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  Fortunately, Vikram had summarised both the extensive reports into a single sheet highlighting the salient points:

  Primary crime scene: body wasn't transported from elsewhere.

  Cause of death: Class IV Haemorrhage leading to loss of over 50% of circulating blood volume.

  Incisions by saw-like knife. Four inches deep lacerations: vivisection – victim was dead before stabbing. to Suri.

  Trichloroacetaldehyde. Same toxic chemical that was found in Lele's blood was given

  Bullet: 9x19 calibre fired post-mortem at close enough range to singe the skin around on forehead.

  Weapon used: Glock 26. Only one slug fired.

  The economical killer never wasted more than a bullet per corpse. Actually, he didn't need to fire any.

  No prints, no fluid, no hair, no fibre, no skin residue of the murderer found on site or on the victim's body. All the diligent evidence gathering and analysis had got them nothing.

  Ditto. Rita could well have been reading Lele's report. There were two disparities though. In Samir Suri's case, the killer had taken away the victim’s penis. And the lipstick — what was that left behind for? Did it even belong to the killer? It could well be something the hotel cleaners had overlooked while vacuuming over the weekend.

  At any rate, if Rita had any misgivings that they were two separate incidents before seeing these reports, they were now decimated. Should she dispatch these to Sexy with a note?

  When Rita knocked and entered his office, his secretary was serving Jt Commissioner Joshi tea in fine bone china, an indulgence of the Indian bureaucracy. He beckoned her to sit down and with a jiggle of his head signalled the secretary to pour a cup for Rita. In Indian bureaucracy, you didn’t bother asking your subordinate if she wanted tea or not. The host was entitled to take offence if the guest declined, and Rita was in no disposition or position to antagonise Mr Joshi.

  'How are we doing today, Rita?'

  'Fine sir, thanks.'

  Before Joshi could utter the next words, Rita ran through the condensed update for the boss.

  'Precisely why I called for you this morning. I have been reading the summary documents of the two cases, and I have the same surmise as you, that we are looking for some maniac serial killer here, forget whatever Mr Saxena said yesterday. I think he was only trying to be optimistic, making an effort to comfort us in his own way.'

  'Thank you sir.'

  'For what?'

  'For reinforcing my hypothesis.'

  'In fact, I have some good news for you. I was speaking to an old friend of mine last night — he's a doctor, lives in London — and we got talking about the recent murders. He told me to get in touch with a young colleague of his...' Joshi looked at the Post-It at his desk and read. 'Ash Mattel. Doctor Ash is a psychiatrist; he specialises in criminal psychology, and helps Scotland Yard in criminal profiling. Particularly on cases where they believe, like we do, the crime seems deviant and can be attributed to some kind of a mental disorder.' Joshi gestured Rita to hold on to her questions and doubts and kept going. 'Serial killers unquestionably fall into this category. As it turns out, Dr Mattel is currently on a vacation in Mumbai and I spoke to him this morning. He was more than willing to help, so I asked him to see you at six-thirty today evening. Pencil in some time in your diary. I know this is busy time but this should be valuable, as we do not have any such profilers in Mumbai.' He took a breath. 'Now, you can ask your questions.'

  'This Doctor Ash, does he know anything about India?'

  'The straight answer is yes. He was born in India and moved to the UK later. However, even if he were not, human minds, despite the cultural, social, educational differences, have comparable motivations. That's not to say they are alike, no two minds are alike... but the delta of dissimilarity doesn't multiply simply because two people live in separate continents. He should be able to provide some insight into criminal minds. In any event, what do we lose? An hour, a few hours?'

  'OK sir, I shall certainly make time.'

  'You can come to my office. I'll introduce both of you and then, you can take it from there.'

  'Thank you sir. I really appreciate this.'

  'One more thing. Mr Saxena had asked us to organise a press briefing, which my secretary has already set up for 4 p.m. today. My apologies, but I have some other important appointment to attend.'

  Even if the press briefing were scheduled for 5 or 6 p.m., Joshi would have found some justification to excuse himself. What could be more important than briefing the press, Mr Joshi? Buying a gift for your wife? Rita smiled inwardly. Unless Sexy literally whipped Joshi, under no condition would her boss ever chair the briefing.

  'No worries sir, I'll take care.'

  The telephone in the operations room was screaming like a neglected child that needed coddling when Rita returned. The caller disconnected when she picked up. Poor guy, whoever it was must have given up. Well, at least, the landline was working again.

  Mathur & Mathur, having concluded their investigations in Delhi, had scanned through the contact list on Samir Suri's telephone and tried to find if he and Adit Lele shared a mutual contact. None. The local police had scrutinised all the Mumbai contacts in Suri’s phonebook. They had also probed all the business contacts that had known about Samir's arrival in town, checked and crosschecked alibis. Nothing seemed inappropriate or suspicious. The looming press briefing, with no advancement in the investigation, was daunting. Rajesh Nene, the kind soul, brought in vada-pau — the mouth-watering Mumbai burger — for lunch for everyone.

  The aroma of deep-fried potatoes in batter and red-chilly-garlic chutney, at least momentarily, parked the grim thoughts as the team wolfed on the snack. Rita apprised the team of her meeting with Mr Joshi, the upcoming press briefing and the visiting criminal profiler.

  Vikram regretfully explained how unproductive the search had been in the attempt to find any relationship or anything in common between Lele and Suri. All eight of them looked at one another like time had stopped; only the sound of the nineteenth century Seth Thomas clock on the wall defied it. Rita recognised that the morale of the team was descending, which wasn't a good sign.

  'Don't give up guys, we will get him.' She smiled wanly. Even she realised her motivational words sounded hollow like friable sandstone, and if anyone cared to question — how? — she would be at a loss in supporting the optimism. The servility of Indian bureaucracy stopped everyone from quizzing. 'Let us look at the case all over again: the crime scenes, the scene of crime photography, the forensic reports, the autopsies, and the other details. Sometimes when we get too close, we can lose focus, just like a camera. Inspectors Rajesh and Milind, take a PC each with you and go back to the crime scenes. Ferret about, look for anything. Inspector Mathur...' she turned to chota Mathur: 'Take a constable and go to Lele's office.' She switched officers to search what someone else had searched the first time around. Fresh eyes.

  Rita walked back to her room imagining the life that the unfortunate Samir Suri would never live: the dreams he would never realise, like the vacation his wife spoke about, never see his child grow up, never see her first step, her first words, her first sports day at school.

  Maybe the couple had planned to give her a sibling. What could Samir have possibly done so sinful to deserve the kind of death he received? Rita's brain edited her question with a reluctant smile: what could anyone have done so vile as to deserve a death like Adit Lele or Samir Suri? All the other files at her desk, she knew, would have to wait till the pressing need of the hour had been attended to. Which, alas, didn't seem to be happening anytime soon.

  Homicide got priority over a club brawl. Or burglary. She made a coffee and sat down to ponder over the day's events, to rummage around the outback corners of her skull. No apparent motive suggested one of the axiomatic Ws — wine, women, wealth, vengeance; anyone with half a mind should have spelt vengeance with a "W". Jealousy? Could it lead to cold-blooded murders like these? It normally sired rage and manslau
ghter. Besides, how could one person be jealous of two men unknown to each other? Conversely, Lele and Suri being strangers to each other did not conclusively imply the killer couldn't have known them both. One didn't necessarily know all friends of friends. Had she missed anything that could come back to haunt her later? Thoughts straggled in her brain. Appeared, wandered, disappeared. The answer was beyond her ken for now, at least.

  A tsunami of reporters started arriving at Crawford Market from 3:45 p.m.; they were ushered into the conference hall on the first floor. Cameras were focused, microphones tested, ink in pens checked. DCP Rita Ferreira turned up with Jatin and takla Mathur at five minutes past four when the crowd had started getting restive.

  'At 4:20 a.m. yesterday morning, Mumbai Police Crime Branch was called in to investigate a murder at ITC Grand Maratha Sheraton. The victim, Mr Samir Suri, had only arrived in Mumbai the previous night on a business trip. We have a full team of detectives and uniformed police officers working on the case and I can assure you we will soon apprehend the murderer.' Rita opened the briefing and elaborated on the investigation in Delhi and Mumbai to reassure the scribes that everything was under control, but most didn't look convinced, which was unnerving. These women and men had enough ink to push Mumbai to the edge if any one of them ran a story on serial murders: "Serial killer on the loose in Mumbai" and the sale of diapers would hit the roof.

  ‘DCP Ferreira, does the police know who killed Samir Suri?’ The barrage of questions started.

  'No. Not yet.'

  ‘Do you have a suspect?’ 'No comments.'

  ‘Is that a no?’

  ‘Is there a link between the murder in Versova two days before Mr Suri's murder?’ 'No comments.'

  ‘Is that a yes then?’

  More questions ensued and Rita cautiously ignored or distracted them; some she declined to comment on because the crime squad itself didn't have answers to, others she circumvented as she was in no rush to report certain details. The throng of reporters looked dismayed, their stories remained incomplete. Had they expected to meet the killer in person at Crawford Market today? Under the guise of least disturbing, the police released only a few photographs of Samir Suri that didn't show the true nature of the felony. No photographs of Adit Lele's murder were passed on to the media; it didn’t require rocket science to spot the similarities. Some smart reporters reckoned the police wasn’t providing the complete truth, but they didn't have much choice. It was either this or nothing. After two hours, the scrum started depleting. And though they left after hushed whimpers, Rita knew the restive vultures weren't resting till they got their prey: the complete story.

  Fortunately, the shirt and lingerie Rita had packed in her bag the day before was still on a hanger in her office. Unfortunately, Crawford Market, like many old buildings, was built solely for men; the single ladies’ shower room in the whole building was a testimony to that. Rita washed and put on the new lingerie and shirt. Holster in place, her blue corduroy jacket covering it, she paced to Joshi's office.

  It was 6:31.

  The doctor sat opposite Joshi, with his back facing the door. 'DCP Ferreira, this is Doctor —'

  'Ashwin Mittal, when the… when did you become Ash Mattel?' Rita beamed an I- recognise-you smile, which was instantly reciprocated.

  Ash Mattel was Mister Ugly personified. Bulky like a bull, dark-skinned, a receding hairline, broad nostrils and pockmarks. He was as ugly now as he was a decade earlier, Rita's photographic memory quickly rewound and played in Eastman colour. But his style, his warm personality, his clothes and manners dared the unappealing looks God had bestowed on him. Ash must have certainly practised hard to make all of it come together so brilliantly, so naturally. Strangely, there was something attractive about him. Ugly-manly-attractive?

  'It is a small world. How have you been?' Ash got up to acknowledge and shake hands. 'A thought had crossed my mind it could be you when I heard the name Rita Ferreira. But, police service and you, I let it pass.'

  'Male chauvinism prevented you from accepting that?'

  'Oh no, no, no. I expected you to be a corporate high-flyer.'

  'Wrong profiling then?'

  'I wouldn't say that. Both careers entail leading lots of men.' Copacetic response, Mr-Fucking-Smooth.

  'You two know each other?' asked Joshi, who suddenly felt like an intruder.

  'We went to college together, sir. Ashwin, Ash left college after first year. All anyone knew was that he had got admission into some college in London.'

  'Cambridge.'

  'That I know now.' Rita smiled.

  'Good. Makes my life simple,' Joshi intervened. 'I have outlined the case to Dr Mattel... you can provide him all the details. Tea, anyone?'

  Neither was interested.

  'Thank you sir,’ Rita said and looked at Ash. 'Should we go to my room?'

  'Sure.' Ash got up. 'Have a good evening Mr Joshi.'

  TEN

  2007

  'So, how has it been?' Ash asked again as Rita steered him out of Joshi's office. The contentment on Joshi's face would have been apparent even to an orangutan — with Rita having known Ash from college days, it was one less chore for him; Rita could decide if a criminal profiler could be of any assistance here.

  'Great. How have you been?'

  They were now in Rita's office. 'Coffee?'

  'Of course,' he responded.

  'How time flies, it's been what, ten...eleven years?' ‘A little over ten.’

  As it so happens sometimes, time — or the lack of it — causes the void. Friendships fade, not because people want associations to wane, but because other interests take precedence. Besides, there were no email addresses at the time they left college, which could have facilitated keeping in touch. Rita hadn't met Ash, seen him, or even thought about him in the past ten or more years. She didn't know he was in the city until now: Ash, her classmate at St Stephen's for one full year.

  'You must have been equally surprised to see me?' Ash began. 'Surprised? I was shocked! And what's with the new name?'

  'Well, Ashwin was a bit too long for Britain…had to spell it out every single time, so just shortened it to Ash. Microsoft Word told me I was misspelling Mittal every time, the correct spelling should have been Mattel from the beginning.’ Ash smiled. ‘You don't like it?'

  'Would you change it if I said I didn't?'

  'You can still call me Ashwin Mittal.'

  'How long are you here for?'

  'Four weeks, but the plan is to spend some time in Goa.' There was silence in the room, the kind of embarrassing quiet where two people struggle to carry the conversation forward. 'You still single?' Ash filled the hiatus.

  'Yes. Loved, lost. You?'

  'You've done better than me then. I've loved, married, divorced. 2:1.'

  'No kids?'

  'Thank God we didn't stretch our mistake that far.' He gave a forlorn smirk, and Rita comprehended it wasn't a good subject to carry on talking about. She didn’t need to know, and he didn't need to enquire either about the years after college, their partners, spouses or their sex lives. At any rate, both were mature enough to recognise this wasn't a blind date; this was a professional meeting at Mumbai Police HQ.

  'Want to tell me about the case?' Ash segued into professional discourse.

  Rita gave a succinct account of both murders, expounding the juxtaposition between the two incidents, the mysterious phone calls right before the murders, the MO, the lack of any clues. 'One of my colleagues was optimistic about getting some prints off the lipstick that the search team found under the bed, but —' Rita stopped mid-sentence.

  'You're having a laugh. If you get any prints from anything at the crime scene, they would most certainly be someone else's. Serial killers are immaculate planners. They need to be. Part of the lust is in planning and the aftermath. Some even keep diaries, pictures, newspaper clippings, record news and minute details. Goading stimulates planning the next kill. From what you've told me so far, it is apparen
t you've got a maniac killer who is meticulous, extremely fastidious, has above average IQ, and who isn't leaving anything to chance. Yes, he could slip, but I wouldn't wager waiting for his blunder to apprehend him.'

  'So, you are certain it's not just a coincidence that the two murders are so similar?'

  'Similarities can, of course, be coincidental. The very fact that two men get murdered is the beginning of the similarity. The question is how many more similarities does it take for you to discount the coincidence factor and accept that it's orchestrated? No two murders are ever identical, though. Similar, yes, but not identical. These killers gather experience every time they strike and, sometimes, improvise. At other times, change their MO to please themselves. This killer attacked your second victim more aggressively, which is apparent. He is, like others, proving to be a sadist. He will try to inflict more pain, be more gruesome. He doesn't have to play by the rules, there isn't a regimented MO he has to follow. There might well be other factors that could have inadvertently made him alter his MO — some noise in the vicinity that made him attack more fiercely to finish off the job faster, maybe? Or another knife available at the second location, which he used as a weapon. Perhaps one of the incisions wasn't from the knife he carried? But there is a theme emerging in his MO, that's vital. This psycho doesn’t see himself anything less than an artiste in his twisted brain. And he’s got bolder in signing his art, signature art.'

  'You mean…' Words didn't come out when Rita opened her mouth to speak.