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occurred in Belgium, and how far would one go digging for a cold case?
    The coincidence of the two events — her successful evaluation and the urgency of the international case was a bit baffling though. But when the bureaucratic machinery really decided to do something, she knew, it got done much faster than it took Tendulkar to score a century. Rita involuntarily smiled as the plane touched down at Mumbai. The flight had landed on the dot like it had taken off. The plane taxied for a little longer than usual, waiting for passengers from earlier flights to disembark before it docked on to the next available aerobridge.
    As she collected her baggage from the carousel, her mind drifted to the case at hand. A cold case leading to “some pointer to Mumbai” could well mean that it would have provided the perpetrators with ample time to get away and move to Australia by now.
    It would be frustrating.
    It would be challenging.
    But she was ready for it. She had had enough cessation from duty, and after a while it had actually grown into boredom. Her alcohol intake had also increased, which she had to consciously break the dependence on. Yes she was ready, she murmured in her brain and walked out to her driver waiting for her, and who came running the minute he saw her exit and, mocking a salute, took her luggage and walked her to her new official white Volkswagen Jetta.
    'How have you been, Kuldeep?' Rita asked as she climbed into the car.
    'Very much thank you, madam.' Kuldeep was a reticent man. He spoke very little and was uncomfortable whenever Rita made an attempt, but he responded, nevertheless, in his dialectal English.
    There seemed little point in labouring the dialogue further.
    'Home.' It was late and Rita was tired. It was better to begin work the next day, she reckoned.
    Kuldeep just nodded and put the car in gear and drove to Bandra.
    ***
    Whatever class of travel you picked in India, the car journey from the airport to your final destination ultimately coated you with a fine layer of grime, even if it is in an air-conditioned car with the windows closed. Rita unpacked, doffed her clothes and went straight into the shower. She stood five-six in socks, or without them, as she currently was under the jet flow of cold water that she needed to relax. She never considered herself beautiful — and conventionally she wasn't — but she knew well she drew glances from men of all ages. Blessed with a great metabolism, she made the most of it by never restricting her diet. She was in fantastic shape for a woman of thirty-something; like most other women she, too, maintained ambiguity of her precise age. Whenever she missed gym for more than a week — normally when in the middle of a big case — she kept on with calisthenics at home: light yoga was best for toning the body. Tawny coloured body, with not an ounce of undesired fat. Flat stomach, not well endowed — certainly not the kind that was in your face — yet curvaceous enough. 56 kilos. And a God-gifted zillion-dollar arse to top that. Beauty can be an opinion steered by preconceived notion or your upbringing; sensuality was near absolute. Sensual: that was what she was if she were to be styled in one word.
    They say a woman's intuition is far greater than a man's. Combine that with police training and years of experience: a perfect marriage of nature and nurture. And above everything else DCP Rita Ferreira was a class A workaholic.
    Kuldeep had a set of keys and he had got the house cleaned and filled the refrigerator with fresh bread, milk and eggs. And ice. Rita unpacked and went around her apartment looking at all the things she had missed. It was mostly full of paperbacks and music. And there it was: a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam.
    Should she? Shouldn't she?
    She had, on too many occasions, witnessed her father get swacked, burst into fits of laughter, get angry, get over-effusive and loud, then get all maudlin and finally apologise; all in one evening. He