The Girl in the Glass Case Page 2

  ‘Move aside! Let madam pass or I’ll hit you with the baton. I kid you not!’

  The crowd parted, letting Simone through. The traffic constable saluted Simone as she stopped in front of him. Simone was too angry for gratitude.

  ‘Do your job and get these people away from here,’ she chided the constable.

  The constable’s shoulders drooped; his jaw tightened. He saluted again and strode past Simone, shouting empty threats at the crowd.

  * * *

  She crossed the police barricade into the vacant street, leaving behind the din and bustle of the crowd. The street smelled odd—fresh morning dew with the harsh undertones of a pungent chemical. It was also foggier, visibility more reduced than the main Chhola Road. But Simone would know her destination even with her eyes closed. The statue. The memorial of the Bhopal Gas Tragedy.

  Simone walked briskly as she approached the monument. A police van came into view. Empty. Two constables stood with a foot each on the front wheel, chatting, joking and lounging with cigarettes in hand.

  ‘You idio—’ Simone stopped mid-curse. She was about to scold them for not maintaining decorum at the crime scene and not adhering to protocol. Don’t criticize. The little voice popped inside her head again. She was determined to improve and give the self-help book a chance. Simone looked away from the constables, even as they quickly dropped their cigarettes and threw her panicked salutes. Simone walked past them. Better to ignore than berate.

  The fog cleared slightly and the epicentre of the crime scene came into focus. The first thing that hit her was the sheer number of people fussing about the crime scene—police constables, forensic technicians and the crime scene photographer. All necessary personnel but there were just too many feet compromising trace evidence. For Simone, defacing a crime scene was a crime in itself.

  Don’t criticize.

  Screw it! Simone had had enough.

  ‘What is going on here?’ She ignored the little voice in her head, feeling more like herself.

  Every head turned. Every hand stopped. Every mouth shut.

  ‘Who is the area inspector who called me?’

  A man with a thick, walrus moustache stepped forward and saluted her.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am! I’m inspector Kiri Shukla. I am the one who called you.’

  ‘Inspector Shukla, would you care to enlighten me why you felt it was necessary to invite an army to contaminate my crime scene?’

  The inspector opened his mouth, but stopped, as if thinking the better of it. A blush of embarrassment bloomed across his face.

  ‘This entire street, end to end, is a crime scene. I want every person who isn’t necessary gone. Now!’

  Inspector Shukla didn’t even have to command his fellow officers about who was to stay and who was to move out as a swarm of police officers immediately melted away.

  This further infuriated Simone. They should all be booked and jailed for intent to destroy a crime scene. Idiots!

  ‘I want every inch of this street photographed.’ Simone was speaking directly to the slimmed-down forensics team at the crime scene. ‘Every footprint collected; every hair picked up.’

  A pin-drop silence followed, except for loud gulps as the technicians swallowed hard. Simone had just increased their work manifold—work that many would have deemed unnecessary but not Simone.

  She continued. ‘All trace evidence from the body must be collected as per procedure. No compromises.’

  She turned back to the inspector. ‘Start canvassing for witnesses. Anybody who was in the area after midnight, I want to speak to them. Get me security camera footage going in and out of this street for the last twenty-four hours. There are no public cameras here, so check the shops out front or the Ganesha temple next door. And get me the constable who found the body. I want to talk to him now.’

  Inspector Shukla nodded and scurried away.

  Suddenly alone, Simone walked the few paces to where the victim was found, her gait measured, her eyes focused, her head churning. The sight was both terrible and mesmerizing, the contrast heightened with the knowledge that the flawless, peaceful doll inside was human. Simone bent down and looked straight into the little girl’s open eyes. There was no glint, no warmth, no depth in them, merely a uniform sheen that reflected the dim morning light, like a freshly varnished door.

  Simone stifled a gasp. ‘Glue . . .’ she muttered.

  A forensic technician dusting the glass case for fingerprints looked up. He nodded. ‘Yes, usually the eyes become cloudy within two–three hours after death. Seems like the killer used a special adhesive to glue open the eyes.’

  Simone closed her eyes, bunched her hands into fists, trying to stem the rage that coursed inside her. She only hoped that the eyes had been glued after the little girl had died.

  ‘The glass case has been wiped clean of fingerprints.’ The technician announced and stood up. ‘I’ll get somebody to take the body for autopsy,’ he said more to himself than to Simone and walked away.

  Simone turned her attention back to the corpse. Her top and miniskirt, hot pink and pleated, were in stark contrast to her pale face, arms and thighs. The feet were purplish black, like the little girl was wearing dark purple socks, from livor mortis that had set in hours ago. With the heart no longer pumping, gravity had pulled all the blood to her feet—blood that was now cold, congealed and rotting.

  ‘Constable Daya reporting, ma’am!’

  Simone turned. She stood tall, as much as her lean, six-foot one-inch frame allowed while making eye contact with the constable. She was taller than most Indian men and almost all Indian women; a trait that bothered her Grandma. ‘Who will marry a girl taller than he is?’ Grandma would rue from time to time. Simone didn’t lose any sleep over her grandmother’s outdated views.

  Simone appraised the stocky, pot-bellied constable standing in front of her. Her eyes alighted on the constable’s sports shoes rather than the hard police-issued boots he should have been wearing. She scrunched her nose, her face contorted in disappointment. As inept as Simone was at reading people’s faces, she was equally bad at hiding her own feelings. Her face mirrored her mind. Always. And right now, her face stretched with scorn at the constable who, to her, represented everything that was wrong with the old guard of the Indian police: unfit and unreliable, undisciplined and incompetent.

  The constable lowered his eyes, aware of her scowl.

  ‘Where are your police boots, constable Daya?’ Simone simmered.

  ‘At home, ma’am,’ Daya answered nonchalantly. It wasn’t clear whether he was joking or stating a fact.

  Snickering sounds erupted from the side. Simone and Daya turned towards the tittering. It was the technician who had returned with a medical examiner to take away the glass case. Both technicians were giggling, gloved hands over their mouths, like gleeful schoolchildren who laugh when the teacher scolds another kid.

  ‘Something funny?’ Simone raised her voice.

  The laughter evaporated instantly. The technicians looked away as Simone’s glare burnt their exposed skin. They hurriedly got back to work, bending to lift the glass case.

  ‘Be careful with that,’ Simone warned them.

  Her warning fuelled their panic. They were uncoordinated as they picked up the makeshift casket, one faster than the other. The glass case, slathered in morning dew, was slippery in their gloved hands.

  ‘Hold it!’ one technician said to the other.

  ‘Careful!’ Simone yelled.

  But it was too late.

  The case was heavy. The body within was a literal deadweight despite the size of the little girl. The case crashed on the concrete road. The glass splintered into a thousand jagged pieces, each jagged shard representing the jabs of the scolding that was in store for the technicians.

  ‘NO!’ everyone shouted, almost in unison.

  Simone’s eyes flew from the shattered case to what it had housed—the body, the most vital evidence of all. The little girl’s
body lay on the road, rigid and unmoving.

  Simone gasped. The miniskirt had ridden up, revealing the complete nakedness beneath.

  A tiny, shrivelled penis nestled in the groin. It wasn’t a dead little girl. It was a little boy, dressed as a Barbie doll.

  2

  The sweet, rhythmic chirping of cuckoos awakened Nalini and she opened her eyes with a smile. She felt light and happy, like she was a balloon tethered to the bed, floating in place.

  She had slept like a baby, a dreamless sleep. But good sleep wasn’t the source of her happiness. It was the child. The child she had saved last night.

  Nalini breathed in and out, a deep breath of satisfaction. She gazed at the clock on the wall. ‘Good morning, Snowy!’ Nalini blew a kiss at the vivid, albeit slightly worn-out graphic of Disney’s Snow White, her best friend, smiling back from her place on the clock’s face. The clock hands showed it was 9.55 a.m. Nalini had slept for only a few hours, but she felt refreshed, rejuvenated.

  Time to get ready or I’ll be late, she thought.

  Nalini pushed aside the quilt and felt the first frisson of cold air rushing through the soft fabric of her black chiffon sari. She tittered. She had been too exhausted, too satiated to change her clothes or remove her make-up when she had returned home. She had slipped straight into bed and embraced sleep like an old friend.

  Nalini hugged herself tight and scurried across the tiny room, the carpeted floor cushioning her brisk steps. She turned on the heater, immediately smelling dry, burning fumes as the heater cranked up. Her body relaxed a little.

  She gazed out of the tiny, square window that struggled to bathe the room in morning sunshine. Nalini stood hunched by the window for a few minutes, peering at the still water of Bhojtal lake glinting in the sunlight, as if the light was infusing the staid water with energy, igniting the ripples on its surface. It was a good sign. The gods were smiling, sending her warm wishes on a cold winter’s day. The window was her favourite part of the room, even as a kid, when her father would lock her in the room without food. And water. The window had allowed her mind to escape—not from her own incarceration, but from the heart-rending shrieks and cries of her mother while Dad thrashed her in the adjoining room.

  Nalini exhaled and turned away from the window as memories gnawed at her heart.

  She glanced at the clock again. 10.15 a.m.

  ‘Oh no, Snowy! You should have warned me about the time!’ she said to the clock, suddenly realizing that she had been entranced by the view through the window for far too long.

  Timing was of utmost importance that day, more so than the previous day. After all, it was a special day. Today she would save two little boys. Twins.

  Nalini switched on the lights. A burst of pink filled the room—the baby-pink wallpaper, the bubblegum-pink kiddie cot that clashed with the yellow-and-navy-blue dress of Snow White painted on the headboard, a rose-pink kiddie table and a matching kiddie chair, lavender-pink cupboards stacked on one side and a carpet that spanned the entire room, again pink but it had turned dull and musty over the years. Simply put, it was an overdose of pink.

  This had been her room as a child when her parents owned the house. It was still her room now that she was renting it from the current owner. The new owner had made only one change to her childhood room since he took possession of the property: he had added a back door next to the window. This suited her perfectly as she could exit the house whenever she liked. But really, the back door meant she didn’t need to face her parents’ erstwhile room every time she exited her own. Too many memories. Memories best left alone.

  There was no time to shower, so Nalini undressed and chose a silk sari, mauve with embroidered corners, from the closet and laid it on the bed. First impressions mattered; a silk sari commanded respect and courtesy. She would need both later today.

  Nalini removed yesterday’s make-up with wet wipes and reapplied a heavy dose of foundation, black eyeliner, pink lip gloss and a touch of blusher. She was going for a subtle, elegant look that matched her sari. Something a regular secretary in a regular government office would wear. After all, that was the role she was essaying today.

  Nalini draped the sari within minutes, fascinated by how it always reminded her of her mother. She put on a mauve cardigan and slipped into comfortable sandals. Once done, she stood before the full-length mirror admiring herself.

  ‘How do I look, Snowy?’ she asked her best friend. ‘Yes, you are right, Snowy. I need a bindi and sindoor to complete the look.’

  Nalini pulled open a drawer in her dresser. She extracted a large, maroon bindi and stuck it in the middle of her forehead. Next, she plucked a liquid wand and applied sindoor, the traditional vermilion colour, on her parting. She wasn’t married but she had read a study which claimed that married women appeared more trustworthy than single women; she hoped the study was true for what she was about to do today. As soon as that was done, she twirled a full circle, as if giving Snowy a 360-degree view of her handiwork.

  She smiled and nodded. ‘I like it too, Snowy!’

  Nalini grabbed her purse and car keys, switched off the lights and headed for the door. About to unbolt the door, she stopped, pondering.

  She turned and gazed at Snowy. 10.25 a.m.

  Nalini chewed her lip, thinking, deciding.

  ‘I know, Snowy! But it’ll only take two minutes!’ Nalini cried as she swept back into the room.

  She dropped her purse and keys on the bed, rushed to the study table and squeezed her slender frame into the kiddie chair.

  A single leather folder, thick, large and bulging with papers, lay on the table. She caressed the folder like it was a precious baby. Her fingers traced the length of the folder and then stopped at the letters embossed in the centre:

  SEVEN-DAY REDEMPTION

  Nalini inhaled deeply, like the embossed letters were touching her, inspiring her. She opened the folder with a slow, measured flick to the first page. The boy she had saved last night was smiling back at her, a toothy grin, an incisor missing. Nalini closed her eyes, bent down and kissed the photo. She was suddenly flooded with emotion. A flutter ran through her heart, her head giddy as goosebumps brushed against the sleeves of the cardigan. Her lips parted in a grin.

  ‘Mama loves you, baby,’ cooed Nalini. ‘May you find love in heaven. The love you never received in this world.’

  She kissed the photo again and turned the page.

  The second page had a similar layout as the first one. There was, again, a photo in the centre—twin boys. They were beaming at the camera, their eyes full of mischief. One look and you knew the naughty brats were up to something, conspiring to pull their next prank together. The rest of the page was filled with minute details, bulleted notes, asterisked footnotes—the entire lives of the five-year-old twins laid bare on a page. There were four other pages in the folder. Similar pages. Seven boys in total. Each boy selected, researched, profiled and followed for the last year. A tedious and demanding job, but who said redemption was easy?

  Her mother used to say that one should perform seven good deeds to write off the sins one had committed in their lifetime. So, this was Nalini’s redemption plan. Seven good deeds in seven days. Seven good deeds before she embraced the light at the end of the tunnel and reunited with her mother. In heaven. Seven deeds to redeem herself for butchering her father.

  Nalini closed the folder. She had work to do.

  One child saved. Six to go.

  3

  Simone swerved the Thar into the parking space reserved for police personnel at Bhopal Police headquarters. It was a new, white-tiled building with blue-tinted glass windows. The middle storey jutted out oddly, like a video tape being inserted into one of those old videocassette recorders. The tiles glowed in the afternoon sun in stark contrast to the ancient, videocassette recorder it resembled.

  Her mobile phone buzzed in her pocket.

  Simone turned off the ignition, tucked the cap beneath her arm and nimbly jumped out of
the vehicle. She retrieved the phone from her pocket.

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  No answer.

  ‘Hello!’ this time she barked into the phone.

  ‘Simo! Heard you were back from suspension. Welcome back!’ an excited man blabbered on the other end.

  Simone adjusted the phone closer to her ear. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s me. Karan Kapoor. From the Times of Bhopal.’

  Simone squeezed her eyes shut and sighed loudly. She should have guessed. Only one person called her Simo.

  ‘How did you get my new number, Karan?’

  Simone had changed her number after ‘the incident’—she neither wanted fake pity nor self-righteous advice.

  Karan chuckled at the other end. ‘Oh, so you do remember me?’

  Simone walked towards the front entrance. Of course, she remembered Karan. The crime reporter in his late twenties and a wannabe YouTuber. When they had first met, Simone had stalked his YouTube channel—‘Kal Ki Taaza Khabar’. The page was replete with videos where Karan shared harmless opinions on the news from the previous day in his signature monotone. All his videos combined had less than thirty views. Ever. Simone had taken up the tally to fifty in a single sitting—not because she found the content intriguing but because she found him cute.

  Simone scoffed, loud enough to be heard on the other end. ‘What do you want, Karan?’

  ‘Simo, all I want is a comment for the concerned citizens of Bhopal.’

  ‘Concerned citizens or your five YouTube subscribers?’ Simone hit where she knew it would hurt most.

  ‘Ouch!’ Karan put on his best fake laugh. ‘How about coffee sometime today? I’ll tell you about my subscribers and you can tell me about the kid in the glass case.’

  Simone stiffened. Was he asking her out on a date? Simone had never dated. No one had asked her out. Ever.

  ‘I don’t drink coffee,’ Simone retorted, slapping her forehead. Idiot! That’s probably why you’re still single.