She scrolled to the browser of her phone, Google-searched “Amit Roy, Ministry of Health and Family Welfare,” and clicked the link for the ministry. Once it had loaded, she clicked on the “Contact Us” link. On that page were the email IDs and phone numbers of the senior officials of the ministry.
Roy’s name was the first one on that page. It was followed by an email ID, office phone number, and residential phone number. She copy-pasted the residential phone number into a reverse lookup website and waited impatiently for the result to pop up.
And she had it. New Moti Bagh. She looked at the map on her phone. Sixteen minutes to get there at this time. In the distance she could hear the sound of sirens and she knew that by rights she should remain behind for the ambulance but she couldn’t. Time was all that mattered now. She dashed to the bedroom, reached to the back of her bedside table, and found her old .38 police special. She clipped it to her belt as she scrambled outside, back into the Toyota, and a moment later she was pulling out into traffic.
“I’m coming, baby,” she said. “I’m coming.”
Chapter 72
NISHA DROVE THE car recklessly as she crossed Rao Tula Ram Marg on her way to Moti Bagh. She would have preferred to take the shorter route via Hare Krishna Mehto Marg but roadworks blocked the way. She cursed her luck and followed the longer route.
I’ll kill him if he’s touched her. So help me.
A cab in front of her refused to yield in spite of her repeated attempts. Nisha switched the headlights on full beam, jammed her hand on the horn, and overtook it, avoiding grazing it with just a couple of millimeters to spare. The man in the car shouted obscenities at her. He tried to chase her but was unable to keep up.
She wondered whether she should call Jack or Neel but decided against it. Santosh’s death was a body blow to everyone. She was on her own.
Like a tigress protecting her cub.
Chapter 73
JACK LOOKED AT the corpse.
It was Santosh.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Santosh’s knees were slightly lifted off the ground and his arms were bent at the elbows. He had obviously been attempting to adopt the fetal position in order to fight the bitter cold as he died.
Beside him, Neel was staring at his dead boss, a vacant expression on his face.
“Hey, bud, you okay?” said Jack, and put his hand to the other man’s upper arm.
It was as though the contact spurred Neel into action. “Help me,” he said.
“Help you what?”
“Get the body out. Please, quick—time is of the essence.”
They maneuvered the corpse onto a gurney and in the next instant were wheeling it out of the morgue.
“What are we doing, Neel?” Jack asked as they went at full speed to the elevator.
“Follow my lead,” said Neel. “I’ll explain when we get there.”
They loaded the trolley into the elevator and Neel pressed for the fifth floor—the Intensive Care Unit. When the doors opened they were greeted by a doctor about to step into the elevator.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, eyes flitting from the two men to the corpse on the gurney. “Where do you think you’re going with this body?”
“He’s not dead,” said Neel.
“He looks dead to me.”
“He’s not. His arms are slightly bent at the elbows,” urged Neel. “Just try straightening his arms.”
The doctor looked from Neel to Santosh, took hold of a hand, and tried to straighten the arm. It bounced back a few inches.
“You see?” said Neel. “Dead muscles cannot contract. He has severe hypothermia but he’s not dead.”
The doctor was nodding his agreement. “Okay, right, we need to take him to an ordinary room,” he said. “Intensive Care is kept freezing cold to prevent infections. We need to crank up the temperature of the room.