreen wrote to her parents, the words I had overheard between her and the mystery woman on Maaya Island.

The pieces of the jigsaw were finally coming together. I was inches away – I could feel it. And, somehow, George was also part of this picture.

But I couldn’t function at full capacity on an empty stomach, so I opened the fridge to put together a hasty lunch. I threw together a simple salad and piled ham and cheese on bread and, while it toasted, I worked on a vinaigrette.

I dug through my cupboard and there it was. On my bottle of light soy was the character I had seen on George’s wrist. I knew it was familiar; it must have been this strange synaptic connection that had fuelled my food urge. I almost never put soy in my salad: though I knew it would provide the perfect salty counterpoint to creamy avocado and sweet pomegranate, it was the tattoo that had triggered the inspiration. I took a picture with my phone and searched for matches online: it meant ‘sunset’. How trite.

I pulled out the other ingredients for my dressing. Rice wine vinegar, sesame oil and chilli. Quick didn’t have to mean bad. As the oil made contact with the vinegar and formed beads, it all hit me with the force of too much wasabi up the nose.

Clarity had arrived, as usual, all at once, cutting through the fog of memory and meaning. No matter how rewarding the meal had become, it was time to abandon it. I called Ajay. ‘I can prove Shayak wasn’t at Afreen’s crime scene.’

‘How?’

‘By showing you there is no way
that
fingerprint was actually on
that
bar.’

‘Once again, how?’

‘I can demonstrate, but I need access to Viraat’s flat. In your presence, of course.’

‘I really don’t have time for this, Reema.’

‘It will take ten minutes, if that.’

He sighed. ‘Meet me there in an hour.’

I got there before Ajay and waited outside the flat. When he arrived, I saw that he still wore the face he had on the night he arrested Shayak. As far as he was concerned I was Titanium, and that made me the enemy. For now, at least.

He was brusque as he opened the door. ‘Now, what do you want to show me?’

I walked over to the bar, my evidence kit in hand.

‘I don’t know what you think we missed,’ he said.

‘You missed nothing. Your team simply found something it shouldn’t have.’

‘I won’t pretend to know what you mean by that.’

‘Let me show you.’

I opened the kit and took out the dusting powder, brushes and transparencies.

‘Press your whole palm on the surface of the bar, please,’ I said.

‘How?’

‘Just press down with a moderate amount of pressure.’

Ajay did as I asked.

‘Perfect,’ I said. He raised his hand and crossed his arms. I quickly brushed powder over where his imprint should have been.

‘What do you see?’ I asked.

‘Not much,’ he said.

‘Exactly.’ I then took the transfers and scanned them. ‘See this?’ I said, as the first image opened on my laptop. ‘There is absolutely no ridge detail available here. Only a broader sort of smudge.’

‘Why?’

‘Because this screen has been specially treated with a product designed to repel both water and oil. And as you know, fingerprints are the traces left behind by our body’s natural oils.’

‘I’ve never heard of such a screen before.’

‘The coating has been designed for numerous purposes, mostly industrial. It is used on touchscreen surfaces to reduce the smudges and smears that appear with use. This being a cutting-edge professional bar, designed for handling by many people while displaying high-definition advertising images, it has received that treatment.’

‘How did you figure this out?’

‘Viraat spilled a glass of water on it the day Afreen died. It behaved very oddly. It didn’t hit me then but when I considered that highly improbable fingerprint more closely, it eventually came to me.’

No need to mention the moment of epiphany over a salad, or beads of suspended fluids dancing in my vinaigrette.

‘Try it again at a different spot,’ said Ajay. ‘This time with your own prints.’

‘This is no magic trick.’

‘I know. I just need to be sure.’

I wiped away the residual powder and repeated the demonstration.

Ajay stood there, jaw clenched. ‘You know I still can’t release Shayak. Not on the basis of this alone.’

‘Why?’

‘The gun.’

‘But doesn’t this prove someone is trying to frame him?’

‘It’s not enough.’

‘Even though anyone could have fired the gun that shot Afreen?’

‘Reema, you don’t know how these things work.’

A phone call from the right person was far more powerful than evidence from a nobody. ‘Ajay,’ I said, exasperated, ‘I think I know exactly how it works.’

I got back home and reassembled my makeshift team of Terrence and Neeraj. It was time for the gloves to come off.

I first turned to Neeraj. ‘How do you feel about hacking the e-mail ID of a murdered woman?’

‘Like it is something that might land me in jail.’

‘What if the same rules apply as yesterday?’

‘Double pay? I’d say the fastest way to my heart is through my wallet.’

I gave him Afreen’s e-mail ID.

‘What am I looking for?’

‘Anything that connects with Shayak Gupta, Titanium, Kimaaya Kapoor, Ashutosh Dhingre or George Santos.’

Terrence raised a brow. ‘George Santos?’

‘Yes. You are from Goa, right?’

‘Originally, yes. Lived in Calcutta all my life, though.’

‘What do you know about him?’

‘Spiritual, self-help type guru. There is plenty of information in the public domain.’

‘Seeing as how I do my best to avoid the gossip columns, I apparently missed it all.’

‘Give me half an hour and I’ll put together a document for you.’

I turned my attention back to the chart paper, which was now overrun with what would look to an outsider like random neural firings, when I received a call from Shakuntala Padhy.

‘Prashant Parashar has surfaced,’ she said.

‘Where has he been?’

‘He says he was being held in a house somewhere on the outskirts of the city.’

‘Can he identify his captors?’

‘He says there were two men, but he didn’t see their faces.’

‘Can I meet him?’

‘I am with him at his home. Why don’t you come over now?’

I took directions and hung up. ‘I need to go,’ I told Neeraj and Terrence.

‘This will take me a while, so I’ll be here,’ said Neeraj.

‘Do you have anything yet?’ I asked Terrence.

‘Not much, but I will soon.’

‘Can you mail me if you find anything of interest? I’ll read it on my phone.’

In the half hour it took me to reach Parashar’s residence in Andheri, I received a mail from Neeraj marked ‘Urgent’.

Your girl received some pretty unfriendly mails from an unknown sender I have not yet been able to identify, digging for information on what was going on at Maaya Island the day after the murder. No sign that she replied. Sender’s bases covered pretty comprehensively.

My pulse quickened. Here at last was a definitive link between the two murders. Afreen either knew something – or someone believed she might know something – about the death of Ashutosh Dhingre. The conversation I had overheard was surely someone trying to get information from her – using George Santos’ motto as emotional leverage. Now if I could only figure out what it all meant.

At the home of Prashant Parashar, I composed my thoughts as I waited at the door. Shakuntala let me in and led me to a small living room. There sat Parashar, a small man wearing a blue half-sleeved shirt and baggy khakis, feet bare. His wet hair told me he had showered but he had not shaved, and his grey-peppered beard sat uneasy on his face and contributed to the general air of shell shock.

Shakuntala introduced us. ‘He was abducted not far from our office the day you spoke,’ she said.

‘Can you tell me anything about where you were taken?’ I asked.

‘It seemed like it was the middle of nowhere,’ he began. ‘For much of the way it was quiet and took a long time to get to. My head was covered with some sort of bag, so I had no idea where I was going. The only thing I can tell you for sure is that before we reached our destination, we were travelling on a highway for some time.’

‘Did you see your assailants?’

‘No. Not then or later. They were very careful. I thought from their voices that there were two of them, but mainly it was just one guy staying in the house.’

‘How did they restrain you?’

‘I was tied,’ he said, holding up raw, red-ringed wrists. ‘But I also think I was drugged. There are periods of time I can’t really remember.’

‘How did they release you?’

‘Same way they abducted me – drove me, bag over my head, to an empty field off Navi Mumbai. I called Shakuntala who had me picked up.’

‘They were nice enough to give your cell phone back?’

‘Fully charged.’

‘You want to tell me how you really came by that pen drive?’

He looked contrite. ‘Someone had contacted me by e-mail after I had written a piece about Kimaaya being dropped from one of her film projects.’

‘What did they say?’ I asked.

‘That they had information that would give me the scoop of the year. At first I thought it was a hoax but I kept getting these mails and then, when I showed an interest, the person said the information was mine on condition that I didn’t seek out the sender’s identity. And that we didn’t contact Kimaaya before publication.’

‘Did you?’

‘No – the only thing we were concerned about is the authenticity of the information.’

‘So what you wrote in your article about not being able to reach Kimaaya for comment …’

‘Wasn’t true.’

I stole a glance at Shakuntala. Her lips pursed for just a second, displeasure quickly filed away for another time.

‘Then why did they abduct you?’

‘To tell me that if I spoke to you or any other investigators again, I would be sleeping with the sharks or something to that effect.’

‘That’s a lot of effort and time for a threat.’

Parashar shook his head. ‘I am as confused as you are, but I really wasn’t in a position to ask them about their motive, or to expect them to answer.’

‘Did they mention me by name?’ I asked.

‘No, now that I think of it, they didn’t.’

They had known within moments of our conversation that we were planning to meet. The killer had also known Dhingre was on his way to warn Kimaaya.

‘Had Dhingre called you before heading to Maaya Island?’

‘Not just before, but he kept calling, threatening to tell her everything.’

‘Where is your cell phone now?’

He held it up.

‘I wouldn’t use it if I were you.’

His eyes widened.

‘How did they treat you?’ I continued.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did they feed you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What sort of food?’

‘Uh … bread and cheese. Maggi. Roti-sabzi one day. How does it matter?’

‘What about water?’

‘Yeah, they gave it to me when I asked. Tea too, a couple of times.’

‘Are you sure you never heard or saw anything that might tell us where they held you? Think hard.’

Parashar looked uncertain. ‘It’s all so hazy … but there was a phone call, during which one of the men said something about being near the Paras Hills food factory.’

‘Paras Hills?’ asked Shakuntala.

‘Yes,’ replied Parashar.

‘You know where that is?’ I asked.

Shakuntala nodded. ‘It’s right next to a piece of land that was acquired for a factory which then went under dispute. It was in the headlines quite a lot about six months ago. About an hour outside the city.’

‘What else is out there?’

‘Some factories, fishing villages, not much else. It’s an uninspiring stretch of coast. Industrial run-off and politics have ensured its unsuitability as a home for resorts or luxury housing, even though it is on the water.’

‘It could be worth a trip,’ I said.

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

‘I’m pretty sure it is not.’

From what it sounded like, the abductors had merely wanted Parashar out of the way to obscure the source of the information they had leaked. Someone had panicked when they realized he might be speaking to me. When his silence had no more value, they had released him.