22 March
‘Are you sure you’re right about this, Ms Raman?’ Dennis Wheeler inquired, hunching over Keisha’s MacBook in the Bethnal Green police station at 3.00 p.m. on Thursday.
‘Of course I am,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘There are no traces of any file or folder that matches your description,’ Wheeler replied. ‘I’ve cracked open the password for the Mac. And I’m pretty sure one of us would be able to tap into an encrypted folder with an open-source cracking tool. But it just isn’t here.’
A blare of disjointed voices billowed in my head like echoes from the walls of an uninviting morgue. Where the hell had it gone? Without that film I couldn’t prove that these baffling events were all connected. ‘Can I have a look?’ I requested. ‘It must be in there somewhere.’
Sure, she’s all yours.’ Wheeler slid the laptop across the table towards me.
His Blackberry buzzed. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He fixed a Bluetooth device on his ear and strode out swiftly, booming into the phone.
Peering into the screen of Keisha’s sparsely populated desktop, I searched the contents of all her documents, opening each folder and file to be doubly sure. I found a bunch of music files, picture folders, audio and video clippings of various news stories and documentaries, and half-written programme formats, presumably recent. My face steamed up. Many of her unfulfilled dreams and creative energies were stashed away here. And she was stabled in a mortuary, rotting flesh and all. A life unlived.
‘You find it?’ Wheeler demanded, returning to his desk.
I shook my head disconsolately. ‘Do you think Kiki’s killer removed that folder from her Mac?’
Wheeler chortled. ‘You’re over-imaginative, aren’t you?’
‘I saw her move the film on to her Mac from my spy cam!’ I cried.
‘Where’s that spy cam?’ Wheeler asked sharply.
‘I borrowed it from the LSE TV network,’ I said. ‘I had to erase my video before returning it.’
‘Well, she probably moved it elsewhere to keep it safe,’ Wheeler surmised with a sigh. ‘She didn’t transfer that file to her office laptop. We’ve had that checked too. Mr Alfred Maynard said he viewed the video and he described it to us. And that secretary Meg said Charlotte had seen it too. But neither of them has a copy of it.’
‘She backed the film up on a flash drive,’ I remembered. ‘A SanDisk Connect, I think. It was attached to a red keychain with a label on it. She kept it in her briefcase in a side compartment. It should still be in there.’
Wheeler stared at Keisha’s purple laptop case on the desk. ‘That film is a strong source of evidence and not just for raiding the care home. It’ll also come in handy when we develop a case for the Crown Prosecution Service in the event of a murder trial, should we be able to convict Keisha’s murderer. Keisha’s briefcase is in the BBC offices. It’s being investigated right now. I’ll drop a note about the flash drive.’
I nodded. Wheeler picked up his phone and rattled a few instructions to the detectives who were interrogating BBC officials and searching the contents of Keisha’s workstation in White City.
‘I have some updates for you,’ Wheeler told me when he hung up.
‘I hope they’re positive.’ I muttered.
‘That’s what an update is, I’d reckon,’ Wheeler grunted. ‘We spoke to the traffic police in Westminster. It turns out that the owner of the Wrangler that hit Ms Charlotte Hale’s car is a David Cooper who runs a drycleaner’s shop in Moor Park. He reported it missing after it was stolen from the car park at the Moor Park tube station.’
‘Moor Park?’ I echoed. I wasn’t familiar with the area.
‘Yep. Up in the northwest. The Wrangler was found broken into and abandoned in a shopping arcade in Green Park. Fingerprints and DNA samples have been taken from wherever possible. Since the driver wore gloves, the search hasn’t brought up much yet. But we did hit some pay dirt. The driver smoked a cigarette and stubbed it out on the floor of the car. We’ve taken DNA samples from it. That little ciggy is a Drina special filter, a domestic brand in Bosnia and Serbia. Cooper is a British national and does not smoke. He is being questioned right now. So, here’s our best bet: our suspect isn’t a Brit.’
My stomach churned. I recalled Jeff Stuart blowing swirls of cigarette smoke into my face in his office. Did he smoke this particular brand or a different one? One could never be sure.
I struggled to focus on Wheeler’s commentary.
‘Our constable has also identified the IP address of the first anonymous email you received,’ he was saying. ‘He’s traced it to Café Forever in Crossharbour down south. Davenport emailed us as soon as you showed him those threats yesterday. We’re working with the cafe to determine who could have sent that email. But none of this is much to go by at this juncture.’
Up north, down South … my head began throbbing again.
‘This squad sees you as an ally on this case,’ Wheeler was saying. ‘But we don’t have enough evidence to make any conclusions unless we get that film.’
‘You want Asha to stay cooped in all day like a caged animal? Have you gone out of your mind?’ Nimmy bellowed to me on the phone from his office at 4.45 p.m.
I was sitting in a café at LSE, reviewing some notes for next week’s seminar. I sighed. I didn’t want to have anything to do with Nimmy at all after he had hit me that night, but I couldn’t live with myself if I let someone undergo something I knew was neither legal nor justifiable. So, speaking to him was something I had to do if I wanted to avoid the alternative route: explaining the situation, or a modified version of it, to a family of livid Sawants.
‘Nimmy,’ I began. ‘Listen. I …’
‘What would Mum and Dad say to that, huh? Have you thought about that?’ Nimmy fumed.
I shuddered to think of how Nimmy would respond if I told him I had discussed Asha’s sterilisation with Inspector Davenport.
I took a deep breath. ‘Listen, Nimmy. Asha’s life could be at risk. Last week, Charlotte had an accident. Two days later, Keisha was found dead. I’ve been getting death threats. Someone’s after all of us! I thought we both agreed with all that when you told me about Asha’s pregnancy last week.’
Nimmy exhaled. ‘What’s the proof that all those events are connected?’
‘We’re figuring that out,’ I said. ‘But Asha …’
‘Asha, Asha, Asha! It’s always about her. Good grief, San! What do I do with you now?’
‘Perhaps we could at least make everyone at home understand that it would be best to keep a watch on Asha, just for the time being, since the police are searching for an offender who’s pandering to his––or her––vendetta against special needs people,’ I said tentatively. ‘That’s all. Nothing more. Is that acceptable?’
To my surprise, Nimmy seemed to hunker down.
‘All right, San. We can do it that way,’ he agreed.
Perhaps, my persistence had gained me some kind of an allegiance from him. He might be confused about his ideals but he really did have a good heart.
‘Thanks, Nimmy.’
‘That’s fine, Sandy. You do mean well,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you at home.’
Shailaja and Ashok were glued to the TV when I returned home. Asha sat in an armchair at the other end of the sitting room, trying to watch the telly. The six o’clock BBC news was on. Pandy was slurping up soup from a bowl in the kitchen and Jyoti was at the stove, cooking dinner. I leaned against the banister and sipped my tea. It was a family scene of reasonable normalcy – the first-of-its-kind since I arrived at the Sawants’ six months ago.
The newscaster’s voice resonated from the sitting room. ‘A young woman was knifed to death outside The Anglesea Arms pub in the South Kensington area of Chelsea. The murder victim, Harriet Blue, was an eyewitness to the accident of TV show host, Charlotte Hale last week …’
I hustled over to the sitting room and froze. The channel replayed a segment from last week’s news,
including a report that Blue had spoken to the police, insisting she had seen a mysterious Wrangler push Charlotte’s Skoda Octavia into the median barrier on the road. The anchor carried on about the murder, but I wasn’t listening anymore.
I decided to share my theory with the Sawants. It was now or never.
I turned to Ashok. ‘Um, Uncle …’
Almost at the same moment, Ashok cleared this throat and boomed, ‘Sandhya, we’d like to speak to you.’ The short speech I had rehearsed faded away under the thriving sway of Ashok’s unanticipated words.
‘Yes?’ I said meekly.
‘We understand you want Asha to stay home,’ Ashok said.
Nimmy has kept his word after all, I thought, grateful that he had broken the ice for me.
My fleeting relief ruptured into a million shards when Ashok snarled, ‘What the hell are you doing with my daughter?’
Even as he spoke, Shailaja jumped up from a seat and came right before me. Exchanging a concerned look with his wife, Ashok motioned for her to sit down.
‘U-Uncle …’ I spluttered. ‘Asha’s life … well, it’s … Keisha Douglas, my friend and a TV producer at the BBC … she’s dead. I was working with her on a skills’ campaign for special needs people …’ My words were met with stony silence.
‘Charlotte Hale, who’s hosting Streetsmart – the TV show I thought Asha could participate in … she had an accident last week. The police are investigating both cases,’ I continued, cowering in my seat. ‘They believe someone is against the mentally challenged – or people supporting their cause. They say Asha and everyone like her should lie low until these cases are solved …’
A blend of horror and disgust settled on Ashok’s face. Shailaja adroitly took the baton from him.
‘That’s because you were involved in that sleazy TV show and the campaign! Your thoughtlessness has resulted in an accident and a death,’ she said quietly.
‘No, I …’ I was helpless in my efforts to create a bridge that would connect our vastly different mindsets and perspectives. But I couldn’t refute what Shailaja said. The guilt had been gnawing at me from within – and now, I felt queasy.
‘We’re from a respectable Brahmin family, Sandhya,’ Shailaja went on. ‘We’ve welcomed you into our home and hearth. We’ve tried to lead normal, happy and productive lives. But you’ve been a source of various problems since you moved in. You kicked up a great deal of tension with your insistence on Asha’s involvement in some dodgy TV show and that anchor was the subject of a hit-and-run accident. Your friend was murdered and Nirmal who’s usually focused, has been quite distracted lately. We’ve been kind enough to tolerate you despite your asthma. We’ve respected you and given you your space. We’ve been keeping quiet for everything you’ve done: returning home late nearly everyday, making coffee in the dead of night and disturbing everyone’s sleep when they need to wake up early next morning and go to work, unlike you. You’ve been talking to all kinds of men on the phone, you haven’t been closing the showerhead properly, you’ve been leaving your inhaler and hair clips in random places across this house … I could go on for hours! But your behaviour doesn’t stop with the recklessness of a lazy and inconsiderate paying guest. You drag your feet in the media, an entity that glamourises one’s personal turmoil, intrudes into one’s privacy and cashes in on tragic incidents to sensationalise and sell content. Do you really believe what journalists do in the name of social justice is real?’
‘I think there’s a misunderstanding …’ I began.
‘You didn’t even stop there,’ Ashok spat accusingly. ‘Now you’re bringing the police to our doorstep because of that campaign and the TV show and all that nonsense. Asha is a sweet little girl and you dare to exploit her disability and flaunt her to the media?’
Shailaja cut in, ‘And you’re not only discrediting yourself and your family, but also tarnishing our name, caste, honour and everything we hold dear to our hearts!’ Her voice rose in octave as she finally shouted. ‘And, to top this off, you’ve been sleeping with our son!’
A loud gasp escaped from my gut, as if I had been stabbed. Now, I understood the motive behind Nimmy’s unusual acquiescence to my suggestion this afternoon – rattling on me to his parents about everything, including the nights I had spent with him. I recalled my tirade with the Sawants when Nimmy had told them about my insistence on Asha’s participation in Streetsmart – without consulting me about it, of course. He had done this before. Why wouldn’t he do it again? And now, after instigating this diabolical blaze, he was nestling in the comfort of his office to absolve himself of all the dirt and grime this encounter was spewing out.
A key turned in the lock. Nidhi bounded in with a singsong, ‘Hello!’ When she saw us in the sitting room, she halted in her tracks like she’d been shot.
‘Is everything okay?’ she inquired when she found her tongue.
‘We’re discussing Sandhya’s behaviour in this house,’ Shailaja said shortly.
Nidhi tossed her handbag over the kitchen counter and retraced her steps to the sitting room.
‘Who’s sleeping with whom?’ she asked quietly. I gazed down at my lap, wishing the floor would swallow me up. Nimmy had desecrated our relationship and my love for Asha to ward off his personal dilemma and save his own skin. He had not only had his lay, but also made a fool of me. I would be a bigger fool if I didn’t acknowledge the clarity of his purpose now.
‘Sandhya has been sleeping with Nirmal and she’s turning the public eye on Asha now,’ Shailaja reported to Nidhi, bursting into sobs. Nidhi knelt down before Shailaja and draped a comforting arm around her. Ashok wore a troubled frown. Asha sat in the armchair and doodled on a colouring book in her lap, oblivious to the realities of the world. Jyoti squatted at the doorway to the sitting room, watching in wordless shock.
‘You’ve violated your role as the daughter of a Brahmin priest!’ Ashok avowed scornfully. ‘A priest who fathered a scrawny slut and a real estate developer who’s funding her. Both of them think their woman is a Goddess.’
That did it. Hearing Ashok taint the names of my father and brother snuffed out any iota of respect that remained for the Sawants. ‘How dare you talk about Appa and Sri like that?’ I shrieked in a voice I didn’t recognise as my own. They had already denigrated my personality, character and everything I stood for. How did it matter what the hell I did now? I squared my shoulders, drew in my stomach and thrust my sizeable breasts for all to see. One of my blouse straps slid off my shoulder.
I felt like I was in the midst of a psychic vibration as I screamed, ‘Do I really look like a scrawny slut?’ Expectedly, there were pants of horror everywhere around me. Even Jyoti gasped and ran for cover – away from the sickening scene in the sitting room – to the relative safety of the kitchen.
‘She’s gone mad!’ Shailaja wailed. ‘Get her out of my sight!’
Ignoring her, I walked up to Ashok and extended my outstretched palm. ‘Nirmal gave this ring to me,’ I choked. ‘Not that I blame him – because I admit I had feelings for him too. I loved him from the bottom of my heart. I thought this ring was an avowal of his intent to marry me.’
Shailaja’s brow cocked in unbridled hostility. ‘Marry you? Heavens forbid!’
‘That’s why I slept with him!’ I yelled. Sliding to the floor, I buried my face in my hands and allowed myself the luxury of sobbing aloud.
‘All right … that’s enough,’ Ashok told his wife.
Shailaja called out to Jyoti in a pained voice. ‘Take that poor girl away from here, please.’ She pointed towards Asha. ‘She doesn’t have to watch all this.’
Fortunately, she wouldn’t understand it either. Jyoti reappeared at the threshold with a frightened look and quietly led Asha away from her armchair.
‘Poor girl, huh? I can’t believe the extent of this hypocrisy!’ I raged. ‘What about the baby she had after she was raped two years ago? Why didn’t you report the rape? What about the hysterectomy you want to put her
through now in a nefarious care home? You want to inflict additional lifelong pain on her, don’t you? Would a parent sterilise a daughter who had the capacity to make informed decisions herself? And you’re accusing me of exploiting Asha’s disability? What a bloody irony! Would I be sticking my neck out if I didn’t love her?’
Besides collective coughs and gasps at various stages of my diatribe, there wasn’t a single word from anyone while I spoke. Nidhi rearranged her expression from one of shock to a countenance that was more neutral. It seemed like she hadn’t known about the hysterectomy that Shailaja was planning for Asha. Ashok was too staggered to move. Shailaja broke the catatonic silence after what seemed like a full minute.
‘Where did you hear all that from?’ she asked me sharply.
‘I heard the conversation you had with Dr Tahseen at Bread Breakers’ on the Eighth of March,’ I divulged.
‘Is that all?’ Shailaja asked when she regained her composure.
‘That’s all!’ I said tartly. Although Nimmy had betrayed me, I wouldn’t give him away by admitting that he had shared the story of Asha’s rape and pregnancy with me last week.
‘Pieces of that conversation led me to reason that Sunil is Asha’s son,’ I added.
‘Why were you there?’ Ashok demanded.
‘They were one of the care centres I approached for my campaign,’ I said. ‘I suspected they were doing things they weren’t supposed to. So, I videotaped them secretly. I came across several scenes that are just too horrible for me to mention now. We were going to break it as an exposé on the BBC.’
‘Good heavens, you went undercover for the BBC?’ Ashok roared.
I shook my head. ‘No, I did it on my own. But we were going to feature it on Panorama, just before Keisha died.’
‘You stupid bitch, you’ve killed a BBC producer and put everyone at risk!’ Ashok raged.
‘Dear Lord, you went into the care home with a camera all by yourself?’ Nidhi exclaimed at the same time. ‘You’ll be prosecuted for breach of privacy.’
‘The police are investigating the case now,’ I said calmly. I turned to Shailaja. ‘Anyhow, I accidentally overheard your conversation with Dr Tahseen.’
Victims for Sale Page 17