The Taj Conspiracy Read Free Page B

disappear, or was she caught in the act?’
    Mehrunisa found herself shaking. Stay calm, she counselled herself, you have done nothing wrong. It was typical police behaviour—overbearing, dismissive, brutish. She couldn’t seriously be considered a suspect. Inspector Javed must have confirmed the time she’d arrived at the Taj, and the coagulated blood was clear indication that the murder had occurred some hours back. Reassured by her reasoning, she looked up, angled her chin, and regurgitated once more that she had arrived early to study the cenotaphs before the public was allowed in. Arun Toor was to meet her at the mausoleum. Instead she had found his corpse.
    ‘When was the meeting fixed?’
    ‘Two days back. I called yesterday—’
    ‘What time?’
    ‘Eight p.m. I reconfirmed the appointment, we chatted briefly and then he excused himself. He said he was expecting a visitor and had to prepare for the meeting.’
    ‘A visitor? That late? Who was the supervisor expecting?’ The SSP furrowed his brow as if he had not heard the information previously from her.
    ‘Someone called Aurangzeb.’
    ‘Hmm. Aurangzeb. Are you sure you heard correctly?’
    ‘I think so.’
    SSP Raghav leaned over the table and spun a glass paperweight with trapped air bubbles inside. As it rattled on the table he peered at her closely. ‘I know one Aurangzeb related to the Taj Mahal. But he died three hundred years back. You know any modern one?’
    Mehrunisa gulped and shook her head.
    ‘Ever heard his name from the supervisor before? From anyone else at the Taj?’
    Mehrunisa shook her head again.
    SSP Raghav lifted his brows and blew air out of his mouth, making his moustache quiver. ‘Terrorist, possible? One of the jihadis our neighbour exports routinely?’ With that he proceeded to pace the room, hands interlocked behind his back.
    A slap of slippers sounded as a peon came up to Mehrunisa, plucked a glass of tea from a wire rack and deposited it in front of her. A plate with a greasy omelette and toast appeared beside it.
    ‘Eat,’ the SSP barked. ‘I don’t want you fainting. I have more questions to ask.’
    To humour the SSP, Mehrunisa took a few sips and nibbled at the toast. The waft of fried egg mingled with the police station’s distinct vapours left her feeling like she had bitten into bread extracted from under an armpit. As she quelled nausea, a loud wail rent the air followed by thrashing sounds. Turning in her chair she saw a policeman walk in dragging a young man by his hair, his sweater ripped and blood trickling from his head. Mehrunisa felt her stomach heave. Clutching it, she doubled over a potted palm in one corner of the room and vomited.
    SSP Raghav let her use the bathroom. It was passably un-dirty. She quickly rinsed her mouth, splashed water on her face and darted out.
    ‘Tell me again about what you saw.’ SSP Raghav was waiting outside the door and walked her back to his desk. A policeman watched her, his lips twisted in a smirk.
    Once again Mehrunisa recounted the three things she had noticed: the eye sketched on the forehead, the slashed wrist, the bloody scrawl.
    ‘What do you think they mean? The eye and the writing?’ The SSP probed his bushy moustache as he pinned her with his dark eyes.
    Mehrunisa shrugged. ‘If he was the one who was responsible for the writing—it could have been the murderer.’
    ‘Let’s assume it was the supervisor. Atleast we have some insight into what his motivations might have been. You knew him—what do you think he was trying to say?’
    ‘He was a Shiv bhakt—which is why the sketch on the forehead made me think of Shiva’s third eye. Otherwise ...’ she trailed off.
    ‘Hmm ...’ He joggled his brows at her. ‘And the slashed wrist?’
    Mehrunisa shrugged. ‘If we assume he slashed his wrist, then why? For blood to sketch and scrawl? Arun was a right-hander, why would he slash his right wrist and write with his left? Yes, his right hand was