The Love Detective (17 page)

It’s seriously loud. And polluted. And utterly chaotic.

And Goa suddenly seems a long, long way away, I realise, as we’re immediately immersed into a crush of touts, beggars and tuk-tuk drivers, who tug at our clothes and stretch out their hands. Forget swaying palm trees, pristine white beaches and a sea breeze wafting over you as you recline lazily in a hammock. This is the real India and it’s louder, brighter and faster than anything I could have ever imagined.

‘We can ask my driver to take us to the nearest police station.’

Jack’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn to look at him. ‘Driver?’ I repeat in astonishment. ‘
You
have a driver?’

‘Yeah, why? What’s wrong with that?’

Suddenly my opinion of Jack is turned upside down. He’s a backpacker
with his own driver?

‘Erm, nothing. I just . . . I thought . . .’ I trail off. Surprises are coming thick and fast and my head is still all groggy, like it’s stuffed full of cotton wool. I can barely think straight, let alone make character judgements.

I look at him more closely, only this time I notice a few tiny flecks of grey in his dark stubble and realise he’s older than I first thought. And is that an expensive watch he’s wearing? I catch a flash of the gold strap as he pulls on a dark grey sweater. Which looks suspiciously like cashmere, I realise.

‘Don’t be fooled by the beaded necklace,’ he says, meeting my eyes. ‘I’m not some hippy, backpacking around India.’

‘What beaded necklace?’ I reply, forcing an innocent voice. ‘Oh . . . that one . . .’ I direct my eyes to just below his Adam’s apple, more to avoid his gaze than anything else. His skin is smooth and tanned and I notice his pulse beating slowly.

‘The car rental company said he’d be waiting for me,’ he says, turning away and scanning the crowds.

I realise I’m staring and look quickly away. ‘Who?’ I feel all flustered. Like I’ve been caught stealing.

‘The driver,’ he replies and looks at me as if I’m stupid.

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Wish I did,’ he frowns. ‘I found the company on the Internet and we exchanged a few emails. We arranged for the driver to meet me here, but I can’t see him.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Good question.’

Together we stand on the side of the dusty road, surrounded by mayhem. I don’t have a clue what I’m looking for, but I make a show of standing on tiptoe, my eyes passing over hundreds of faces. ‘Will he have a sign?’ I ask after a moment.

‘Another very good question.’

‘But if he doesn’t have a sign and you don’t know what he looks like, how on earth will you recognise him amongst all these people?’

Dumping his backpack on the dusty ground, he eases his haunches down onto it and leisurely pulls out a packet of chewing gum. I watch as he proceeds to take out a stick, unwrap the silver foil, and concertina it into his mouth. ‘Just relax.’

‘
Relax
?’ I gasp in frustration. ‘I have a stinking headache, I’ve lost my sister, and I’ve had my bag stolen. How can I relax?’

‘You lost your sister
as well
as your bag?’ Mid-stretch he shakes his head and lets out a low whistle. ‘What did you eat
that
time?’

I shoot him a look. ‘You’re not funny.’

‘Oh c’mon, that was kind of funny,’ he says, his eyes meeting mine. The corners of his mouth curl up with amusement.

He’s laughing at me. He thinks this is just one big joke.

I grit my teeth and ignore him. I can feel the uneasy truce is in danger of being broken already. Oh please hurry up, driver. I just want to get to the police station. Then this Jack person and I can go our separate ways and I’ll never have to see him again.

He pulls out his iPhone and as he starts checking his emails I glance away again and stare out into the dusty distance. My mind starts to wander and I think about Amy . . . I feel the familiar prickling of worry that always surrounds the thought of my little sister, like the prickly casing covering a shiny conker, and I’m reminded again of why I’m here. God, I hope she’s OK, and hasn’t done anything stupid. Well, not more stupid than she’s done already.

Vaguely I’m aware of a jostle of taxis, elbowing each other out of the way as they swerve in and out, picking up and dropping off fares. Absently I watch as one pulls out, leaving behind a cloud of dust that slowly clears, revealing a little white car.

Suddenly. Right here. Directly in front of us.

Abruptly I zone back in. That’s weird. I never saw it pull up. It just appeared out of nowhere. Like magic.

I stare at it, curiously. It looks distinctly old-fashioned, with its rounded contours and shiny silver wheels, and I blink again. It seems out of place in the madness that swirls around it, almost as if it isn’t there, and for a moment I think I’m seeing things. But no, it’s there. Sitting quietly in the chaos of modern-day Delhi, with its 1950s classic lines and quiet elegance, it’s like something from another era, a bygone world.

Or, to put it another way, it’s a bit like spotting Grace Kelly in the middle of your local Starbucks.

I peer closer, trying to catch a glimpse of who’s behind the wheel, but shafts of the late afternoon sun are reflecting against the windows, making it impossible to see inside.

And yet . . .

‘I think that’s your driver,’ I blurt. Even as I hear myself say it out loud, I don’t know why, but I feel sure that it’s him. The moment I saw the car, I just had this feeling.

‘Huh?’ Jack stops fiddling with his iPhone, and looks up, squinting as he tips his face towards me. ‘What? Where?’

‘Over there.’ I point to where the white car is parked as he stands, tipping his hat to shield his face from the sunlight.

‘You mean the Ambassador?’

‘The what?’

But he’s already striding towards the car. ‘Wait here with my backpack,’ he instructs, ‘I’ll go ask . . .’

Being a head taller and twice as broad as everyone around him, he stands out above the swarms of people and I watch as he reaches the car, then rests a hand on the roof and stoops down to talk through the window. I can’t see or hear what’s said, but after a few moments he stands upright and gives me the thumbs-up.

‘Yup, it’s our ride,’ he says, returning and picking up his backpack. ‘I thought it was going to be more like a Jeep or a four-wheel drive, but whatever, this is cool—’

I quickly follow him, zigzagging through the bustle of people. Standing next to the car is an older, portly Indian gentleman. Bald but for two tufts of snow-white hair behind each ear and with his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark-tinted spectacles, he’s smartly dressed in a grey Nehru jacket. With his shoulders firmly back and his chin held aloft, he bows his head ceremoniously as we reach him.

‘It is a most pleasure to meet you,’ he says very formally, ‘I am your driver and guide.’

‘Please, call me Jack,’ smiles Jack affably.

‘Yes, boss,’ nods the driver with a poker face.

‘And I’m Ruby,’ I introduce myself, going to shake his hand.

He gives another bow of his head. ‘My name is Mr Rukminesh Singh . . . Rocky for short.’

Shaking my hand, a look passes between us and for the first time I notice that, behind his glasses, he has the most incredible, piercing blue eyes. Out of nowhere a shiver suddenly scurries up my spine and goosebumps prickle on my arms.

What the . . . ?

‘How do you open the trunk?’

Jack’s voice snaps me back and I turn to see him at the rear of the car, fiddling with the boot.

‘Please, boss, I will do it,’ replies Rocky, and as I glance back at him it’s as if the light behind his eyes has vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Or was it even there in the first place? I ask myself, feeling doubtful, and faintly ridiculous. Honestly. I’m hallucinating. His eyes look perfectly ordinary. And they’re brown, not blue, I realise, as his glasses drop slightly down his nose. It’s probably just the after-effects of whatever drugs were in that chocolate I ate. Or my imagination. Or something.

I watch as he walks stiffly to the rear of the car where he opens the boot with all the grandness of opening a treasure chest. ‘I will take your luggage.’ He gestures to Jack, who’s twice his size and probably less than half his age.

Jack smiles. ‘Oh, no worries,’ and sort of reverses towards the back of the car as he swings the backpack off his shoulder.

He’s almost rugby-tackled by Rocky. ‘No, I insist,’ he grunts, grabbing hold of it and with a strength that belies his age, lifts it into the boot. ‘Miss?’ He gestures to me.

‘She doesn’t have any luggage,’ asserts Jack.

‘No luggage?’ Rocky looks perplexed and I feel my cheeks go hot.

‘We don’t talk about it,’ says Jack, shaking his head and pulling a face as he gets into the car.

Rocky’s expression relaxes, like a scrunched-up piece of paper being smoothed out. ‘OK boss,’ he nods and, without further questions, closes the boot and opens the passenger door.

‘Please, get in,’ he urges, ‘we have a long journey ahead.’

Dipping my head, I slide onto the back seat next to Jack and, closing the door firmly behind us, Rocky climbs into the driver’s seat.

‘A very long journey,’ he repeats, turning the ignition and, as the engine springs into life, he manoeuvres the little white car out into the traffic.

Chapter 15

The police station is on the outskirts of town. After I file a report the thickness of the
Yellow Pages
, call my insurance company and contact my bank to cancel all my cards, Rocky drives me first to a bank where my credit card company has arranged for me to pick up some emergency cash, and then to the British consulate where several hours, dozens of forms and lots of official stamps later I’m issued with an emergency travel document.

‘Which is valid for seven days,’ instructs the grey-haired bureaucrat behind the window. ‘So you must make arrangements to leave India by the end of the week.’

‘Thanks so much,’ I smile gratefully, scooping my hand into the tray underneath the window to retrieve the document.

‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your time here in India.’

I feel myself sag with relief. Finally, it’s all sorted.

‘With no more surprises,’ he adds, raising one eyebrow.

‘Absolutely,’ I agree, holding tight onto my travel document and clutching it to my chest. ‘I couldn’t agree more. Absolutely, definitely, one hundred per cent,
no more surprises
.’

As I walk back outside I discover darkness has fallen. Across the street, I spot the little white car parked up against the side of the dusty road. It’s even colder now; pulling up my hoody, I hurry over. I can’t see anyone inside, but as I walk around the side I find Rocky sitting on the wheel arch. He quickly stands to attention when he sees me.

‘Miss Ruby,’ he nods, with a quick flick of his head. ‘Everything is good?’

‘Yes, everything is good,’ I smile, ‘and thank you so much for waiting for me. I’m sorry it took so long.’

‘It is the very least I can do. I am very sorry to hear what happened,’ he continues solemnly. ‘In India we have a saying,
Athithi Devo Bhava
, “the guest is god”. We are very honoured to have you in our home. These are just a few bad people.’

‘Thank you,’ I smile, touched by his words. ‘But please, don’t feel bad, it can happen anywhere. I got my bag nicked on the Tube once.’

Rocky looks at me blankly.

‘I had my bag stolen on a train in London,’ I translate.

‘You are from England?’ he asks, his face brightening up.

‘Yes, why? Have you been?’

‘I have been to many places in my sixty-some years, but only in here,’ he smiles and taps the side of his head. ‘I like to watch movies and read books and talk to many different people, because this way I get to travel all over the world . . .’ He breaks off, his smile broadening. ‘Is the boss from England as well?’

‘No, he’s American,’ I reply, smiling. Speaking of whom . . . ‘Where is Jack?’ I ask, glancing inside the car. All his things are on the back seat and for a split second I feel relieved. Which is a bit silly. It’s not like I thought he’d run away and left me. And even if he had, so what? It doesn’t matter now. I’ve sorted everything out.

Well, apart from Amy, of course.

‘There you are.’ I hear a familiar American accent, and look up to see Jack appearing from out of the shadows. ‘I thought you guys could do with some of this.’ He’s balancing three steaming polystyrene cups between his hands.

‘Chai,’ beams Rocky, looking delighted.

‘Thought it might warm us all up,’ he says, passing them around.

I feel suddenly guilty as I remember the man selling chai on the train. ‘Thanks, that’s really kind,’ I smile gratefully, as he passes me mine.

‘Well, I did kick you out of bed.’ He gives me a small smile.

Rocky glances between us, his brow furrowed.

‘It’s a joke,’ I quickly explain. ‘I was in the wrong bunk . . . there was a mix-up . . .’