Cast No Shadow: A Gripping Intelligent Thriller

By Julie Newman

A journalist’s investigation leads her into danger and murder: “This contemporary thriller, set in India and London, is intriguing and thought provoking.” —NB Magazine

Samantha is a journalist in search of a big break that could make a career. When she comes across a little-reported story in India about a hotelier named Amit Joshi—who was accused of rape but exonerated when it was revealed he is actually female—Samantha believes there’s more to uncover. She begins to investigate, helped by a colleague, Gregory, whose brother Simon works for the British High Commission in Delhi.

But as more comes to light, Simon is found brutally murdered. And when Gregory travels to India to discover what happened to his brother, he goes missing. With the authorities seemingly unable to help, Samantha heads to India to search for Gregory and discover the truth behind Amit’s story and Simon’s murder. But thrown into a dark underworld with danger at every turn, she fears that the truth could prove to be the death of not just the story but Samantha herself . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: May 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504071246

Julie Newman

Julie Newman is an electronics engineer who has worked at Boeing, NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory, and SpaceX. She is a passionate advocate for women in engineering and cares deeply about the future of the industry. Julie serves as a board member for the Engaging Girls in STEM program with the Los Angeles County Office of Education and has been volunteering in STEM outreach for more than a decade. For more information about Julie and her initiatives, visit wwww.juliejnewman.com.

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Prologue

Athin streak of light illuminates the pitch dark of the forest floor. It lifts the darkness. A darkness enveloped in sound; a hypnotising chorus led by night birds and crickets and other insects that inhabit the forest. With purpose she walks on, keeping her head toward the sky in order to use the faint light that is filtering through the trees to guide her through the blackness. She is exhausted and scared. The cut on her face – gained when a small branch resented being pushed aside and so swung back with a vengeance – is beginning to sting. She gently touches her cheek with her fingertips; it feels sticky, but also crusty where the blood has started to congeal. She is tempted to pick off the hard pieces but knows it is unwise to do so. The glimpses of moonlight begin to fade as the space between branches lessens. She is no longer able to see what is underfoot. Tentatively she continues moving forward. The tangled undergrowth tries to trip her so she shortens her stride. She presses on. With each step the ground becomes softer. She decides to rest, fearful that she may be heading into a morass. Her legs welcome her decision, they are desperate for some respite from the relentless march. For days they have carried her onward: walking and running and climbing and walking some more. How many days, she cannot say. She has been trying to keep track by counting the sunsets and sunrises. The dense vegetation hasn’t aided her task; at times the sky has been completely hidden, as though a huge blanket has been thrown across the treetops stealing both the sunlight and the moonlight. But now, with exhaustion outweighing fear she allows her legs to fold beneath her and she succumbs to sleep.

A clatter of cicadas stir her from her slumber. Sunlight cascades through a gap in the canopy above, telling her that a new day is replacing the night. Fresh sounds fill the air as the forest awakens.

Slowly she rises to her feet, stretching her tired body. Reluctantly she sets off once more. She hopes that today will be the day she will leave this labyrinth of trees and all that it conceals behind her and reach somewhere more civilised. Somewhere inhabited. Somewhere full of people who may accept her. A busy town; that is what she seeks. She needs to move among others. There is safety in numbers; which is what she was told. Mingle with the masses to avoid capture, travel with others and you may stay safe. Blend in and do not draw attention to yourself. These instructions, along with a warning, were hastily given before her long dark hair was roughly hacked from her head, a rucksack placed on her back and she was pushed into the ‘outside’. Thrust from the only home she had ever known because ‘it is your time, little one, they are coming for you’.

The words had made no sense to her, but they were delivered with such urgency it was clear they meant she was in danger. Mahima wasn’t her mother but she had always taken care of her and looked out for her just as a mother would. The rucksack Mahima had given her held a change of clothes, water, some fruit, some bhajis, (although she preferred them hot) and a few rupees. Before she sent her off into the night Mahima had held her tight and told her to seek out people; the wanderers and nomads, follow them and act as they do.

Become one of them little one, forget this place and all of us here. It will not serve you well to remember.

She would do as she was told. Heed the warning and follow Mahima’s instructions. But she would never forget Mahima, of that she was certain.

1

There are stories out there. Unheard. Unseen. Unwritten. Important stories that should be documented. Very often they begin with an insignificant detail. Perhaps an unsubstantiated rumour, a snippet of overheard gossip, or a reimagined theory. But look closer and sometimes the insignificant leads you somewhere else. Follow these threads and they may lead to a glorious tapestry of stories. Not just any stories, but interesting, informative and heart-warming stories. Human stories. Stories that need to be told. Stories that should be shared. Newsworthy stories.

That was meant to accompany her plea to be allowed to follow her instincts. She knew the tapestry analogy wasn’t the best, although it sounded okay in her head. But in the end it went unsaid. She sat through her appraisal, or as Paul liked to call it, performance evaluation, fingering the sleeve of her blouse; saying nothing. Occasionally she looked at him as he droned on about working your way up, earning your stripes and being part of a team. He applauded her enthusiasm, particularly when she came across something that interested her. However, he then negated that comment when he said she showed an astonishing lack of discernment over what was and wasn’t worth pursuing. Her writing is good. Her time-keeping erratic, although he acknowledged she always makes her time up. His conclusion; overall there is room for improvement but she shows promise. Considerable promise, he added. His advice; listen more, pay attention to those around you who have been in this game a long time.

Do you have anything to add?

Samantha opened her mouth, briefly, but then shook her head. He looked at her then cast his eyes toward the door as he picked up the telephone and began punching in numbers. She stood up and exited his office; cross with herself for not speaking up.

Back at her desk, feeling somewhat deflated, she is mulling over the key points of her ‘performance evaluation’. Her initial reaction was that it couldn’t have gone worse, but then, on reflection she realised it wasn’t so bad; after all, she still has a job, for now. But she is still cross with herself for not speaking up. She should have explained that when people think she is late for work she is very often looking into something. She should have explained that she often undertakes research in her own time. And she definitely should have explained that she is very good at spotting a good story. She concedes that some of her hunches and ideas have been a little off in terms of journalistic content, but then some have proved to be quite interesting. Okay they weren’t going to garner headlines; they were mostly human interest pieces, but still not without merit. After all, when others had been allowed to pursue them they all ended up being printed somewhere, often as fillers, but they were published.

Her musings are interrupted as she spots Gregory approaching her desk; a pompous arse whose air of superiority grates on her.

So, Sammy darling, still here I see. Must have gone well then.

Samantha grins at him, expertly hiding her irritation at his abbreviation of her name. Gregory Johnson: a vain, conceited prig. Her nemesis. He is her complete opposite; public school educated, Oxbridge graduate, family worth millions. Yet here he is working in a London newsroom, supposedly harbouring the same ambitions as she does. To give him his dues, he does work hard, which some people think odd because he can afford to fail. An ample trust-fund is his safety net. But he won’t fail; he has connections and he is respected. And annoyingly for Samantha, he has gained a level of autonomy in the office that she is denied.

It was fine. So what delights have you got for me today?

Usual trivia I’m afraid. Although you may well spot something that the rest of us have missed. He dumps a file on her desk and does an about turn before Samantha can respond. She flicks open the folder, wondering as she does what her father is working on at the moment. Like her he is a journalist, unlike her he is taken seriously. His work takes him right around the globe, to far flung places, often little heard of. He has investigated corrupt governments and organised crime families. Serious issues that all carry a great deal of risk, which is why he often works undercover and under assumed identities. He cites the long absences as the reason he and her mother inevitably divorced. Samantha lets out a huge sigh as she recalls the last time she saw him. It was a while ago, six or seven, actually eight months earlier. He had a short stopover in London before flying on to wherever, he didn’t say. They managed to have lunch and a couple of drinks in Soho before he had to leave. He had looked rather unkempt on that occasion; an unruly beard and bloodshot eyes had led her to be concerned. But he had allayed her fears by claiming the facial hair growth was due to being in the Columbian forest – he couldn’t tell her why – and the bloodshot eyes were simply down to tiredness and jetlag. ‘I find it impossible to sleep on a flight, even in business class.’ Their time together had passed quickly and as usual much was left unsaid between them. They spoke a little of work and the rest of the time was filled talking about the mendacities of life: the weather, the traffic, holidays. It was like having a conversation with your hairdresser, not a parent you hadn’t seen for a long time. He had asked after her sister and mum but wanted to know no more than that they were well. It saddened and angered Samantha that her sister had no interest in their father whatsoever. She had more understanding regarding her Mum’s indifference toward him, after all, they were divorced and had been for many years now. Mum had brought them up single-handedly, working hard to ensure they never went without. And she did this without complaint, or apportioning blame. Samantha had never heard her badmouth Dad, not once. Her Mum’s stoicism and forbearance were admirable.

Gregory is right, the folder doesn’t contain much of interest. Anything worth following up has already been removed by reporters far more senior than her. She pushes the file aside and begins sorting through her in-tray and getting on with the scheduled tasks that she is responsible for. A great deal of the day is spent looking at the clock. The seconds feel like minutes and the minutes feel like hours. The time crawls by at a snail’s pace giving a whole new meaning to the phrase slow news day. It’s almost five when her phone whistles, letting her know she has a text message. It’s Justin, asking her to meet for a drink after work. She hadn’t been planning to see him today, but the offer of a drink is appealing. Especially after her day so far. She would have to make it clear that it is to be only a drink. The last thing she needs is the evening spreading into the night and the night spreading into the morning. What she does need is a good night’s sleep and that won’t be the case if Justin persuades her to go home with him.

Sweetpea, says Justin. You are only a junior reporter. Your time will come and when it does I’m sure you will write a headline making, award winning story, until then...

I know, but... she tries to interrupt him.

No buts. You have to toe the line. You can’t go off on a tangent, trying to build a story when there clearly isn’t one just to satisfy yourself. If that’s what you want to do perhaps you should try your hand at fiction. Become a novelist rather than a journalist.

Samantha lets him prattle on. Pretending to listen. Occasionally she hears him; putting emphasis on phrases like office politics and words like hierarchy and corporate. All blah blah blah as far as she is concerned. What he doesn’t seem to understand is that she is almost twenty-six years old and had expected to be further along her career path than she is at the moment. She just needs someone to trust her, give her more of a free rein, like Gregory has been given. Justin should see that and support her, instead he lectures her. She wonders if it’s because he doubts her ability; or worse is it because she is a woman. Either way, when he begins preaching like this she almost forgets what attracts her to him. His charm, wit and incredible good looks become irrelevant and he is quite simply another condescending, sanctimonious bore. Still at least this will make it easier to walk away from him this evening.

Justin kisses her lightly on the head as they part company at the end of his street. Despite her protestations he did convince her to spend the night with him. As always, it was a wonderful night. He certainly knows his way around a woman. But now she is tired before the day has even begun. She thinks about attempting a power walk to work, perhaps it will imbue her with energy. Instead she settles for dragging herself to the tube station accompanied by a double strength latte.

She arrives at her desk earlier than usual, a surprise to herself and others around her. Gregory is watching her and as she catches his eye he gives her a thumbs up accompanied by one of his smug grins. She turns in her chair, opens the top drawer of her desk and pretends to be looking for something. As she aimlessly moves the contents of the drawer around, she can feel his eyes on her. In the end she roughly closes the drawer and spins her chair round to face him.

What? She speaks loudly and aggressively. Her tiredness coming into play. I’m early, yes. Get over it and get over yourself. Gregory snorts as he laughs at her. And what is so bloody funny?

He stands up and saunters over to her.

I’m sorry, he says, with all the sincerity of a politician on the campaign trail. Yes, you are early. But that wasn’t to what I was alluding.

And to what were you alluding? Samantha asks in an exaggerated plummy accent, intended as satirical mimicry.

Gregory smiles at her before explaining that his thumbs up was a crass attempt at enquiring whether she had enjoyed the previous evening.

What has my evening got to do with you?

I was simply wondering if your evening had been a good one. I assume so. It normally is the case when one comes into the office in the same outfit one was wearing the previous day and said person looks particularly jaded. He winks at her before turning tail and heading back to his own desk. Samantha stares at him, silently seething at his insinuation; even though he is right. It is him being right that makes what he said all the more annoying. That and the fact that he uses at least twice as many words as a normal person to say what he means. She looks around the newsroom, convinced that everyone there has come to the same conclusion as Gregory. She is sure they are all watching her, judging her. She wants to say, yes I am wearing the same clothes, not underwear though, – she does keep spare underwear and some toiletries at Justin’s – and yes I did have a great night, thank you. But she says nothing, obviously, instead she gets up and goes over to the coffee machine. Another shot of caffeine is required.

---

At lunchtime Samantha stays at her desk. She buys a chicken and avocado wrap from the sandwich man and browses online. She is mostly looking at news websites; following links to the strange and wonderful. The kind of stories that appeal to her. Some are quite outlandish; exaggerated and hard to believe, but often funny. Some are just dull, attention seeking drivel. Of course some are fake news. That is the downside to the internet. The web is a fount of information but equally it houses disinformation which it spews forth quite readily. And then, very occasionally something different comes along that piques her interest, like today. A short piece that is no more than a footnote at the bottom of a web page arouses her curiosity.

---

‘HOTELIER EXPOSED’

Businessman is really a woman – truth revealed following rape accusation.

Amit Joshi a successful Indian hotelier from Amritsar in the Indian state of Punjab had the perfect defence when accused of rape – he is a she. The respected entrepreneur asked the arresting officers to find a female to carry out a physical examination. This proved that it was impossible for Amit to have been responsible for the attack. When faced with this conclusive evidence the police had to release ‘her’. Amit Joshi has apparently gone into hiding as staff and friends alike come to terms with the revelation. They are all asking the same question. Who is Amit Joshi?

Not just who but why, thinks Samantha. Why pretend to be a man? As far as she knows there is no law preventing women from owning businesses in India. After all they were one of the first countries to have a female Prime Minister. She googles it to be sure. She is right. Although it’s rare, it’s not prohibited. So why the pretence. There has to be a reason for it. She plays over possible scenarios in her head. After much deliberation, the most likely answer is that ‘Amit’ is running away from something or someone. Again why? She surfs the net some more, trying to find out as much about Amit Joshi as possible. It takes a while to discover the Amit Joshi she is interested in. It appears that name is very common in India. When she finds the correct one, what she reads are tales of a very generous and well respected ‘man’, thought to be of Brahmin origin but with no known family. Samantha is really surprised by how little she is able to uncover. Normally the web throws up a great deal of information about a person. We all leave digital footprints. She decides to look more when she gets home. For now she needs to complete the article she is working on. She has to file copy by the end of the day.

2

Samantha has been sat at her laptop for a couple of hours and has discovered no more about Amit Joshi. The constant dropping off of her connection is making it a slow process. When the signal goes again she decides to go and dry her hair. She has been sitting in her bath robe with a towel wrapped round her head like a turban ever since getting out of the bath. As she dries her tresses she considers what sort of person has no social media presence. Everyone she knows has either Facebook or Twitter or Instagram these days. Even her Mum has Facebook, although Samantha is sure she only got it in order to spy on her and her sister. Her Mum rarely posts anything herself. When she finishes with her hair Samantha puts on her pyjamas and then returns to her laptop. She studies the picture of Amit carefully, wondering how he was a convincing ‘man’ for so long. To her he looks incredibly effeminate. But perhaps that is because she knows he is a she. After exhausting the social media options and finding no useful information on LinkedIn either, Samantha shuts down her laptop. She will look some more tomorrow. Now she needs to catch up on some long overdue sleep.

The alarm on her phone sounds, but she is already awake. Initially she wonders if she has slept at all. But she must have done for she has dreamed. A strange dream she can only recall in part, flashes. A young girl sleeping beneath jagged trees on damp ground. The same girl running; her long, dark hair blowing across her face, obscuring her vision. Sounds and lights that have no discernible shape are pursuing her. The girl trips and falls. When she stands she is no longer a girl. The person standing is Amit. An odd dream not helped by Samantha’s vague recollection; clearly a product of what she had been looking at and thinking about prior to going to bed. For Samantha has concluded that Amit was running away from something. But she pictured Amit running away as a woman, not as a girl. Still, it is a possibility. Although a runaway girl going on to become a successful male entrepreneur was a bit of a stretch, even for Samantha’s imaginings. No, she thinks the most likely scenario is that Amit was destined for an arranged marriage and ran away to escape that. Becoming a man was a perfect disguise, but why become an hotelier. Meeting and greeting a constant flow of people. That is still a puzzle. She swings her legs out of bed and heads for the bathroom. She steps into the shower and begins planning a day of research when she suddenly remembers she has arranged to go home for the weekend. And she can’t get out of it either as it is her Grandma’s birthday.

Fuck.

You alright? the voice of one of her housemates asks from the other side of the door.

Yes, I’m fine. Sorry, replies Samantha sheepishly. She thought her expletive would have been lost under the flow of running water.

Samantha knows she won’t be able to spend the weekend on her computer so decides to use the train journey to see if she can uncover anything. It takes just over an hour and a half to get to Woodbridge, with a change at Ipswich, a journey that when it was her daily commute she found tedious and tiring. She makes a few notes, which are more speculative than fact as she really isn’t able to find out anything about the mysterious Amit Joshi. An attempt to access the Election Commission of India website to see if Amit was on the electoral roll was also unsuccessful. Clearly a different approach is needed so she closes down her computer and puts it into its bag. The next stop is Woodbridge anyway; her stop. As she exits the station she spots her mum’s car. It isn’t her mum sitting in the driver’s seat though, it’s Maxine, her sister. Samantha is a little disappointed. She waves as she approaches the car. Maxine either doesn’t see her or is ignoring her, probably the latter Samantha suspects. Good start, she thinks, but as she nears the car she can see Maxine is on her phone. In her head she admonishes herself; she must stop making rash judgements and presumptions where Maxine is concerned. Maybe this visit will be different and they will get through the weekend without the bitching and sniping. Samantha opens the rear door and places her overnight bag on the seat and then gets into the front placing the laptop bag at her feet.

Don’t know why you’ve brought that, says Maxine. Mum’s got things planned and she won’t appreciate you sitting on your computer all weekend.

I had work to do on the train. And hello, it’s nice to see you too.

Maxine doesn’t respond. She starts the car and pulls away sharply. An uneasy silence accompanies the ten-minute drive home. Thankfully Samantha’s mum is pleased to see her. Although she does bombard her with questions and instructions before her feet have made it over the threshold.

We’re taking Grandma to Seckford Hall for afternoon tea and tonight we are going to a concert at Snape Maltings, says Mum. Samantha smiles and nods, trying hard not to show her true feelings. Afternoon tea is fine, she doesn’t mind that, but she is not so keen on the concert. Classical music is not her thing. She catches Maxine’s eye; her expression says it all. I know what you two are thinking, but it’s not your birthday, it’s Grandma’s and we are doing what she wants. Not every day you celebrate your 80th.

Its fine Mum, we’ll cope. Samantha takes her headphones out of her pocket and waves them at Maxine who nods enthusiastically.

The two sisters laugh out loud.

What are you two plotting?

Nothing Mum, the girls reply in unison and laugh again.