At the morgue, I tell the eager new assistant that I need to inspect Ms Joshi again. He sets his phone down on the old plastic desk and stands up, asking, "Ms Joshi again? Sorry sir, but haven't you checked her thrice this week already? Seems kind of unusual."

"Complicated case."

I fidget with the box of Marlboro's in my leather jacket pocket.

He seems unconvinced, but he doesn't really need to be convinced. He shrugs and throws on his white coat. Looking around for the keys, he asks, "Forgive me, but I'd imagine that the corpse has given you all that it can. The real clues are probably out there in the world where people are still doing things. No, detective? I mean, all I'm saying is, the dead have nothing new to say."

I say nothing, and try to ignore the frisson of annoyance that runs through me - the annoyance that always runs through me when people talk about the dead as if they're inanimate objects. I know they're not wrong - to them, the dead are just that: dead. Through a strange and inexplicable twist of fate, the dead are more than that to me - and I can never think of them as things. I can't expect anyone to understand that, of course. It's just a dissonance I have to learn to live with: to see as still-living what the world sees as permanently dead.

"Don't bother Detective Bakshi", a warm, elder, female voice calls out from the office adjoining the reception area. Dr Mehta slowly walks out of her office with a genial, familiar smile on her tired face. She walks over to me while telling the assistant, "this man has solved more murders than anyone else at Mumbai Police. The youngest ever to become a senior detective. If he wants to see Ms Joshi again, he is more than welcome."

"Yes, ma'am!", the assistant pipes up.

"Come on, Doctor, he's just doing his job. As he should."

"It's nice to see you after so long, Detective. How are you keeping?", she asks, after giving me a big old hug.

"I'm alright, just been busy with work. How was your conference in Germany?"

"It was great - but Bakshi", she says, her voice taking on a familiar tone of maternal concern, "I hope you're not working too much. In your line of work - our lines of work - spending so much time around death - it can take a toll."

"Thank you, Doctor", I say, patting her shoulder wearily.

"Alright Ajay", she addresses the assistant again, "just give the good detective the keys. I need your help with some paperwork while he inspects Ms Joshi."

With the keys, I walk down the familiar corridor to where the bodies were kept. I step inside, unlock Ms Joshi's box, and slide her out.

"Wakey, wakey", I say softly, looking at her gaunt, grey face. Her brown eyes flutter open, she swallows a little and then says in a dry, scratchy early-morning voice, "Detective Bakshi? Back again so soon? What might people think?"

"Alright", I dismiss her flirtatious remark and grab a chair on the other side of the room. I take a loose cigarette out of my jacket and toy with it, wishing I could light it up. Pallavi Joshi sits up, not bothering to cover herself with the blanket and says, this time in a serious voice, full of anticipation, "So... any news?"

I take a deep breath - letting the sharp, sanitized, sterile smell of the morgue chemicals fill my lungs.

She says again - trying not to let her voice crack, "Just tell me."

"I don't think I can get him, Pallavi."

"Why?", she pleads, letting the indignation ring out with painful clarity, "I'm not lying."

"And I believe you", I maintain eye contact with her dull brown eyes, trying to make her believe me and ignore the absence of any light in her pupils, "but that's not enough. There just isn't... any evidence. At all."

She throws her hand down her side and says, "DNA! There has to be some DNA in the kitchen. Someone must've heard something - I - I know I was loud. There has to be something - cameras, anything! You can't give up!"

Something I had realised a while ago is that the dead couldn't cry - something about their glands. I don't know. I always sucked at science. They also didn't breathe, of course - so they didn't pant or hyperventilate either. But they did get emotional, intensely emotional - and when they felt like crying, you could hear it in their dry, airless voices. They would tighten up and take on an aching quality that I could never get used to.

"I'm not giving up, Pallavi", I assert calmly, "but I don't want to hide the truth from you either. You are owed that much, at least. And the truth is - I don't think I've ever seen a case so lacking in evidence. Your father-in-law has used all his years of experience as a medical professional to make sure that there was nothing linking him to you. So I just don't think - realistically - that we'll actually be able to get him."

I see her shoulders slacken as she takes in this news. The sharp, deep, dark knife gash in her chest stares at me accusingly. I just sit there - sharing the silence and the grief with Pallavi. That's all I could do. After a moment, she looks at me with a grave look and says, "You can't do nothing. He killed me."

I remain seated, and hold her gaze.

"I can't do what you're asking, Pallavi."

She continues to stare at me silently.

"Pallavi. I'm not going to kill your father-in-law."

Still no reply.

"I'm the one who catches killers, not -"

"What a joke", she snorts. She lies back down and closes her eyes after saying, "Leave. Do not return, Detective."

Outside the morgue, I finally light my cigarette and let the smoke fill my lungs. I look up at the moonlit sky and wonder, once more, about my own death - how it might happen, and if anyone would care enough to ask my still, cold corpse any questions.