Soul Beach

triumph. ‘The weirdest thing is that the autopsy shows an Indian girl, Triti Pillai, aged sixteen and seriously malnourished. All the usual signs of eating disorders, most notably the acid damage to the back of the teeth.’
    ‘I don’t get it. Why does that suggest an eating disorder?’
    ‘Stomach acid is evil. If you throw up all the time, your teeth rot.’
    ‘Oh.’ I think of Triti’s bright white teeth and her shy smile. ‘That’s horrible. But why is it weird?’
    He hands over the document, finally, and points to the bottom.
    I read out loud: ‘Cause of death: myocardial infarction, probable cause, undetected cardiac defect, of genetic origin.’
    ‘A heart attack. But essentially natural causes. They’re saying her heart just gave up because of a weakness she inherited. No mention of the anorexia or bulimia making the body less able to cope with that weakness. I mean, I’m no expert, but it’s strange. Why would that be given as cause of death when she so obviously starved herself? All I can think of is that the doctors said it was natural causes so the family wouldn’t have to face an inquest. Her folks were either very persuasive, or very influential.’
    When Meggie’s inquest opened, the press were everywhere. It was over in seconds, proceedings postponed until they caught the killer. Dad went alone, and the photos of him are some of the most shocking they took of him. He looks like a ghost himself.
    ‘Surely that’s a good thing though?’ I say to Lewis.
    ‘I suppose so, if your daughter dying can ever be a good thing. But what’s even weirder is that you got to know about it. It wasn’t reported. Not in the papers or the TV news. I’ve looked everywhere. She was just a teenager who died of supposedly natural causes. Nothing special about her. So how did you hear about it?’
    He waits for me to say something.
    ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps it was in a paper that doesn’t have a website,’ I suggest.
    Lewis doesn’t smile. ‘Or perhaps you’re not telling me everything?’
    He waits again, scrutinising me like I’m a particularly troublesome hard drive.
    Well, two can stare. Nothing will persuade me to tell him how I know about Triti. I return his stare so intensely that if you were watching the two of us from the next table you’d think we were either in love, or full of loathing.
    It’s never occurred to me before how similar those two emotions look.
    He blinks first. ‘Anyway, it’s only half the story. If you want the full one . . .’ He turns the papers over and there, scribbled in his crazy handwriting, is an address in Camden. ‘How do you fancy a day trip to the wastelands of north London?’

49
    I wanted to go on my own, but Lewis wouldn’t let me.
    ‘It’s rough up there,’ he explained. ‘I feel responsible for you now.’
    We take the tube, and on the way, I speculate on what might be behind Triti’s death. The threat of an arranged marriage? Parental abuse? I picture a top floor flat in a grim tower block, a place where slow suicide feels preferable to a long life in shades of grey.
    And then we get there, and Triti’s street is about a hundred times smarter than the one where I live: stone semi-detached houses with German cars parked in freshly painted bays.
    ‘You can probably leave me now, Lewis. This isn’t my idea of a ghetto.’ I reach into my purse, and pull out a fiver. ‘Why don’t you take this and let me buy you a coffee and I’ll ring you when I’ve talked to them?’
    If I get as far as talking to them.
    ‘Put that away, silly girl. How many weeks’ pocket money is that? I don’t need handouts. I earn that much in ten minutes just standing here. Besides, I would really like to know what I’ve risked arrest over . . .’
    ‘Arrest?’
    ‘It’s not exactly legal to hack into government databases, Alice. Anyway, I’m dying to see how you plan to talk your way into this one.’
    I don’t tell him that I haven’t got much idea myself.
    Triti’s house is well-maintained, with tubs full of winter plants stacked like sentries on the steps up to the tasteful grey-green front door. I can’t see through the windows because there are blinds down, but the blinds are creamy coloured and rough textured, like hand-made paper. Everything is tasteful. I realise I’ve been expecting something more stereotypically Bollywood, a home that fits a girl who loves fireworks and sparkly crystal earrings.
    I take a breath, then ring the bell.