'Look, Mr Rai.' The Inspector glowered at him. 'This is not Uttar Pradesh, where you can do as you please. This is Delhi and here you will do as we please. Every person who has a gun on these premises is a murder suspect. And that includes you. Preetam Singh, take him into custody.'

We were all herded into a blue van with wire-mesh windows and taken to the Mehrauli police station. The record room was the dingiest room in the police station, but it was still better than a lock-up. It was here that I met the two remaining suspects, easily the most intriguing of the lot. One was a short-statured tribal from Jharkhand, with the blackest skin I have ever seen. He took no notice of me, but sat alone on the floor, and appeared to be pining for some girl called Champi. He kept asking every passing constable for news of her. The policemen swore at him and made threatening gestures.

The other suspect was a lanky youth called Munna Mobile with long, curly hair. He was handsome in a rakish kind of way, reminding me of Salim Ilyasi, but there was also a disconcerting cockiness about him. He told me he was out in the garden when the lights went out. But he couldn't explain satisfactorily what he was doing in the garden with a Chinese Black Star pistol in his pocket.

A stream of constables kept entering the record room. They pretended to examine the files but I knew they were interested mainly in ogling me, the biggest celebrity to grace their crummy police station.

Mohan Kumar, a.k.a.Gandhi Baba, wandered around the room like a lost boy before sitting down beside me. He leered at me in an odd way. 'So, Shabnam, have you finally decided to appear in Plan B?'

He sounded so eerily like Vicky Rai that I almost jumped out of my skin. The guy really creeped me out.

I shifted immediately to the next bench, where Larry Page sat brooding. The Master's words came to me: 'Of all men's miseries the bitterest is this: to know so much and to have control over nothing.' For the first time I realized what a prisoner on death row was up against. How powerless he must feel against the might of the State. As the uncouth constables undressed me mentally, a lump of fear formed in my throat. I was convinced that sooner or later they would discover the body in Azamgarh, find out that the gun recovered from me was used to kill him and charge me with murder. I would be at the mercy of these lusty-eyed cops, who were already salivating at the prospect of interrogating me. I would certainly be stripped and quite possibly raped.

And even if I managed to survive the murder rap, I wouldn't be able to avoid bankruptcy. This morning I discovered that Bhola has taken money not only from Jugs Luthra, but from at least four other producers.

Jagannath Rai was standing in a corner, busy speaking to his lawyer. But I knew that I didn't need a lawyer; I needed an escape artist.

In the face of my rapidly shrinking options, I reappraised the American sitting next to me. He claimed to be a humble forklift operator, but after the recovery of that Glock from him my hunch was that he was an undercover agent. To earn a reward of fifteen million dollars and get a commendation letter from the US President, he must be the smartest FBI operative in the business, yet he put on a brilliant act of appearing to be dumb, aping those bumbling detectives of film and fiction. He could be my ticket to safety and sanctuary.

I sidled up to him. 'Larry, you said you were in some kind of Witness Protection Programme. Do you think I might be able to join you?'

He almost fell off the bench. 'Say that again?'

'I was thinking, could I come with you to the States?'

'Now you're reading my mail. I'll find out right now,' he trilled and punched a number on his mobile phone.

Within ten minutes he had an answer. 'I've spoken to Lizzie, the CIA Station Chief. She told me she'll pull some strings and get you included in the Witness Protection Programme. She's already working, as we speak, to get us out of here. A USAF Boeing 757 is standing by to fly us to the States. But there is one hitch.'

'What?'

'Lizzie said you can enter the programme only as my lawfully wedded wife.' He fell to his knees and clasped his hands. 'Tell me, Shabnam, will you marry me?'

I gazed at his lovesick face and stood up from the bench. I walked towards the grille window and looked out. The rain had stopped, but a pale mist hung in the air. The earth was awakening, its fertility rejuvenated. It smelt of mud and grass, fresh and new. The night had ended and the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, heralding a brand-new day. It touched me with its simple promise and my decision was made.

'Yes.' I let out a deep breath. 'I will marry you, Larry.'

'You've made me happier than a pig in sunshine,' he said, swooning with joy. 'So will you leave films for me?'

I smiled. 'For you, I will even leave the country.' I liked this man. In time I might even come to love him.

Larry did a little jig, then stopped, as if remembering something. 'Lizzie said there was one other thing.'

'What now?'

'You cannot remain Shabnam. Everyone in the Witness Protection Programme has to acquire a whole new ID. You gotta pick a new name and Lizzie will get you a new passport in a jiffy.'

I thought about that new name. Something neat and simple, yet one that would mark a complete break from my filmi past. A name that would be the exact opposite of Shabnam Saxena. And it came to me in a flash. 'I've got my new name.' I snapped my fingers.

'What is it? Tell me, tell me,' Larry clamoured.

'Ram Dulari,' I said triumphantly.

SOLUTION

20 The Bare Truth

Arun Advani's column, 27 March

MURDER, SEX AND AUDIOTAPE

There was a time when solving murders was easy. They fell into predictable patterns of cause and effect; were slotted into neat categories of motive like jar, joru or jameen. Money, woman or land.

Nowadays you have serial killers, sex maniacs, junkies and psychopaths stalking our streets. Sick people who kill just for fun. And the graph is rising constantly. A violent crime is committed in India every three minutes, a murder every sixteen. Worse, of the ninety murder cases recorded every day, the vast majority never get solved.

Luckily, the murder of Vivek 'Vicky' Rai will not meet this fate. Because true to the promise I made earlier in this column, I have solved the case, uncovered the bare truth.

I must confess, though, that in this exposé there has been some divine providence at work. People tend to think that the main tools which we investigative journalists use are hidden microphones and miniaturized recording devices. But that is not true. The biggest resource we have is not a piece of electronic equipment; it is the support and cooperation of members of the public. They are the ones who provide the anonymous tip-off which becomes the lead in a murder case. They are the ones whose observant eyes and alert ears often result in the seizure of a suspect. It is the vigilance and diligence of a concerned citizen which has helped me blow the lid on India 's most high-profile murder case.

Yesterday morning a thick packet arrived at my flat. It was yellow, nondescript, with just a typewritten label giving my name and address. When I tore it open, I discovered eight audio tapes nestling inside the bubble wrap. I spent the whole of yesterday and most of last night listening to and transcribing the tapes.