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.”

No sooner had he put the phone down than it rang again.