Penumbra (13 page)

When he returned to this dome, he found that Julia had left a recorded message.

‘Joshua . . .’ She stared out at him, biting her lip. ‘I’ve only just heard about your father. I’m sorry. You should have told me when we met the other day. Look, about what I said. I don’t know . . . perhaps I was too harsh.’ She paused, considering her words. ‘I was wondering . . . can we meet sometime? Perhaps after the funeral?’

Bennett stopped the recording before she finished, wiped the memory and deactivated the screen. Then he sat for a long time in silence and stared out across the darkening desert.

* * * *

8

Seven days into her new job Rana Rao was still familiarising herself with the ways of the Homicide Division.

For the first five days she had worked noon till ten, going through standard practice and routine with Varma Patel, a sergeant in her fifties who had been in the department for ten years and knew the answer to everything. Varma seemed content to be office-bound, doing her investigations via powerful computer networks and her com-screen. After three days of Varma’s company in the stuffy offices, Rana had had a waking nightmare: this would be her in another ten years, gone to fat and happy to see out the rest of her police life working in the claustrophobic confines of the eighth floor. Varma had laughed when Rana admitted that she would find just one year of this kind of work more than enough. ‘Don’t worry,’ the sergeant had confided. ‘Vishwanath has you marked out for better things. Investigations, so I’m told.’

‘He has? Does that mean I’ll get out of this prison some day?’

‘Be patient. Learning the ropes takes time. You need to walk before you can fly.’

It seemed that some of her desk-bound colleagues on the eighth floor had hard about Vishwanath’s plans for her; either that or they resented her because she was a woman.

A couple of officers made it known that they found her attractive. One afternoon Varma had nudged her and said, ‘What do you think of Naz over there? I think you’d make a fine couple, and I’m not the only one. Naz thinks you’re the best thing to happen to the department in years.’

Rana had sighed. ‘I’m not interested in anyone at the moment. I’m too young to think of anything like that. I need to concentrate on my work.’

A couple of days later Naz had found an excuse to talk to her. It wasn’t long before he asked her out to dinner. He was sneering and arrogant even before she refused his offer. ‘So it is true what the boys in the computer room say. You really are the virgin queen. Or perhaps you prefer women, ah-cha? What a waste!’

The best course of action, she knew from the past, was to ignore him. She had concentrated on the new computer systems she had to learn, the system of filing and cross-referencing she had had no need for in her old job. Indeed, the more she learned of her new posting, the more she realised it had nothing at all in common with her previous police work. In Child Welfare she had been left alone to get on with her own projects; she had been her own boss with no one constantly looking over her shoulder to check if she was following orders. Here, it seemed that she had to have her every breath okayed by her colleagues. She could not open a file without being briefed by the officer working on the case. It was daunting to have her every idea and initiative stifled by authority. She felt like a schoolchild who would never be allowed out into the real world.

She had spent her third day in the shooting range beneath the police headquarters, learning how to use a handgun on a variety of targets, stationary and moving. At the end of the day she had been handed a body-holster that fitted beneath her jacket, and a small pistol. Despite its size, the gun felt bulky next to her ribs. She had never carried a weapon in Child Welfare, and the thought of actually using it filled her with dread.

On the morning of the sixth day she had attended a seminar on interview technique on the tenth floor. She’d sat through a fascinating two-hour talk on how to go about extracting information from a murder suspect. In the afternoon she’d been ordered down to the fifth floor where a technician was giving a demonstration on what he called the ‘crawler’, the latest model of forensic robot which investigating officers took with them to the scenes of crime. She’d been picked out to recite what she had learned and to demonstrate the new model, and after initial apprehension she had performed reasonably well. Rana felt that at last she was getting somewhere.

Halfway through her shift on the seventh day, Investigating Officer Vishwanath emerged from his office, made straight for her desk and pulled up a chair.

He was a tall, imposing figure in his sixties, with an eagle’s beak of a nose, thin lips that seemed cynical and eyes that had seen everything. He was feared by Rana’s colleagues on the eighth floor, and something of their trepidation when in his presence - though Rana had yet to speak to him - had rubbed off on her.

She felt her mouth go dry and her face burn as he regarded her.

‘Lieutenant, you come highly recommended from Commissioner Singh. I hope you accord to expectations. How are things at the moment? Settling in?’

She managed barely a nod and a meek ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very good. Things a bit different from Child Welfare, no doubt.’

‘Very different. Of course the work here is more pressing, but I’m learning.’

‘Very good. Oh, and if Naz and his cohorts bother you again, tell them that I’ll have them back in the basement quick sharp, ah-cha?’

She nodded, suppressing a smile of delight.

‘Have security checked your apartment yet, Lieutenant?’

‘No. I didn’t know they had to—’

Vishwanath waved. ‘Routine procedure. I have the premises of all my staff swept every few months. We’re dealing with killers here, don’t forget that. In the past, criminals have been known to bug the homes of investigating officers. The next security sweep will be in about a month’s time, so your apartment will be searched then, ah-cha?’

Rana nodded.

Vishwanath slapped the desk and stood. ‘Oh, and one more thing. There are a few files I’m too busy to look over at the moment, concerning cases I think might be connected. Could you go through them, correlate likely significant factors, and download the files and your report to my terminal before ten?’

‘Ah-cha, sir. Right away.’

Vishwanath called over to Naz to send the files to Rana’s terminal, nodded at her and strode away. Rana watched him go, aware of the flutter of her heart. Now if someone as mature and polite as Vishwanath were to ask her to dinner . . . She dismissed the thought. She was being stupid, indulging her fantasy of being swept away by a surrogate-father figure.

She glanced across the room at Naz, who looked as if he’d just bitten into a rotten mango.

For the rest of the shift she concentrated on the files describing the investigations, in minute and stomach-turning detail, of eight murders committed within the city limits over the past ten years. In each case the murder victim had been lasered in the head at point-blank range. On the cheek of each victim had been scored a crucifix. The dead were all businessmen - in one case a minor politician - who had been investigated on suspicion of corruption, bribery and drug trafficking.

Rana pored over the reports, downloading data on the dead men from outside sources for factual corroboration, and made her report two hours later. ‘Though it would seem at first glance that these cases are obviously linked,’ she began, ‘there is the very real possibility that because the second murder was reported in great detail - i.e. the cruciform cutting was mentioned - the third and following murders might very well fall into the category of copy-cat crimes. However, examination of the case material suggests that all the murders are connected . . .’ She went on to list her reasons, and only when she completed, signed and downloaded the report to Vishwanath did she wonder if she had come down too vehemently in favour of the single-killer hypothesis.

That night she was unable to sleep for worrying that Vishwanath had found her report shallow and facile. It occurred to her that the notes were old cases presented to her as an initiative test.

The following day she began a new shift pattern: from eight in the evening through to six the following morning. To her dismay there was a message from Vishwanath flashing on her screen when she began work that night. She accepted it with a heavy heart, expecting a reprimand. She read, with relief: ‘Excellent report re. the crucifix killer, Lieutenant. We must discuss the details when I have the time.’

It was a quiet shift. The office was all but empty, only Rana and one other officer working at the files. Midnight came and went and Rana experienced the strange isolation of working the night shift. Beyond the long windows of the eighth floor a vast ad-screen floated by, exhorting night-workers and insomniacs to try an ice-cold bottle of Blue Mountain beer.

She worked through the files that had built up over the past few days, assigning them to various desks. For the past week she had promised herself that she would slip down to Howrah bridge after work and look in on Vandita and the others, see how they were keeping and how Private Khosla was getting on with his new posting. But always at the end of every shift she had gone home and slept - or, in the case of last night, not slept - too exhausted to brave the crush and look for her friends. Tomorrow, she told herself. In the morning I’ll leave here, keep myself awake with a strong coffee, and go see the kids.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the main door crashing open and Vishwanath running across to his office. He emerged seconds later carrying a com-board and speaking hurriedly to forensic, head cocked to one side, for all the world as if he were talking to himself. He paused long enough to gesture impatiently at Rana. ‘Ah-cha, you, Lieutenant. Come with me!’

Rana stood and crossed the room, then dashed back to her desk for her com-board, grabbed it and gave chase, disbelieving. She hurried down the corridor and joined Vishwanath, Naz and the forensic team in the elevator.

Vishwanath nodded at her from a great height. ‘Pleased you could make it, Lieutenant,’ he said, but his acerbity was sweetened by a smile.

Naz pointedly ignored her.

‘It seems as though we have another crucifix killing,’ Vishwanath continued as they descended. ‘The governor is getting impatient to have the crimes cleaned up. He says it “doesn’t reflect well on the image of the city”. Personally speaking, I am more concerned about catching the killer in order to save lives in future.’

They stepped from the elevator and into the underground car-park. The transport situation was a far cry from what she had been used to in Child Welfare. Two new squad cars were waiting, engines running. Vishwanath signalled for herself and Naz to join him in the first car, while two forensic officers took the second.

As the driver swept them up the ramp and on to the midnight streets of Calcutta, quieter at this time but still busy by the standards of most cities, Vishwanath turned in the passenger seat. ‘I hope your com-boards are loaded with the details of the previous crucifix killings?’

Rana held up her board in reply.

Something in Naz’s hesitation gave her an exquisite surge of cruel pleasure. ‘I . . . was in the process—’

Vishwanath gave Naz a look that cut him dead. ‘I don’t want excuses, Lieutenant. Copy the details from Rana’s board. On second thoughts, I think Rana should do it for you.’

Uncomfortable with her commanding officer’s overt favouritism, but at the same time enjoying Naz’s discomfort, Rana took his board and connected it to her own. Seconds later she had downloaded a copy of all the relevant data on the murders, plus a copy of her own report for good measure.

‘The killing occurred in Pathan,’ Vishwanath said, ‘north of here at the Hindustan Plaza hotel. We have yet to learn the identity of the victim.’

Rana entered the details into her com-board, then sat back as the squad car carried them into the exclusive district of foreign embassies and consulates. They passed grand colonial buildings of white brickwork, like so many wedding cakes, set in lawns as vast as cricket pitches. There was so much unoccupied space in this suburb that Rana found it hard to believe they were in the same city; just two miles south of here was the teeming, chaotic heart of Calcutta. This place filled her with an uneasy feeling, like agoraphobia. She much preferred the familiar hurly-burly of the city centre and the surrounding slums, where she had spent so much of her life.