Inspector Singh Investigates: A Curious Indian Cadaver

That was probably the most truthful thing that Tanvir had said to him yet. Wherever one was in the world, it seemed that it was difficult to bring the rich and powerful to book. It was enough to turn anyone into a communist – as long as it didn’t mean he had to share his cigarettes and beer.

If publicity was the lifeblood of terrorists, the week-long siege of the hotel had been a massive transfusion.

“I’m telling you that I knew Ashu. She was like a daughter to me. There is no way she would have killed herself – and in such a way.”

“The police seem quite sure,” he replied.

“The police in India are like a river, Inspector Singh, always taking the path of least resistance.”

Singh decided to save the metaphor for an occasion when he could use it on Superintendent Chen.

Singh sat in front of a screen glumly, occasionally scrolling down with one grubby finger on a key. He hated computers. He especially hated information presented to him in such an impersonal way. There was no human touch here. Whatever opinions might have been found scribbled in the margins of a hard copy were nowhere to be found online.

In each puddle of light, like a morality play, the homeless lay on carefully laid out bits of cardboard or blanket. The ‘new middle class’ of Mumbai, spoken of in hushed tones by economists, stepped over the sleeping forms or skirted around them without breaking stride as they headed for the nearest Starbucks to fulfil their destiny as the engine of Indian economic growth.

Out of the corner of his eye, Singh noted that the younger brother looked scared. There were secrets within this family. But was there anything odd in that? All families had something to hide, a sin that loomed large in the household although trivial in the greater scheme of things. A quarrel between members, feuding factions, perhaps an affair. It didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the missing woman.

Without money, terrorists were just angry young men with an axe to grind. With money, the metaphorical axe became real and sharp and terrifying. He knew that very well – had learnt it the hard way – from his murder investigation in Bali after the bombings there.

Humanity was doomed, decided Singh, which made his job of hunting down individual murderers particularly pointless.

A mob is more than the sum of individuals. It is more like a single creature with many arms and legs, hydra-headed but working with one idea.