“That must be it!” Naz had declared with delight. “Your mother was a drunken whore. You know what they say—like mother, like daughter.”
She’d stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“She asks me what do I mean? What do you think I mean, Rana? How did you get to the eighth floor so fast? What was the reason for your meteoric rise? Of course, how stupid of me! You slept with Commissioner Singh, and now you’re screwing Investigator Vishwanath. No wonder you have no boyfriends—you have no time.”
She was pleased, in retrospect, that her coffee cup had been empty, because Naz might have earned himself a scalded face and Rana a reprimand, no matter how bad the provocation.
She’d considered telling Vishwanath of Naz’s continued baiting, but decided against that course of action. It would only fuel Naz in his belief that she had a special relationship with her commanding officer. She could take his immature jibes; they were, after all, the result of envy.
That afternoon Rana clipped her com-board to her belt, told Vishwanath that she was going out to interview an acquaintance of the last murder victim, and rode down to the underground car-park. She had requisitioned a squad car, and it was awaiting her when she stepped from the elevator. She gave the driver the address and, as the car made its way through the noisy crowds that flowed down the streets with little regard for their safety, she sat back and regarded the screen of her com-board.
She had checked on the origin of the cloth fibres discovered at three of the crime scenes. Of course, there was always the possibility that the fibre had nothing to do with the killer, but, as was the nature of homicide investigations, that possibility had to be positively disproved before being dismissed. She had discovered that the cloth was imported from the colony planet of Madrigal, that it was made into expensive suits by an esteemed firm of Bombay tailors, and that both suits and cloth were extremely rare. She made a note to remind herself to look into the possibility that the killer was an off-worlder with a taste for designer clothing.
The car plunged into shadow as it eased down a narrow alley in the old sector of the city. Rana switched off her board and peered through the side window. The buildings on either side of the alley were ancient concrete tenements connected by illegal electricity leads and washing lines flying pennants of old clothing beaten colourless in the shallows of the nearby Ganges. Pot-bellied infants in nothing but shorts stared at her with kohl-rimmed eyes, and the occasional stoic cow barred the way, watching Rana with eyes just as devoid of curiosity.
At the third bovine obstruction, she leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Ah-cha. I’ll walk from here. No problem.”
She squeezed from the car and eased her way past the stolidly chewing cow, peering at the grey walls for the street names stencilled in sky-blue Hindi script.
She had extracted the name of Mohammed Iqbal from an acquaintance of Ali Bhakor. Iqbal, she had been told, was a business associate of Bhakor’s. The acquaintance would say no more. Further enquiries from police records elicited the fact that Iqbal was a known small-time drug dealer who had worked for Bhakor from time to time. His was the very last name on Rana’s list of people to interview.
Iqbal lived on the fifth floor of a crumbling grey tenement. The building was so old that it had no elevator, and Rana had to walk up the five flights of concrete stairs. She eventually found Iqbal in a room barely big enough to contain his bulk. Fortunately the rickety door was already open, for Rana was sure he would have refused to let her enter.
He was sitting cross-legged on a soiled white mattress on the floor, smoking what smelled like hashish in an ornately painted water-pipe. His eyes, already squeezed between rolls of fat, narrowed even further when he saw Rana. “Who are you?” he snapped. “What do you want?”
“Are you Mohammed Iqbal?” she asked. His over-filled face resembled the pix Rana had copied from records.
He muttered, “What if I am? What if I’m not?”
“If you’re not, then you must be his twin brother.” She tossed the pix into his lap.
He glanced at it and grunted. “What do you want?”
She pulled off her boots, stepped over the threshold, and seated herself on the mattress before him. “The answers to a few questions. I have no interest in whatever business you’re conducting here—”
He spread gargantuan palms in a pathetic pantomime of innocence. “For one full year I have touched nothing more than hashish, and then only for medicinal purposes. I am asthmatic.”
“My condolences. As I said, I’m not interested in drugs.”
“You are not another crawling narcotic agent who wants rupees to keep her silence?” Watching her, he took a deep lungful of hashish, retained it and then exhaled a dragon’s breath of grey smoke towards her.
Rana was determined not to cough. “I’m from Homicide, Iqbal, and I can’t be bought off.”
His hooded eyes regarded her as he lazily scratched a nose the size of a samosa. He grunted a laugh. “They send a young girl to question me now! I am insulted. What do you want?”
“I understand you knew the businessman Ali Bhakor?”
“What of it?”
“When was the last time you spoke to Bhakor?”
He turned his palm in a lazy gesture of consideration. “Now let me see… it would be, yes, perhaps five weeks ago. He came around to share a pipe.”
Five weeks ago… one week before his murder.
“Can you tell me if he had arranged to meet anyone at the Hindustan Plaza hotel on the evening of the sixth of July?”
Iqbal shook his head. “He does not discuss his business deals with me.”
“Did he mention making any new acquaintances of late?”
Iqbal regarded her, something unpleasant in his eyes. He gripped his obscenely fat big toes and used them to haul himself forward. “Officer, Bhakor is a man who juggles many fire-brands. He does not shout about his business for fear of dropping them, or burning his hands.”
Rana watched Iqbal as she said, “Ali Bhakor was murdered on the evening of the sixth of July at the Hindustan Plaza hotel. He was shot in the head with a laser charge.”
She disliked the way his every movement, his every gesture, was conditioned and limited by his corpulence, but she was sure his reaction, minimal though it was, was genuine: his slit eyes widened fractionally. He had not known before now of his friend’s death.
“I was expecting a call… We meet every five or six weeks for a pipe and conversation.”
“I’m sorry I had to break it to you like this. It is an unpleasant affair. I’m doing my best to get to the bottom of it. I would appreciate every little bit of help I can get.”
Iqbal inclined his elephantine head. “Ah-cha. Of course.”
“Did Bhakor mention anything, anything at all, that might suggest who he was meeting that night?”
Iqbal leaned forward and stanchioned his head on all ten fingers and thumbs, a dramatic gesture of total concentration.
He looked up with a swiftness totally out of character. “Why… he did say something. I am sure it meant nothing.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” Rana said.
Iqbal adjusted the white lace skullcap on the summit of his bald head. “I don’t know if it will help, but he did say that he might have an interesting business deal with a certain… contact.”
Rana stared at him. “A contact?”
“That is what he said. He had met him once. The man was offering to supply Ali with a quantity of high-grade slash at a cut-rate price. He referred only to the dealer as the Man in the Black Suit.”
“The Man in the Black Suit,” Rana repeated.
“A very expensive black suit, woven from a bright material Ali had never seen before. The man looked rich. Ali said that he was considering the deal.”
Rana stared at the bulbous water-pipe standing between the callused soles of the man’s feet. She felt something flutter in her chest, told herself not to feel too excited, yet. It was nothing more than another lead, one of many.
“Are you sure he said nothing else about this man? How old he might be? His nationality?”
Iqbal shook his head. “I am truly sorry. He mentioned the man briefly in passing, and then only as the Man in the Black Suit.”
