Ellie stood at the gate, which now had a heavy metal chain wrapped around it. She rattled it. Arjuna had refused to come in with her.
‘It’s too painful to watch the two of you together,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll be at that fancy cafe we passed on the way here. Call me when you’re done, and I’ll come back for you.’
She had checked the crime scene photos and coroner’s report in the car one last time. Something was missing.
Sathyan appeared on the other side of the gate.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said. The familiar squall of pain in her chest gathered itself slowly.
‘It’s not a disturbance. Have you found something?’ he asked.
‘I’ve lost something.’ She checked the street as he unlocked the gate. It was empty, but she wasn’t naive enough to think this was good news. She followed him inside the house and went straight to the bookshelf, to the family photograph she had returned to Sathyan.
‘Did Ameena wear a ring?’ she asked, picking up the photo. Ameena’s hand was raised to her eyes, shielding them from the sun. In the CCTV footage, when Ameena had reached out for the cashew nuts, Ellie thought she had seen something.
The coroner’s report had revealed that Ameena’s right-hand ring finger had been broken, as though someone had carelessly pulled a ring from it and then dropped her hand, leaving behind the incongruously placed bloodied handprint on the body of the car.
Post-mortem. It had to be. The second-last bullet would have shattered Ameena’s window. The last bullet would have killed her. The force of it would have thrown her back into the seat, but not more than that, not enough to fling her hand out of the window.
Someone had reached in and pulled it out.
‘She wore two rings,’ Sathyan said. ‘Her wedding ring on her left hand, even after the separation. And a navarathinam.’
‘I thought Ameena was Buddhist,’ Ellie said, surprised. Navarathinam rings were studded with nine small gemstones, and typically worn by Hindus, who revered the nine planets.
‘She was, but she liked to cover all religions and all superstitions,’ he tried to joke but his words caught in his throat.
‘Were any of her personal effects returned to you?’
He bit his lip and then released it in pain and shook his head. ‘Nothing. Does that help you?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just thinking.’ The navarathinam ring wasn’t listed in the inventory from the crime scene.
‘I gave Ameena the ring,’ Sathyan confessed. ‘My surname, Navaratnam, has the same meaning—nine gems. I wanted it to keep her safe. I wanted the planets to protect her. Silly, isn’t it? As if any of it’s real.’
Ellie didn’t know what to say to him. She sifted through the books on the bookshelf and stopped at one. ‘Every Day Proofs?’
‘Ameena’s undergraduate degree was in pure mathematics. She loved number problems,’ he explained. ‘She liked the logic of them. She said mathematics was complex but understandable, unlike human nature. One clear meaning, not ten confusing ones.’
She nodded. ‘Did Ameena ever write any good pieces about Chinese investment in Sri Lanka?’
‘What do you mean, “good pieces”?’
‘A positive piece rather than a negative one?’
‘You really don’t understand Ameena yet, do you? She didn’t write positive or negative pieces—she wrote accurate and honest ones. She did a series years ago that you’re probably thinking of. It had a catchy title: Crouching Investor or Hidden Dragon?’
‘That is catchy. Do you have copies?’
‘The office might. She didn’t keep back issues here. It talked about how Sri Lankans are benefiting from China as a regional partner. We need hospitals, schools and roads. Every country has to align itself with a benevolent superpower. China is ours.’
A benevolent superpower. The US was an ageing one that had not looked after Sri Lanka.
‘I met Shirani today,’ Ellie told him. ‘She said she couldn’t help me. Do you know her husband, Sachin?’
‘Yes, of course. He’s great; works at the Borella Preparatory School. It sounds fancy, but it’s a public school in the suburbs. He’s overseas at the moment.’
‘Did you know they were having marriage problems?’ She didn’t think either of them were responsible for Ameena’s death, but there was more to Shirani’s story, and it might explain the textbooks.
‘That was years ago, before I knew Ameena. What does that have to do with anything?’ Sathyan asked. ‘I haven’t seen Shirani since the hospital. Neither of us could say much. The last time before that was at Shirani’s birthday party. Ameena gave her a book, something to read on her next holiday.’
Ellie walked along the length of the bookshelf, studying the guidebooks. There were small gaps, the books tilting against each other where some had been removed.
‘Did Ameena have a briefcase?’ she asked suddenly. The passenger seat next to Ameena had been protected from the shattered windscreen by something large. Something that was also missing. The killers were after very specific items.
‘No briefcase. She had a leather satchel. Her father gave it to her when she graduated from university. I was going to get that buckle fixed. She could do mathematical proofs, but she was shit at personal admin.’
‘It’s possible Ameena was planning another piece about the arms deal,’ Ellie said. ‘I think she might have been close to publishing it. It was planned for Independence Day.’
Sathyan shrugged. ‘She never knew when to stop. Like you.’
She stood opposite him but didn’t look him in the eyes. ‘How is your mother?’ she asked.
‘Surviving. She moved to Colombo, lives with her sister here. Too many memories up north. How is your father? Surya?’
‘He’s okay, thank you for remembering. I had to move him into a nursing home. He didn’t like that. Started quoting Article 9 of the ICCPR.’
‘That’s a good one,’ he smiled.
‘He’s a biologist,’ she said. ‘With access to Google. He put up a fight, but not much. He can see where the Parkinson’s and dementia are going. It’s a lovely nursing home,’ she reassured herself as much as him. ‘There are a lot of Sri Lankans there. Although I suppose here, you’d never use a nursing home.’
‘Perhaps. We do look after our elders better. But we tend to eat our young.’
‘All cultures do that.’ Neither of them smiled.
‘Why did you come here, Ellie?’
‘I don’t know. I want to say I’m sorry.’ She had never looked him in the face and told him how his brother had died. Four years ago, she had sat in a hospital cafeteria, looked down at her hands, and spared him the details.
‘You said sorry already,’ Sathyan whispered.
‘I wanted to say it again,’ she replied. The guilt that had kept her away had now drawn her back. The guilt that had kept her silent then, kept her silent now.
‘Why did you come here, Ellie?’ he repeated. ‘To my home. To Ameena’s home.’ He shook his head. ‘Helping Ameena won’t give you the redemption you seek.’ He took the photograph from her hands. She had forgotten she was still holding it. He put some distance between them. ‘It’s been so many years. Seeing you brings back the memory of love. But that’s all it is.’ He swallowed hard.
‘You loved her very much,’ she said.
‘I did. There is no justice for her as there will be no justice for my brother. But I’d like to know who killed her and perhaps even why. I’d like to know why someone thought they had the right to take her from me, to take her from her family. I’m sick of living with the memories of my dead. Can you understand that, Ellie?’
‘I can,’ she whispered. She kissed him on the cheek and finally said the words. ‘I’m sorry, Sathyan.’
There were other words she held back. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I never came back. I’m sorry I never told you the truth.
‘Me too,’ he replied.
Both of them meant it, but neither of them felt better.
•
Ellie tugged on the padlock. The security camera hadn’t been replaced, but the glass on the ground had been cleaned up. The sunlight was fading and the Arabian jasmine released its sweet perfume into the air.
She checked her phone for a message from Arjuna. It wasn’t like him to be late, so she started walking towards the main junction she expected him to take. She heard a low rumble to her left and turned, seeing the motorcycle approach her slowly from the top of the street. The rider’s helmet visor was down but his build and his bike were familiar to her. It was definitely the same guy as before.
She reached for her phone and elevated her status on its Personal Locator Beacon to ‘Distress’ for the High Kidnapping Risk team. Then she hastened in the direction of Pettah markets where she could either disappear safely into the crowds of hawkers or grab a tuk-tuk easily.
She heard the motorcycle narrow the gap behind her and quickened her pace, ducking down the first lane towards the street hawkers calling out to locals and tourists alike, the crescendo of their pitch competing with the honking of the delivery trucks.
At the flower market, elderly ladies with gnarled hands wove roses and chrysanthemums into thick garlands for weddings and temples. Ellie moved quickly among them, then turned into the nearest alley, heading towards its exit, but stopped suddenly when she saw the motorcyclist was already there. He had anticipated her escape route and circled around; waiting for her again. She remembered Pettah markets from her last mission in Colombo, but this man knew them better.
She turned quickly and ran into the tailors’ quarter. A little boy rushed towards her with a kaleidoscope of scarves draped over his arms and shoulders.
‘Madam, madam, for you,’ he smiled. She shook her head but he opened his arms like a magnificent tropical bird, colours flashing iridescent.
‘Just look,’ he thrust his small hand into hers and pulled her to a rusted mirror. He dumped his goods on a rug and then rifled through them, finding an embroidered shawl.
He cast it around her shoulders and positioned her squarely in front of the mirror. Despite its rusted patina, she caught the reflection of the men from the white van. The taller man was ahead, closely followed by the other one, the shirt across his barrel chest now fully soaked in sweat.
Adrenaline surged faster through her veins, giving her more clarity and more speed if she needed it. She was in a crowded place. It could go either way. She couldn’t see the HKR team she had called but she trusted they were nearby. Station protocol dictated they deploy within four minutes of receiving her call. However, now that she’d been forced deeper into the labyrinthine markets, local knowledge outweighed Special Ops training.
The tailor’s boy looked at her in the mirror and then behind her reflection, to the two men approaching slowly.
‘Time to go, madam?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded, unwrapping the shawl and returning it to him.
‘Go Mosque. More people,’ he said, pushing her in the direction of another alley.
The boy called out to his friends who were folding shawls together. They looked up and then towards the men.
The boy winked at her. A group of boys swarmed up and surrounded the two men, shoving shawls in their faces, offering different prices and tightening the circle around them while Ellie raced towards Main Street and the Jami Ul-Alfar Mosque, its red and white striped minarets rising above the narrow lanes.
She glanced back for a second. The men were still coming for her, lunging through angry, shouting tailors. She could not see the motorcycle anywhere. She ran into the path of a tuk-tuk that swerved to miss her. The driver honked ferociously as she turned down an alley into a shaft of waning light. She let herself breathe. Measured, deep and slow breaths. She was adrenalised but in control. She could run and she could fight. She had options.
Bradfield and Sharkey used to say it was all about having options.
She heard shouting again and turned. Both men had almost caught up to her. She looked up between buildings, trying to find the mosque, but saw only slivers of pink sky. She exhaled. She would find it.
She set off again, feeling stronger and faster. One more turn and she was back among the thrum of vegetable and dried fish stands. She darted down an aisle. The men ran after her. In front, she heard the rev and roar of a motorcycle. The rider was waiting for her again, his shoulders hunched and ready. He revved once more, but this time, pushed his bike too hard. Its back wheel spun out twice before he steadied it. She recognised its tailpipe and saw the whole sticker now, the blood-red, gaping lips and outstretched tongue of the Rolling Stones.
With no way forward or back, she turned down the first alley, weaving between stalls, knocking crates over as she went, jumping over others. She saw the exit to the market, which would take her to Front Street where she’d find an empty tuk-tuk easily. She raced out into the falling light of day and was hit by a flash of red.