The Girl in the Glass Case Read online

  ‘Yes, I’m Reema,’ said the receptionist. Through her horn-rimmed glasses, she appraised Nalini from head to toe.

  ‘I’m Nirmal Sharma, Mr Srinivas’s secretary. I’m here to pick up his sons.’

  Nalini handed a letter to Reema.

  The receptionist took the letter, unfolded it and read it. ‘May I see your ID, please?’ she asked.

  Nalini was prepared. She took out an Aadhar card in the name of Mrs Nirmal Sharma, a thirty-five-year-old resident of Ashok Vihar, Bhopal. The ID was fake. The photo was real.

  Reema examined the card. Satisfied, she stood up. ‘I just need to take a photocopy of your ID card and also cross-check Mr Srinivas’s signature on the letter with our records. Would you mind waiting a few moments? Why don’t you take a seat?’

  Nalini felt beads of sweat pop on her forehead. Her pulse quickened. Her mouth dried. Photocopy was fine but she had not expected the receptionist to cross-check the father’s signature. Nalini sat down on the chair reserved for guests. Her hand instinctively went to the belt strapped around her right shank. The belt was actually a holster, hidden beneath the sari, carrying a pocket-sized pistol. A lightweight, aluminium-frame, double-action short-barrelled Colt Cobra.

  Reema photocopied the ID card and then went to a chest of metal drawers behind her desk to sift through the endless folders it contained.

  Nalini started rubbing her right leg as if it was aching. Her eyes were locked on Reema’s back. Her stomach churned. Goosebumps ran all over her skin, tension spewing from every pore.

  Reema looked back at Nalini and then again at the folder she was scrutinizing.

  Does she think the signature is forged? worried Nalini. She told herself to relax; her preparation had been painstakingly detailed. She had spent an entire hour working on the signature. An hour! There was little chance that a sloth like Reema would catch her in the act.

  Reema closed the folder, smiled and walked back to her chair. ‘Here’s your ID card. The signature checks out. I’ll ask someone to get the kids.’

  * * *

  ‘Is it tight?’ Nalini asked Ayan, the twin with a blush-coloured birthmark on his forehead.

  ‘It’s too tight, Auntie!’ Ayan frowned.

  ‘That’s good. Seat belts should be tight. Look at your brother. Is he complaining about the seat belt?’ Nalini asked.

  ‘I can’t breathe!’ Ayan retorted.

  ‘Stop fussing, Ayan. I know you can.’

  Irritated and aware that the seat belt wasn’t coming off his chest, Ayan crossed his arms and stared sulkily at his feet, frown lines etched on his cute, chubby face.

  Nalini stepped back, satisfied that the kids were secure in the car seats she had installed especially for them. They were not going anywhere now.

  ‘Who wants Coca-Cola?’ There was genuine excitement in Nalini’s voice. She loved pampering kids. She would do anything for the little ones while she could.

  ‘Me! Me!’ screamed Vyan, kicking his legs in excitement, with a toothy grin that would have melted most hearts.

  Ayan didn’t answer. He kept his arms crossed, although the frown was gone.

  Nalini laughed. ‘Okay, okay.’

  She bent down and fished out two Coca-Cola cans and a packet of plastic straws from the back pocket of the front seat. She snapped open a can, stuffed in a straw and gave it to Vyan, who grabbed the can with both hands and started drinking from it.

  ‘Slow down, Vyan or your stomach will hurt,’ Nalini mock-scolded the kid, who wasn’t paying attention any more.

  Nalini turned to his brother. ‘How about you, Ayan? Don’t you want Coke?’

  Ayan shook his head sulkily.

  ‘Are you sure? There are only two cans. If you don’t want it, I’ll drink this one.’

  Nalini twisted the metal ring and popped open the can. She comically exaggerated the process of stuffing the straw like she was pushing the straw through cake rather than Coke.

  Ayan’s eyes followed her every move. He smacked his lips.

  ‘No, I want it!’ Ayan shouted, just as Nalini was about to put the straw in her mouth.

  ‘I thought so,’ said Nalini, lovingly squeezing his puffed cheeks. ‘Naughty boy, here you go.’

  Nalini gave him the can and ruffled his hair. Why was it that the naughty ones were always the cutest?

  Nalini shut the rear door of the car before opening the driver’s door and slipping into the seat. Her heart was fluttering. She couldn’t stop smiling. If there was such a thing as bliss in the world, this was it.

  She started the car and pulled out of the school parking lot.

  They drove in silence for five minutes before Vyan complained from the back seat. ‘Auntie, my stomach hurts.’

  ‘I told you to drink it slowly, Vyan.’

  If the kids had looked at Nalini through the rear-view mirror, they’d have seen her lips curl in a cunning smirk.

  The plan was working.

  5

  They had identified him. The Barbie. The boy in the glass case.

  The missing persons department had called Simone ten minutes ago. She was both surprised and impressed with their speed. Usually it took them days, sometimes for ever, to get a match but the recently adopted facial recognition software had matched the photo of the dead child with a boy reported missing two days ago. Ankush Dixit, aged five, was a resident of Shanti Nagar, one of the oldest slums in Bhopal.

  Simone and Zoya were on their way to break the news to Ankush’s father, Ramesh Dixit. A carpenter and a single parent. Simone had called ahead, saying they had more questions about his son’s disappearance, and had told him they would meet him at his house. Best to deliver bad news in private rather than asking him to come to the police station. It was the least they could do.

  Simone stepped on the accelerator. Her Thar roared on cue and lurched forward.

  ‘Do you always drive so fast?’ asked Zoya from the passenger seat, without looking up from an engrossing game of Angry Birds on her smartphone.

  ‘I’m still within the speed limit. And, anyway, it’s an emergency,’ Simone replied.

  ‘Oh, is that why? Makes sense for someone like you.’ Zoya’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Out of the corner of her eye, Simone could see Zoya looking at her. After a moment, Zoya shrugged and went back to Angry Birds.

  Simone knew Zoya had a doctorate in psychology. Dr Zoya Bharucha. She also knew that Zoya had a habit of psychoanalysing everyone she met. She was the unofficial agony aunt of Bhopal Police. She was friendly, the officers trusted her but, most importantly, she listened with an intent to understand and not to retort. Another reason Simone disliked Zoya—a woman of mere words, not action. Simone liked doers, not sit-on-your-fat-ass preachers.

  Simone knew what awaited her on the other side of the conversation—the truth, her truth. But restraint wasn’t one of her strong suits. ‘What do you mean “someone like me”?’ She raised one hand from the steering wheel to air quote the last bit.

  Zoya glanced at Simone, her head tilted to one side and smiled condescendingly, like mothers do when their toddlers ask cute but dumb questions.

  ‘What do you think it means, Simone?’

  ‘Don’t use my question against me,’ Simone raised her voice.

  ‘Okay,’ Zoya sighed. ‘I meant a person who is driven, hungry and always wants to prove something and wants to impress.’

  Simone snorted. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  Zoya didn’t answer but continued to stare at Simone.

  Simone turned a sharp corner without slowing down.

  ‘I am not trying to impress you. Why would I try to impress you? I don’t even like you that much!’ Simone was shouting now, her pitch rising and her voice shriller, without even realizing it.

  Zoya raised her hands in surrender. ‘Calm down. I didn’t mean it—’

  ‘Yeah, right! That’s exactly what—’

  Simone’s phone buzzed, the ringtone an ode to the bygone rotary phones.
r />   She slowed the car, turned on the indicators and stopped by the kerb. Talking on the phone while driving wasn’t a rule she wanted to break, even in an emergency.

  She snatched her phone from the dashboard and accepted the call.

  ‘What?’ Simone yelled into the phone.

  ‘Simone, this is Marvin.’

  Dr Marvin D’Souza was the lead medical examiner on the case. A thorough professional whose love for superhero comics was only exceeded by his love for cadavers.

  ‘Oh, hello, Dr D’Souza. Is the autopsy done?’ asked Simone.

  Dr D’Souza laughed, as if Simone had cracked a joke. ‘My assistant just started the autopsy, Simone. And only because superintendent Hussain pushed the case to the top of the list.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Simone, disappointed.

  ‘Anyway, we have finished dusting the clothes and body of the child for prints. And I thought you’d want to know . . .’ he paused. There was a rustle of papers, as if he was rummaging through a pile to get to the right sheet of paper.

  Simone put the call on speaker so Zoya could hear the conversation as well. Simone had no patience to repeat conversations.

  ‘. . . here it is,’ Dr D’Souza said, his voice booming through the speakers, ‘no latent prints or trace evidence on the clothing. They were sprayed and wiped with bleach, which, in my opinion, was just precaution. The killer must have been wearing gloves and maybe even personal protective equipment [PPE] because there were no foreign hair follicle or skin cells on the body.’

  Simone was becoming anxious, frustrated. Tell me why you called, doc, she wanted to shout, not what you didn’t find.

  ‘But,’ there was sudden excitement in his voice, ‘get this! There is a thumbprint—neat, crystal clear, intentional—right in the middle of the victim’s forehead. The killer put a tika on the forehead using vermilion, just like a pandit puts a tika in a temple on a devotee’s forehead. I am sending the print to the National Crime Records Bureau [NCRB] to cross-check. But here’s where it gets even more interesting—the tika was definitely applied posthumously because the body’s natural perspiration and oils did not interact with it.’

  ‘What are you saying, doc?’

  ‘I am saying the killer put the tika on the boy after he was dead. It has a thumbprint. In all probability, this is the killer’s thumbprint. Like an artist signing his or her painting.’

  6

  Simone had called her aide, an inspector at the NCRB, right after her conversation with Dr D’Souza. She told the inspector she wanted the thumbprint from the victim’s forehead cross-checked against the Unique Identification Authority of India (UIDAI) database, which contains biometric information—fingerprints, iris scans and photographs—of 136 crore Indians. Simone knew it was a grey area, an invasion of privacy if the far-Left liberals were to be believed. Privacy laws notwithstanding, this was Simone’s best bet at catching the killer. Her fastest bet. No warrant, no red tape, no hassle. She’d have the results within the hour.

  ‘So, our killer’s an artist, huh?’ Zoya munched her lower lip as Simone disconnected the phone.

  ‘Yes, an artist who likes to mark his sculpted dolls,’ said Simone.

  She steered the Thar into a narrow lane. A signboard declared: Shanti Nagar—literally meaning Peace Town. Well, there will be no peace in this town today, thought Simone.

  Simone squeezed the Thar through the alleyways lined with open gutters, the terrible stink, vendors selling sundry goods in tiny shops and brick houses rammed together as if supporting each other from imminent collapse. The Thar bumped over puddles small and big, jolting both passengers and making their ears ring. It was as close to an off-road adventure as one could get in Bhopal. Finally, Simone found the address she was looking for and brought the Thar to a halt.

  ‘Might be better if I do the talking,’ said Zoya.

  ‘I’ll do the talking.’ Simone jumped out of the Thar without waiting for an answer.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Zoya said, more to herself.

  An unbearable stench assaulted Simone’s nose and crawled down her throat. Gagging, she hastily pulled out a handkerchief from her trouser pocket to cover her mouth and nose.

  Simone looked around. All eyes were on Zoya and her. The kids playing cricket in the street had stopped to stare. Neighbours had emerged from their houses, whispering to each other. Simone felt unwelcome here. She was the police after all, the bearer of bad news.

  Simone jumped over the choked gutter that lined the street on to the minuscule veranda in front of the house. She knocked on the door. Twice.

  A lanky man with cropped hair opened the door. Deep, dark circles surrounded his bloodshot eyes. He had either not slept in days or had been crying. Or both. His unshaven and unruly beard, speckled with grey, suggested the latter.

  ‘Are you Mr Ramesh Dixit?’

  ‘Yes, please, please come in,’ his words mixed into each other and he stepped back immediately to make room for Simone and Zoya to enter the dark, dingy house. He seemed hurried. Like he didn’t want to provide fodder for the gossips gathered outside his house.

  The neighbourhood aunties will know sooner or later, thought Simone.

  Simone was forced to bend her tall frame to avoid banging her head on the lintel of the door. Once inside, she stood tall, the ceiling barely inches from her head. It was a square, one-room studio. There was a sofa—brown, grubby and stained—by the door to seat guests. A mini-LCD TV hung on the wall alongside it. A bed lay in the far corner, the sheets crumpled and the blanket in disarray. It seemed that Ramesh had spent the last few days hibernating in bed. The caustic odour of stale sweat definitely seemed to suggest so.

  Two people, a man and a woman, stood in the other corner, supposedly the kitchen. ‘My sister and her husband,’ said Ramesh. ‘They live down the street and have been helping me since . . .’ he choked, ‘. . . since Ankush disappeared. Did you find him, officers?’

  ‘Why don’t you sit down, Mr Dixit?’ suggested Simone.

  ‘Yes, you too. Please sit,’ Ramesh gestured to the sofa. He dragged a wooden stool for himself and sat opposite the sofa. His sister and brother-in-law continued to stand near the kitchen. They hadn’t spoken a word since the officers had arrived.

  Zoya moved past Simone and sat down on the sofa.

  Simone kept standing, her handkerchief on her mouth, her soul cringing at all the germs inhabiting the dirty sofa. Perhaps it even had bedbugs? She shuddered at the thought. There was no way she was sitting in that grime.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Ramesh asked politely.

  ‘Nothing,’ Simone blurted.

  Zoya eyed Simone, displeased. She turned to the host, ‘Water will be fine.’

  Ramesh nodded. He was about to stand up to get the water, when his sister said, ‘You stay. I’ll get it.’

  Ramesh sat back down, clasped his trembling hands and forced a smile. His eyes brimmed with deep sadness.

  ‘Sit!’ Zoya hissed at Simone.

  Simone wrinkled her nose in disgust and shook her head vigorously.

  Zoya rolled her eyes. ‘Stop being disrespectful! Sit!’ she whispered under her breath.

  Simone seemed unsure. Then, after much thought, she chose the lesser of the two evils—a wooden stool next to the one Ramesh sat on, praying and hoping it wasn’t infested with bedbugs.

  ‘I’m ASP Simone Singh. This is DSP Zoya Bharucha.’

  Simone decided to come straight to the point. Best to rip the Band-Aid off, she thought. Exactly how she’d like it if she were in Ramesh’s position.

  ‘Your son, Ankush, is dead.’

  ‘No!’ Ramesh’s sister screamed and dropped the tray she was holding.

  The three glasses of water and the tray fell with a loud clang and water spilled all over the floor.

  Zoya covered her mouth with her hand, embarrassed and completely caught off guard by Simone’s words.

  Ramesh’s brother-in-law rushed towards his wife. He held her as sh
e bawled and wept.

  ‘What? My son is dead?’ Ramesh slumped. His face contorted. His lips quivered. He rubbed hands on his thighs, as if trying to calm himself. Suddenly, a flood of tears burst through, overpowering the wall of self-control he was trying to build.

  ‘Ankush!’ he cried. ‘I’m sorry, Ankush!’ Putting his head in his hands, sniffling hard, he tried to push back the tears intent on running unchecked.

  ‘Why are you sorry, Mr Dixit?’ asked Simone, unmoved and desperate to get the discussion back on track.

  Zoya looked at Simone, raising her hands and mouthing the words without speaking—what the fuck!

  Zoya took over. ‘We are very sorry for your loss, Mr Dixit. Please take all the time you need.’

  Ramesh’s sobs turned silent, as if he had just realized that he had strangers for company. He bent forward and covered his face, putting back the wall of self-control.

  Zoya said, ‘I have a boy myself. About Ankush’s age. So, I can understand your pain.’

  Ramesh didn’t respond. He rubbed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling heavily.

  Zoya went silent.

  Simone started tapping her foot, her impatience making itself known.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ramesh sniffled.

  Simone stopped tapping her foot.

  Ramesh turned to Zoya and asked, ‘How did Ankush die?’

  ‘The autopsy is—’ Simone started to speak, but Zoya interrupted her.

  ‘We don’t know for sure,’ said Zoya. ‘The autopsy is underway.’

  ‘Was he . . .’ Ramesh hesitated and bit his lower lip. ‘Was he murdered?’

  ‘I’m afraid the circumstances suggest so, Mr Dixit.’

  Ramesh pursed his lips. A fresh stream of tears rolled down his cheeks.

  ‘The investigation is on. We will have more information in the coming days.’ She paused and then said, ‘And that is another reason why we wanted to meet you in person. If it’s okay with you, we’d like to ask some questions which will help us in our investigation to find the murderer.’

  Ramesh nodded his assent.

  ‘We know from the FIR that Ankush went missing from Government Model School, Shanti Nagar. Where were you at that time?’