Two nurses stiffened at the first jet of flashbulbs.
‘What the devil are you two doing here?’ one of them roared. A few shocked gasps followed suit. I continued clicking and forwarding them on WhatsApp.
A few shots of Asha, the operating team, a side profile of the anesthesiologist, which was the best I could get.
‘Who let you in?’ the anesthesiologist demanded.
‘I’ll alert the staff,’ a nurse announced, rushing out of the room.
Krantz raised his palms, as if he was going to surrender – but I could hear him speaking sternly. ‘Have you anesthetised that young woman yet?’
I continued my snapshot rampage. The wall suction, the operating table, the overhead surgical lights, the anesthesia cart …
I heard another irate voice at the door. ‘What the fuck is going on here?’
I had no bandwidth to look behind me. I clicked another picture of Asha facing the viewing screens and monitors.
A bare hand reached out to grab the phone from me. ‘Where’d that come from, Missy?’
I clicked photographs of the person coming at me and backed away simultaneously, knocking over a table on the way. Some bottles on a tray clattered to the ground.
When I looked up, I found myself staring into a pair of cold green eyes that I recognised, from my previous visit as Dr Tahseen’s. Krantz darted forward and pinned the surgeon’s arms behind his back. I zoomed in on Dr Tahseen and clicked more photographs.
‘Confiscating this phone won’t serve you any purpose,’ I said, even as I sent the latest slab of pictures to Alfred. ‘The pictures I’ve taken have already reached the BBC. They’re probably broadcasting it live right now. We’re also videotaping you on a hidden spy cam.’ Sure enough, there was one clipped to Krantz’s undershirt. It belonged to the Squad. There was a horrified silence. Then, many operating team members instinctively covered their faces with their hands and stooped out of the room. Krantz was flashing out his ID card.
‘Detective Jesse Krantz,’ he stated firmly. ‘I want you to cease the procedure on Ms Sawant immediately.’
‘Fuck!’ Dr Tahseen bellowed. He turned to two nurses anxiously fluttering around the operating table. ‘Take that kid back to the ward at once.’
‘She hasn’t been anesthetised yet,’ a gangly young male nurse stammered to Krantz.
‘Please don’t let it go on television,’ the other beseeched me, helping her colleague load an unconscious Asha on to the stretcher. ‘This job feeds my family and …’
‘Out!’ Dr Tahseen snarled, pointing at the door. Then he held on to Krantz’s sleeve. ‘Listen …’
The constable jerked his arm away.
Dr Tahseen shifted his gaze to me. ‘Look, this isn’t what you think it is! Can we talk in my cabin downstairs? I can explain everything!’
‘Talk right now,’ I demanded.
Dr Tahseen fell into a chair. ‘Are you still filming?’
‘Yes.’ I answered coldly.
‘Well, I can’t talk then.’ Dr Tahseen rose to his feet and moved towards the door.
‘No worries. You’ll make a charming face on TV,’ I hollered after him.
‘No! Wait!’ Dr Tahseen cried, wheeling around.
Krantz walked up to him. ‘I have tonnes of questions for you, Doctor.’
A flurry of staff members barreled in, accompanied by three security guards.
Krantz flashed his ID card at the group. ‘I’m from the CID. Dr Tahseen is going to answer some questions.’
Baffled, the group retreated. Krantz placed a hand between Dr Tahseen’s shoulder blades and marched him out, motioning for me to follow.
In the waiting room outside, Shailaja and Jyoti ran towards the ward as medical staff members scurried back and forth agitatedly. Nimmy stood by the nurses’ desk with a resigned expression.
‘What’s going on?’ Shailaja was yelling.
A huge sigh stood out from the ballistic frenzy. It was Nimmy’s.
In his parquet-floored consulting room downstairs, Dr Tahseen began hyperventilating again.
‘Are you still videotaping?’ he asked Krantz across the table.
Krantz shook his head.
He wasn’t. But I was still audio-recording the scene, unknown to Dr Tahseen, who took a sip of water from a bottle on his table and flashed a beguiling smile.
‘I understand that many current and former residents of Bread Breakers’ are being treated or operated on illegally …’ Krantz began tersely.
‘There is a misunderstanding,’ Dr Tahseen said. ‘Bread Breakers’ is a private charity started fifty-eight years ago by Valerie Rousseau, a legendary French businesswoman, genre artist and philanthropist. It was originally called Candela Centre for Assisted Living. It was renamed about ten years ago. Valerie founded Candela in memory of her mentally challenged daughter who died in her teens. Today, Bread Breakers’ is seen as a warm, friendly and inviting home for mentally disabled, abused, and traumatised women and girls who need unconditional love, attention, rehabilitation and proper medical, psychiatric and general care too.’
‘I don’t see performing an illegal hysterectomy as providing proper medical care,’ I pointed out. Krantz held up a hand, signaling at me to be quiet.
‘The families or guardians involved are well aware of all the implications of any medical procedure they want for their children or relatives. We never perform surgeries without their consent or insistence,’ Dr Tahseen said.
‘All that is very well,’ I said. ‘What about the hysterectomy you were going to do today?’
‘Ms Sawant’s parents and caretaker wanted …’
‘So, they insisted. What about Ms Sawant? Did she sign a consent form?’ Krantz demanded.
Dr Tahseen looked at Krantz as if he had lost his mind. ‘Ms Sawant is a mentally challenged woman who can’t make informed decisions on her own. How can she provide her consent?’
‘Why didn’t you get a court approval then?’
‘We’re lobbying with the government to revise its health care policies and sterilisation laws,’ Dr Tahseen explained. ‘Right now, the courts won’t sanction an approval for a hysterectomy in cases where patients can’t provide their consent. But we’re in the process of obtaining court approvals for a number of oncoming cases.’
‘How could you think of operating on Ms Sawant without a court sanction?’ Krantz probed.
‘Any court would have vetoed our request,’ Dr Tahseen said somberly. ‘Have you considered what these women and their families face everyday? How bothersome it is to constantly keep cleaning up after someone else when she has her period or develops an infection? Or how traumatic it is for a mentally challenged girl who gets pregnant? She can’t take care of her child. Her family has to bear the costs of raising that child, even if they’re too poor to care for an extra family member. And what about the constant risk of sexual abuse these girls face?’
‘Are you saying sterilisation will reduce the incidence of sexual abuse?’ I burst out indignantly.
Dr Tahseen began to look uncomfortable.
‘Now, let’s start with the basics,’ Krantz said. ‘If Bread Breakers’ is as established as you claim it is, why doesn’t it have a proper web presence?’
Dr Tahseen took a deep breath. ‘I told you. The care home was renamed ten years ago.’
I quickly did a Google search for Candela on my phone under the desk. The closest result I got was a Jessica Candela, who ran a retirement home in Arizona.
‘Nothing with that name either,’ I retorted.
‘We’re an old organisation,’ Dr Tahseen began, as if he were launching into a mythological saga on Greek cultural evolution. ‘We have a personal rapport with most of our residents and their families. It’s really word-of-mouth that gets us fresh referrals and new residents. We already get more requests than we can handle. So, we thought we could do away with the unnecessary hassle of a web interface. But we realise we’ll become archaic if we don’t adapt to t
he twenty-first century, so we’re working on it now.’
‘Bread Breakers’ isn’t even on the Registry.’ Krantz mentioned.
From my research, I remembered that the Registry is a forum for UK-based organisations to register as private charities. ‘Would you know if Bread Breakers’ is listed on the Registry under a different name?’ I queried.
Dr Tahseen shrugged. ‘You’ll need to address such questions to the Board or Committee.’
Krantz perked up. ‘What committee?’
‘The CRCMD,’ Dr Tahseen revealed. ‘The Committee of Rehabilitative Care for the Mentally Disabled. It’s a semi-autonomous committee, as far as I know.’
‘Tell us more about it,’ Krantz urged.
‘It was formed by the Bread Breakers’ board members. They’re the key decision-makers. But the committee is now starting to support various initiatives ranging from disability rights to rehab.’
Under the table, I ran a quick search for CRCMD on my phone. The name popped up on at least eight different links among the results on the first page. I clicked on a link to the University College London hospital. CRCMD seemed to have a tie-up with the hospital. I spotted Secretary of State for Health Lord Howard Mount listed among the committee members.
‘Is Lord Mount a member of this committee?’ I asked incredulously.
Dr Tahseen reached inside his scrub to adjust his shirt collar. ‘I believe so, yes.’ He replied.
I glanced at a few other names on the repertoire.
Dr Andrew Whitaker, Kathleen Sanders, Dr Alexa Jones, Aiden … I blinked twice in surprise … Aiden McLeod. He seemed to be pretty much everywhere!
I scoured online and found that Dr Andrew Whitaker was a well-known British neurologist, Kathleen Sanders, an Oxford-educated parliamentary under the Secretary of State for Quality, and Dr Alexa Jones, a popular cosmetic surgeon based in Belfast.
Dr Tahseen was still talking. ‘As you can see, we have parliamentarians and seasoned professionals on that committee. That should be enough to stand testimony to our credibility here.’
‘What does Aiden McLeod have to do with a home for the mentally disabled?’ I asked squeamishly. ‘He’s a full-fledged media honcho unlike the other members here!’
Krantz promptly made a note of my observation.
Dr Tahseen snorted. ‘Can’t a media guy support a private charity?’
‘I’ll need to speak to the Board members,’ Krantz said firmly. ‘But that’s something we’ll get to later. Now, I’d like you to tell me why children are kept in a garage on the Bread Breakers’ premises especially when they’re not mentally impaired in any way.’
‘A garage full of children?’ Dr Tahseen gabbled. ‘Oh, you mean the playroom shed. It’s a crèche. Not many workplaces have them, y’know. Even multinational org …’
‘Get to the point, Doctor,’ Krantz snapped.
‘Well, uh, the crèche accommodates the children of many of our staff, security personnel, residents …’ he trailed off.
Krantz cocked an eyebrow. ‘Residents?’
‘Er … kind of,’ Dr Tahseen admitted.
‘Dr Tahseen, it’s either a yes or a no.’
‘Well, a few of our residents are susceptible,’ Dr Tahseen explained. ‘We don’t really know how it happens … you know how it is … they can’t understand what’s going on, but they get together with somebody and become pregnant. Occasionally, a couple of them are sexually exploited. But such cases are rare,’ he finished after an uneasy pause.
‘How can these women get sexually exploited or become pregnant when they lead such a sheltered life at Bread Breakers’?’ I asked sarcastically.
‘Many residents who’ve done well here have returned home to lead normal lives with their families or kith and kin,’ Dr Tahseen pointed out. ‘We aren’t responsible for what happens to them once they leave these premises.’
‘If they got pregnant outside these premises, why are their kids here rather than with their families or next of kin?’ Krantz questioned. ‘I mean those born to these former residents.’
‘You’ve been grilling me non-stop!’ Dr Tahseen retorted angrily. ‘Bread Breakers’ is going out of its way to support those children, financially and otherwise, because their families, in most cases, can’t afford to care for them.’
‘Ever heard of Social Services?’ Krantz piped up sarcastically. ‘Are you saying most other children in that crèche belong to medical staff, support workers and security personnel?’
‘Y-yes,’ Dr Tahseen mumbled.
Krantz jumped on the note of hesitation in his voice. ‘Then why were some of those children abused on Eighth March?’
Dr Tahseen’s eyes bulged in surprise. ‘Abused? What are you talking about?’
I explained what I had seen and heard in the playroom that day.
Dr Tahseen furrowed his brow. ‘Do you know what that support worker looked like?’
I offered a brief description.
‘Oh, I think you’re talking about Niah,’ Dr Tahseen said finally. ‘I didn’t know she was that sort. Usually, our support workers place our residents’ welfare before their own. I’ll inform the Board and see that she’s fired as soon as possible.’
‘What about the young woman who was raped and killed in the bushes near the care home side door a few years ago?’ Krantz pressed. ‘The woman was a Bread Breakers’ resident at the time.’
‘I’m sorry … I wouldn’t know of such a thing.’
‘Besides the events in that garage on Eighth March, I hear that those children are being abused repeatedly,’ Krantz said.
Dr Tahseen pushed a bunch of files back on the table and rose from his seat.
‘I’m sorry, Detective. I wouldn’t know. I’ve spent well over an hour answering your questions. I have work to attend to, now.’ He moved towards the door.
Krantz sang a warning. ‘We’ll be back soon, Doctor. We aren’t done here.’
‘Bloody hell, these last few pictures look like war!’ Alfred grunted at the BBC Broadcast House later that evening.
‘It sure as hell was,’ I assured. ‘Thanks so much for downloading it all.’
Alfred shrugged. ‘Anything for Kiki. Will you use these pictures as a form of evidence for the investigation?’
‘That’s the idea.’
Alfred tugged on his ear thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure we can run these as part of the exposé Kiki was talking about. But we could work an exclusive story around it.’
‘You mean the exposé is off limits now?’
‘Well, we wouldn’t want to put out speculations and muddle the police investigation,’ Alfred stated practically. ‘That’s why these photos aren’t going on air right away. If the case is solved, we could do a documentary, perhaps. But I don’t see that happening any time soon either.’
‘I’ll make a copy,’ I said, hoping my disappointment wasn’t obvious.
‘Hey, Al! How’s it going?’ a bass voice called out as I transferred all the photos from Alfred’s laptop on to a blank pen drive. I looked up to see a tall, young man with shell-framed glasses and spiked chestnut brown hair. I recognised him as a popular TV anchor.
‘Hello!’ Alfred greeted.
‘I hope the dust has settled,’ the man said, looking from Alfred to me. I knew he was referring to Keisha’s death.
Alfred ignored his commiserations. ‘Riz, meet Sanders, sorry, Sandy. She worked on Streetsmart and she was with Keisha on the Lionheart campaign. Sandy, this is Rizwan Elbaz, presenter of The One Show, if you’ve heard of it.’
‘Oh, hasn’t everyone?’ I exclaimed. ‘I love your spontaneity, Mr Elbaz.’
Elbaz grinned airily. ‘It’s mostly contextual. Those days of stale presenting are gone.’
‘Perhaps, we ought to follow America’s footsteps and get a guy like Bill O’ Reilly to yell out our news updates with a pinch of dramedy,’ Alfred joked.
‘That’ll be the day, Al, that’ll be the day,’ Elbaz said. ‘You guys find
a replacement for Streetsmart yet?’ he added curiously.
‘That show’s on hold for a bit,’ Alfred admitted. ‘Ongoing investigation.’
Elbaz suddenly grew pale.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
Elbaz wrung his hands. ‘Um—I just remembered something. I have no idea how this could’ve slipped my mind …’ He seemed annoyed with himself.
‘What the dickens are you getting at?’ Alfred demanded, confused.
‘Well … I have an envelope for you,’ Elbaz told Alfred. ‘Keisha handed it to me one evening – it was in fact the last time I saw her. I think it was a Friday – she wanted to leave it with you before rushing to a meeting.’
That discussion she had mentioned with Jeff, I remembered.
‘But you weren’t around. So, she handed it to me and said she’d pick it up on Monday,’ Elbaz continued. ‘She said it was important. I’m terribly sorry for not dropping it with you sooner. The truth is I completely forgot and it’s been lying around in my drawer for weeks. I’ll go get it.’
He retraced his steps and disappeared around a corner.
Alfred exchanged a perplexed glance with me. ‘There’s a bunch of scripts waiting for my review and I have to knock out a roadmap in an hour,’ he grumbled.
Elbaz returned with a slim beige envelope. ‘Here it is.’
‘Thanks, Riz.’ Alfred pocketed it and prepared to leave.
‘Wait!’ I cried. ‘Can we see what’s inside, please?’
‘Can’t it wait a day?’ Alfred groaned.
‘He says Kiki said it was important. It really won’t take long.’
Elbaz looked on curiously. Alfred reluctantly walked back to me. We slit open the envelope and peered in. There it was. The little red keychain. The slim metallic case. The fading words ‘high priority’ stared up at us from the yellowing keychain label.
Impulsively, I threw myself into Elbaz’s arms with a shriek. ‘Oh, we’ve found it!’
Then I clutched Alfred’s arm. ‘It’s that flash drive. The one with the care home videotape you saw earlier this month.’
I felt a sudden movement behind me as I stood on the platform at the Wood Lane Underground, twenty minutes later.
Victims for Sale Page 22
