The Girl in the Glass Case Page 5

  Ramesh sniffled, clearing his throat.

  ‘I had a carpentry job at the new pharmacy shop coming up next door. I was supposed to pick up Ankush from school at noon. I was thirty minutes late.’ Ramesh looked at his feet, as if ashamed. ‘I wanted to finish milling the cupboard planks before picking him up. The shop owner wanted the cupboards done in a day. I had started late and was behind schedule,’ he explained.

  ‘What happened when you reached the school?’ Simone asked.

  Ramesh took a deep breath. ‘He wasn’t at school. We checked everywhere. Asked all his friends and their parents. Nobody saw him leave school. Nobody found him at school. He . . . he had simply vanished.’

  ‘Did you always pick him up from school or were there days when he walked home alone?’ asked Simone.

  ‘No, never. He was just a little kid. Sometimes I asked my sister or brother-in-law to pick him up from school. And sometimes I asked my neighbours. But Ankush was told never to leave school alone or with a stranger. I know my son. He wouldn’t have left alone.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll need a list of all the neighbours and relatives who have picked him up in the past.’

  ‘Relatives?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Dixit. A close relative is involved in 80 per cent of criminal cases related to children below ten,’ Simone narrated the fact with pride.

  Ramesh looked stricken, appalled.

  ‘Are you blaming my family for my son’s murder?’ Ramesh asked, his hands bunched into fists, his face misshapen with rage.

  Zoya stood up and cleared her throat, ‘Sorry, what my colleague means to say is that it’s a possibility we’d like to investigate. We don’t know who did it but we will not leave any stone unturned to find your son’s killer.’

  Ramesh backed off and nodded slowly.

  ‘How was Ankush doing at school?’ Zoya asked, as she too sat down.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Any incidents recently? Any fights? Anything unusual?’

  ‘He was a timid boy. Extremely shy. It was difficult to get even one word out of him.’ Suddenly, his expression turned dark, even sinister. ‘He used to get bullied because of that. The boy was soft. Easy pickings for any bully, especially older kids.’ Ramesh shook his head in disgust. ‘He came home one day with a busted lip. On another day, his shirt had been torn, the buttons ripped out. One day his bag got “lost” mysteriously and was found the next day, filled with dog shit.’

  Simone ground her teeth; her eyes widened. She might not understand empathy, but bullying she understood. Her childhood nemesis that had somehow never left her in adulthood.

  Ramesh continued, ‘I complained to the teachers. Shouted at the principal. Nothing happened. No culprits were found. But then, last week, something unusual happened.’

  Both Simone and Zoya leaned forward.

  ‘Ankush came home happy. Excited. For a change he was chatty. Completely unlike himself. He said a “cleaning auntie” at school had saved him from bad boys and had given him a chocolate. Of course, I immediately told him never to take sweets from strangers. He said—’

  Ramesh stopped all of a sudden. ‘Wait a minute! Do you think it could be that cleaning lady at school?’

  Simone said, ‘We’ll look into it. Anything else you can tell us about the victim?’

  ‘Ankush,’ said Ramesh.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He has a name. It’s not victim. It’s Ankush!’

  Ramesh’s voice echoed in the enclosed space, leaving Simone stunned. Silence gripped the room.

  Simone opened her mouth to speak. Then, decided against it.

  Zoya jumped in, ‘Mr Dixit, if you don’t mind my asking, where is Ankush’s mother?’

  Ramesh inhaled deeply before replying, ‘She died right after giving birth to Ankush.’

  ‘Oh! I’m so sorry.’

  ‘How did she die?’ asked Simone.

  Ramesh stared at her.

  Simone stared back. It was a valid question. She was within bounds to ask it.

  Finally, Ramesh broke the eye contact. ‘My wife was born months after the Bhopal Gas Tragedy. She had a congenital birth defect in her heart. Complications arose when she got pregnant with Ankush. They had to operate on her immediately. Ankush survived. She didn’t.’

  Silence.

  The piercing ringtone from Simone’s phone caught all of them by surprise. She jumped from her seat and fished out the phone from her pocket.

  It was the NCRB inspector.

  ‘What?’ said Simone.

  ‘Ma’am, we got a 100 per cent match on the thumbprint.’

  Simone’s heart raced.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  ‘The thumbprint belongs to Ramesh Dixit, the victim’s father.’

  7

  Simone disconnected the call and just stood there for a moment. And then, with a sudden click of the boots, she turned around.

  ‘Mr Dixit, please put your hands behind your back. You are under arrest on suspicion of murdering your son,’ said Simone.

  ‘Simone!’ Zoya gasped, standing up.

  Ramesh was too bewildered to react. He remained seated on the sofa, mouth agape and eyes unblinking. His sister, who had been sobbing in a corner, her head buried in her husband’s chest, stopped crying all of a sudden.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ demanded Ramesh’s brother-in-law, pulling away from his wife.

  ‘What’s happening, Simone?’ said Zoya.

  Simone ignored her.

  Zoya felt beads of sweat run down her spine. She walked over to Simone and grabbed her arm. ‘We don’t have a warrant,’ Zoya muttered.

  ‘We don’t need one. We found his thumbprint on the body. The thumbprint that was left after the kid was murdered and it’s a perfect match,’ said Simone. ‘To me that is reasonable suspicion of a cognizable offence—Section 41 of the Criminal Procedure Code [CrPC].’

  Zoya let go of Simone’s arm. She knew a 100 per cent fingerprint match, especially one left posthumously, was grounds for arrest without a warrant.

  Simone said, ‘Stand up, Mr Dixit.’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ Ramesh was at a loss for words. ‘I didn’t kill my son! Why would I kill him? He was my son.’

  Simone pulled out the handcuffs.

  ‘Your prints were found on your son’s body, Mr Dixit. Now, turn around,’ she ordered.

  ‘I don’t understand. There must be a mistake,’ said Ramesh, hapless and defeated.

  Simone turned him around and cuffed him.

  Zoya admired Simone’s finesse, her focus, her calm, even under stress. Robotic. Clinical. Only if the woman had a heart, Zoya thought.

  Ramesh started to cry. ‘Why are you doing this? I didn’t kill Ankush! I swear! I swear!’

  ‘Save this for the court, Mr Dixit,’ Simone snarled.

  Zoya opened the door.

  Simone shoved Ramesh from behind. ‘Let’s go!’

  They stepped out the house. The pesky neighbours were still loitering outside. Give them all a tub of popcorn and it would have looked like an open-air theatre, spectators entertaining themselves on the misfortune of others.

  An immediate hush fell among the neighbours when they saw Ramesh in handcuffs. A few gasped. Some covered their mouths in surprise. Others stood still, not knowing how to react to the latest development. It wasn’t every day that the police arrested your neighbour in broad daylight, was it?

  Zoya followed Simone and Ramesh to the Thar. Ramesh started to sob profusely. It wasn’t clear if it was because he had been caught or because he felt humiliated in front of the neighbours.

  Simone opened the rear door. ‘Get in!’ she ordered.

  Ramesh hopped inside awkwardly; his movements restricted by the handcuffs.

  Simone slammed the door shut.

  ‘Why are you arresting him?’ shouted the next-door neighbour, a Sikh man in a purple turban and white kurta-pyjama.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Simone retorted.

  Thi
s seemed to infuriate the man. He pulled up the sleeves of his kurta, as one does before throwing punches in a fight, stepped off his veranda and marched over to stand in front of the Thar.

  ‘You cannot just come here and arrest innocent people. The poor man’s son has been missing. And now you come here and harass him!’ He crossed his arms. ‘You are not taking Ramesh anywhere!’

  It spurred a cacophony of agreement from the other neighbours.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘You cannot arrest him!’

  ‘Yes!’

  Men and women stepped forward and joined the turbaned man. A show of solidarity, a show of mutiny.

  Uh-oh! Zoya gulped. Her heart raced. It was no secret that the citizens of Bhopal hated the police. Crime was at an all-time high—actually, the highest in the country. Police brutality was the daily topic of discussion in the local news. In a nutshell, the citizens didn’t trust the police and who could blame them? She had heard of many instances, mostly from such small localities, where police personnel were harassed, kicked or beaten, in the line of duty. And here they were, two women against the entire locality. If the locality leaders decided, the two of them would be lynched in broad daylight and in cold blood.

  Simone turned to Zoya and said, ‘You prepare the memo of arrest. I’ll run Ramesh through his rights. We produce him in court today. We don’t want a defence lawyer to shred us later and claim the arrest was botched.’

  Zoya stared at Simone. It seemed like Simone didn’t understand the pickle they were in. They might not leave the locality alive and here she was going on nonchalantly about police routine.

  The crowd swelled. A dam waiting to explode.

  ‘Simone,’ whispered Zoya, ‘what about the neighbours?’

  Simone glanced at the crowd, left to right and back, like she was eyeing her opponents in a street fight. ‘Get in the Thar,’ she muttered.

  Simone opened the driver’s door and got in.

  Zoya sighed, walked around the Thar and got into the passenger seat.

  Ramesh cried. ‘But madam ji, I am telling the truth. I didn’t do it,’ he said between sniffles.

  ‘Well, we’ll know for sure soon, won’t we?’ said Simone.

  Simone faced the steering wheel and the crowd gathered in front. She started the engine.

  The crowd started to yell and shout but no one budged.

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Zoya. ‘We need to talk to them and calm them down.’

  ‘Won’t work with an enraged crowd.’

  ‘Then, what, Simone? We can’t simply run them over.’

  Simone gave her a ghost of a smile, ‘Why not?’

  Simone threw the Thar into gear and stamped on the accelerator. The beast lurched forward with intensity, aiming directly for the man in the purple turban, who was standing barely ten metres away.

  ‘Shit!’ Zoya shouted.

  It was a battle of who would blink first. The outcome would be catastrophic if no one blinked.

  The rage in the eyes of the turbaned man instantly turned to fear. He stepped back.

  ‘No!’ yelled Zoya.

  Suddenly, at the very last second, Simone jammed her foot on the brake, bringing the Thar to a grinding halt. At the same instant, the turbaned man, unaware that Simone would stop the car, jumped aside to save his life. He fell on the ground, his clothes stained brown with dirt.

  The others in the crowd saw their leader on the ground and scattered like roaches.

  ‘Fear of death is greater than their love for their neighbour,’ said Simone.

  She pressed the accelerator again and sped away from the yells and curses of the crowd.

  * * *

  They produced Ramesh in court within hours of the arrest. A government lawyer was provided after Ramesh declined to hire one. He couldn’t afford one and had declared that ‘the innocent don’t need lawyers’. A brave, but stupid move, Zoya thought.

  The documents were in order, grounds for arrest strong—the thumbprint match was the clincher. The district magistrate agreed with the arresting officers and remanded Ramesh in judicial custody for a period of ninety days. It was non-bailable custody. Ramesh broke down in court again. The district magistrate brushed him away. Ramesh deserved no sympathy for killing a little kid, more so his own son.

  ‘Well done!’ Zoya told Simone, after an inspector had taken custody of Ramesh and taken him to jail.

  Simone narrowed her eyes, her forehead creased. ‘Do you think I care? Or do you think I need your approval?’

  Zoya sighed. It was getting harder and harder to work with this brat. She sympathized with Simone. She’d hold a grudge too if superintendent Hussain thought she wasn’t capable of handling a case on her own. So, she, Zoya, was happy to collaborate, happy to let Simone take the lead and let her shine. But Simone wasn’t making it easy. Not at all.

  ‘Sorry,’ Zoya gave Simone the benefit of the doubt. Again. ‘I meant we did well, partner. Bagged our first suspect.’

  Simone said nothing. The vein in her forehead throbbed, ready to burst through the skin. It conveyed what Simone couldn’t put into words.

  ‘What now?’ asked Zoya. She didn’t want to ride roughshod over Simone, even though she was the more experienced officer. Collaboration was the best tactic, especially for someone with a short fuse like Simone.

  Simone said, ‘We have the suspect. Hard evidence that places him at the scene of the crime. All we need is the murder weapon and motive. Case closed.’

  Zoya pondered for a moment. ‘Do you think he did it?’

  ‘What I think is not important. The evidence speaks for itself.’

  ‘Yes . . . but, what does your gut say?’

  Simone sighed. ‘I don’t trust my gut. And I don’t trust people. I trust and follow hard evidence,’ she paused, ‘which is why I’m not sure if we have the right person in custody.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Zoya.

  ‘On the night the body was found, constable Daya saw a woman, not a man,’ said Simone.

  Zoya’s eyes widened, ‘Maybe that’s the motive?’

  Simone inched closer, ‘What is?’

  Zoya said, ‘His wife is dead, right? So, maybe, Ramesh is involved with another woman. A woman who doesn’t like the shy little nuisance—the kid. She wants the kid out of the picture. Doesn’t want the kid from his ex-wife, a constant reminder of his past. She convinces Ramesh, hatches the plan and together, they murder the kid.’

  Simone grinned, revealing her front teeth. It was the first time Zoya had seen her smile.

  ‘It’s an interesting theory, Zoya, but we need to ask around, see if there is another woman and check out his alibi. But the way his place was messed up, it looked like he was genuinely heartbroken. Even if he killed his own kid, why display him in a glass case? Why make a big deal out of it? Wouldn’t it be better to hide the body? Easier to say the boy was kidnapped and never found. We, the police, would lap it up. Nobody would even suspect him because he lodged the missing person complaint himself.’

  Zoya nodded. For all her faults, Simone was right, her logic sound. Zoya agreed, ‘You’re right. The biggest clue is the display case—an elaborate and painstaking endeavour done at the cost of getting caught. Why dress up the boy as a girl? More importantly, why kill a little boy in the first place. We need to understand the psyche of the murderer. We should—’

  ‘Stop!’ Simone turned on her heels. ‘I know you are a trained psychoanalyst but let’s not make it a bigger deal than it is. We are not dealing with a psychotic serial killer. It’s one dead boy. One murder.’

  Zoya shuddered at the thought of Simone’s cold and frigid heart.

  Simone continued, ‘We follow the clues, play it logically and we’ll find the killer. If current evidence is to be believed, yes, maybe the killer is already in jail. Or maybe not. We need to nip the loose ends in the bud, wrap it up with a red ribbon and throw the closed-case file in the boss’s face!’

  ‘So, that’s what it’s ab
out? Throwing it in superintendent Hussain’s face because he asked you to partner with me?’

  Simone huffed. She walked towards her Thar.

  ‘Wait! Is that a yes or a no?’ Zoya jogged after Simone.

  Simone didn’t answer or break her stride.

  Zoya was sweating by the time she caught up with Simone. ‘Look . . . I am . . . sorry,’ she said, breathless. ‘You’re right . . . Let’s follow the facts of the case.’ She exhaled loudly. ‘Let’s start—’

  Simone’s shrill, old-school ringtone started blaring. She pulled out her phone and accepted the call. ‘What!’ she barked into the phone.

  Zoya chuckled. She was beginning to wonder if Simone ever said ‘hello’ to the caller.

  Simone listened to the caller for a few seconds. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said and disconnected.

  ‘What is it?’ Zoya asked.

  ‘The autopsy results are back. I’m heading there.’

  ‘Oh, great! Let’s go then.’

  Simone didn’t move. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m going alone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Zoya was starting to reach her boiling point, both from the short run and Simone’s attitude.

  ‘Let’s divide and conquer like you suggested earlier. Why don’t you go check Ramesh’s alibi and talk to his neighbours? See if you can prove your theory of the secret mistress.’ Simone unlocked the Thar and hopped in.

  Zoya ground her teeth. She had had enough of Simone for a day. ‘Fine. Divide and conquer it is,’ she muttered. ‘Just drop me off at the headquarters. My car is parked there.’

  Simone shut the car door and turned on the ignition. The Thar boomed to life. She lowered the window and appraised Zoya from head to toe.

  She said, ‘I think you’ll greatly benefit from a twenty-minute walk, Zoya.’

  Simone put the car in gear and drove away.

  8

  Simone clenched and unclenched her hands on the steering wheel, chewing her lower lip, intent on reducing it to a pulp. Her nostrils flared like a chimney releasing white plumes of smoke. Quite simply, she was mad.

  She was mad at superintendent Hussain for not trusting her and forcing a babysitter on her. She wasn’t a child. She didn’t need a nanny.