“Eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“Excellent. My brother’s name is Vijay and he’ll be waiting for you outside the main entrance at eight.” The receptionist raised a hand and a bellboy appeared. “Take Mr. Clifton to room 808.”
19
WHEN SEBASTIAN LEFT his hotel at eight o’clock the following morning, he spotted a young man standing beside a white Ambassador. The moment he saw Seb heading toward him, he opened the back door.
“I’ll sit in the front with you,” said Seb.
“Of course, sir,” said Vijay. Once he was behind the wheel he asked, “Where would you like to go, sir?”
Seb handed him an address. “How long will it take?”
“That depends, sir, on how many traffic lights are working this morning and how many cows are having their breakfast.”
The answer turned out to be just over an hour, although the milometer indicated that they had covered barely three miles.
“It’s the house on the right, sir,” said Vijay. “Do you want me to drive up to the front door?”
“No,” said Seb as they passed the gates of a house that was so large it might have been mistaken for a country club. He admired Priya for never having mentioned her father’s wealth.
Vijay parked in an isolated spot, down a side road from where they could see anyone coming in or out of the gates, while they would be unlikely to be noticed.
“Are you very important?” asked Vijay an hour later.
“No,” said Seb. “Why do you ask?”
“Because there’s a police car parked just down the road, and it hasn’t moved since we arrived.”
Seb was puzzled but tried to dismiss it as a coincidence, even though Cedric Hardcastle had taught him many years ago to always be wary of coincidences.
They remained seated in the car for most of the day, during which time several cars and a van passed in and out of the gates. There was no sign of Priya, although at one point a large Mercedes left the grounds with Mr. Ghuman seated in the back talking to a younger man Seb assumed must be his son.
In between the comings and goings, Vijay gave Seb a further insight into the Hindu religion, and he began to realize just how difficult it must have been for Priya even to consider defying her parents.
He was about to call it a day when two men, one carrying a camera, the other a briefcase, came strolling down the drive from the house and stopped outside the main gate. They were dressed smartly but casually, and had a professional air about them. They hailed a taxi and climbed into the back.
“Follow that cab, and don’t lose them.”
“It’s quite difficult to lose anyone in a city where bicycles overtake you,” said Vijay as they progressed slowly back toward the city center. The taxi finally came to a halt outside a large Victorian building that proclaimed above its front door: the Times of India.
“Wait here,” said Sebastian. He got out of the car and waited until the two men had entered the building before following them inside. One of them waved to a girl on the reception desk as they headed toward a bank of lifts. Sebastian made his way over to the desk, smiled at the girl and said, “How embarrassing. I can’t remember the name of the journalist who’s just getting into the lift.”
She glanced around as the lift door closed. “Samraj Khan. He writes a society column for the Sunday paper. But I’m not sure who that was with him.” She turned to her colleague.
“He’s freelance. Works for Premier Photos, I think. But I don’t know his name.”
“Thanks,” said Sebastian, before making his way back to the car.
“Where now?” asked Vijay.
“Back to the hotel.”
“That police car is still following us,” said Vijay, as he eased into a long line of traffic. “So you’re either very important, or very dangerous,” he suggested, displaying a broad grin.
“Neither,” said Seb. Like Vijay, he was puzzled. Did Uncle Giles’s influence stretch this far, or were the police working for the Ghumans?
Once Seb was back in his room, he asked the switchboard to get Premier Photos on the line. He had his story well prepared by the time the operator called back. He asked to be put through to the photographer who was covering the Sukhi Ghuman story.
“Do you mean the wedding?”
“Yes, the wedding,” said Sebastian, hating the word.
“That’s Rohit Singh. I’ll put you through.”
“Rohit Singh.”
“Hi, my name is Clifton. I’m a freelance journalist from London, and I’ve been assigned to cover Priya Ghuman’s wedding.”
“But it’s not for another six weeks.”
“I know, but my magazine wants background material for a color spread we’re doing, and I wondered if you’d be able to supply some photographs to go with my piece.”
“We’d need to meet and discuss terms. Where are you staying?”
“The Taj.”
“Would eight o’clock tomorrow morning suit you?”
“Look forward to seeing you then.”