Extract from my new novel - The Missing Husband

I REACHED the front of my eight-storey office building, named not aptly as Rising Towers and parked the car. The plan had been to add another twenty floors but the owner R.T Enterprises had lost on another project, and so this building wasn’t rising any further any time soon. Rumours of an underworld protection racket also hovered in the air like dark secrets. It wasn’t my concern for now.

The light rain touched my skin as I stepped out and looked up at my office. It was on the sixth floor, where small businesses with big ambitions rented half the floor. The first three floors were retail space, the next two apartments, and half of these still hadn’t been sold and were gathering construction dust. Rising Towers wouldn’t be finished in the next ten years. Developers were often just as incompetent as the contractors they employed.

I caught the lift, came out onto the sixth floor and walked across the wide tiled corridor. The sign on the clear glass panel read, Abhay Chauhan, Private Detective Agency.

A new client might be waiting I hoped, then I pushed the door. You could always hope. No new client, only the small table, a few wooden chairs and some film magazines I had spread about so that the client wouldn’t get bored. I kept this door open. The agency had been started four years ago by renting this office. A year later, I split it into two, to make a waiting area and an office. The grand plan had been to hire a secretary and she would work from the spare room.

The secretary hadn’t arrived yet, not on my fees but I’d been getting along pretty fine without one; the answering machine was reliable. It came in on time everyday and didn’t take sick leave. The conversation wasn’t great, it tended to be repetitive.

     I unlocked the office door that had a solid wooden bottom panel and a frosted glass panel above. Everything was the same apart from the fine layer of dust. I opened the window, fresh air sucked out stale air. A billboard across the road showed a woman with pouting lips. I called her Rekha. She was smiling with shoulder length curly hair and enticing me to buy a sun cream. She could sell me anything. I sat down on the swivel chair behind the wooden desk and was about to listen to my secretary on the answering machine, when the phone rang.

I picked it up on the third ring, expecting it to be from the stiff MD, and to listen to the pleasure in his voice as he fired me. It was a woman’s voice instead.

 –Helloo, is this the Abhay Chauhan Detective agency?

 –It certainly is, the last time I checked.

 –Oh goodness me. I’ve been trying since yesterday you know, and I left two messages, don’t you like to work?

 –Well...

 –Don’t you keep a secretary at least?

 –Not on my rates...

 –No, but you should answer your phone, how will you find new clients if you don’t answer the phone?

 –I was busy, I said, and placed a finger in my ear.

 –Busy wusy nothing, I don’t like leaving messages on such delicate matters, no I don’t.

I rubbed the side of my forehead. Then rubbed it some more.

 –Thanks for the advice. How can I help you?

 –My name is Mrs. Chatterjee and I want to discuss something very important.

 –Mrs. Chatterbox?

 –No, Chatter...jee, don’t you hear very well?

 –There’s a lot of loud noise coming from your side.

 –I’ll come to the point.

 –That’s a good idea.

 –I expect complete secrecy in this Abhay Chauhan. You see, I think my husband’s having an affair, she said, in a low conspiring voice.

 –What can I do about that?

 –Is it not obvious? You seem very slow on the pickup.

 –Some people are just slow, it can’t be helped.

I waved a fly away from the corner of the table. It flew to the other side, as stubborn flies tend to do. It was laughing at me and staying here without contributing to the rent.

 –What are your rates? I heard you’re quite cheap, she added.

 –Depends on the job, but the standard rate is fifteen hundred per day, plus expenses.

 –Oh I heard right, you are cheap.

 –I can double it if you like.

She cleared her throat.

 –We will discuss that later. First, I want you to find if my husband is cheating? I want the answer in three days, maximum.

 –How long have you been married?

 –Thirty years. And only I know how I’ve suffered.

 –Why do you think he’s cheating, Mrs. Chatterjee?

 –A woman’s instinct.

I smiled and leaned back in the chair.

 –Have you tried to find out with your woman’s instinct?

 –Yes I certainly did, and found nothing so far.

 –Then I doubt I’ll find anything either.

She took a long pause, I heard several deep breaths and I imagined her shaking her head.

 –Really, I thought you were a detective? she said, with her voice betraying a flash of anger.

 –I wonder about that myself sometimes.

 –You don’t seem very interested in my personal and difficult matter.

 –Probably because I’m not, I said.

 –I think you have poor manners.

 –I’ll live with my manners, but anyway, there are detectives who’ll jump at the opportunity to discover if your husband’s having an affair. My guess listening to you, is that your husband’s probably cheating and good luck to the poor fellow.

 –How dare you! Oh goodness me! I’ll never be phoning you ever again!

 –It’s a real shame.

She slammed the phone down. I felt its vibration up my arm. I was losing a steady income stream and this would be repeat business. There was no cure for vehem, a suspicious mind would ever remain suspicious. But it was no good, I knew I wouldn’t be able to expose a cheating spouse. The feeling would be just lousy and leave a bitter taste in the mouth. No, it was better to live on fresh air until a proper case came along.

     I checked the answering machine. She was right. There were two impatient messages from her, left with heavy sighs. Two more from R.T. Enterprises, reminders for rent. If I could stay on the Fernandez case, then that would buy me breathing space for a few months. Hell, I might even be able to feed myself. Still, I breathed easier as there was nothing from the Fernandez household and this surprised me. I was sure Mrs. Fernandez would have convinced her husband to fire me. He was holding firm against her sweet smiles and charms, and she wouldn’t like that.

     I stared at the two steel cabinets to my left, at the empty chair across the table and the small coffee table. Maybe I should put my ego to one side and take the infidelity cases. I’d have a full waiting list and I could hire a good secretary and make her a partner later on. I was getting ahead of myself again, dreaming too much and doing too little. The hell with becoming a businessman. Bad cases were like a grumpy uncle you wished you hadn’t invited to your party. They would always annoy you.

I leaned forward and was about to light a cigarette, when I heard footsteps coming along the corridor; the sound of heels nearing the office, hesitant, then rapid, as if the woman was looking for the right place. She was probably heading to the Jeevan Sathi travel agency down the corridor. They did package tours around India. The way I felt right now, I could do with taking one.

     The footsteps stopped outside the waiting room door, perhaps she was reading the title and having a laugh. I received that reaction often, the few times I had mentioned it. Private detective, I’d say, and people would give me that knowing look, as if I was a peeping tom, a man who went after the dirty secrets of the city and of the sexual kind. They always wore an astounded look, when I stated that I didn’t do that particular line.

The footsteps again. Someone had walked confidently into the waiting room; I might actually have a client. I wanted to welcome them with a garland of flowers as they do on Hawaii. There was a light knock on the door. Before I could say come in, the door opened, and the woman strode inside.