Free Dead Water by Simon Ings Page B

assassination and a series of strategic alliances across religious boundaries.’
    To put it in plain English, the Yadavs are everywhere. Roopa Vish finds this out for herself shortly after passing her police probation. Roopa has been working at the ACB for six months, matching names and addresses across commercial and contractual paperwork, when she comes across a small import–export concern called EastSpan Imports. Uncovering connections between the company and other Yadav family interests, Roopa tips off the Bombay Port Trust. The most she expects, and the most her bosses expect of her, is that the Trust might intercept some lowpressure cold extraction gear: plant associated with the Yadav family’s sandalwood scam.
    What they get are twenty-seven barrels of engine grease which, when emptied over the quay, disgorge thirty-seven revolvers, 1,280 rounds of ammunition and a silencer.
    It’s been common knowledge for years that the Yadavs of Bombay have been importing Tanzanian sandalwood and using it to adulterate genuine sandalwood oil. The family’s rural branches, meanwhile, have been smuggling protected sandalwood from Kerala and distilling it in mobile factories all over Uttar Pradesh. It’s a profitable trade and a relatively bloodless one. What the hell do the Yadavs need all this hardware for?
    Roopa Vish, meanwhile, has uncovered something even more peculiar. One of the Yadav family’s country cousins has moved to Bombay and joined the police.
    With a family this big, you expect a few recidivists to find themselves legitimate careers. It’s only when they start doing exceptionally well that alarm bells ring. Sub-Inspector Yash Yadav has been doing very well indeed. Bank frauds, financial frauds, foreign exchange violations: Yash Yadav’s case files record success after success. Now strings have been pulled to draw him up the police ranks and into the elite Central Bureau of Investigation. Roopa Vish wonders whether, underneath his uniform, this country cousin, this yokel, might not be working for the Bombay branch of the family. She picks up the phone.
    Roopa has a new boss: Kala Subadrah, formerly the Deputy Inspector General of the Central Industrial Security Force, providing security cover to nearly three hundred sensitive industrial locations all over India. Kala’s just had twins, though you’d never know it to look at her. She has one of those labour-proof bodies: easy to picture her on the front cover of a maternity magazine, working out with small hand-weights. Only the bags under her eyes give her away. If she’s getting four hours of sleep a night, she’s lucky. For all that, Kala finds time to meet Roopa out of office hours, and this is a very good sign. Kala is new to her job and has a lot to prove. Roopa’s discovery may be the answer to Kala’s prayers.
    The restaurant is pink with Australian tourists. You can smell the sunblock from here. And there’s a foul odour coming from the restaurant. Christmas dinners.
    ‘Well,’ Kala says, over tea and sweets: straight down to business. ‘This is a bloody mess, isn’t it?’
    Roopa chews her halwa.
    ‘A decorated officer. Gallantry. Meritorious Service. And here you are dragging his name through the mud on no better grounds than that he has a notorious surname. What on earth do you think you’re doing, Assistant Sub-Inspector?’
    Roopa stares at her plate.
    ‘Roopa.’
    It takes a moment for Roopa to twig: Kala is smiling.
    ‘Roopa Vish.’ She pours them more tea. ‘Are you related?’
    ‘My father,’ Roopa says, her voice barely audible over the raucous chatter of the Australians.
    ‘Kabir Vish. Caught the Stoneman. Ugly bugger, as I remember. Terrible teeth. Your mum must be a beauty.’
    ‘Ma’am?’
    Kala laughs. ‘Relax, Roopa. I know quality when it’s under my nose. Your father, may he rest in peace, taught me everything I know.’
    Installed in her own office, with her own assistant and even a phone of her own, Roopa