“Well, exactly,” said Nisha. “I only found out via a contact in the police force.”
“It’s almost like they’re trying to hide something,” said the woman, drawing her arms across her chest and tilting her chin. She looked left and right. “I used to see a black van in the driveway.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. It was often there.”
“Make?”
The woman gave a slight smile. “The make was a Tempo Traveler, and I know that because we used to have one, many moons ago…” She drifted off a little, evidently revisiting a past with a man in her life, possibly a family too, and Nisha felt her nostalgia keenly, thinking of her own loss.
Regretfully Nisha pulled her new friend back into the present. “I don’t suppose you got a license plate number?”
The neighbor frowned. “Well, no, I didn’t. Do you go around noting down license plate numbers?”
Nisha conceded the point then added, “Ah, but what if they’re up to no good?”
“Well, I never saw anything especially unusual. It had a red zigzag pattern running across the side, which was quite distinctive. Other than that…”
“Would you draw it for me?” asked Nisha. She passed the woman her pad and pen, and for some moments the pair stood in silence as the woman concentrated on sketching the van’s paint job.
“My drawing isn’t very good,” she said with an apologetic shrug as she handed back the pad. “But it looked something like that.”
“Thank you. Did you tell the police about the van?”
“Of course I did. Not that they were interested.”
Which figures, thought Nisha.
They spoke for some minutes more, mainly with the neighbor complaining that the house wasn’t sufficiently well maintained, and how the police hadn’t taken her concerns seriously enough. “My late husband would have taken it further. He would have done something about it, but…” She fixed Nisha with such a pained, searching look that Nisha felt as though the other woman could see inside her—as if the neighbor knew exactly what it was they had in common—and for a second she thought it might be too much to bear.
“Thank you,” Nisha stammered, only just managing to control her emotions as the two said their good-byes and went their separate ways.
Chapter 12
THE OFFICE–RESIDENCE OF the Lieutenant Governor of Delhi, Ram Chopra, was located at Raj Niwas Marg. There in the living room, two men in oversized leather armchairs drank whisky and paid no mind to the fact that it was the middle of the day. The crisp Delhi winter made everything possible.
Ram Chopra poured more water into his whisky, added ice, and took a puff of his Cohiba cigar. Opposite, the Commissioner of Police, Rajesh Sharma, drank his whisky neat.
Both were big men who tended to dominate a room. Both had been born and brought up in the holy town of Varanasi. Otherwise the two couldn’t have been more different: while Chopra was suave and sophisticated, Sharma was unrefined and coarse, from his constantly ruffled uniform to the toothpick firmly lodged between his teeth.
Sharma had been orphaned young and fended for himself. Growing up in Varanasi had been hard, and from early on he’d known the only two options were flight or fight. He’d chosen the latter and gone from being a victim to the most feared kid at school. The many nights of sleeping hungry had given rise to his voracious appetite and obesity in recent times.
Chopra, on the other hand, had been educated at the prestigious Mayo College and then had joined the Indian Air Force, rising to the position of wing commander. Deputized to the Central Bureau of Investigation to assist in a Defense Department investigation, he’d chosen to stay on, investigating high-profile cases involving terrorism and corruption. He’d eventually succeeded in working his way up to the top job, that of director.
His get-it-done approach had made the Prime Minister a fan. Upon his retirement, the position of Lieutenant Governor had been made available to him as a postretirement sop.
And now he ran Delhi. Or would, if not for the constant interference of Mohan Jaswal, Nikhil Kumar, and Co. Still, it kept life interesting. Chopra would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy a bit of conflict every now and then. It was something else he had in common with his overweight, whisky-swilling friend opposite.
He regarded Sharma through a cloud of blue cigar smoke, feeling pleasantly sleepy and guessing the Police Commissioner felt the same way. “These body parts found in the basement at Greater Kailash,” he said. “Any new developments?”
“Investigations continue,” replied Sharma.
“One would hope so,” said Chopra. With some effort he leaned forward to place his cigar on the edge of the solid silver ashtray. The ash needed to fall gently on its own. Aficionados would never tap a cigar.
“But there’s something else,” said Sharma.
“Yes?” asked Chopra.
“Kumar wants the matter hushed up. The prick visited me, offering me a bribe.”
“I see. Well, if Kumar wants this kept quiet then perhaps it might be fun to see that the case receives maximum publicity.”
But Sharma wasn’t smiling. “You might not want that, Lieutenant Governor.”
Chopra squinted at Sharma through the smoke. “Oh yes? Why so?”
“I’ll show you.”
Intrigued, Chopra watched Sharma ease himself from the armchair—no easy task—and cross to a briefcase he’d brought with him. The big cop extracted a folder, returned to Chopra, and passed him a photograph.
“This is the house where the bodies were found?” asked Chopra.
“It is.”
Chopra studied the photograph a second time then handed it back. “In that case, I concur with our friend Kumar. It might not be prudent to raise public awareness at this stage.”
Sharma’s chin settled into his chest. “I thought you’d say that. I’ve already taken steps to ensure the investigation is as low-key as possible.”
“Nevertheless, I’d be interested to know why Kumar wants this kept quiet. You can look into that for me, can you?”
“I can.”
“Thank you. You can be certain I shall be most grateful for your efforts.”
“There’s something else,” said Sharma, opening the folder once more.
“Yes?”
“I hear Jaswal wants you to approve the appointment of Amit Roy as Principal Secretary in Kumar’s ministry.”
“He does.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Chopra grinned. “Jaswal hates to be kept waiting, so…”
“You thought you’d keep him waiting.”
“Quite.”
“I have something here that might help make up your mind. Have a look at this,” said Sharma, handing over the folder.
“What is it?”
“It’s as many reasons as you want why it’s a bad idea to promote Amit Roy.”
In the folder were photographs of Amit Roy with young girls. Children. Chopra didn’t bother leafing through the lot. He got the idea. He dropped the folder back on the table between them.
“This changes nothing,” he said.
“But it’s incontrovertible evidence that Amit Roy is a pedophile. The very worst kind.”
“Exactly. And it’s for that reason that I plan to let the appointment go through.”