the news would have been able to reconstruct the events from memories of other such outrages. The victim was a late-shift worker in a suburban tele-services office. She was left outside the lane to her modest home by a call-center cab, the driver of which had his own roster of clients to drop off. Hence, he couldn’t see her to her door. The hour was advanced, well into the small hours of the morning. The night was cold, the streets were dark, her assailants waiting, and her companion fought off from the chase. He didn’t even see her assailants’ vehicle. They disappeared, he would say, into the fog. As was later established, the police control room vehicle wasn’t where it should have been either. The victim’s companion, a colleague who lived down the lane from her, wasted precious minutes in a fruitless search for it. Anguished calls resulted in a PCR jeep reaching the site of the abduction a good half-hour later. By which time it was too late for the girl.
It came as no surprise that a task force was formed to combat what one gentleman representative in Parliament called the “growing menace of rape.” Dayal, fresh from his triumph in the search for the finger-stealer, was roped in to head it and was given a free hand in choosing its constituents. Kapoor followed him, as did Smita, on leave from the cyber section of Crime Branch.
“She’s young. And female,” the DCP had explained to his senior commissioner, the one who’d drawn the short straw of having to face the minister, as that good lady cast about for ways to counter the growing ire of her voters and fellow legislators and parliamentarians. The commissioner, having been hung out to dry by his brother officers, was in no mood to argue with the DCP. He’d nodded curtly and told him in so many words not to fuck it up.
“The old lady wants to see you,” he’d said the day after the rape, by which time the tumult over the assault and the task force to address it were both well in place. “She wants to know what you think.” The DCP had raised his eyebrows, the question implicit. “You know. The crime situation: what are we doing about it; will women ever be safe in this city. The usual rubbish.”
“And what should I tell her?”
“What she wants to hear.” The commissioner ostentatiously returned to whatever it was he was doing before the DCP had been shown in, and didn’t raise his eyes again till the door closed behind his junior.
The conversation the DCP had with the lady minister proved the prescience of his superior. She was courteous, motherly, and registered concern and worry without striking a false note. She didn’t forget to fluff his feathers with regard to the successful conclusion of the Angulimala case. In fact, she pointed out what his superior had perhaps forgotten to mention, that she’d specifically asked for him to head the task force. She was pointed in her questions and attentive to his replies and the DCP was left with no illusions as to why he was there.
“You see, Dayal, the city needs closure. Like you provided with that awful finger-snatcher. You do understand, don’t you?”
Dayal had nodded.
“I don’t expect you to end crimes against women in this city. But I want these men caught. Expeditiously. They will be given exemplary sentences. That will help, I imagine?”
Dayal had nodded again, with less conviction.
“Do you not believe that will help?”
“I don’t believe there are too many offenders in this country who’re particularly scared by our criminal justice system.”
“But you’re part of that system, Dayal. And Delhi Police hasn’t shown itself in the best light thus far, has it?”
He had nodded glumly, saluted smartly, and turned on his heel as she went back to the flowerbeds and potted chrysanthemums in her enormous garden in central Delhi, the early winter sun gloriously high, a yellow aureole in the inverted blue bosom of the sky. It occurred to him that she was very resolute for a woman who tended to end her sentences with question marks, and was only mildly surprised when she hailed him.
“Yes ma’am?”
“These felons of yours may not be scared of the system. But I suspect they’re more than a little scared of the police, hmm?”
“What does that mean?” asked Smita later that day.
She and Kapoor were facing the DCP, who lounged with his feet up on a little stool in the well of his desk. His eyes were on the ceiling and very far away and his hands were behind his head. Smita knew that no answer would be forthcoming from him.
“Well?” she repeated anyway.
“It means that she knows we’ll be using traditional methods to track these guys down,” said Kapoor.
Smita still looked quizzical.
“Are you wondering whether the old lady’s aware that traditional methods can make anyone own up to anything?”
Smita nodded.
“I think there’s a strong possibility of that,” allowed Kapoor.
“So?”
“So, you’re thinking that she doesn’t care whether we catch the right guys, we just need to find someone who fits the bill. Right?”
“You’re an old cynic, you know that? Stop polluting her mind with your rubbish,” said the DCP from the depths of his reverie.
“Isn’t it true, though?”
“What’s true, Smita, is that this office doesn’t catch the wrong people,” pronounced the DCP.
“Anyway,” snorted Kapoor, “that particular trick won’t work in a court in Delhi. Not with this case. Don’t you worry, we’ll get the right guys. Tracking rapists isn’t rocket science. You know that.”
Smita sighed. The depressing truth of that particular statement had been proved in the previous few days, when the schoolgirl’s assailant had been identified as her nice young cousin who lived next door.
“We’ll run the files,” said Kapoor. “Find accused rapists out on bail, recently released offenders, things like that. Then we’ll lean on them. Something will come to light.”
“Is the victim talking more sense?” asked the DCP.
“She’s doing better,” said Smita. “I’m going by again this afternoon. I’ll take the artist, see if she’s ready.” She looked at her superior officers. “I wanted to thank you,” she added impulsively. “For putting me on this team.”
The DCP and Kapoor nodded silently. Gratitude wasn’t the wrong response from a young career-track policewoman. The profile of the case, the minister’s personal involvement, the strong chance of a quick and decisive conclusion: these were all gilt-edged offerings, to be accepted with grace and humility.
“It’s not just this case,” continued Smita with some urgency. The DCP opened his eyes in surprise.
“I mean, I am grateful for this opportunity,” said Smita. “Don’t get me wrong. But there’s something you should know. I’ve been involved in this before.”
“No you haven’t,” said the DCP involuntarily, before feeling the need to explain.
