“We have a lot to discuss on the security front which I’m sure you’ll understand I cannot broach with his staff.”
“As a matter of fact,” Rana began, “I am not here to collect the report. You see, I am calling on residents in the area as a matter of routine.”
The man looked surprised, but made a sophisticated show of apologising. “But my dear, I am so sorry. You see, I was expecting the commissioner or one of his staff. But allow me to introduce myself. I am Ezekiel Klien, chief of security at Calcutta spaceport. And you are?”
Rana swallowed. “Lieutenant Rana Rao, Homicide Division, Calcutta police force.”
“Homicide? And how might I be of assistance?”
“It’s just…” she began, falteringly. “I’m making a series of routine door-to-door enquiries. Last night there was a murder committed a kilometre from here. The killer was seen leaving the scene of the crime.”
“How appalling. If I can be of any assistance, any at all…”
Rana took a breath to steady her nerves. The more she thought about it, the more she realised that there had indeed been some misunderstanding. Ahmed must have lied about seeing the killer enter this house, or mistaken the house itself.
“I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions, Mr Klien? Routine things I’ve been asking everyone in the neighbourhood.”
“Of course. By all means.” He sat back and sipped his coffee.
Rana took a gulp of her own coffee to moisten her dry mouth. Her hand shook, setting up a nervous rattle of cup on saucer. She would have to drastically revise her questions. She had planned to ask him if he knew the identities of victims of the crucifix killer, and if he could account for his whereabouts on certain dates, but such a line of interrogation would hardly be appropriate in the circumstances.
“We have reports that a man was seen in the area last night.” She went on to describe the man Ahmed had seen enter this very house.
Klien nodded. “As a matter of fact, yes. At perhaps ten last night someone did come to the door. It was a man very much fitting your description. He was lost, had no money, and asked if he might call his wife to pick him up. I was busy with the report at the time, so I gave him ten rupees and directed him to a public com-screen kiosk. He left and I thought no more about it. You don’t think… ?”
Rana shrugged. “We’d like to question the individual to eliminate him from our enquiries,” she said. “I wonder if you’d allow a computer artist to come round and take your impressions of the man?”
Klien gestured, the very epitome of accommodation. “By all means. I’m in most evenings after eight.”
Rana finished her coffee. “Thank you for your time and the coffee, Mr Klien. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
“Of course not. I’m delighted to have been of some assistance. I only wish that I could help you further.”
Before Rana could protest that she really must be going, he leaned over and poured her another cup of coffee. He poured himself a second cup and sipped delicately.
“Tell me, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been with the force?”
She smiled, pleased at the change of subject. “Almost eight years now. Most of the time working with street children. I was promoted to Homicide a few weeks ago.”
“Homicide… Isn’t that Vishwanath’s department now?”
“Do you know him?”
“We’ve worked together in the past. I rate Vishwanath very highly, Lieutenant.”
“I’m enjoying working with him.”
This time when she finished her coffee she placed a hand above the cup. “I’m afraid I must be getting on, Mr Klien. Thank you again.”
“Not at all. I’ll show you out.”
He rose and escorted her from the lounge and into the hall. The door swung open automatically. He placed a hand on her elbow as she stepped through the door. “Good night, and take care, Sita.”
She stopped, her stomach lurching. She turned and stared at him. “What did you say?”
He was smiling, as if mystified. “I’m so sorry? It was Sita, wasn’t it? Or Rita?”
“Rana,” she murmured, “Rana Rao.”
“Of course—Rana. Well, good night, Rana.”
He stepped back, still smiling, and the door swung shut after him.
Rana made her way slowly away from the house, trying to regain her composure. She had been sure, for a second, that his slip had been deliberate. He had intentionally said her old name, to see how she might react. But how was that possible? How might he know of her old identity? He was head of security at the port, though. Perhaps, when she ran away all those years ago, he had worked for her father? But how did he know now, having never met her, that she was the person once known as Sita Mackendrick? She told herself that she was being paranoid. There was a very simple explanation. He had misheard her name, as he claimed. He had made a genuine mistake, thought she had said Sita. It was a common enough name, after all.
She made her way to the main road and caught a taxi home.
Back at her apartment, she considered her meeting with Klien. After expecting so much to come from her investigations, she felt disappointed. At least, she told herself, there was the lead of the silver-haired man to follow up. She would tell Vishwanath, when she started her shift at twelve tomorrow, that her interviews had elicited descriptions of a silver-haired man in the vicinity of the murder scene last night.
She went to bed but could not sleep. She tried to work out how Klien might have recognised her, and known her true identity, after all those years.
At dawn she got up, tired and frustrated, her mind still racing. She made herself a strong pot of coffee and sat by the window overlooking the park, huddling around the cup and taking the occasional sip.
The knock on the door startled her; she jumped, spilling coffee over her bare knees. All visitors should have buzzed her from the outer door; how had they entered without being let in? She wondered if it was one of her neighbours. Or maybe the security sergeant with her softscreen, entering at the same time as one of her early- rising neighbours left for work.
Pulling her wrap more tightly around her, she crossed the lounge and opened the door. She stared, surprised, and stepped back.
A thin-faced, silver-haired man stood on the threshold. He gave her a smile of disarming charm.
“What do you want?” The question sounded more brusque than she had intended.
He stepped past her, entering uninvited, and strode across the lounge to the window. He stood with his back to her, staring out.
“How can I help you?” Her voice faltered.
He turned, still smiling. She was suddenly aware of her nakedness beneath the wrap, and folded her arms across her chest.
“How did you get in?”
“That need not concern you,” he said.
Rana started. She recognised the voice, the soft, cultured tones. It was the voice of Ezekiel Klien—but how was that possible?
“What do you want?” she asked again. She knew that she must have presented a frightened sight, cowering with her arms crossed protectively over her chest.
“It’s a very delicate business. You see, I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”
Rana felt a sudden heat rise through her chest. She wanted to throw up. Something was happening here that she did not understand, and ignorance fuelled her fear.
“Consider the irony. For years I have been, on and off, scouring Calcutta for you. Of course, you might have been dead, but I had a hunch… a hunch that you were still alive—”
“Klien,” she said, before she could stop herself.
The man smiled. “Very clever of you, Sita. The voice, of course.” He gave a quick, mocking bow. “I am Ezekiel Klien.”
She closed her eyes, fear flooding through her. She had known, just as soon as she said his name, that she had made a mistake. He was the crucifix killer, disguised, and he would kill her just as he had killed all his other victims.
