Free Chain of Custody by Anita Nair

heard a high-pitched scream and then a silence that had boomed in her ears.
    No one had come near her for the rest of the day.
    The next day a plate of food was thrust towards her. In the corner was a plastic paint tin. That was to be her lavatory. She had sat huddled, wondering how she could try and escape.
    Daulat Ali rapped hard on the plywood wall of the cubicle. ‘What? Are you still here?’
    Moina grabbed a towel, her soapbox and a shampoo satchet and went to the opposite cubicle. She may as well wash her hair while she had access to water, she thought. She drew the curtain gently and said to the child, ‘Come with me.’
    The child cowered and clung to the bed she was sitting on. When Moina went closer, she flinched and began to scream.Moina placed her palm – the wounded palm where a bar of flesh was testimony to the crossing she had made – across the child’s mouth. ‘Ssh …’ she said.
    The child was dressed in what looked like a school uniform. A blue kameez and a white shalwar. A white dupatta was still pinned to the kameez in a V-shape. Her hair was done in two braids with blue ribbons. Her face was streaked with tears and she looked like she hadn’t eaten or slept in days.
    Moina said gently, ‘Where are you from?’ The child shook her head. She didn’t understand Bengali. Moina touched her lip with a finger to gesture silence. Then she touched her chest and murmured, ‘Moina.’
    The child gazed at her through eyes filled with tears. ‘Nandita,’ she said.

    Gowda glanced at his watch. He had twenty minutes to cover eleven kilometres. They were still at Hennur Bande and the traffic showed no signs of speeding up. They still had three traffic lights to get past. ‘What were you thinking of, taking this route at peak hour?’ Gowda sighed.
    â€˜I thought we could take the outer ring road and turn into Thanisandra at Nagawara Lake. I know a way from there to Saharkarnagar. Once we get there, Kodigehalli is not too far. I thought we would get there ahead of time.’ PC David thumped the steering wheel impatiently.
    Deputy Commissioner of Police Sainuddin Mirza was a stickler for punctuality and he wasn’t going to look kindly on Inspector Gowda if he was late for the appointment.
    â€˜Is there an alternative route we can take to get past this bottleneck?’ Gowda asked, peering at the rearview mirror.Fortunately, there seemed to be enough space for them to manoeuvre out of the line of traffic gathering behind them.
    â€˜There is a route, sir, but the road – if you can call it that – is horrible,’ David said quickly. Gowda in a good mood was hard enough to handle but Gowda in a bad mood … David shuddered.
    â€˜Just go,’ Gowda said, glancing at his watch again.
    David turned into a road that led towards Narayanpura. He seemed to be guided by some mysterious satnav located within his skull as he swerved into alleys and raised dust on mud roads. Gowda watched the countryside unfold before him in amazement. A field of cauliflowers here. A field of marigolds there. A stream over which was a tiny bridge. A small temple beneath a giant peepul tree. A makeshift stone bench by a casuarina grove on which an old man sat dozing, leaning against a staff. A flock of sheep grazed while a dog stood among them. Who would have thought such tiny pockets of seemingly bucolic bliss lay hidden just a few kilometres away from the city that was heaving and bursting at its seams? For a moment he wished he were on his Bullet. He would explore these roads one day soon, he decided.
    David drove up to the DCP’s office with a couple of minutes to spare. Gowda looked at himself in the rearview mirror and smiled in practice. He was ready for all the fake smiles and enquiries of well-being he would have to endure in the brief walk down the corridor and up the steps to Mirza’s chamber.
    The DCP’s room was a paean to