In Soft Kill by Shubhra Krishan, a powerful man’s glittering life begins to crack long before his chilling, seemingly perfect murder comes to light.
December 1989
Saint-Tropez
France
Standing in the balcony of his five-star penthouse, Andaleeb (Andy) Asthana blew dark curls of smoke into the clean Mediterranean air. The view was glorious—mouthwash-blue waters glittering in the sun. Like that endless vista, the world belonged to him. He had earned it all. The awards were coming thick and fast. Next year, he would conquer Cannes.
The only person who stood between him and the lion-shaped trophy was the Anglo-Indian woman whose campaign for a soap brand had made more waves than a stormy sea. He had to admit she had done the smart thing—making the model bathe under a waterfall. Genius, they were calling her. Bitch, he muttered. Stealing ideas from American ads, getting that cokehead to write her jingles, sleeping her way up.
He ambled back into the suite, a high-ceilinged room divided into a living and dining area. Decorated in yolk-yellow and midnight blue, it featured a three-section sofa customized for the space. A vintage chair with a writing desk stood in the corner. An extended skylight on the roof aimed slanting sunlight on The Blue Room (La Chambre Bleue), a 1923 self-portrait by French artist Suzanne Valadon. A porcelain tub sat by the oversized window of his bedroom, designed for a luxurious soak with a view.
The phone rang. It was the operator informing him that his trunk call to Delhi could not go through—the phone was engaged. ‘How the hell can it be,’ he shouted, as if it were her fault, and banged the receiver. A familiar emotion rose inside his chest. Rage. He could feel his cheeks flame and his heart pound. Lighting another cigarette, he stormed back into the balcony. This time, the sea did not look so blue.
I try. God knows how much I try.
Of their own accord, his feet led him to the big black suitcase in the room. He opened it and fished for a packet right at the bottom. His hands closed around its hard, coiled shape, and gripped it tight.
She leaves me with no choice . . .
‘Cuckoo!’ called the bird trapped inside her wooden cage on the wall, startling him. Damn, it was past five, and he hadn’t written a word. There was no time to lose. His clients back in Delhi were already frowning at his frequent foreign trips.
He opened his leather-bound diary, and wrote a reminder to himself from his idol, the great David Ogilvy. ‘It isn’t the whiskey they choose. It’s the image.’ After scribbling out his ideas for an hour, he arose and stretched.
Regretfully, the tub was too small for his frame. He would have to settle for the shower—a small compromise, considering it stood right on the balcony, awash in Italian bluestone.
He discarded his bathrobe and stood before an antique mirror, surveying himself. For the first time since his arrival in France, he winced.
In his head, he was still tall, dark and dashing. In the mirror, he was just tall and dark. The ‘dashing’ had given way to cholesterol-induced corpulence. His square jawline had sagged into three layers of chin, and his belly had ballooned. Only yesterday, an abominable Indian kid had pointed to it, yelling ‘Mota pet sadak pe let’ as he lay sunbathing on the beach.
But even that was not the worst part of his anatomy. It was what lay below it . . .
His hand closed around the organ. Noodle-limp. Slow fury arose in his chest, and he began pumping it for all he was worth. No response.
Once upon a time, this useless thing had been his pride. Each time he revealed himself in his full glory, women went weak in the knees. How many full-blooded young beauties had lain under his muscular frame, begging for mercy . . .
Sighing at the memory, he ripped open a packet, filled water in a glass and glugged down a small green pill. The doctor had advised him against it after his latest test reports, but well, fuck him.
Close on the heels of that thought came another, urgent one: She better come fast now.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, the doorbell rang. She walked into the room like a vision in silk, said ‘Bonjour, Monsieur’, and went for him without a word. He arched his back against the pillow, grunting and groaning. These bitches were good at what they did. He would have loved to try out some of his fantasies on them, but these countries had laws . . .
Cuckoo, went the clock, making him glance up.
Just under twenty-four hours for him to go home and play with his life’s biggest trophy—his beautiful young wife.
She was his to flaunt, his to kiss, his to break . . .
And at home, he was the law.
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