“That noise.” Then her senses sharpened. “It’s the ground. The ground is—”
She didn’t get to finish her sentence. Suddenly it was as though the grass were trying to swallow them. Subsidence. A sinkhole. Something. Either way, the earth gave way beneath them, and the two lovebirds crashed through the lawn and into a nightmare beneath.
Chapter 4
DAZED, THE GIRL pulled herself to her hands and knees, coughing and gagging at a sudden stench, a mix of caustic chemicals and something else. Something truly stomach-turning.
The floor was rough concrete. She was in a low-ceilinged basement. A gray patch of light in the ceiling indicated where they’d fallen through. Plasterboard, turf, and rotted wooden beams hung down as though in the aftermath of a storm.
And pulling himself up back through the hole was her boyfriend.
“Hey,” she called. “Where are you…?”
But he was gone.
Naked, wincing in pain, and consumed with a creeping sense of something being terribly, terribly wrong, the girl looked around, her eyesight adjusting to the gloom. She saw gas masks and coveralls hanging from pegs. A small chainsaw. Dotted around the concrete floor was a series of plastic barrels with some kind of toxic chemical fumes rising from each one. And even in her traumatized state she realized it was those fumes that had eroded the ceiling structure enough for it to collapse.
And then she saw other things too. They seemed to appear out of the darkness. A table, like a butcher’s block, with a huge meat cleaver protruding from the bloodstained wood. And from the plastic barrels protruded hands and feet, the skin bubbling and burning as though being subjected to great heat.
Bile rising, she knew what was happening here. She knew exactly what was happening here.
Chapter 5
A CHARNEL HOUSE, thought the Commissioner of Police, Rajesh Sharma, when he returned to the office the next day, with the stink of chemicals and decomposition clinging to him. Rarely had he been quite so grateful to leave a crime scene. Those poor bastards who’d had to stay.
The call had come in at around eleven o’clock the night before. A neighbor had heard screaming, looked out, and seen a terrified young woman, her clothes in disarray, running away from the house.
A short while later it was sealed off. The team had been inside for eight hours and would be there for many more days. They had determined the perp was using hydrofluoric acid to dissolve the bodies in plastic tubs. There was no way of counting how many, but say one for each barrel, that made eleven at least. Quite a death toll. What’s more, it didn’t take into account any corpses that might already have been disposed of.
But here was the bit that had really taken Sharma by surprise: the house was owned by the Delhi state government.
Mass murder. On government property. He would have to ensure the press did not get hold of this story; in fact, he’d have to make sure the news reached as few ears as possible.
Sharma had washed his hands. He’d rubbed at his face. But he could still smell the corpses as he sat behind his desk at police headquarters and greeted his guest.
The man who took a seat opposite was Nikhil Kumar, the Honorable Minister for Health and Family Welfare. Photoshoot-perfect, not a strand of jet-black hair out of place, Kumar wore simple khaki slacks, an Egyptian cotton shirt, a Canali blazer, and comfortable soft-leather loafers. His very presence made Sharma feel overweight and scruffy by comparison. Well, let’s face it, he was overweight and scruffy. But Kumar made him feel even more so.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Sharma asked the minister. It paid to be courteous to ministers.
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,” said Kumar.
“I’m happy to help. What’s on your mind?”
“I am given to understand that your men searched a house in Greater Kailash today. I was wondering if you could share some information regarding what you found.”
Sharma tried not to let his irritation show as he considered his response. On the one hand he wanted to keep Kumar satisfied; on the other, experience had taught him that it was always better to keep politicians out of police inquiries.
“How about you tell me what your interest in this matter is?” he said. “And how you found out about it?”
“As I’m sure you’re about to remind me, I have no jurisdiction with the police. You and I stand on the battlements of two opposing forts in the same city. But I have contacts, and I find out what I can. You want to prevent leaks, run a tighter ship.”
Sharma chortled. “This is your way of buttering me up, is it, Minister? Coming into my office and criticizing the way I run my police force?”
“Let me be frank with you,” said Kumar. “It may not be wise to delve too deeply into this case.”
“Minister, we’ve got at least eleven potential murders here.” He was about to reveal he knew the building was owned by the state but stopped himself, deciding to keep his powder dry. “While I appreciate the need for discretion, we will be delving as deeply as we need to in order to discover the truth.”
“Suffice to say that you would be adequately compensated,” said Kumar.
Sharma was taken aback. “For what?”
“For your cooperation.”
Sharma sat back and made Kumar wait for a response. “I tell you what, Minister—you leave now, and I’ll think about your offer.”
Sharma watched with satisfaction as Kumar stood and tried to leave the office with as much dignity as he could regain.
Only when the door had closed did Sharma allow himself a smile. This was what they called an opportunity. And when life gives you lemons…
Chapter 6
SANTOSH WAGH OPENED the front door of his home to find Jack Morgan on the doorstep.
“Santosh!” said Jack, and before Santosh could react he had stepped inside.
As ever, Santosh was happy to see his boss. The thing with Jack was that as soon as he appeared, whatever the time, whatever the place, you were simply a guest in his world. It was impossible not to feel reassured by it. It wasn’t just the gun Jack carried; it wasn’t just the fact that Jack was enormously wealthy and could boast powerful and high-profile friends. It was just Jack, being Jack.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” said Santosh. Looking around, he saw his living quarters through Jack’s eyes: hardly furnished, dark, and a little musty. “I would give you a tour, but I believe you know your way around already.”
“I don’t follow,” said Jack quizzically.
“Years ago when you hired me you told me you thought I was an exceptional detective. Did you really think you could break into my apartment and I wouldn’t notice?”
Jack relaxed, allowing himself a smile. The game was up. “Well, I’m an exceptional cat burglar, so I played the odds. How did you know?”