The Case of the Reincarnated Client by Tarquin Hall

Author:Tarquin Hall
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448303564
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2019-09-10T16:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

It had been a long, taxing day. First came the revelation about Radhika wanting to marry some TV producer. Then Puri had had to endure more of Saanvi and Maaya’s theatrics. This in turn had taken him to Rajouri Garden, from where he’d come away with more questions than answers, and finally there’d been the visit to Tilak Vihar and the frustrating interview with Surjeet.

To top it all, Mummy, without a hint of regret or irony (forget apology), had performed a complete U-turn regarding her entire hypothesis about Saanvi being the reincarnation of Riya Kaur and suggested that the great and wise Maaya was a total fraud.

As a result, his other work had gone by the wayside, including meeting Inspector Singh and briefing him on Hairy Toes and the suspected fraud at the bank.

And tomorrow was looking no better. He was left with no choice but to collaborate with Mummy again, the tentative plan being to attend Saanvi’s next session and for one of them to sneak into Maaya’s study and get a proper look at her file.

All he wanted to do now was to go home, take off his shoes, pour himself a couple of pegs, enjoy a nice home-cooked meal, do some timepass in front of the TV and make it an early night.

Naturally, this was the moment that Rinku called – and Puri let out a long, disgruntled groan.

Seeing his friend was taxing at the best of times; the prospect of having to ask him for help, albeit on his brother’s behalf, especially at night when he drank, was deeply unappealing.

But the urge to answer proved irresistible. Rinku, his old friend, regarded telephoning someone on a mobile as no different to calling to them from the next room. Indeed, he seemed to measure the length of time it took anyone to answer as some kind of barometer of friendship and allegiance. A delay or even worse a failure to answer would be deemed a slight and, at the very least, invite ridicule.

Puri might have been in the middle of defusing a bomb, sharing intimacy with his wife, or devouring a plate of butter chicken for all Rinku cared.

‘Chubby? I’m at the Novotel, come join me,’ said Rinku without so much as a ‘Is this a good time?’

Had it been anyone else, Puri would have pleaded exhaustion and the wish to return home to his loving wife; instead he heard himself answer, almost gamely, that he was just leaving the office.

Half an hour later, furious at himself for not sticking to his guns, he stepped into the swish lobby of the Novotel, one of a cluster of new uber-modern hotels in Aerocity, a newly constructed ‘mixed realty’ hub near the airport.

Rinku was on his own near the bar, reclined in a leather armchair, one phone to his ear and a half-empty tumbler of Scotch on the table in front of him.

He’d aged visibly since they’d last met six months ago, his tussled mane and the chest hairs that sprouted between his unbuttoned, tropical-palm-print shirt now mostly white.

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