“Would you agree with that view, Mr. Patel?” asked Guha.
“We at Surgiquip have been working hand in hand with the government to upgrade Indian health care infrastructure,” said Patel. A ruby-encrusted Marte Omas pen sparkled in his shirt pocket.
Guha rolled the lozenge in his mouth, getting ready for the kill. “When you say you have been working ‘hand in hand’ with the government, are you referring to the fact that the late Health Minister, Kumar, was an investor in Surgiquip?” he asked.
Santosh was suddenly all ears. He hadn’t seen that coming. Guha was famous for throwing curveballs.
Patel’s startled expression was captured on camera as he absorbed the revelation. The vermillion mark on his forehead seemed to levitate as his eyebrows traveled north. He had no option but to answer. “That is a preposterous insinuation,” he replied.
“So are you denying his involvement in your company?” asked Guha.
“Nikhil Kumar and I were on the same page regarding the need to upgrade and improve our creaking medical infrastructure. Our relationship was entirely based on that common objective.”
“You’ve still not answered my question,” said Guha, staring into Patel’s eyes like a criminal lawyer. “Were you business partners?”
“This program was meant to discuss the overall condition of the Indian health care sector, not one specific company,” said Patel, his face reddening with anger at the persistent line of questioning by Guha.
“The nation wants to know whether the Health Minister could have been killed as part of a deeper conspiracy in the health care sector,” said Guha. “That’s why I must ask you yet again whether you were partners.”
“It is evident to me that this is about you scoring a few cheap debating points in your quest for ratings,” said Patel. “I shall not dignify the question by answering it.”
“Did you have a falling out with the Health Minister that eventually resulted in his death?” asked Guha, his fist bobbing up and down as he slammed the desk.
“You will hear from my lawyers when I sue you for libel!” shouted Patel, as Arora and Thakkar looked on. Thakkar seemed relieved that he was not in the firing line. Arora watched the scene with a steely hardness in his eyes. Patel stood up. Thakkar shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Where are you going, Mr. Patel?” asked Guha. “The show is not yet concluded.”
Patel ripped off his collar microphone. “You’re right, Mr. Guha. The show isn’t over yet,” he said as he stormed out of the studio.
“Nisha,” said Santosh, switching off the TV at the same time, “could you pick me up tomorrow? I’d like to pay Greater Kailash a visit.”
“Had a brainwave, boss?”
“We’ll see. Nice and early, please.”
He ended the call, about to return to his thoughts when something occurred to him: for the first time in as long as he could remember, he had not felt tempted by the bottle.
Chapter 42
SHE WAS NOT a particularly fast driver—like most newcomers to the city, she found the Delhi traffic a little intimidating—but even so, Nisha drove slowly out of respect for her passenger. From the corner of her eye she could see him staring straight ahead, impassive, his cane held tightly. The whites of his knuckles the only sign of any inner turmoil.
“So, what’s prompted this visit, then?” she asked, hoping to break the ice.
“I have a theory,?
?? he said enigmatically. “Bear with me on it, would you, Nisha? All will—or will not—become clear when we have a look at the house. Did you notice anything unusual about it the other day?”
“Well, apart from the police presence, I can’t say I did. At least we’ll have the advantage of their absence this time around.”
“You didn’t get a good look, then?”
She wondered if he was questioning her professionalism. Feeling herself tighten a little, she replied defensively: “The terms of the investigation were a little different then.”
“Quite, quite,” agreed Santosh hurriedly, putting her at ease. “Much has changed in the meantime. Much of it thanks to your investigation, Nisha. Private is fortunate to have you.”
Equilibrium restored, the two of them lapsed into silence once more, and Nisha watched the road as Santosh stared straight ahead, occasionally gazing out of the passenger window at red stone buildings flashing by, the vibrancy of Delhi just a fingertip away.
The silence—such as it was, assaulted by a constant deluge of activity from outside—was companionable, but even so, Santosh broke it, clearing his throat. “How are things at home, Nisha?”