The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(3)

The site felt isolated, with no other buildings nearby. Naik introduced Arnav to the site manager, who had rushed up to meet them. A pasty young man in a suit with a British twang to his English, totally out of his depth with the grumbling knot of laborers.

Arnav raised a hand and asked the men to step back and take a break. He’d call them if necessary. A tall, thin man, who seemed to be their leader, stepped forward and spoke to Arnav.

“They wouldn’t have called you if we hadn’t made a ruckus, saab. Get rid of it or we’ll have to find work elsewhere.”

Arnav reassured the man, and the flock of laborers left.

“Let’s see what you’ve found.” He gestured to the fancy-suit manager.

“This way, Inspector.”

Fancy Suit stumbled, but righted himself and walked on toward an excavator that might have once been red, but was now an unrecognizable mud-splashed color.

“When did you hear of this?”

“The laborers showed it to the supervisor this morning. He called me.”

“When did Taneja Estate Holdings start working at this site?”

“This week. The land ownership was contested for many years, but we started building as soon as they won the case.”

“Do they know what’s going on?”

“Yes, sir. I was on the phone with Mr. Taneja himself. He wished to understand how soon we can resume work. Once we build a basic structure, the other party won’t be able to appeal the court decision. The architect’s plan has been approved, and we’ve already ordered all the materials.”

“How long has the lawsuit been in the courts?”

“More than twenty years.”

“That’s quite a while.”

“Some local organization said this land belonged to the protected coastal mangrove forest area, and brought up stay orders each year.”

“I see.” Arnav handed the manager his card. “For now, it’s a crime scene. We’ll let you know once the investigation is done.”

“We’ve already hired these workers, Inspector. You saw what an issue this could become.”

“I understand, but this is a murder investigation, from what I can tell so far.”

Arnav turned to Naik, who had followed him, effectively dismissing the site manager. “You’ve called Forensics?”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Meshram is on his way.”

“Check the manager’s story about this land’s ownership. Does Taneja Estate Holdings own the land, or does it belong to someone else? If it was under litigation, verify all the details.”

“I’ll get a constable on it right away, sir,” Naik said.

Disputes often led to dead bodies—this wouldn’t be the first time a land dispute led to murder. Those who had dumped the body had assumed that the place would stay undisturbed for a while.

Right beside the excavator, Naik’s scene markers and yellow tape surrounded a rectangular pit. A constable stood beside it, and upon their approach snatched away the kerchief he’d been holding to his nose. Arnav had worked at similar crime scenes before. When Tara disappeared more than a decade ago, this had been his immediate, panicked thought—he’d one day find her dumped somewhere, exactly like this.

From the heap of mud, stones, and stray twigs, he spotted a bone sticking out, and a dark leathery material. Desiccated skin and flesh, looking eerily at home in the soil.





CHAPTER THREE


Cut. One. Two. Three. He hummed the words while the razor traced lines on his thigh. Inhale. Two. Three. Cut. He kept the pressure even. It stung hard enough to satisfy, light enough he didn’t flinch. The hum rose and fell with each line. Red bloomed on his parted skin, the halves gently taking leave of each other, the barely-there metal smell a soft lull that kept him floating without water in his bathtub. He closed his eyes and leaned back on the cool marble wall, letting darkness take him. He wouldn’t let her win.

It didn’t last long. A soft knock, and cheap aftershave in the air.

“Adults don’t do this, you know.” Bilal’s harsh voice broke the quiet. “You can’t come apart each time some little thing happens.”

This was no little thing. And what did Bilal know? He pictured Bilal, looming over the tub, his short-sleeved shirt neatly pressed and buttoned, shining bald pate, the belt a little too high on the waist, pant creases sharp enough they could hurt anyone they touched. His eyes filled with reproach, and that terrible thing. Pity.

“Come on now. Sit up,” Bilal’s tone was peremptory.

Maybe he still thought himself an adult in charge of a teen. Exactly how old was Bilal? He didn’t know, nor did Bilal. He’d asked Bilal the first time the man had taped up the shallow, hesitant cuts. Bilal had been there, not young, not old, solid like a load-bearing wall each time the roof caved in.

He heard Bilal leave and return scant minutes later, like he knew his trusted housekeeper would. Ice clinked in a glass, and when he opened his eyes, there it was, dark amber held right beneath his chin. He accepted the crystal glass of single malt, let Bilal help him sit straighter, relishing the way that made the cuts unfurl in pain.

“I’m not cleaning up after you again.” Bilal picked up the gauze and the antiseptic, and perching on the edge of the tub, patted at the cuts, his hands deliberately brisk.