‘I’m sorry,’ Nick said. ‘I genuinely had no idea you have another nephew. Has Ambar had a baby?’
Asmita turned away, shaking her head. ‘Who trains you people? You come barging into my home at this time of night, scaring the living daylights out of me because you haven’t bothered to brief yourself properly, then you start chatting away like it’s a social call. Your people skills are in the negative numbers.’
‘Like I said, I’m sorry.’
She faced him again, back in complete control of herself. ‘Ambar got married about six months after Jishnu died.’ Nick had to think for a moment who she meant, then remembered Joshu hadn’t always been called Joshu. To his family, he would always be Jishnu. ‘Rabinder was born about a year later. He’s seven months old now.’ Asmita couldn’t resist a smile. ‘We all adore him. That’s why I was so freaked out. He’s the only person I think of as my nephew.’
‘But Jimmy is too, whether you like it or not.’
‘But I don’t know him. He’s never been part of my life. And I do regret that, but I have to respect my parents’ wishes. And they wished to have nothing to do with him. My mother is adamant that Jimmy isn’t even Jishnu’s child.’ This time her smile was apologetic. ‘She has a very low opinion of Scarlett Higgins and her personal morality.’
‘So you’re saying your family really don’t consider Jimmy to be one of you?’
Asmita folded her arms across her chest. ‘Biologically, he might be. But he’s not part of our family in any meaningful sense. He’s not part of our culture, our family traditions. He doesn’t belong.’
‘He looks like one of you,’ Nick said. ‘He looks more like a Patel than a Higgins.’
‘Maybe. But looks are only skin deep.’ She cleared her throat. ‘You say he’s been abducted? How did that happen?’
‘His guardian took him on holiday to America. While she was waiting for a security pat-down, a man walked away with Jimmy. It was very well orchestrated. By the time anyone realised what was happening, they were gone.’
There was a long silence. Asmita crossed to one of the tall windows that looked out towards the glittering skyscrapers of the City. ‘What has this to do with me and my family?’
Not a question that would be easy to answer without treading on cultural sensibilities. ‘Like I said, it was a long shot. And you kind of answered my question when you told me about Rabinder.’
She swung back to glare at him. ‘I get it.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You think we’re some primitive hill tribe who need a male heir to preserve the family line. Do you have any idea how insulting that is?’
‘It wasn’t meant to be an insult. Quite the opposite,’ Nick said. ‘I was trying to be sensitive to what might seem important to someone from a different cultural perspective. I’m not an expert in these nuances, I’m a detective trying to do my job. And that job is all about trying to rescue a small boy who has been snatched from the person he loves and the life he knows. If I’ve trod on your toes, I’m sorry. But that’s not my number one priority at the moment.’ He started to head towards the door.
‘Wait,’ Asmita said. ‘I think we both got off on the wrong foot here. I’m sorry to hear about Jimmy, but only in the way I’d be sorry about any other stranger’s kid being abducted. I can’t pretend to feel an emotional connection that doesn’t exist.’
‘I understand,’ Nick said. He couldn’t help thinking that if she spent so much as an afternoon in Jimmy’s company she’d be singing from a different song sheet.
‘But you’re right to think a male heir is important to my father. Although he couldn’t admit it, he was devastated by Jishnu’s death. And Rabinder’s birth was an obvious relief to him. It eased the pain of his loss and it gave him hope. But even before that, Jimmy wasn’t the answer. You have to believe me on that.’
It sounded like the truth. And Nick had no reason to disbelieve her. He wasn’t sorry that nothing had come of his idea. It simply strengthened his belief that Pete Matthews was the most credible suspect. Now all he had to do was find the bastard.
30
It’s a terribly irony, but it was thanks to her celebrity that Scarlett’s breast cancer diagnosis was so prompt. One of the daytime lifestyle shows asked her to front a piece about breast cancer awareness for younger women. We’d taken to meeting up for afternoon tea in one of the smart London hotels once a month, and she’d been excited to tell me about the latest assignment. ‘It’s like they’re really starting to take me seriously,’ she’d said. ‘I’m not just doing beauty tips and stuff about how to pull a bloke when you’re a mum. This is proper presenting.’ She was proud of herself and nobody with a heart would have rained on her parade by pointing out that choosing her might have had something to do with her perfectly splendid and completely natural bosom.
Scarlett’s job as presenter was to point out that, although the numbers were relatively small, young women were also susceptible to breast cancer. She’d be working with a specialist to demonstrate how to examine her breasts. They’d talk about the signs to look out for – not just a lump, but a change in texture or weight. And then they’d run through the tests that a woman would have to go through if anything anomalous was discovered. Scarlett had been swotting up on the subject, and our dainty sandwiches and scones were accompanied by a detailed description of mammograms, ultrasound and biopsy. As far as she was concerned, she had all the bases covered.
All the bases except the one that mattered, as it turned out. They had barely begun filming at some private clinic when things started to go awry. The specialist nurse who was showing Scarlett how to examine her breasts stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, a stricken look on her face. At first, Scarlett thought it was a wind-up – that the nurse was in cahoots with the crew, who were having a practical joke at her expense. It’s the sort of black humour that happens all the time in factual programming, or so I’ve heard.
Scarlett giggled. Of course she did, it was her default response to things she didn’t quite get. And she did genuinely think this was a joke. But in mid-giggle, it dawned on her that she was the only one laughing. The nurse looked shocked, the crew were simply silent, puzzled. Only the director spoke. ‘What’s the problem?’ he said, pushing past the camera and checking out the scene.
The nurse looked around wildly, as if she didn’t know the protocol for the situation. Then she got a grip and said, ‘Can we clear the room, please?’
The director was slower on the uptake than the rest of the crew who obediently started to shuffle out of the door. ‘We’re in the middle of filming – surely whatever it is can wait till we’ve got these shots?’
The nurse was tougher than him. Which, according to Scarlett, wasn’t hard. ‘You too, please,’ she said firmly, advancing on him.
‘This has all been agreed,’ he protested. ‘We’ve got this room all morning.’ She kept coming at him. He had no choice but to back up to the door. ‘I’m going to speak to the clinic director,’ he blustered on his way out. ‘You’re supposed to be cooperating with us.’
Through all this, Scarlett had been trying not to panic. ‘Soon as I realised it wasn’t a wind-up, I knew it was bad,’ she told me later. ‘The look on that nurse’s face and the way she was hustling the rest of them out of there, it wasn’t so she could get an autograph.’
As soon as the door closed behind the director, the nurse was back by Scarlett’s side, totally focused. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you,’ she said. ‘But something’s not right here.’ She delicately palpated the underside of Scarlett’s left breast. ‘The skin texture feels wrong, and when I press a bit harder, I’m feeling a series of tiny hard lumps.’