The Love Detective (11 page)

Pushing a fistful of rupees into my driver’s hands, I abandon my suitcase on the front steps and run into reception. Well, I say ‘run’, but it’s more a case of ‘trip and stumble’, as I’m wearing a pair of woven leather sandals I bought on one of my many shopping expeditions; although they
look
lovely, there’s a bit of a design fault as they keep falling off my feet . . .

Narrowly missing twisting my ankle, I stagger across the tiled floor. A haven of calm and tranquillity greets me. The scent of burning incense perfumes the air. Soft, chiming music is playing. Frangipani flowers are floating in a gently trickling fountain.

And then there’s me: a big sweaty stress ball hurtling through it all.

‘Miss Ruby!’ As I reach the front desk, Biju looks up and beams at me widely. ‘Back again so soon!’

‘Have you seen Amy?’ I gasp, trying to catch my breath.

His face clouds. ‘I’m very sorry, I’m afraid you’ve missed her,’ he says gravely, his head jiggling from side to side. ‘She’s gone back to London with her sister.’

‘I’m her sister!’

‘I know,’ he beams, his smile popping back onto his face.

I can feel my frustration about to bubble over, like boiling milk in a pan. ‘Look, this is very important,’ I insist, feeling stressed.

Beetling his eyebrows together, Biju calmly observes me. ‘You seem very anxious, this is not good,’ he tuts, shaking his head with disapproval.

Oh god, this is hopeless. I need to try a different tack. ‘Where’s Shine?’ I ask, taking a deep breath to try and calm myself down.

‘Ah . . . now I understand . . .’ he says, nodding deeply. ‘You want to do yoga.’ Closing his eyes, he clamps a finger on one nostril and starts inhaling deeply.

‘No. Biju. You’ve got it wrong—’

‘
Ommmmmmmmmm
. . .’

I stare at him incredulously. This cannot be happening.

‘
Ommmmmmmmm
. . .’
In the middle of omming, he snaps open one eye and observes me. ‘You are not joining me in chanting,’ he says, looking offended and directing my gaze sideways at the little shrine on the side of his desk. It’s a statue of Buddha, decorated with a garland of marigolds and two sticks of burning incense.

I feel a flush of embarrassment. Oh crikey, I don’t want to be disrespectful. ‘Oh yes, of course,’ I nod dutifully.

‘In the Hindu belief,
Om
is the sound that was made when the whole universe was created,’ he continues solemnly. ‘Chanting has a very powerful effect on the person chanting and the rest of the world. It connects us to our deepest sense of being.’

‘Wow . . . yes, I know,’ I nod, remembering the one yoga class I attended. ‘It’s just that I’m trying to find Amy,’ I begin again tentatively.

‘
Ommmmmmmmm
. . .’

As he fixes me with his gaze, I give up and close my mouth . . . then open it again . . . ‘
Ommmmmmmmm
. . .’

Together we chant; Biju’s low tones resonating around reception, mine sounding like a shriller, nervier descant. On and on and on
and on
. . . I close my eyes and try to focus on the great
Om
, but it’s impossible. I can’t stop thinking about Amy, about what’s happening, about where she is.

Shooting an apologetic glance at Buddha, I sneak a peek at my watch.

‘Now, do you feel better?’

I snap back to see Biju beaming at me.

‘Um . . . yes, much better,’ I smile nervously.

‘Splendid!’ Reaching into the little bowl of fennel seeds and sugar that is used as a mouth freshener, he takes a handful and begins to chew them energetically.

‘But there’s just one other thing,’ I say, only more cautiously this time as I don’t want to trigger any more of Biju’s helpful suggestions. ‘I’m . . . er . . . still looking for Amy,’ I remind him.

‘Ah yes, Amy,’ he nods, beaming happily.

‘Apparently she’s with Shine,’ I prompt.

‘This is good.’ He nods, and smiles even more broadly.

So he knows! I wait expectantly for him to say something more, except he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there beaming at me.

Honestly, is there anything more frustrating when you’re in a right old panic about something, than someone just standing there calmly, not doing or saying anything?

‘She told me they’re eloping,’ I blurt finally in desperation.

Biju looks at me in confusion. ‘Eloping?’ he repeats, frowning. ‘What is this . . .
eloping
?’

‘Running away to get married!’ I cry in frustration.

Biju’s head stops jiggling and he stares at me, frozen, like a rabbit in headlights. ‘But this cannot be true,’ he explodes after a moment’s pause.

‘Yes, it is! It’s true!’ Now I’m the one jiggling my head up and down emphatically. ‘They’ve run away together!’

‘No! Shine told me he was going to visit his relatives . . .’ He throws his hands in the air. ‘This is what he said to me. This is why he asked to take some time off from teaching yoga. He needed to go away for a few days, maybe longer . . .’

‘So they’re not here?’ I demand.

The whites of Biju’s eyes grow saucer wide. ‘I would never lie to you,’ he cries, shaking his head and beating his chest as if it’s a drum. ‘I only speak the truth! Ever since I was a little boy, this is a lesson that I learned from my father.’

He looks so tortured, I feel a stab of guilt. ‘I believe you,’ I reassure him quickly.

‘You do?’ He looks relieved.

‘Absolutely,’ I nod, ‘but it’s very important that I find her . . .’ I break off, my mind racing. ‘Do you have an address for Shine’s relatives? Or maybe a telephone number?’

But now Biju is all of a fluster and beads of perspiration are starting to run down his face. Stricken with panic, he’s still wordlessly shaking his head.

Suddenly I have an idea. ‘I know! Can I look in her room?’

Pulling out a neatly folded handkerchief from his top pocket, he starts blotting his brow like he’s mopping up spilled milk. ‘Yes, yes of course,’ he nods, finally finding his voice, ‘please, follow me.’

I follow him as he hurries from behind the desk, his short legs propelling him with surprising speed down the corridor, his large bunch of keys hanging from his waist, jangling loudly. Until reaching Amy’s old room he unlocks the door and, flinging it open, dramatically presses his body up against it, like a knife-thrower’s assistant, so that I can get past.

The room is empty, but for a bed and a small wardrobe.

‘See! She is not here,’ he declares, as if I think he’s been hiding her.

It’s also suspiciously tidy. There’s no overflowing bin, unmade bed or wet towels on the floor. ‘Are you sure this is Amy’s room?’ I ask dubiously. At home Mum has been known to threaten to ring the fire brigade to gain access to Amy’s bedroom.

‘One hundred per cent,’ he exclaims, blotting his face with his handkerchief. ‘It has already been cleaned for the next guests.’

Oh well, that explains things.

‘Right . . . yes, of course . . .’ I nod, but inside I feel a pang of disappointment. I’m not sure what I was hoping to find, but there are no clues here to her whereabouts. ‘OK, well thanks Biju, I really appreciate your help.’

‘I am so sorry, Miss Ruby. If there is anything more I can do . . .’

Deflated, I turn to leave, and I am just walking out of the door when I spot something fluttering underneath the bed.

‘Hang on, what’s that?’ Bending down, I scrabble for it. It’s a scrap of paper on which is scribbled the word
Raja
and a number. I peer at it. It’s Amy’s handwriting. She always crosses the number seven like that.

I thrust it excitedly at Biju. ‘Do you know this number?’

He squints at it myopically, then shakes his head. ‘But don’t worry, I will ring it,’ he says decisively. Pulling his mobile phone out of the holster he has clipped onto his shorts, he dials the number with great deliberateness. We both wait on tenterhooks, my mind whirring around and around like the fan above our heads.

‘No one is answering,’ he says finally after a few minutes.

Of course not. Why did I think with Amy it would be that easy? I let out a loud groan of frustration, which startles Biju.

‘What about this
Raja
?’ I say desperately, ‘Is this a person? Do you know him?’

Shaking his head, he grabs his handkerchief and buries himself underneath it.

So that’s it. I’ve hit a dead end.

‘Only Rajasthan,’ he muffles, from underneath the cotton square.

‘Who?’ I can’t quite catch what he’s saying.

‘Raja could be short for Rajasthan,’ he repeats, his voice clearer as he emerges from beneath his handkerchief. ‘
Raja
means king, and Rajasthan is known as the land of the kings. It is a most beautiful area . . .’ He breaks off, then adds excitedly, ‘Now I remember, this is where Shine’s family is from!’

Finally. I’ve got a lead.

‘How do I get there?’ I’ve heard of Rajasthan, but I don’t know where it is on the map. I remember seeing it listed in the big guidebooks on India, but I only bought the smaller one for Southern India. Well, there didn’t seem much point buying the bigger book, did there? I was only supposed to be going to Goa for a week.

Seriously. I am so going to kill Amy.

‘Oh, that is no problem.’ Biju’s face emerges from beneath his handkerchief, damp but ebullient. ‘You can get the train to Delhi.’

‘A train?’ I feel myself perk up.

‘Yes, a train, and from there you can catch a local train or bus into Rajasthan,’ he beams, looking as thrilled as I feel.

Because not only am I one step closer to finding Amy, I’ve suddenly got an image of one of those ‘palaces on wheels’ you see in glossy brochures. I can picture it now . . . luxurious cabins harking back to the bygone era when royal maharajas would travel in sumptuous style; dining cars filled with mahogany tables and starched white tablecloths; sitting drinking a gin and tonic and watching the colours of India go by . . .

Feeling my imagination running away, I sigh dreamily. It all seems so romantic, so enchanting—

So exciting
! Suddenly, my frustration and annoyance at having to chase after Amy is replaced by a surge of exhilaration. It’s going to be like
The Darjeeling Limited.
Only in real life! Oh my god, I
loved
that film! Maybe there’ll even be an Adrien Brody-type character on board too, I muse, feeling slightly giddy at the thought.

And yes, I know that’s very immature at my age, having a crush on a movie star, but it’s that Roman nose, it just sends me weak at the knees.

‘Brilliant,’ I hear myself saying. ‘How do I get to the train station?’

‘I will give you a lift in my car,’ says Biju, looking very pleased with himself. ‘If we go at once, you can catch the express. Please, come this way.’

‘Great, thanks!’

Biju’s already jangling down the corridor and I follow him through reception and outside, where he scoops up my suitcase and packs it neatly into the boot of his little blue car. Then, with a great show of chivalry, he opens the passenger door for me and, as I slide inside, he jumps in next to me, starts the engine, and with a little chug we’re off.

See! This is going to be so much easier than I thought! I’ll just find Amy, talk some sense into her, and I’ll be catching a flight back to London and my normal life before I know it.

Smiling to myself, I gaze out of the window as we set off towards the station.

What was I so worried about?

Easy-peasy.

Chapter 10

Er, I think there’s been some mistake.

Standing on the hot, dusty platform, I hold tightly onto my suitcase and look uncertainly around me. This can’t be right. There must be some mix-up. Biju took my credit card and sorted out my ticket, before cheerily waving goodbye and driving off in a cloud of dust and Bollywood music.

But he must have got it wrong when he told me where to go. This can’t be where I catch the express train from. There must be a different platform, a special one, like in
Harry Potter
or something—

‘
Baaaaaaaaahhhh!
’

Loud bleating behind me makes me almost jump out of my skin and I twirl around to see two scraggy, nervy goats being herded down the platform.

Despite being a small station, it’s busy and crowded with a jumble of people. Several backpackers are flopped around, waiting with their rucksacks, a group of women, dressed in brightly coloured saris, like birds of paradise, are perched on metal seats, chattering loudly; a porter balancing plastic-wrapped suitcases on his head overtakes an old man pushing a wheelbarrow filled with cages of loud, squawking chickens, whilst a group of teenage schoolboys are staring curiously at me, their gazes unblinking . . .

Self-consciously I look away – hang on, and is that a
cow
just hanging out over there in the middle of everything? Undisturbed, it’s chewing grass and swishing its tail and . . . oh no, don’t tell me it’s going to do what I think it’s going to do . . .