Beardy McCastaway pulls the car away at a normal pace, making no effort to speed away from the crime scene with any kind of dramatic tire screech. Seriously, do Jersey people not watch Law and Order? Do they not have crime dramas? This definitely felt like it called for a tire-screech moment.
“That’s not your bag then?” the driver asks, squinting at me in the mirror.
“No. They didn’t have it, and I don’t want to give this one back until I get mine.”
The driver shakes his head.
“What are you going to do, wear this person’s clothes until yours turn up?”
“It’s a complicated situation,” I say huffily, feeling deflated by my lackluster getaway.
The two of us travel in silence, out of the empty airport, left past the rugby club and the brightly lit showroom full of expensive, shiny cars. Little I’ve seen of Jersey so far makes me think of the idyllic island paradise my mum described. It feels modern and built-up, rather than rural and full of history. Perhaps a lot has changed in thirty years. I pull out my phone to check my work emails, shooting off a few quick responses as I scroll, hoping to see a message from Aunt Monica. I’m keen to plan out the next few days, but her phone number is ex-directory, and I’m not sure I want to turn up unannounced on the doorstep of someone Mum nicknamed Mad Aunt Monica.
“I wanted to, um, apologize about the comment I made earlier,” says the cabdriver suddenly. He clears his throat and adjusts his flatcap.
“Which comment?” I ask.
“When I said, ‘Cheer up, love.’？” His eyes glance up at me in the mirror and then dart back to the road. “I don’t know why I said that. I hate that expression.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “I thought it was the kind of thing a cabdriver might say, I was trying it out. Which sounds ridiculous, sorry.”
His voice is calm and deep, like the steady bass line in a song. I peer at the driver in the darkness of the car. I haven’t properly registered much about his appearance beyond the beard and the flatcap. Looking at him now, I realize his dark brown eyes and thick lashes are probably those of a man in his forties rather than fifties.
“Are you just playing the part of a cabdriver in some Truman Show experiment?” I ask.
He lets out a deep, staccato laugh, and his dark eyes glint back at me in the rearview mirror.
“Something like that,” he says.
“Well, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. The guy I sat next to on the plane said the same thing, and I’m afraid you were on the receiving end of the anger I was feeling toward him.”
“I will erase it from my cabdriver script notes,” he says, his eyes smiling at me now.
We settle into silence again.
Maybe it’s because he’s being nice or the calm resonance of his voice, maybe it’s because I can talk to him without making eye contact, but I find myself saying, “Do you want to know why I held on to this case? It’s a bit nuts.”
“Sure,” he says.
I lean forward to talk to him. “How much do you think you can tell about someone from what’s in their suitcase?”
“Hmmm.” He is quiet for a moment. “If the suitcase had a shovel, duct tape, a body bag, and some chloroform in it, I might not be inviting that person in for a nightcap.”
“Yeah, OK,” I say with a laugh. “But what about contents that make you think you’re going to click with that person, that they might be someone you’re supposed to be with?”
His eyes glint gold in the mirror, reflecting light from the headlamps of the car behind.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes. This bag I picked up, the wrong case—everything in it makes me think this is the guy I’m meant to meet. He’s got my favorite book—”
“What book?” the driver cuts in.
“To Kill a Mockingbird. It was one of my dad’s favorite books too—he left me the exact same edition that this man has in his bag.” Beardy McCastaway is frowning. “What? You don’t like it?”
“Loads of people like that book. It’s like saying your favorite band is the Rolling Stones.”
“Well, my favorite band is not the Rolling Stones, and that brings me on to the next clue. This guy plays the piano—I mean, properly plays, there’s some seriously difficult sheet music in here. I’ve always loved men who are musical, but not only that—the music is for Phil Collins’ Greatest Hits. Phil Collins is my favorite musician of all time. That’s pretty freaky, no?”