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ago and they — the Belgian Police — have found evidence that makes them think that the perpetrator/s are in Mumbai, so they are here on Monday for a briefing. We'll take it from there.'
    'Is that all?'
    'Unfortunately, that's all I know at the moment.'
    'OK. I'll get things sorted before Monday then, ma'am. And I'll send someone to clean and fill your coffee machine.'
    'Is my caffeine withdrawal so apparent?' she retorted. 'Anyway, get the Operation Room ready please.'
    The Operation Room was set up for any case that the crime squad handled. Over time as the case progressed it became a repository of all evidence, information and the assigned place for team meetings.
    ***
    Before leaving the office, Rita signed for and examined a Smith & Wesson. It wasn't the one she had deposited before going on leave. She got a 2213 Compact. Small, not something that had a harsh recoil, but effective. Not brand new. Not a rusted one either. Picking up the gun wasn't challenging, but she knew she had to get to the firing range to try out the new gun. She could never trust a firearm she hadn't fired. No one in the police or armed forces did. You didn't want a surprise when you least expected it. Rita made a note of calling up to book the practice range and go there as early as she could, possibly over the weekend.

T he Belgian detective who came to Mumbai on Monday morning — Victor De Smet — was anything but the legendary Hercule Poirot though he had the girth and the accentuated gait of the fabled character. Remove Poirot's moustache and add a head full of straight blond hair parted on the side and that was Victor. He was pleasant to look at and he spoke softly and carefully in his accented English. He met Rita and Vikram in the newly set up Ops Room. Jatin was still not in the office; he had sent a message apologising as his flight from Dubai had been delayed therefore he would only be in after lunch. Handshakes, introductions, a bit of pleasantries exchanged, and the three got down to business.
    Ron Jogani, Victor informed, was carrying diamonds of undisclosed value — certainly more than the receipt the police found in his hotel room — and was murdered. His corpse, cold and still unclaimed, lay in a Belgian morgue. Despite numerous efforts made through the Indian Embassy in Brussels, no one had come forward to collect it. Ron Jogani, apparently, didn't have any family: no parents, no siblings, no partner. His ex-wife had belligerently declined all requests; she didn't want anything to do with “Ron” — whether dead or alive. The identification of his corpse hadn't been carried out by his kin, which is the standard legally accepted procedure around the world; the documents found in his hotel room had established his identity. The Belgian police had diligently investigated Leonard Aaron — the Antwerp merchant who had sold the diamonds that cost Jogani his life, and the driver who dropped Jogani at the hotel. Both had been cleared.
    Jogani's autopsy report held little surprise unless one's curiosity extended to what beers and sandwiches he had savoured before he perished. Death was by a close range shot. End of.
    Victor paused for the Indian detectives to digest all he had narrated. 'In the initial stages of the investigation we were certain someone on the inside — I mean the hotel staff — was involved, it had to be. There seemed no other way. I mean how else could someone circumvent the whole security cameras, know about Jogani's booking in the hotel? The room numbers are normally allocated on the morning the guest is supposed to check-in. And the killer or killers knew the room number before Jogani arrived at the hotel. They had access to his room key. They intercepted the telephone line to make the midnight call to Jogani look like it came from reception. But we found diddlysquat, and we checked out the entire hotel staff... every single one of them was interviewed, investigated and cleared. We just don't know how it