Dishonored (37 page)

“Thank you, Ashok,” she said, holding out her hand. “You have been very kind; I’ve enjoyed my tour very much.”

He shook her hand, graciously took the tip she handed to him and then folded his palms together and bowed his head. “If you
would like to see some more of the city, Miss Bennet, then I would be happy to be showing it to you.” He pulled a business
card from the inside of his
kurta
and handed it across.

“Dr. Yadav?” Indi looked up from the card. “What are you a doctor in?”

“Medicine, Miss Bennet, I am just qualified. I am helping to pay back my fees for the college by guiding for a short time.”

Indi smiled. “I have just qualified too, in medicine.”

“Oh, goodness me! This is a very big coincidence, Miss Bennet! Very big indeed.” He beamed and Indi smiled back.

“Yes. Well, I wish you good luck, Ashok, with your guiding and your medicine,” she said.

The guide bowed his head again, a little lower this time, smiling and nodding. “Thank you, Miss Bennet, I am wishing you the
same thing.” He spoke a few words of Hindu and the driver of the motor rickshaw nodded, starting the small, noisy engine.

“Goodbye, Ashok!” Indi called. “And thank—” She was interrupted by a loud bang from the exhaust and jumped out of her skin.

Ashok put his hands over his ears as the bangs sounded twice more—knowing they were due—then he shouted, “Goodbye, Miss Bennet!”
over the racket of the engine. “Perhaps we meet another time?”

The small vehicle moved off and Indi overbalanced, gripping the seat and slipping to one side. She straightened and held up
her hand in a wave. “I hope so!” she shouted. “Goodbye!” She watched Ashok as he stood and waved to her from the edge of the
road, the only motionless figure in the constantly moving street. The rickshaw veered dangerously around the corner and moments
later he disappeared from view. Indi faced front, held on to the bars of the patched-up roof and clenched her jaw against
the thump and swerve of the wheels around the potholes in the road.

Back at the boat jetty, she climbed down, thanked the driver and tipped him; the guide having paid for the rickshaw already,
it being included in his price for the day. It was late, the air had cooled and the sun was beginning to sink in the sky.
As she boarded the boat with the scattering of other hotel guests, she took off her sunglasses, slipped them into her bag
and looked at the water bathed in the strange red-and-gold light of sunset.

She was tired, it had been a long day and she hadn’t yet fully recovered from the ten-hour flight to Delhi but nothing could
take away the sensation of the warm breeze, the sight of the palace floating out across the water and the sky, a dark purple
and blue streaked with fiery orange. Indi settled on to her cushion, nodded at the other passengers and smiled as the boat
set off. It was odd, but since arriving in Baijur she had felt strangely at home.

An hour later, Indi rang Jimmy’s room once more while the boy placed her tray on the bedside table and uncovered it. She hung
on for as long as she could, letting it ring, then she replaced the receiver and rummaged in her bag for a tip for him. He
thanked her and departed, leaving her alone to eat. She was disappointed but she was also sleepy after a long hot bath, so
she curled herself up on the bed, flicked the remote control on the telly and reached for the tray. She picked at her meal
for a few minutes and, deciding she was too tired to eat, laid it on the floor. Indi switched channels to an Indian action
movie without the volume and, making herself comfortable, settled down to watch it and to wait for Jimmy’s return. Twenty
minutes later, she was sound asleep.

“What?” Indi rolled over and pushed the covers down, away from her face. She heard the knocking again and blinked several
times to try and get her eyes into focus. She sighed, opened them fully and saw it was daylight outside, full-blown morning.

The knocking continued, loudly.

“Yes…” she croaked, “I’m coining!” She lifted the blankets and saw that she was fully dressed, the clean clothes she
had put on after her bath now crumpled and slept-in. She must have gone straight out last night while watching TV and at some
point crawled under the blankets. She looked across at the television; it was still on. “Oh God,” she moaned, spying the mess
on the tray by the bed. She stepped over it and went to the door.

“Yes?”

“Please, madam, room cleaning.”

Indi sighed. “Look, can you come back later? I’m not dressed or up yet.”

“No, madam, room cleaning now.”

Indi held on to the door. She had slept so heavily, so deeply that it felt as if someone had knocked her on the head. She
gripped the handle and said, “I’m sorry but I do not want you to clean the room yet. Please come back later.” She went to
close the door.

“Please, madam, new guest arriving! Must clean room now!”

Indi opened it again. “What d’you mean new guest arriving? I’m booked in for two weeks!” She saw the cleaner’s blank face
and realized he had only the one sentence in English. “Wait,” she said, “I will ring the manager now.” She held up her hands.
“Wait there, all right? I am going to ring the boss.” She made all the arm actions and finally the man nodded. She shut the
door.

Hurriedly she rang reception and asked for room 117. She listened to the empty ringing tone in Jimmy’s room until the switchboard
cut her off and she experienced a momentary flash of panic. “Calm down,” she told herself. “This is a silly misunderstanding.”
But she had begun to sweat, tiny beads of perspiration on her brow. She rang reception again. “Hello, this is Miss Bennet
in room one three four, may I speak with the manager of the hotel, please?” She waited to be put through. “Ah, good morning!”
she said, as brightly as she could manage, “I hope so Mr. Banerjee, I have slight problem with my room, number one three four
and I was wondering if you might be able to clear things up for me…?”

Ten minutes later, Indi sat small and helpless in a large leather armchair in the manager’s office and watched him on the
phone to the police. Her heart was pounding, her hands sweating and she felt sick, dreadfully sick. She listened to the Hindi,
not understanding a word of it and thought,
you stupid, stupid girl! What did you know about Jimmy Stone? What did John try to tell you? You stupid, stupid girl!

The manager hung up. “Please, Miss Bennet, the police are on the way over to the hotel now. Please be telling me again your
story so that I am clear when they arrive.”

Indi swallowed and fiddled nervously with her hands in her lap. “I, erm…” She stopped and cleared her throat; her voice
had failed her. “I, erm… came to India with Mr. Stone, we arrived at the hotel yesterday morning. He told me he was working
here, that he had a meeting and he, erm, er, took my travel documents to put them in the hotel safe before we both went out
for the day.” She stopped and took a breath. It was becoming increasingly harder to speak without losing control; the tears
lay just beneath the surface and she was holding on to her dignity by a hangnail. She clenched her hands together. “When I
arrived back last night, I tried to call his room but could get no reply, it was the same this morning…”

“So you did not know that Mr. Stone had checked out yesterday lunchtime?”

“No! I…” Indi put her hand up to her face and bit on her knuckles.
How could she know that? What on earth had happened
? “No,” she continued, her voice strained, “I had no idea he was checking out. He told me that we would be here for two weeks,
that he’d booked me in for two weeks. He was paying for my stay, he was…” Indi broke off, appalled by the hotel manager’s
expression. “It wasn’t like that!” she cried. “He was a friend from London, he wanted the company while he was working here!
He… Oh God!” She put her hands up and covered her face, unable any longer to stop the flood of tears. “Something must
have happened to him,” she sobbed. “There must be some kind of mistake, I can’t believe…” She bit her lip and forced
herself to stop crying. Blowing her nose, she said, “I don’t understand it all, Mr. Banerjee, something must have gone wrong.”

“Then you did not know that you had reservations for only one night?”

“No! Perhaps he changed his mind, perhaps…” She gave up.

“But the booking was made several weeks ago, Miss Bennet.” The manager looked down his computer sheet. “It was a telephone
booking, from Bombay.”

Indi’s head jerked up. “Bombay? What the…?”

“Yes, that is quite correct, from Bombay. When Mr. Stone left, Miss Bennet, he paid only the one bill.”

Indi closed her eyes for a moment, her head had begun to spin. She had no idea what was going on. Jimmy had disappeared, he’d
taken her passport, her money and her tickets and now the manager was going on about Bombay and reservations. She rubbed her
hands wearily over her face and said, “Look, Mr. Banerjee, could I have another room for a day or so? I am sure this is all
a misunderstanding, I…” She broke off at the sight of his face.

“We have no rooms available, Miss Bennet, we are fully booked for the next month. I am very sorry but this is our peak season
for tourists.”

“But where will I…?” Indi sat and looked down at her hands in her lap. She sat like that for several minutes, paralyzed
by the sheer desperation of her predicament. Then she glanced up. “May I make a telephone call please?”

The manager stared at her across the desk. India was full of hopeless cases, European drifters. Penniless, they booked into
hotels, left in the middle of the night without paying. He’d seen too many of them in his short career with the hotel chain;
this one was no different, they all spun ridiculous lies, told him stories. He tapped his pen on the desk.

“I will have to ask you for cash, Miss Bennet, for the telephone call.”

Indi swallowed. She picked up her rucksack and took out her purse, she had just two pounds in Indian money. “I think I have
enough to call the British consulate,” she said in a small voice, “at the High Commission in Delhi.”

The manager sat stony-faced while Indi laid the notes on the desk, then he nodded. He passed her the telephone. “Go ahead,
Miss Bennet,” he said, “the operator will dial the number for you.”

Oliver Hicks was taking a year’s sabbatical from his regiment before he had to decide whether to become a career soldier or
leave the army for good. He had secured an easy, boring job through his father, for the experience of India rather than the
actual work itself and he sat in a small poky office at the back of the High Commission in Delhi, his feet on the desk, his
head back and his mouth slightly open as he slept. His boss was out of the office, he finished at lunchtime, for a few days
off, and he had completed everything he’d been asked to do well in advance of his holiday. It was hot, even at that time of
day; the fans whirred but the warm air was just wafted around the room, rustling papers and making it more uncomfortable.
Oliver, in the warmth, had been unable to keep his eyes open. He had dozed off.

At eleven-ten, the telephone rang.

Oliver started and sat bolt upright. He felt momentarily disoriented then he lunged across the desk for the phone. “Hello!
Passport office, Oliver Hicks, passport clerk speaking.” He shook his head and blinked several times, stifling a yawn with
his hand. “Hello?”

“Erm, hello? I’ve been put through to you and I’m not sure if I’ve got the right person but I’ve had my passport stolen and
my money and I…” The voice was female, she sounded young.

Oliver reached for a pad. “If you’d like to give me the details, miss?”

“Yes, I…”

The line crackled and Oliver shook the receiver. It sounded like the girl was crying. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Look,
why don’t you tell me what happened and I can get some forms filled in for you.”

“I came out with a friend,” the girl said, “Jimmy Stone, to Baijur, and now he’s disappeared, he’s gone with my passport and
my money and everything!”

Oliver rolled his eyes, another victim of love. “Do you have any money at all?”

“No! I haven’t even got somewhere to stay! I…”

“It’s all right, calm down now. Look, I can telephone your next of kin for you in the UK and have some funds wired out to
you if you give me a number and your address in Baijur. All right?”

“Yes…” The line went silent and it sounded as if the girl was weeping again.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes…” There was a loud blowing noise and Oliver smiled; he couldn’t help it. “My grandfather in the UK should be able
to wire some money out. He’s Brigadier John Bennet, the number is West Sommerton…” Oliver started for a moment at the
name. “Have you got that?”

“Oh, yes, erm…” He scribbled frantically. “Yes, got it! Where are you?”

“I’m at the Lake Palace hotel in Baijur; the number here is… Look, can you hold on for a moment?”

Oliver said yes but his brain was somewhere else. He knew Brigadier Bennet, or rather knew of him! Jesus! Brigadier John Bennet
DSO, OBE, had been in command of Oliver’s regiment from ’63 to ’ 68! He apparently survived some sort of awful personal scandal
to become one of the government’s chief defense advisors. He must have been a hell of a soldier! God, Brigadier Bennet’s granddaughter!
Lord, what a coincidence!

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello!” Oliver jumped back to the present.

“I’ve got the number here…” She read it out. “I haven’t got a room here but the manager has said I can wait at the hotel
for your call.”

“Right, fine. Can I just ask you, miss, is that Brigadier Bennet of the Queen’s Regiment?”

“Yes.”

“Right!” Oliver could hardly believe it! “Erm, can you give me your full name, miss?”

“Yes, Indu Bennet. Do you want my home address?”

“No, only your grandfather’s address.”

“It’s the same. It’s Turnpike House, West Sommerton, West Sussex.”

“OK, got that. Look, d’you want me to have a word with the manager, to tell him that we are helping you?” It wasn’t his jurisdiction
but Oliver suddenly felt personally responsible for this girl. Brigadier Bennet’s granddaughter! Imagine!