“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.”
“Why?” asked Sharma.
“The bodies at the Greater Kailash house could put Jaswal in a fix. Having an animal like Roy as Health Secretary could put him in an even bigger fix. My thanks for bringing these things to my attention, Sharma. I shall approve Roy’s promotion at once.”
Chapter 13
NISHA’S HUNT FOR a black Tempo Traveller van sporting a zigzag pattern had taken her to the Regional Transport Office. The visit had cost Private India the price of a bribe, but for that Nisha had been given the name of a workshop, Truckomatic, that might customize vans.
Fifteen minutes later she entered Truckomatic, a large industrial paint shop that rang to the sound of pneumatic lifts and sprays. According to the owner—a gym bunny who gave Nisha a long look up and down before deigning to speak to her—Truckomatic customized over a hundred vehicles each month.
Nisha showed him her pad. “Something like that,” she said. “I was wondering whether you’ve anything similar.”
“Sure,” grinned the owner. “For around two hundred customers at last count. We have a catalog of around a thousand concepts. This is one of the more popular ones.”
“This one was on a Tempo Traveller,” probed Nisha.
“That certainly narrows it down.”
“Does it narrow it down enough that you could give me a list of customers?” asked Nisha.
The owner grinned again. “Give me a few days and I could, I suppose. But what’s in it for me?”
Nisha sighed and reached for her pocketbook, thanking God for Private’s no-questions-asked expenses policy.
Chapter 14
“I’VE NEVER SEEN this cigarette before,” said Nisha, placing the butt she’d found on Neel’s spotless white table. “Can you find out which brand it is?”
“Easily done,” said Neel, crossing to his bookshelf. He scanned the various medical and scientific journals and catalogues until he laid his hands on the book he was looking for. He brought it back to the table.
“What is it?” asked Nisha.
“You see, Sherlock Holmes had his power of deduction, Superman had his X-ray vision, Dick Tracy used his two-way wrist radio, but Bob Bourhill depended on cigarette butts.”
“Bob Bourhill?” asked Nisha.
“A sleuth tasked with figuring out the cause of fires in the forests of Oregon. He spent years cataloging cigarettes, cigars, and cigarette butts. He’s the acknowledged expert in this narrow but important field.”
Neel used a magnifying glass to examine the butt and then consulted his book.
“Bourhill codified the characteristics of cigarette butts across the world and his book on the subject is updated each year. If it isn’t in the book, then it doesn’t exist. Ah, here we go … This one is a very exclusive brand. It’s by a company called the Chancellor Tobacco Company in England. The cigarette is called Treasurer Luxury White. Very expensive. Only sold in England and only at exclusive locations. Not available through ordinary retail channels, and certainly not in India.”
Nisha grinned. “Remind me to thank Bob Bourhill when I see him.”
Chapter 15
THE SMALL GROUND-FLOOR apartment in Vasant Vihar was ideal for Nisha, her eleven-year-old daughter, Maya, and their maid, Heena. It had been pricey—Vasant Vihar was an expensive area and property prices in Delhi had gone through the roof—but Sanjeev had left her with money and, having bought the apartment, Nisha had saved the rest. Financially she was well off.
But for all that, nothing could fill the emotional hole Sanjeev had left. It was as though his absence were a malignant presence. Like a shadow in their lives. And it was with them now as they sat at the dining table, finishing a dinner prepared by Heena. It was an unspoken thing. We wish Papa were here. Telling stupid jokes or singing to himself or even just being grumpy. Whatever. We wish Papa were here.