“I’ll be there,” said Seb. “But I’ll keep my distance. I gather Sukhi Ghuman doesn’t care much for London hacks.”
“He doesn’t care for us either,” said Singh, “unless it suits his purpose. Be warned, Mrs. Ghuman will almost certainly accompany her daughter. That will mean at least two armed guards, which the family have never bothered with in the past. Perhaps Mr. Ghuman just wants to remind everyone how important he is.”
Not everyone, thought Seb.
20
SEBASTIAN WALKED OVER to the reception desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Clifton. I trust you’re enjoying your stay with us.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“And my brother is proving satisfactory?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Excellent. And how can I help you today?”
“First, I’d like you to replace the Ambassador with a motorbike.”
“Of course, sir,” said the receptionist, not sounding surprised. “Anything else?”
“I need a florist.”
“You’ll find one downstairs in the arcade. Fresh flowers were delivered about an hour ago.”
“Thank you,” said Seb. He jogged down the steps to the arcade, where he spotted a young woman arranging a bunch of vivid orange marigolds in a large vase. She looked up as he approached.
“I’d like to buy a single rose.”
“Of course, sir,” she said, gesturing toward a selection of different-colored roses. “Would you like to choose one?”
Seb took his time picking a red one that was just starting to bloom. “Can I have it delivered?”
“Yes, sir. Would you like to add a message?” she asked, handing him a pen.
Seb took a card from the counter, turned it over and wrote:
To Priya Ghuman,
Congratulations on your forthcoming marriage.
From all your admirers at the Taj Hotel.
He gave the florist Priya’s address and said, “Please charge it to room 808. When will it be delivered?”
She looked at the address. “Some time between ten and eleven, depending on the traffic.”
“Will you be here for the rest of the morning?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, looking puzzled.
“If anyone calls and asks who sent the rose, tell them it was the guest who’s staying in room 808.”
“Certainly, sir,” said the florist, as he handed her a fifty-rupee note.
Seb ran back upstairs, aware that he had only a couple of hours to spare, three at the most. When he walked out of the hotel he was pleased to see that the receptionist had carried out his instructions and replaced the Ambassador with a motorbike.
“Good morning, sir. Where would you like to go today?” asked Vijay, displaying the same irrepressible smile.
“Santacruz airport. The domestic terminal. And I’m not in a hurry,” he emphasized as he climbed onto the back of the bike.
He carefully observed the route that Vijay took, noting the occasional blue and white airport signs dotted along the way. Forty-two minutes later Vijay screeched to a halt outside the domestic terminal. Seb jumped off, saying, “Hang around, I’ll only be a few minutes.” He walked inside and checked the departures board. The flight he required was leaving from Gate 14B, and the word “Boarding” was flashing next to the words “New Delhi.” He followed the signs, but when he arrived at the gate, he didn’t join the queue of passengers waiting to board the plane. He checked his watch. It had taken forty-nine minutes from the moment he’d left the hotel to reach the gate. He retraced his steps to find Vijay waiting patiently for him.
“I’ll take us back,” said Seb, grabbing the handlebars.
“But you don’t have a license, sir.”
“I don’t think anyone will notice.” Seb flicked on the ignition, revved up and waited for Vijay to climb on behind him before he joined the traffic heading into Bombay.
They were back outside the hotel forty-one minutes later. Seb checked his watch. The rose should be delivered any time now.
“I’ll be back, Vijay, but I can’t be sure when,” he said before walking quickly up the steps and into the hotel. He took the lift to the eighth floor, went straight to his room, poured himself a cold Cobra and sat down next to the phone. So many jumbled thoughts flooded through his mind. Had the rose been delivered? If it had, would Priya even see it? If she did see it, would she realize who’d sent it? At least he felt confident about that. She would recognize his handwriting, and with one call to the florist she would discover which room he was in. It was clear that her family weren’t letting her out of the house unaccompanied, possibly not even out of their sight. Checking his watch every few minutes he paced up and down the room, occasionally stopping to take a sip of his beer. He glanced at the front page of the Times of India, but didn’t get beyond the headlines. He thought about ringing his uncle Giles, and bringing him up to date, but decided he couldn’t risk the line being busy when she called.
When the phone made a loud metallic sound, Seb grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Is that you, Seb?” Priya whispered.
“Yes it is, black swan. Can you talk?”