by CJ Carver
Chitta’s mind drifted. If he was a police officer, he would have found something out by now. He would have emailed Constable Lucy Davies with his findings and be up for a promotion. What had happened with the girl found in the freezer? Was she still alive? Was it was possible that the freezer had been left on? If so, the girl would eventually have frozen. Had that been the intention?
‘Shit!’ whispered Niket again. He closed his eyes.
They were outside Inspector Chakyar’s office on the third floor of the CBI offices in Besant Nagar, sweating profusely thanks to the air-conditioning breaking down the previous day. The air was choked with cigarette smoke and reverberated with the sounds of phones ringing and voices yelling, bicycle bells and car horns sounding through the open window. It was noisy, crowded and frenetic, but Chitta didn’t notice. He was used to it.
‘She only fucking wants Chakyar involved . . .’ Niket opened his eyes and leaned against the wall, looking suddenly exhausted.
Chitta kept silent.
‘How can I do this?’ Niket muttered. ‘How the hell do I find out where the goods go without –?’
‘I have a cousin who works at the port,’ Chitta said, excitement spilling.
Niket’s head switched round. ‘You do?’
‘Yes. She cleans for the Customs and Excise.’
‘Are all your family cleaners?’ Niket asked but he obviously didn’t want an answer since he then said, ‘Do you think she will help us?’
Us.
Chitta’s spirits soared. ‘I am a policeman now?’
Niket gazed at him. For the first time, Chitta felt as though the policeman was looking at him. Really looking at him.
‘Can I trust you?’ Niket asked.
‘Of course.’ Chitta looked insulted. ‘I would never do anything to bring dishonour to your or the Police Department’s door. I will commit myself to your mission with moral clarity and hard work and –’
‘OK, OK, Chitta.’ He held up both hands. ‘But whatever you find, you bring to me. Understand? Nobody else.’
‘Of course,’ Chitta repeated.
‘In that case,’ Niket said, ‘you may become an honorary assistant for the time being.’
Chitta straightened up and saluted. ‘My duties?’
‘To find out everything, and I mean everything, about this charity and its containers, what it is shipping, where and when. I want to know every detail, no matter how big or how small. Everything. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Niket reached around the back of his chair for his jacket and delved inside. He brought out his wallet and extracted a quantity of rupees that made Chitta’s eyes water. Niket folded them in half, then held them up. ‘I want to know how every rupee is spent. I don’t want a single one wasted. There isn’t any time for you to walk to the port, it will take you days. I want you to be fast, little Chitta. So use this money to expedite our investigation. Take rickshaws, boats or taxis. Bribe who you need to . . .’
Feeling as though he was in a dream, Chitta took the roll of notes and pushed it carefully into his front pocket where it would be harder to steal.
Niket held Chitta’s eyes. He said, ‘If you succeed, little man, I will consider your application to join the police.’
Chitta felt an emotion so intense, he nearly passed out.
‘You have two days.’
Chitta opened his other hand and let the mop drop with a clatter. Niket didn’t yell at him. He didn’t even seem to notice. He was looking at something in his mind’s eye. He flicked his hand and said, ‘Go.’
Chitta ran for the door, for the street, as though his life depended on it.
*
The sun was already lowering in the sky when Chitta strutted through the port. He was a policeman today! He wished he wore a uniform so everyone knew, but nobody gave him a second glance. He was just a young boy cluttering up the place.
Dock workers were heading home. Some chatted between themselves, others drifted silently, heads down and dragging their feet, obviously exhausted. Chitta fingered the money in his pocket, resolving to make sure he never ended up like some of these men, breaking their backs like worker ants for nothing but a bowl of slop at the end of the day. He’d already made a start for a successful future, using a bus instead of taking a taxi as Niket wanted, and pocketing the money he’d saved. Niket would never know. He might even pay him a bonus if he found a clue that led to finding the criminal who’d locked the English girl in the freezer.
Uncle Ajeet would be proud, he thought. Ajeet was obsessed with education, saying it was vital if any of the family were going to get ahead. Ajeet had taught nearly all of them not only how to read and write, but also how to do mathematics in their head too. He was clever, old Ajeet, and his eyes would gleam at all the opportunities that would open to the family should Chitta become a Police Constable one day.
The Customs office was closing when he got there. Perfect. He trotted inside and went and found his cousin. Rajani was five years older than him and had a badly scarred face from a kitchen accident that meant she probably wouldn’t get married. Today she wore a sari with a green and red floral pattern and a pair of yellow plastic sandals. Her hair was tied into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She knew how much he wanted to be a policeman, and when he promised her five per cent of his first year’s salary when he made constable, she immediately pushed her trolley to one side.
‘The information will be on the computer,’ she said. ‘But I’m not allowed access.’ Her look was sly. She wanted to increase her percentage but he wasn’t having it and gave an exaggerated snort. He’d hovered around Niket for long enough to have gleaned his username and password. He didn’t doubt Rajani could gain access if she wanted and said so.
‘All right then,’ she relented. ‘But keep a lookout, and if someone comes, whistle or shout.’
To look innocent in case anyone suddenly appeared, Chitta plucked a mop from Rajani’s bucket and began mopping the floor; cleaners were invisible. But nobody came. Everything remained silent. He’d barely mopped a quarter of the corridor when Rajani reappeared. Talk about a quick worker.
‘This charity,’ she told him, ‘they use Bagai Golden Transport to collect their containers from the dock. If I were you, I’d go and see them.’
First thing the next morning, Chitta was at the transport offices. Even though Niket had given him enough cash for a bribe, it took a while before one of the drivers took him seriously. The driver was fat and sweaty, his hair greasy. He wore a T-shirt with a Coca-Cola logo on it and a tatty pair of black trousers that were heavily frayed at the bottom. Every minute he didn’t work, he complained to Chitta, he lost money, but when he saw the roll of notes clasped in Chitta’s hand, he paused.
‘Who are you working for?’
‘It’s confidential.’ Chitta drew himself tall.
‘What do you want to know?’ The man’s eyes were fastened greedily on the money.
Chitta asked his questions. The driver told him to wait. He went into the office and returned a few minutes later, nodding. ‘One of our drivers says he took a couple of containers of theirs from the port recently, straight to the dump. He dropped them off and came back to collect them once they’d been emptied.’
‘Can I talk to him?’
‘No.’ The man held out his hand, clicking his fingers impatiently. Reluctantly, Chitta handed over the money. ‘Now bugger off,’ the man said.
Chitta headed for the dump, which was swarming with Chennai’s hungry combing through the open waste landfill. Urchins and rag-pickers scoured the garbage for recyclable items to sell to scrap dealers. He stopped one raggedy young boy, who wore a pair of faded red shorts rolled over at the waist to stop them falling down. Chitta showed him a little money. ‘I want to know about Recycling For Charity,’ he said.
‘What about them?’
‘You know them?’ He felt a hop of excitement.
‘They’ve been here the past couple of
weeks.’ The boy waved towards the main road. ‘Dropping stuff off.’
Chitta began walking in the direction of the road. The boy tagged alongside. ‘What sort of stuff?’ Chitta asked.
‘Computers, monitors, mobile phones. The usual.’
They passed a group of men with strips of ripped material tied over their mouths. Flies buzzed in clouds around them. Scrawny, flea-bitten dogs scavenged alongside brown kites and rats. The stinking mess fell away as they approached an area with a handful of shipping containers and hordes of children working to salvage precious metals from old computers and monitors.
‘So it’s not really a charity then,’ Chitta said. ‘If it ends up here.’
The boy shrugged. ‘You know what it’s like.’
‘Yes,’ Chitta agreed. Even he knew India was the world’s biggest dumping ground.
He watched a truck making its way slowly across the dirty terrain, hauling a single container.
‘They dump bodies too,’ the boy said.
Chitta froze. ‘What?’
The boy took a step back, suddenly fearful. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘It’s OK.’ Chitta forced himself to relax. ‘I’m not the police. How could I be? I’m far too young and stupid.’ He laughed. The boy laughed too.
Chitta pretended to be absorbed in watching the container being opened.
‘How many bodies?’ Chitta asked.
‘One came in last week. It was in a freezer. All wet and slippery. Its flesh slid off the bones like soup. It was disgusting.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘We dumped it.’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘We dumped all three of them.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Thursday 29 November, 1.35 a.m.
Lucy should have been in bed, asleep, but sleep seldom came easily, especially without Nate’s sonorous breathing next to her. Which was why she was wrapped in her duvet on the sofa in front of the TV, laptop to hand. She’d cried twice tonight, and resolved that was enough. She had to stop wallowing in her aloneness, stop remembering the late-night movies they used to watch together, the pizzas they’d shared, and get on with living.
Stop being pathetic, Davies.
The TV was showing a re-run of one of her favourite sci-fi thrillers, In Time, and she was half-watching it, munching her way through a family-sized bag of Maltesers – chocolate being the ultimate cure for loneliness. At the same time she was surfing the Internet for anything that sounded similar to Bella’s case, nationally or internationally, cross-referenced with anything to do with handcuffs, recycling charities and, just to make things really complicated, bipolar disorders.
Think, Davies.
Handcuffs. Police issue. Taser. Police issue?
Bella’s attacker would have had to have got close enough to her to have used the taser. What if he wasn’t working alone? What if there were two of them?
She was immersed in a report about serial killer teams and just about jumped out of her skin when her mobile rang. Lunging for the coffee table, she managed to knock over the standard lamp and send everything else flying. Her phone continued to ring from somewhere on the floor, its tone muffled.
‘Shit, shit . . .’
Scrambling off the sofa, she dived on to her hands and knees. Her phone peeked out from beneath a paperback of Sudoku puzzles. She pounced on it.
‘Hello?’
‘Is this Constable Lucy Davies of the English police?’ a boy asked.
Blue quivered in her mind, edged with green.
‘Yes it is. Is that Junior Constable Chitta?’
‘Oh, yes. It is me. How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ Despite wearing a pair of thick socks, sweat pants and fleece, Lucy grabbed the duvet and pulled it around her. The flat was fucking freezing.
‘Constable Davies.’ He sounded solemn. ‘I am needing to be telling you I am having much success with your queries. Inspector Chakyar is to be ringing your superiors but I am making sure I am contacting you directly.’
‘Great.’ She bent down and picked up her watch to see it was 2 a.m. Seven thirty in the morning in Chennai. ‘And your news?’ she asked.
‘Ah, yes. We are finding three bodies here. All from this charity you were asking after. All from England.’
Lucy was so gobsmacked she sat down on the sofa with a plop. ‘What?’
‘Three bodies are being shipped to our country from your country. They are all being very badly broken . . .’
‘Broken?’ she interjected.
‘Their bones are being broken. Their teeth also. Very bad thing. We are having a major investigation into this matter –’
‘Chitta,’ she interrupted urgently. ‘Were any of the bodies wearing handcuffs?’
‘Oh, yes. All three victims.’
Her whole body fizzed as though she’d been thrown into an electrical thunderstorm. ‘Where?’
‘On their wrists.’ His voice was faintly puzzled as if to say, where else?
‘Left or right?’
‘Left,’ he said decisively.
‘Where are the bodies?’
‘They are going into the morgue.’
‘Where were they before then?’
Lucy continued firing questions until she believed she had a reasonable picture. It appeared that Constable Niket – for whatever reason – had handed over the investigation to his cleaner. His cleaner, for God’s sakes. Not that Chitta said as much, but she wasn’t stupid and from the story he told of talking to the truck driver and the rag-picking boy on the dump, he’d been working alone.
‘Are the victims all women?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Two men. One woman.’
He went on to say that the RFC offices had been impounded, everyone connected with the charity arrested, and that Inspector Chakyar was arranging for them to be interrogated extensively.
‘We’ll have to repatriate the bodies,’ she told Chitta. ‘See if we can identify them over here.’
‘I will be mentioning this to the Inspector,’ he said importantly. ‘We will be needing to be getting these permissions and arranging this as soon as possible.’
She had momentarily forgotten she was talking to a boy. ‘Can I speak to Senior Constable Niket?’
‘It is not being possible, I am sorry.’ He paused, and when he spoke, he sounded uncertain. ‘He must not be known to be in touch with you.’
Baffled, Lucy tried to work out what he meant.
‘You want to keep our phone conversation confidential?’ she guessed.
‘Yes,’ he said, obviously relieved. ‘Inspector Chakyar was angry that I was pretending to be a police officer and he will be even more angry if he knows I am telephoning you directly but I wanted you, Madam Constable Davies, to know what is happening here in Chennai.’
She felt a rush of gratitude to Chitta. ‘I owe you.’
‘I will be remembering your kindness.’ She heard the smile in his voice.
Three bodies. Two men, one woman. What did it mean? Had they stumbled upon a criminal gang torturing and murdering people and then disposing of them? The bodies had all been found in freezers. Shipped by the same charity. Her mind jumped to the Raipur, the ship that Bella’s container had been booked on to. When was she due to sail? Frantically Lucy tried to remember what Lewis Cunningham of Weald Logistics had told her. The ship had been delayed because of repairs. Wasn’t she due to sail this week?
She dived for her phone. Rang Lewis Cunningham on his mobile. He answered sounding bleary. ‘Who is it?’
‘Constable Davies. I need to know when the Raipur is sailing.’
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘It’s the middle of the night. Can’t this wait until –?’
‘No. How long will it take you to get the information to me?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘How long?’
He sighed. ‘OK. I’ll go and switch my computer on.’
She heard fumbling n
oises and a clunk.
‘Any luck?’ she said.
‘Hang on, will you?’
Lucy kept the line open while he switched on lights and booted up his computer. She didn’t want him pausing to get coffee. While she waited she peeked outside to see what the weather was like. For a moment she couldn’t believe it. It had snowed last night. Not much, but her car was frozen solid and the roads would be as slippery as hell.
Finally, Lewis Cunningham said, ‘Her repairs are complete. She’s due to sail tomorrow.’
‘When?’
‘Er, no. Sorry, I mean today. 8 a.m.’
Lucy didn’t waste any more time talking and hung up. Redialled. ‘It’s me, Lucy.’
A husky voice answered. ‘Hi, Lucy.’ Hearing Mac say her name made something inside her weaken.
‘Three bodies have been found in Chennai, all dumped by RFC. We have to get to Liverpool and stop the Raipur from sailing at eight o’clock. We have to check her cargo. Make sure there isn’t another body on board. It’s only 130 miles or so to Liverpool. We could be there by 6 a.m.
‘Three bodies plus Bella,’ Lucy went on. ‘Not that she’s a body, but she might have been, making it four. What if there’s another body in a freezer on board the Raipur? We need to know if RFC have any containers on board. Even if they haven’t, we still need to search the ship. Our killer might be using another charity, another company.’ Her mind leaped. ‘He might have killed even more people. We should alert the Liverpool police. Start searching immediately.’
Silence.
‘Mac? Are you there?’
‘I’ll meet you at the station in ten.’
She was about to hang up when she remembered the snow. ‘Wait!’ she yelled into the phone.
‘What?’ He sounded alarmed.
‘Snow outside. Icy roads. Cold.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
*
It didn’t take long to fire up the Merseyside Police and it was still dark when they arrived at the docks. Although everyone appeared to have rugged up – lots of scarves and woolly hats – people still stamped their feet in the snow, clapping their gloved hands together, trying to keep warm. Steam rose from their nostrils and mouths, lit white by the floodlights. It was just past 7 a.m. but it felt like the middle of the night. Dark, and bitterly cold.