Victims for Sale

by Nish Amarnath

  ‘Jeff wasn’t in the office that evening,’ Gretchen said quietly. ‘He was with me.’

  I stared at her uncomprehendingly.

  ‘J-Jeff and I were … in a relationship.’ Gretchen sniffled. ‘He spent that evening in my flat. He lied because he was afraid his wife would find out about us, you know.’ Gretchen paused briefly, ‘What with the police investigating and everything.’

  As I gazed at her distraught face, I realised why she was so much more emotional than one would expect from a regular colleague or underling in a similar situation.

  ‘Did his wife find out?’ I asked softly.

  Gretchen didn’t answer for a long time. Then she grabbed a napkin from a tissue box, blew her nose against it and gave a light nod. I reached for her hand wordlessly.

  ‘Jeff launched his own investigation into that care home,’ Gretchen said suddenly. ‘He was scared to approach the police because his wife would discover our affair. But he was troubled about the residents and children in that care home. I don’t know what he found, but he thought at least three other care homes in the city are selling mentally disabled women to pimps dealing with clients of a large corporation.’

  ‘So, Jeff was on to something?’ I exclaimed incredulously.

  Gretchen began peeling her nails. ‘Yeah. I understand you’re a journalist who’s used to asking loads of questions, but I’m afraid that’s all I know.’

  ‘Thank you, Gretchen. Take care.’

  I stooped out and walked by the waterfront. The colourful narrowboats along the leafy oasis ahead of me belied the guilt I felt within for misjudging Jeff.

  When I looked up, I saw a woman on the sidewalk, hurrying towards the Paddington station in a bright red coat, her auburn hair glistening in the late afternoon sunshine.

  Gretchen. She looked lost to the world.

  A black sedan tore down the street, swerving dangerously towards the curbside.

  ‘Gretchen, watch out!’ I shrieked, sprinting across the road.

  Car horns screeched all around me in a frenzy.

  And then, it was over. The roar of a deadly collision. A torpedo of smoke and metal. Blood on my coat. Cries from a gathering crowd. I froze, then teetered dizzily on the pavement for a moment before collapsing to the ground.

  28 March

  A thunderous headache walloped against my ears when I awoke. A flush of dawn glazed the skies outside. Wednesday morning. I looked around disoriented. I was back at Cranford.

  Bedmate Kimberly was fast asleep on the cot next to mine. I stumbled upstairs to the bathroom. How had I returned home last night? Perhaps, a kind passerby had decoded the garbled directions I must have churned out in my traumatised state. I snuck into the kitchenette, put the coffee maker on and collected today’s newspapers at the door. Headlines from The Daily Mail caught my eye.

  SIGNAL Employee, 29, Killed In Mysterious Road Accident, Investigations Underway.

  I couldn’t bear to read the rest of it. I dully sipped my coffee. My mobile phone bleeped. I glared at the reminder flashing on my phone screen: Interview with Bradshaw. 10 a.m.

  Oh, God … not today.

  Well, I had been rather persistent about it, hadn’t I? I listlessly showered and washed my hair. Back in my room, I wound a shawl around myself, blotted my hair with a towel and crawled on all fours across the sea of clothes that lay in unsightly heaps on the floor, many of them Kimberly’s. As I pawed through the mixed jumble in the semi-darkness, I stumbled over a stray drawer on the floor and stubbed my toe at the foot of the bed. Tears of exhaustion slid down my face as I cradled my big toe in my hands. Kimberly stirred. I vowed to find another place to live. A room I would have to myself. With a cupboard. I finally settled on a silk, coral pink wrap dress––a Zara ensemble that had become my staple outfit for tedious occasions like TV appearances and job interviews.

  It was 8.45 a.m. when I yanked a camera bag and tripod from a storage closet outside LSE’s offices. On my way to the EGG offices, I called Davenport and reported my meeting with Gretchen.

  ‘We’ve rounded up some suspects but we don’t have the license plate number of the sedan that knocked her over,’ he sighed. ‘However, a passerby saw something brown or yellow dangling from the rearview mirror. He said it looked like a bird.’

  ‘Good morning, San,’ Aiden McLeod greeted, approaching me in the lobby of the Pinwheel Interactive office. Why did his black fur-felt hat seem so familiar?

  I rose from my seat and shook his hand. ‘Morning, Sir.’

  McLeod flounced on to an adjacent vinyl chair and placed a copy of the briefing document on the coffee table before us. ‘There’s a crisis involving another client. So, I won’t be able to sit in on this interview like I’d originally thought,’ he stated tersely. He thumbed through the sheets of the interview brief I had sent him. ‘I need you to stick to this script like a Bible.’

  I nodded tensely.

  ‘EGG’s main office is up on the tenth floor,’ McLeod added. ‘You will be escorted from there. Remember, the CEO doesn’t answer personal or unexpected questions. Don’t piss him off.’

  Setting my equipment down, I drank in a triad of muted skylights and the graceful fall of silk, puce draperies hanging in goblet pleats from sleek wooden finials and panels. An aquatic garden beyond the French windows held my altering gaze as I unwound the tripod and fixed the camera.

  The doorknob behind me turned. I swung around to see a tall, slim and clean-shaven man with an explosion of copper hair and amber eyes dancing behind crystal-framed eyeglasses. A silver flower-brooch glistered on the lapels of his bespoke grey-herringbone Saville Row suit, and an oval moonstone and diamond cluster ring on his index finger shone under the sway of a refracted sunbeam filtering in from the garden outside. Lord Melvin Bradshaw.

  ‘Thank you so much for your time,’ I blathered. ‘Your secretary said I could start setting up my equipment in your office. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He swept a gracious arm towards the camera. ‘Shall we?’

  He didn’t sound as intimidating as he looked but his air of charisma commanded instant obeisance. Lord Bradshaw spoke passionately about his rise to the stallion of the corporate world. Twenty minutes later, I packed up my equipment, deciding it was by far the best interview I had ever done. But Lord Bradshaw didn’t seem to think so. ‘Was this your first?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I’ve interviewed several leaders and celebrities back at ABP News.’

  ‘Aha. I thought so. Aiden’s account manager shared your profile with my executive assistant and I see that you do have a strong background. So, I concluded that you might be terribly distracted.’ Lord Bradshaw adjusted one of his cufflinks. ‘Please don’t get me wrong. The lack of structure in our conversation gave it a rawness that made it a lot more authentic. And you clearly did your homework.’

  I stared at him, confused. ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Lord Bradshaw chuckled. ‘But you look like someone died and I coudn’t help noticing that.’

  I pondered over how close to home that figure of expression was. Many people had died. I didn’t know how many more lives were in danger. Without any warning, a spell of tears billowed in my eyes.

  ‘Jesus Christ! My sincerest apologies, Ms Raman.’ Lord Bradshaw handed me a wad of tissues. ‘I understand what it means to put on a strong face when all the bridges around you are falling. I’ve been there too, trust me. But, light always eclipses the darkness. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you? Perhaps, I can do something to help? Meanwhile, I’ll get us some tea.’

  Lord Bradshaw buzzed his assistant and requested for two Yorkshires. A placating sense of reassurance suffused me. Someone out there understood a fraction of what I was going through – without any questions or explanations. The article I had read about Bradshaw’s scratchy foster home upbringing resurfaced on my mind. I gazed at the shadows of empathy in his eyes. ‘I-I’m asthmatic. I lost my job. My
landlord evicted me. I’m living in a dump. I haven’t been able to land a full-time job or, at this time, even a part-time gig that can get me by …’ I trailed off.

  ‘Oh?’ A frown wrinkled Bradshaw’s forehead.

  The tea arrived. I gingerly took a sip.

  ‘Have you thought about applying for the Graduate Recruitment Scheme here?’ Lord Bradshaw asked. ‘We’re accepting applications until May.’

  A newsroom job was my first choice, but it was becoming clear that I would need to explore other avenues if my visa status stood in the way. ‘I-I … why, thank you but …’ I gabbled.

  ‘If you’re worried about a work permit, we process such visas all the time. Employee diversity is one of our strongest suits.’ Bradshaw leaned forward. ‘Are you all right though? You look like you’re going to pass out.’ He reached for the receiver. ‘Would you like me to call a doc?’

  ‘No, no!’ I waved my hand frantically. ‘I’m fine.’ I sighed. ‘It’s just, y’know … well, it’s this investigation.’

  I unveiled the entire story to Bradshaw, right from what I had seen at Bread Breakers’, to the murders of Jeff and Gretchen.

  ‘It sounds like an organised nexus,’ Bradshaw avowed, mortified. ‘Have they started making arrests?’

  ‘I’m still trying to find out who’s behind this racket. It’s a hornet’s nest.’

  ‘I understand.’ Bradshaw pulled out a leather folder from his desk and began scribbling into a small book.

  ‘I’m glad I, uh, talked to you. I’m feeling loads better,’ I admitted.

  ‘Hopefully, this’ll make you feel better still.’ Bradshaw slid a cheque across the desk. A sum of ten thousand pounds stared up at me.

  It had my name on it. ‘What’s this?’ I mumbled, confused.

  ‘Something I hope will see you through for a while,’ Bradshaw replied. ‘I know how expensive London can be for an international student and how much costlier an investigation of this sort might make that. I need to head to another meeting, now. Thank you for your time, Ms Raman.’

  I gaped at him. ‘I cannot possibly accept this, Sir!’ I squeaked. ‘I mean I …’

  Lord Bradshaw pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘The world needs youngsters like you, Ms Raman,’ he said gently. ‘There is a lot you can contribute one day. You mustn’t let your pride come in the way of your safety––especially when your life could be in danger.’

  ‘B-but …’ I spluttered.

  ‘Look, if it helps your reasoning, we’ve had thousands of applications for the Gregersen International Scholarships and our committee was considering you among others,’ Lord Bradshaw revealed. ‘We’ve been having some donor issues and we’re working out the modalities. That’s the only glitch, but it should be sorted in a few weeks. Please consider this as an advance disbursement. We’ll make it official once the scholarship committee starts disbursing funds to all recipients. All right?’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ I gulped, picking up the cheque carefully.

  ‘Do let me know if I can do anything more to help.’ Lord Bradshaw offered me a lacquered business card and rose to leave.

  A dazed trance dwarfed my senses. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

  13

  On A Roll

  29 March

  I hopped into Detective Constable Jesse Krantz’s beat-up Ford Mondeo Hatchback on Westminster Bridge Road. In a double knit charcoal-grey coat over an Oxford blue Lacoste jumper and a pair of jeans, Krantz was dressed like a working class civilian to deflect any attention from his real job. We drove towards Royal Street.

  ‘If they’re really doing this without a court sanction, they’ll get royally screwed,’ Krantz muttered as he turned off the ignition in a car park near the Archbishop Park, a few minutes later. Then he turned to face me. ‘Ms Raman, sending a cop out for a red herring of this sort hardly ever happens – Inspector Davenport made an exception for you because you’ve been one of the most cooperative witnesses Murder has possibly had. So, I hope you jolly well got all the facts right.’

  ‘I believe I have,’ I assured.

  We strode swiftly down the winding alleyway that led to the Bread Breakers’ surgery clinic.

  Krantz knocked on the door. A young desk clerk in a plaid skirt opened the door a crack. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We-we have a problem,’ Krantz stuttered. ‘Our daughter is a resident here. We believe her hormones are interfering with her behaviour. She’s becoming more aggressive. She was even given chloropromazine last week to keep her quiet. My wife and I want a surgical menopause for her.’

  I didn’t even flinch as he draped an arm around my shoulder with natural ease, as if it was obvious who his wife was. The clerk’s gaze shifted to my hands.

  She’s searching for a wedding band.

  I had long since removed Nimmy’s ring from my finger. I inconspicuously slid my left hand into my coat pocket.

  ‘Isn’t your daughter with you now?’ the clerk inquired.

  ‘She has her period and is unwell today,’ I explained.

  ‘We want this done as quietly as possible,’ Krantz whispered.

  ‘D’you have an appointment?’

  I wrung my hands. ‘No, but it’s urgent. Please.’

  ‘We’ll need to identify her on our records first.’

  Jesse looked about him. ‘Can we come in?’ he asked uncertainly.

  ‘Oh, of course.’ The girl stepped back to let us in. ‘What was her name, did you say?’

  ‘Nila,’ I replied promptly.

  ‘I need the full name.’

  I had no idea what Nila’s last name was. Krantz cast me an unobtrusive glance.

  ‘We registered her only as Nila,’ I said finally.

  ‘Okay-dokie. Let’s see what we can do for ya.’ She motioned for us to have a seat in the lobby, hurried to a ramshackle desk in the corner and grabbed the phone. For now, Krantz and I seemed to be the only souls in the reception area. We sat awkwardly and waited.

  ‘Beth is the official record keeper. She isn’t at her desk right now,’ she informed after a few moments. I looked up at a wall clock ahead of me. 2.20 p.m. We didn’t have much time. I bit into one of my knuckles to keep from hyperventilating.

  ‘I can retrieve those records for you,’ the clerk offered when she saw my expression.

  ‘That’s incredibly kind of you,’ Krantz gushed.

  The girl pressed a button near a side elevator. I heard her swear under her breath. ‘That lazy sleazebag … smokin’ on the porch all the time.’ Her words faded away as the elevator doors swallowed her up.

  I nodded at Krantz. ‘Now!’

  We made a mad dash for the stairs, hitting the first floor landing just as the elevator doors opened into another lobby on our left at the far end. The stairwell door opened up to a wall partition that concealed the view from the lobby. We scuttled behind it. A few doctors and members of staff strode up and down the corridor, but no one seemed to notice us as we raced towards the operating theatre. Krantz abruptly halted before a set of sliding doors leading to a small waiting room. As I caught up with him, I glimpsed a grubby board above me. It read ‘Scrub Room’. ‘Wh-what are you doing?’ I hissed in a state of near-delirium.

  ‘Do as I say!’ Krantz ordered, shoving me inside.

  ‘There. You look like a skilled young surgeon now,’ Krantz teased, adjusting my scrub cap ten minutes later. We were in identical blue scrubs, caps and surgical masks.

  I gingerly patted my bobtail through the perforations of my scrub cap. ‘We need identification badges,’ I mumbled. Most drawers I tried were locked.

  ‘We’re running out of time,’ Krantz warned.

  I spotted a badge next to a roll of linen in a shelf-corner. It bore the name of Hargreaves Remoe. ‘Here.’ I thrust the badge into Krantz’s hands and rummaged around for another one with a woman’s name. Krantz found a jumble of nameplates in an unlocked drawer. ‘You’re in luck, lady,’ he reported, offering me one.


  I blindly pinned it to the yoke of my billowy scrub shirt.

  ‘The name on it is Claire Taylors …’ Krantz froze mid-sentence.

  The scrub room doors opened and two male nurses walked in, chattering loudly. I did a quick volte-face and pretended to wash my hands in a stainless steel sink. I sensed that Krantz was doing something similar.

  ‘Yo, chocolate boy!’ One of the nurses hollered in a different tone. ‘Wanna join us for a beer this evening?’

  My heartbeat quickened. Krantz’s olive tan. They were calling out to him.

  ‘Uh, I’ll take a rain check on that, boys,’ Krantz croaked out, moving towards the door. I lowered my head and quickly shuffled out after him. We slowed down our pace when we slipped in through the sliding doors to the waiting room.

  Among the few people milling around were Shailaja and Jyoti, picking at their jacket sleeves. Nimmy paced back and forth, drumming his fingers against a white Formica desk every time he passed. Two nurses slouched behind old desktops. A third nurse stood in a corner, pacifying an inconsolable older man – presumably the parent of a patient.

  Nimmy’s anguished hazel eyes, now ringed with purple bags, met mine for the briefest splinter of a second. A faint sliver of mystification eclipsed his face. He raked a hand through his hair and sniffed the air.

  Oh God … my eyes! They were light-brown all right, but they still looked South Asian. And the Charlie deodorant I always wore. He didn’t recognise me, did he? The confused look on Nimmy’s face receded nearly as soon as it materialised.

  Everyone in the waiting room dissolved into the periphery of my vision as Krantz and I stormed into the operating room ahead of us.

  Nurses and technicians were huddled around the operating table. Through the slit-like gaps that the space between their figures provided, I spotted the curly bobs of a heavily sedated Asha. Under the swarm of sheets and the hovering crew, she looked so wee and frail that my first impulse was to cry. But I couldn’t break down just yet. I furiously began clicking photographs and sending them to Alfred, who was all keyed up at his workstation in the BBC offices, ready to download them.