It was a cool, balmy evening in February in Dubai. The hop-on hop-off open top tour bus painted a dark red, with bright advertisements all around, stood marooned in the service road outside City Centre Mall , the first and of course the last stop. The passengers, tourists in shorts, tees and floppy hats , all festooned with cameras , stood in a huddle by the roadside, while the driver nervously chewed his nails. The two Anjads stood behind, lights flashing, waiting, like all the others on the scene. The crime scene officers had already gone over the upper deck where the girl's body sat. The driver was telling his friend over his mobile phone, " It looks like suicide , they found an empty medicine bottle under the seat, maybe sleeping tablets ?" A sleek sports car , red Ferrari, driven at breakneck speed, pulled up with verve and out stepped the elegant Ms Farida Kanoon, detective inspector of the Dubai Police Crime Branch, adjusting her abaya, her kohl darkened eyes flashing with intelligence.
The dead girl was petite and pretty, a Filipina, small regular features, lovely figure , there were no marks or injuries on her at all. She looked peaceful, as if she was sleeping. Why would a young, attractive, healthy looking girl kill herself in public ? For one thing , where was her purse ? Her work permit ? Nobody moved around without that vital document on them. She must have paid for her seat on the bus somehow ? Farida thought back over the route, the easiest place to dispose of a bag would have been at the Dubai Creek crossing, she called for a search party to go over there straight away. But no luck there, the bag must have floated out into the Arabian Gulf by now.
The driver did not remember well but was almost sure the girl had boarded the bus in Deira with a male companion, a Filipino like herself. Where had he got off? Statistically speaking, the Satwa area on the bus's route was where a large number of Filipinos lived, so she decided to start her enquiries there. It was not fitting for a Watni lady to go to such labour camp areas , so she had to delegate the task of door to door enquiries to a team of male detectives. One of the many restrictions that chafed her, constantly. Within three hours , however, the dead girl's picture had elicited the information that she lived with her brother in a shared bed space in Satwa. A picture of the young man was procured from Immigration's computer systems once his name and passport copy were extracted, from the landlord. The young man worked at a hotel in Deira as barman and was brought in for questioning the next morning.
He was short and stocky, clean shaven, with gelled hair and a nervous habit of chewing his underlip. He spoke in a low voice and Fareeda had to ask him to speak up, more than once. He gave evidence clearly , however, that their family name was De Cruz. He was Anthony and his sister, the dead girl, was called Rose. He had missed her at dinner time, but had thought she was maybe with friends and hadn't worried when her mobile seemed dead, his sister was very careless, always allowing the credit to get over. He cried a little then, and asked for a glass of water. Farida asked him about his family, back home in the Philippines sympathetically. There is nobody left, it was only the two of us and now she is dead.


Farida pretended to consult the slim dossier in front of her, she didn't need to, though. All the facts of this case were in her head. Did he know his sister was pregnant ? The question seemed to stun him . He leaned forward angrily after a few moments of silence. His sister ? Pregnant ?? Impossible ! Why , just the previous week they had gone out pub hopping ! What sort of a careless brother would he have to be , to allow that?
The doctor remembers seeing you however, says you brought her to get the pregnancy confirmed, Farida dropped her bombshell quietly. A DNA test will show who the father is, Mr De Cruz, now , would you be so kind as to swab your cheek for me ? The young man stared at her and at the elongated ear bud that had magically appeared in her hand. He caved then, confessed to killing his girl friend who had refused to terminate her pregnancy. He didn't want to lose his job and be jailed for adultery in an Islamic country. So he had taken her out on the tour bus for a treat , and spiked her juice with a deadly dose of sleeping pills. Waited till she had drifted off to sleep and then quietly got off the bus. He had banked on the fact that the harried, tired Indian doctor at the government maternity clinic, at the end of his shift, wouldn't remember him, after all, don't they say all Filipinos look alike ?