Veteran investigator that he was, the inspector noticed the way the young girl’s eyes lingered on the untouched plate of cookies sitting next to his teacup.

‘Would you like a biscuit?’ he offered politely.

‘No, thank you. I refuse to eat or drink anything until you release my friend.’

Inspector Coutinho pushed the plate closer to Gehna. ‘Please. They will only be thrown away otherwise.’

The cookies disappeared rapidly after that. ‘Shouldn’t waste,’ Gehna mumbled through a mouthful of dough. ‘Mm. These thin ones are the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my whole life. What are they? Ginger? They taste a bit like ginger.’

As he watched her obliterate his mid-morning snack, the inspector felt himself softening towards this young girl who was dropping crumbs on his desk. He liked that she was pretty, he liked her obvious intelligence and wit, but, most of all, he liked the ferocity with which she was defending her friend.

They were just kids, like hundreds of others from all over the country, who had decided one night to drive to Goa. He himself had done far more, and worse, as a boy. The only reason he was taking any interest in the matter was because Gehna Rai’s parents knew the commissioner of police in Mumbai, who had leaned on Coutinho’s boss, who in turn had leaned on him.

‘If I promise to release the boy right now,’ he said, ‘do you promise to drive straight back home to your parents?’

Gehna folded her arms across her chest. ‘No.’

‘Why not? Did you hear what I said? I’ll let your friend go.’

‘I heard you, officer, but—’

‘Inspector.’

‘I heard you, Inspector, but I can’t make a promise I totally do not intend to keep, can I? I mean, I could, but that would be dishonest. I hate that. Eram and I are here on important business and we’ll leave when it’s done, thanks.’

Inspector Coutinho slammed his fist on the desktop, making his teacup, and Gehna, jump. ‘Do you know how many kilos of drugs are changing hands in Goa as we speak? How many tourists raped? The beaches are full of garbage and hippies and fat men from India. With the ping-ping-ping music and beer. As if all of Goa is their private party. The whole state is going to the dogs and I’m babysitting you two.’

They. Those Indians. In the forty or so years since Goa had been recognized as an integral part of mainland India, native Goans still resented the fact that the Portuguese had left them behind. The way they saw it, if Goa was to be a colony at all, far better that it be Portuguese than Indian.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gehna said. She wasn’t 100 per cent sure what she was apologizing for, but she did it anyway. It seemed to help. Inspector Coutinho calmed down and gave her a wan smile.

‘So,’ he said. ‘It’s agreed, then? I will personally escort you to the border. As a courtesy to me, you will then drive immediately back to Mumbai—’