The Girl in the Glass Case Read online

  ‘Look,’ Karan sighed, ‘I’m writing an editorial on how Bhopal has become the number one crime hub in India. And this new case—the girl in the glass case—represents everything that is wrong with the city.’

  So, he doesn’t know that it was a little boy and not a girl, Simone thought. Best to keep it that way.

  Karan continued, ‘I want to give the police force a fair chance to comment. And with you leading the case, who better to comment on behalf of the shoddy, irresponsible and inept police department?’

  Simone stopped. What did he mean by that? She felt her face twitch, like she had been slapped.

  ‘Get lost, Karan!’ Simone snapped and ended the call.

  Her face was burning. She flexed and unflexed her fingers. She wanted to punch someone, something, anything.

  Simone exhaled loudly and walked to the entrance of the police department.

  A constable on sentry duty watched her approach, his gaze riveted to her hairless head.

  Simone shook her head. She had been back for a week now but her shiny, bald head seemed to invite attention like she was standing naked in public, every contour, every vein being judged by prying eyes.

  She walked up to the constable.

  The constable, obviously aware that he had been caught staring, flicked his eyes away to look anywhere else but at Simone. His gaze finally settled on his own feet.

  ‘Have you never seen a bald woman?’ Simone’s voice was loud enough to attract sidelong glances from people going in or out of the building.

  The constable’s eyes started sweeping the floor in acute embarrassment. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he mumbled and threw a hurried salute.

  Simone made an exaggerated show of putting on her police cap, like the man was a mirror and she wanted to make sure that the cap was on just right. Her eyes never left the quivering constable. His eyes never left the floor.

  Then, without a word, Simone walked into the building.

  She was letting emotions take over. Emotions she had easily cast aside all her life—roll them, box them and forget them. It took training. It took time. But she had persevered and succeeded. Be it school, sports, officer training—her focused, goal-oriented grit had always seen her through the emotional barbed wire that her peers couldn’t escape. Then came ‘the incident’ which had eaten away at the stone-cold box of her emotions and out spilled every heartbreak, every insult and every betrayal she had striven so hard to hide.

  It was 2 October 2019. The date was etched in her brain with indelible ink. Also, it was Gandhi Jayanti, a public holiday—easy to remember if, for some reason in the future, forgiveness found its way into her heart or forgetfulness found her mind. A dry day—alcohol prohibition for a day—was observed to commemorate the birth anniversary of Mahatma Gandhi. Unlike previous years, when people flagrantly violated the law and the police let them, the inspector general of police had decided to set an example this year. Zero tolerance, he had pronounced, against sale and consumption of liquor in public places. Additional force had been deployed to support the effort, including detectives from the crime division. Simone had been charged with traffic duty although she thought it was a waste of time for detectives to mind traffic all day, looking for drunk drivers for hours on end, when real criminals—murderers, thieves and drug dealers—were running rampant in the city. But she had kept quiet. She wasn’t going to fight a direct order.

  A few hours in, her team stopped a swanky, canary yellow Lamborghini at the checkpoint. No one in her team, including her, had ever seen a Lamborghini before. It was a rich man’s dream, a poor man’s fantasy.

  The driver, a young adult probably in his late teens, had rolled down his black-tinted window, waggled a half-empty bottle of whisky outside the window as he slurred ‘Happpee Ganddi Jawanthee, guys! Cheeeers!’—right in their faces.

  Oh, the audacity! Oh, the recklessness! She had brusquely told the delinquent to step out. The boy had laughed, puckered his lips and blown her a kiss. Simone remembered how her face had heated with rage and disgust. She asked him again to get out of the car. The boy had chuckled and said, ‘Why don’t you come and sit on my lap? I’ll give you the ride of your life around town.’ Adding insult to injury, the brat had winked, as if the innuendo had been lost on her.

  She had taken out her revolver, slammed its butt on the car bonnet and shouted, ‘Get out! Now!’

  ‘You, bitch! Do you know who I am?’ the boy had mouthed. He pushed open the door, stumbled out and then, for a second, grabbed the car door for support, before twisting around to check the bonnet. The paint had smudged where Simone had slammed the butt of the gun. ‘Do you have any idea how much it’s going to cost to fix that? More than what you make whoring for a year!’

  Enough was enough.

  Simone had turned him around, slammed him against the vehicle and tried to handcuff him. That’s when things got out of hand. The boy had swivelled, rather lithely for someone this drunk, and punched her. Right in the face and on the nose. Simone was taken aback, her eyes watering and her nose bleeding.

  But she had never been one to back down from a fight.

  She kicked the boy right in the nuts. The boy had fallen like a tiny bird beaten by the storm. She would have beaten him to a pulp had her colleagues not intervened.

  Simone had booked him on three charges, impounded the car and thrown him in jail.

  That’s when the shit really hit the fan.

  Within hours, Simone, bleeding nose and all, was summoned to the inspector general’s office. The room was bristling with lawyers. It turned out that the boy was the chief minister’s son. An official complaint had been filed against her on nineteen charges. Nineteen! She had sat there for an hour listening to the threats and curses of men, old and older, detailing how they would ravage her career and make her pay. She’d gone home thinking—knowing—that her career was over. Best case, she’d be demoted and transferred to another city. Worst case, she’d be transferred to a godforsaken border village where she’d arrive before electricity.

  Luckily for her, superintendent Irshad Hussain, her boss, had stepped in and brokered a deal with the inspector general and the law minister. She was one of the best on his team, he had told Simone. He was going to stand up for her. She didn’t quite know the details of what had happened behind closed doors. All charges against the boy were dropped and a formal apology was issued by the police in the press. Simone was suspended for two months without pay. Eighteen charges against her were dropped. One remained. She’d heard on the grapevine that the boy wanted to teach her a lesson. He was going to make her pay for damaging the paint job on his Lamborghini. A paint job that would cost a couple of years’ worth of salary. She had taken the jab on the chin. She had agreed to the deal, the public humiliation and the raid on her lowly bank balance.

  But now, after the agonizing forty-five days, she was back, trying to keep her head held high, raking in the pity and scorn of her fellow officers.

  * * *

  Simone took the staircase to the right wing on the first floor that housed the Criminal Control Investigation Department—rows and rows of chest-high cubicles. The cubicles were half-empty. Lunch hour. Simone walked the length of the room and knocked on the only office that wasn’t a cubicle. A black nameplate was glued to the door. In bold white letters was written:

  SUPERINTENDENT OF POLICE (CRIME)

  IRSHAD M. HUSSAIN

  ‘Come in,’ said a muted voice.

  Simone took in a deep breath before opening the door. It didn’t help as the stench of alcohol smacked her right in the face. She gagged on the smell.

  Simone recovered quickly and saluted. ‘Jai Hind, sir! You wanted to see me?’

  Superintendent Hussain was busy writing in a ledger. Without looking up, he motioned Simone to take a seat. Simone removed her cap and sat down as directed.

  Irshad finished writing, closed the ledger and removed his wire-rimmed reading glasses. He sat back in his chair, clasped his hands and pee
red at Simone. He seemed to have aged since Simone saw him last week. He was in his early forties but looked much older. Stress spared no one in this line of work, especially if compounded by alcohol abuse. Fine lines had sprouted around his eyes, as had the greys in his sideburns.

  ‘What have we got on the new case?’

  Simone cleared her throat. ‘A constable found the body of a boy, around five, dressed as a Barbie doll, encased in a glass case and left by the Bhopal tragedy memorial. Most certainly murdered but we’re waiting on forensics to confirm the cause of death. Trace evidence was collected and the body sent for autopsy. The constable also saw a woman in a black chiffon sari at the crime scene around 3 a.m. We are trying to identify and locate her. We are canvassing for witnesses. There are no security cameras in the vicinity. A first information report [FIR] was filed at the local police station and we are searching the missing children database to identify the victim. You’ll have my report—’

  ‘What about the broken glass?’ Hussain interrupted.

  Simone pursed her lips. Who had snitched? The vein in her forehead started throbbing.

  ‘I want no mistakes on this case, Simone. No mistakes. It has only been a few hours since the kid was found dead, but the media interest—which by extension means future public and political interest—is unparalleled. Do you know how many phone calls I have received since morning? Journalists are outraged because it’s a little kid who has been murdered and displayed. I am sure you can imagine the headlines in tomorrow’s newspapers. And we know who’ll be crucified as always? Us. The police. And it’s not just the media. The inspector general of Bhopal called. This case is top priority now,’ Hussain paused, letting the gravity of the situation sink in before continuing.

  ‘The reputation of Bhopal Police is on the line. We crack this case and we are forgiven for making Bhopal the crime capital of the country. We don’t . . .’ he let the last words hang in the air like a hangman’s noose.

  Hussain’s voice softened, ‘I understand the last few weeks have been tough on you. Extremely tough . . .’

  For a fleeting moment, his gaze went to her bald head. Simone noticed it. She noticed every stare, every ogle at her baldness. She raised her head an inch. She was proud of it. Not for a moment did she miss her soft curls.

  ‘. . . but I want you at the top of your game,’ Hussain continued.

  ‘I am back, sir, and just as committed and strong as I was when I first joined the force. There will be no more mistakes . . . you have my word,’ Simone retorted.

  Superintendent Hussain leaned back, the swivel chair creaking under the sudden shift in weight. He remained silent, assessing, thinking and deciding. Then, he leaned forward and pressed a button on the office phone to speak to his secretary.

  ‘Send Zoya,’ he said.

  He pressed the button on the telephone once again and then looked straight at Simone, ‘While I appreciate the commitment, Simone, I can’t take any chances with this case.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in!’ said the superintendent.

  An overweight, voluptuous woman in her mid-thirties walked in. Zoya Bharucha, deputy superintendent of police (DSP). Technically, both Simone and Zoya were the same rank—above inspector but below superintendent. But Simone, a decade younger, was on the IPS fast track—a luxury conferred on a select few officers who had cleared the ‘mother of all exams in India’—the Civil Services Exam. Only 0.1 per cent of the lakhs of Indians who sat for the exam each year passed the exam. Simone was one of them but Zoya wasn’t. But Zoya had something that Simone did not: popularity. Zoya was revered by junior personnel and respected by senior officers. Almost as much as Simone was shunned.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir!’ Zoya saluted with gusto, her leather boots clicking against the hard concrete floor. Simone glanced down at Zoya’s weathered boots, more from the weight they endured than the time gone by, Simone supposed snidely.

  ‘Good afternoon, Zoya! You are looking sharp today. Come, take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ Zoya smiled, a glint reflecting off her front teeth.

  Zoya deposited her bulk into the chair next to Simone with a thump. Her energy was palpable. Her enthusiasm infectious.

  ‘Zoya, did you hear of the dead child in the glass case?’ said the superintendent.

  Zoya’s lips tightened, as if suppressing her sadness. She nodded. ‘Yes, sir. A dastardly act. A little child. Not even five.’

  Superintendent Hussain paused, struck by the sudden heat of emotions from Zoya. The woman was a mother; she had a son she had lost in the custody battle with her adulterous husband. Nobody could understand how the mother wasn’t granted the custody of the four-year-old. But then everybody also understood that the rich got their way in a country where corruption still ran rampant. Zoya’s ex-husband owned the city’s largest grocery retail chain. All she got in her divorce settlement was a fruit basket.

  ‘May I be of assistance in the case, sir?’ Zoya added.

  Simone turned sharply, narrowing her eyes, and stared at Zoya. I don’t want your help, Simone wanted to shout. I don’t want your fake sympathy for my case. Simone wanted to shove Zoya but she restrained herself. She chewed the inside of her cheek instead.

  ‘I like the enthusiasm, Zoya,’ said the superintendent, dousing the raging fire in Simone’s heart with kerosene.

  ‘I have the case under control, sir,’ Simone leaned forward in her chair in protest. ‘I do not need help.’ Simone felt Zoya’s eyes pierce her from behind. She didn’t look back. She didn’t want to get into a glaring match with her.

  He continued, ‘Even so, Simone. I want my best detectives on this case. It’s top priority.’ He turned to Zoya. ‘I want you to come on board and partner with Simone.’ He stopped, clasping his hands. ‘I expect a hands-on approach from both of you. Ask your deputy inspectors to take over your current cases so you can focus on this case alone.’

  Zoya nodded vigorously, ‘Absolutely, sir!’

  Simone sat back. She chewed her cheek again. It hurt. She stayed silent.

  Hussain peered at both of them. Left to right. Right to left. Then, he bobbed his head in satisfaction. ‘Okay then. Get me results, ladies! Off you go.’

  Both women stood up, saluted in unison and marched out of the room.

  ‘To be clear, I remain the officer-in-charge,’ Simone said bluntly as soon as the door closed behind her. ‘I’ll let you know when I need help.’

  Zoya walked closer, her face inches from Simone’s chest, her head raised and eyes glued to Simone’s, unblinking, ‘Oh, how gracious of you, madam IPS! You are letting me on your team.’

  Zoya inched forward and grabbed Simone’s left forearm. Simone didn’t flinch. ‘Let me be absolutely clear,’ Zoya continued. ‘I am the senior officer here. Ten years your senior. But I understand it’s your case first. I would get testy too if the superintendent didn’t trust me to solve my own case. So, here’s what I am willing to offer. We work as equals. Partners. That’s what the boss wants. That’s my best offer. Take it or you can go back in and cry foul in front of him.’

  Simone’s nostrils flared. She shoved Zoya’s hand away.

  ‘Fine. Partners it is. But I will not slow down just because your old, fat ass can’t keep up with me.’

  4

  ‘Hello!’

  Nalini cleared her throat.

  ‘Hello!’ she said again, her voice squeaky. ‘No, doesn’t work. Needs more depth,’ she said to herself.

  Nalini was in the parking lot of Anna Nagar Government Primary School on the outskirts of Bhopal. She sat in her car—a white Maruti Swift. A rental. She had replaced the number plate. A precaution. Swift was probably the most common hatchback in the country. That helped. Easy to blend into the surroundings. No one remembered white. Everyone remembered pink—her usual colour of choice.

  ‘Hello.’ This time her voice was deep, bordering on a baritone. She sounded masculine. Nalini smiled. ‘Hello,’ she s
aid again. It sounded exactly how she had practised for weeks. Like a middle-aged man. Like the father of the twins she was about to rescue.

  It was time for step one of the plan: gain the school’s trust. Nalini picked up the cheap burner phone she had bought the other day and keyed in the school’s telephone number.

  ‘Hello, Anna Nagar Government Primary School,’ said a voice on the other end. The receptionist, Nalini had discovered during her recce.

  ‘Hello, Reema!’

  ‘Hello, sir!’ Reema seemed pleased to hear her own name. Always helps to use a person’s name. Immediate trust, thought Nalini.

  ‘This is Vijay Srinivas, father of Ayan and Vyan, class one. I’m calling as I will not be able to pick up the kids from school today due to an urgent client meeting.’

  Nalini paused for effect, letting it sink in.

  ‘I’m sending my secretary, Mrs Nirmal Sharma, instead to pick up the kids.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Is your secretary one of the official guardians in our records?’

  ‘No, she isn’t, Reema. I have given her an authorization letter signed by me. You can check the letter and then ask the boys to accompany her, please?’

  ‘Sure. No problem at all, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Reema! Bye.’

  Nalini disconnected the call. She shook her head and smiled. One could always trust the lackadaisical attitude of government-school receptionists. Had she tried this act with a top-notch private school, she’d have heard a point-blank no.

  Nalini checked the dashboard clock. She decided to wait ten minutes before entering the school gate to collect her prey.

  * * *

  ‘Hello! Are you Reema?’ Nalini asked the middle-aged receptionist sitting near the entrance to the school’s administrative office.

  Nalini already knew the answer. She knew more about Reema than the receptionist’s own husband, or he would have already discovered her affair with the school’s English teacher. But that was not for Nalini to tell. It was none of her business. It was just research, plain and simple.