Copyright

First published in paperback in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2011

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Text copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2010

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Source ISBN: 9780007364787

Ebook Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007364794

Version: 2018-08-06

Dedication

To all you fashion-loving badasses out there.

– Megan Cole

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thrity

Epilogue

Credits

Previously by Megan Cole

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Buenos Aires, Argentina.

It was the dead of night at St Winifred’s School for Girls in the Argentinean capital. The sprawling grounds lay in darkness, the historic buildings silent. On the tennis courts a lone leaf skittered along in a gentle breeze: scrape, scrape, scrape. In the skies high above, a transatlantic jet hummed quietly.

At the far side of the site, by the polo pitch that had been built especially to give the young students a taste of the country’s national sport, there was a sudden movement. A stray dog, making its escape with scraps from the kitchen bins, stopped and watched as a shadowy figure appeared on the other side of the boundary fence. They stared each other out for a moment, both unwelcome presences. The human hissed at the dog and it flattened its tail whimpering, before taking off back into the night.

The shadow put a hand on the fence and jumped over. There had been no problem sneaking past the fat guard on the gate - asleep as usual with his mouth open and a cheesy chat show blaring out of the TV in the background. The shadow curled its lips into a smile. St Winifred’s really should invest in better security. Parents spent all this money to send their little darlings here thinking they were safe, all tucked up in their dormitories. But anyone could get in here.

It really wasn’t safe.

Picking up a big black bag, the shadow started to run across the lawn. It had nearly reached the main building when suddenly the place was flooded with security lights. ‘Celine Van Der Berg!’ boomed a furious voice. ‘Stop this INSTANT!’

Celine cursed and came to a grinding halt. Her dragon of a housemistress was standing at a first floor window, her huge bulk almost filling it. Celine did a double-take - was the old bat holding a loudhailer?

‘Stay right there!’ Mrs Gonzales boomed. ‘Don’t move an inch!’

Celine rolled her eyes. So much for her quiet return. One by one lights started to flicker on and a minute later the front door to the boarding house burst open.

Mrs Gonzales bustled out, looking like a big pink tank in her hideous dressing gown. ‘What do you think you’re doing? It’s three o’clock in the morning!’ Her fury abated for a second to take in the asymmetric mini dress Celine was wearing - PVC, black and artfully cut off one shoulder. Most definitely not the regulation sludge brown of St Winifred’s. ‘And what on earth are you wearing?’ she gasped.

Celine did a little turn, perfectly copied from the catwalk. ‘Nice, huh? I made it myself.’

‘You look like a slut!’ Mrs Gonzales’s nostrils flared. ‘How dare you sneak off school premises? You’re in big trouble, young lady.’

Celine yawned. ‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

The housemistress grabbed her arm. ‘Headmistress’s office, now. I’ve informed Miss Ramone and she is most displeased.’ She smiled nastily. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she expels you this time, Van Der Berg.’

Ten minutes later Celine was in the secretary’s office, waiting for her showdown. She could see the outline of Mrs Gonzales through the frosted glass door, standing there like a sentry. The old bag must be thrilled with her prize catch; Celine was surprised she hadn’t used a net.

Celine swung her long legs up on the desk, feet black from dancing barefoot all night. Bored, she got out her iPhone and looked at the new screensaver of her and Eduardo again. They’d met earlier at Fiesta and totally hit it off. Pity Eduardo had a girlfriend - sloppy seconds wasn’t Celine’s style. He’d already friend-requested her on Facebook though, so she’d just have to keep an eye on his relationship status.

Celine sank back in the chair and stared up at the large crack in the ceiling. Her head was definitely still spinning from that last round of Flaming Sambucas. Despite the trouble she was about to be in, it had still been worth it. Celine snuck out at least twice a week to hit the clubs: see friends, meet boys, party. It was pathetic that they were kept locked up here; she was an adult for God’s sake.

With her tall, lithe figure and white-blonde hair, Celine Van Der Berg stood out like a sore thumb at the super-strict St Winifred’s. The teachers had nearly had a fit when she’d sauntered into assembly the previous week with a new pixie hair cut, shaved up one side. That had earned her another detention, but Celine didn’t care. It was nearly the end of the final term. In three weeks, she’d be out of this place forever.

See you, losers.

Getting up, she wandered round the room, looking at the school photos that had adorned the walls over the years. Rows after rows of blank smiling faces, all brainwashed by rules and regulations. Sheep. How she’d lasted in this place without topping herself, Celine would never know.

She examined a black-painted nail. Miss Ramone was probably trying to call her parents right now. Luckily they were out of the country on another archaeological dig, but Celine hadn’t bothered to mention that. Tibet, Celine thought it was. They went on so many. She hadn’t really been paying attention when her mum had told her.

Celine loved her parents and tried to share their enthusiasm, but digging old pots out of the ground? Really? Even her older sister had followed them into it, just like she and her mother had been to St Winifred’s before Celine. Her family were short on fun, big on tradition.

The school had fallen over itself to take Celine at first. Everyone knew the Van Der Bergs. Descendents of Dutch settlers, they were the equivalent of Argentinian aristocracy. It helped matters that her mum and dad were famous archaeologists, and were constantly appearing on television and stuff. The geeks in her history class practically wet themselves whenever her parents’, name was mentioned. ‘Ooh, Celine! Bet you can’t wait to carry on the family tradition!’

Actually, Celine couldn’t think of anything worse. Her interest was in the modern world, not people who died, like, a billion years ago. A brilliant linguist, she was fluent in her native Spanish, as well as English, Italian, French, Arabic and German. Since St Winifred’s didn’t have Japanese on the curriculum she was teaching herself, just for fun.

Language was Celine’s pass to the outside world. Her dream was to work in the fashion industry. Size 8, with endless Bambi legs, she was always being approached by model scouts when she went out in Buenos Aires, but Celine wasn’t interested in that side of things. What she really wanted to be was a designer. She was constantly being told off in classes for drawing, but it was like a drug to her. Making clothes was all she’d ever wanted to do. She wanted to study at the prestigious Instituto Marangoni in Paris and then start her own label, VDB. McQueen meets Westwood, with Celine’s own style stamped all over it. The new enfant terrible of cutting-edge fashion.

Unfortunately, her parents had other ideas.

As far as they were concerned, their daughter’s obsession with clothes was just like any teenager’s. There was no way she could make a serious career out of it. So Celine had gone along with it and passed what she had to in order to progress through school, all the time inside screaming: this isn’t me! Her grades had been the only thing that had stopped her being kicked out, and now she’d just been accepted on an archaeology course at a prestigious university in New York. Her parents were thrilled, her sister was thrilled, the teachers were ecstatic to be getting rid of her at last. Everyone was happy except Celine.

Eighteen years old and trapped, she thought. How the hell did that happen?

A door slammed and Celine heard the sound of footsteps clumping down the hallway. She’d know the sound of those lesbian shoes anywhere. Here we go. The headmistress was so strict she made Mrs Gonzales look like a pot-smoking hippy.

‘There you are, Celine.’ Even though it was the middle of the night, Miss Ramone was in her usual frumpy tweed skirt and blouse, horn-rimmed spectacles on the chain around her neck. She probably slept with them on. She gave Celine a severe look.

‘Come this way.’

Celine put her chic-slut spiked stilettos back on and got up. The headmistress was very calm, which was always a bad sign. Celine followed her into the office next door. Miss Ramone went round the big wooden desk and sat down.

‘Take a seat.’

Celine crossed her legs, noticing she’d dragged a cigarette butt in on the bottom of her shoe. Another ten points from Gryffindor. In the eyes of St Winifred’s, smoking was up there with terrorism and nuclear war.

But instead of giving her a dressing-down, the head-teacher looked at her in a weird way. ‘How are you, dear?’

Miss Ramone was asking after her wellbeing? Celine frowned. ‘Hasn’t Mrs Gonzales been to see you?’

The head teacher blinked. ‘Oh, that. Yes, well, under the circumstances, I will forgive you.’

Sneaking out after school hours was major. Something was definitely up.

Miss Ramone clasped her hands and undid them again. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

That was a bit dramatic. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Your mother and father, they’ve gone missing.’

‘Missing?’

‘No one has been able to get hold of them for the past twenty-four hours,’ Miss Ramone said.

Was this what all the worry was about? ‘Of course no one’s been able to get hold of them,’ Celine said. ‘Reception isn’t that great when you’re halfway up a mountain.’ At the same time a little warning bell went off in her head. Why were people trying to get hold of her parents?

Miss Ramone sighed. ‘There’s no easy way to say this so I’m just going to come right out with it. Celine, I’ve just received a call from the Argentinian embassy in Delhi. Your parents have been taken hostage by rebels on the Indian border.’

The headmistress may as well have said they were break-dancing on the moon. ‘Run that past me again,’ Celine said slowly. Eduardo hadn’t slipped something in her drink, had he?

Miss Ramone repeated herself. Celine shook her head. ‘Sorry, not possible. My parents are in Tibet.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ Celine said, getting annoyed. ‘I know where my own parents are…’ She trailed off.

Had they said Tibet?

‘The police will be here soon,’ Miss Ramone said gently. ‘They will be able to tell you more. In the meantime, I think you should see something.’ She gestured to the computer on her desk. Certain this was some kind of sick punishment for sneaking out, Celine went round and stood behind Miss Ramone’s chair. She’d never been this close to the old bat before. She noticed a warty hair sticking out on the back of the headmistress’s neck.

Ewww.

Celine looked at the computer, hoping Miss Ramone couldn’t smell the alcohol on her breath. There was a BBC news website up on screen. Celine never went on things like this - she was all about fashion apps and blogs. The main headline was something random about nuclear tests. Miss Ramone wasn’t going to start testing her on world affairs, was she?

‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’ she asked. Someone needed to sort the design out on this; it was seriously boring. The cursor moved down the page and Miss Ramone clicked on something. A headline flashed up.

‘VAN DER BERGS FEARED DEAD.’

And in smaller print underneath:

Argentinean archaeologists missing after ambush on Kashmir border.

At that point Celine’s world shifted on its axis. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Chapter Two

Mumbai, India.

‘You’re a skank, you know that?’

Eighteen-year-old Jhumpa Mukherjee looked up from her iPhone and gave a death stare. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me!’ Katrina Kapoor, the biggest slut in Mumbai, stood there, hands on skinny hips. Jhumpa wanted to laugh in her face. If anyone knew about being a skank, it was Katrina.

‘What’s so funny?’ Katrina demanded.

‘You,’ drawled Jhumpa. ‘If you weren’t so tragic. Was there anything in particular?’

‘Don’t act Little Miss Innocent! My man has just tagged you in some photos on Facebook and you’re all over him.’

The music was pounding through hot new members club Eden. The beautiful crowd stood round sucking on lurid coloured drinks, six massive TV screens over the bar beaming down MTV. Jhumpa tossed her curtain of silky black hair over her shoulders, the very same hair that had won her the star role in the new L’Oreal India advert. ‘Your man?’ she enquired, looking Katrina up and down. ‘And who might that be?’

‘You know! Bhanu.’

‘Bhanu? Bhanu Mallik?’ Jhumpa snorted derisively. ‘As if.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Katrina demanded. Her badly applied eyeliner made her look like a rabid baby panda. ‘You totally know I’m seeing him.’

Jhumpa raised a perfectly threaded eyebrow. ‘As amazing as it might seem, keeping up with your sad little love life isn’t one of my priorities.’ She looked round the bar and saw Katrina’s equally ugly friends giving her death stares. ‘You know, if he is your man I would have words after the things he was saying to me.’

Katrina’s expression faltered. ‘Like what?’

Jhumpa went back to her text message. ‘He’s your boyfriend, darling, why don’t you ask him?’

The phone was ripped out of her hands. Jhumpa narrowed her eyes. ‘You’ve got precisely five seconds to give that back or I’ll have you thrown out.’

Katrina hung on to the phone, then thought better of it and slapped it back into Jhumpa’s hand. ‘You think you’re big time now, because of one lousy L’Oreal advert,’ she hissed. ‘I heard you practically begged them to let you do it for, like, free.’

Jhumpa considered her words for a moment and smiled. ‘You know Katrina, you’re completely right.’

She watched Katrina’s stupid mouth hang open with surprise. ‘I am?’

‘It was only the million dollars,’ Jhumpa said casually. ‘As you say, practically nothing. I’ll have to get my agent to negotiate harder next time.’

As Katrina’s face filled with jealous rage, an advert suddenly flashed up on the televisions behind the bar. It was Jhumpa’s new L’Oreal commercial, her walking along a beach looking stunning in a full-length dress. As she watched herself stop and smile effortlessly into the camera, Jhumpa turned back to Katrina and gave her the same smile, live and direct.

‘Come and talk to me when you’re up on that screen, hey?’ Grabbing her Hermes clutch bag off the bar, she sashayed out.

Strictly speaking her contract wasn’t a million dollars. It was more like $1,100,060 US dollars.

Give or take.

Not that she felt the need to show off to stringy-haired types like Katrina Kapoor. Jhumpa knew the precise amount because she’d done the deal herself. Her agent Bez got her the gigs, but he was hopeless with money (she thought so anyway), and Jhumpa always did the negotiating side of things. She’d already invested most of the L’Oreal money into stocks and shares and some canny real estate, including her luxury apartment in the fashionable suburb of Bandra West.

It was in the luxury apartment that Jhumpa was getting ready the next morning. The orange wraparound Donna Karan dress she’d worn last night was already hanging neatly in the wardrobe again. Jhumpa couldn’t stand mess: a slobby house meant a slobby mind. Every item of her clothing was colour coordinated, down to the nail polish, handbag and matching jewellery.

Jhumpa scrutinised herself in the full-length mirror. Glossy skin, almond-shaped eyes and audacious curves, she caused a traffic pile up every time she stepped outside. No wonder L’Oreal had chosen her over the hundreds of others. She had charisma. Star quality. This wasn’t just Jhumpa blowing her own trumpet (although she wasn’t averse to that) - enough people had told her, so she knew it was true.

Her hair was extra shiny today, which was a good omen. The commercial was great exposure and set her up financially, but today was The Big One. She was this close to breaking Bollywood. That afternoon she was down to the final three for the part of Serving Girl 2 in the new Bollywood film Emerald Summer. OK, so it was only a few lines but it was her big break. In just a few weeks time she would be starring opposite the Brad Pitt of India, Imran Khalili. Who knew where that would lead? OMG!

It didn’t even occur to Jhumpa she wouldn’t get the part. She’d been paying for her own acting lessons since she was sixteen, and it was just a natural progression of her talents. She was more than a pretty face. There wasn’t a thing the teachers at her old school could teach her about maths or logic. She’d even been offered a scholarship to study advanced physics at the prestigious MIT university in America. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, her father kept telling her, something she couldn’t possibility turn down.

Pity Jhumpa found it all so boring.

It wasn’t using her brain that bothered her: Jhumpa could sail through advanced maths challenges with all the ease of reading a restaurant menu. She’d done the MIT entrance exam while trading stocks and shares on her iPhone under the table. She liked numbers, but the ones she liked were the ones you used in the real world, the ones that got you something: money. Not just things you learned in a stuffy classroom. It was only her head for financial dealings that had persuaded her dad to let her move out of home and into the apartment in the first place.

Jhumpa loved her dad, but he just didn’t get her. Her mum had died when she was four and he didn’t seem to know what to do with this precocious little girl who loved singing and dancing. For as long as she could remember, Jhumpa had been entranced by the glamour and excitement of the film industry. In India, Bollywood stars were treated like royalty: a role Jhumpa could see herself in very well. Famous actress and president of her multi-million dollar company, Jhumpa Inc.

It was all planned out.

With happy visions of worldwide domination, Jhumpa started to get dressed. As usual, she had meticulously planned her outfit. Black J Brand jeans - tight enough without being slutty - a crisp white shirt and her black Louboutins. Taking one last satisfied look in the mirror, Jhumpa picked up her (black) Chanel handbag and left.

As she stepped into the marbled lift, she realised she hadn’t called her father back. Professor of Early Indian History at the university in Mumbai, he was on some dull field trip in Bhutan. She’d had a missed call from him in the bar last night. He probably wanted her to go round and water his plants or something. She’d call him back later; she was too busy now. Wait until he heard she’d got the part!

Sliding on her Dior sunglasses, Jhumpa walked out into the dry Mumbai heat. Not yet 11 a.m. and it was already scorching hot, the sun a bright yellow ball overhead. Sprinklers were watering the emerald-coloured lawns as a team of gardeners worked the immaculate flowerbeds. Jhumpa noticed the youngest one stop and watch as she walked past. Lifting the Diors, she gave him her best film star look and was pleased to see him blush. She’d have to use that one in the audition later. Her iPhone beeped: the driver was waiting right outside for her. Pushing open the security gate, Jhumpa stepped into another world.

The dusty streets were manic. Rickety old buses fought for space with gleaming 4x4s, a whole family wobbled by, piled precariously on the back of a scooter. Car horns blared, stray dogs sniffed piles of rubbish and a lone cow nearly caused a major pile up by meandering down the middle of the road. In the middle of the mayhem, women of all ages walked like butterflies in their rainbow-bright saris. It was hot, smelly, overwhelming and hectic, and Jhumpa absolutely loved it. There was a buzz about this city like nowhere else on earth. Where else could you have designer shops on one street with their fleets of luxury cars and the colourful squalor of the slums on the next? Her father had been raised in one of those corrugated iron shacks and had worked hard to get out. Her dad might annoy her most of the time, but Jhumpa majorly respected him for that.

Across the road was a huge billboard advertising the new Aishwarya Rai film. The hottest actress in India right now. As Jhumpa stared up at it, she felt a thrill of excitement. That will be me next.

Her waiting carriage, a gleaming black Mercedes with its own chauffeur, was already attracting quite a lot of attention from bystanders. Jhumpa had one more thing to do. The usual line of stalls stood down the street, selling hot takeaway snacks. Jhumpa went to the best one - third on the right and run by the old man with the hennaed hair - and got her rupees out. She came back a few moments later. There was a beggar sitting propped up against the wall. With bandaged stumps for legs, and filthy rags for clothes, even the rest of the down-and-outs would give him a wide berth, but Jhumpa went straight up with her biggest smile.

‘Morning Suni. How are you?’

The beggar smiled back, showing toothless black gums. ‘I am having a very fine day! Where are you going, all dressed up?’

Jhumpa winked. ‘I’ve got an audition.’ She bent down and handed over the greasy brown paper bag. ‘Here, I got you a little something. Puri puri, your favourite.’

‘Miss Jhumpa, what would I do without you?’ he called after her.

She laughed. ‘Not eat so much puri puri!’

Suni the beggar had been there ever since she moved in and she always took time to talk to him. One of the rules she tried to live by - along with always matching your handbag and shoes - was to treat others less fortunate than you with kindness. Unless that person happened to be a total wretch like Katrina Kapoor.

Her chauffeur was waiting with the door open. Jhumpa climbed in the car’s cool leather interior and sat back. It was show time.

‘You nailed it.’

Jhumpa glanced at the assistant. ‘Did I?’ She tried to sound nonchalant but her heart was racing. The audition had gone really well. The film director had loved her and said she looked great on camera. Jhumpa knew that of course - she’d spent enough time practising.

‘Yeah, you looked amazing. A real star.’ They were in a little sitting area away from the set and the director’s assistant was hanging round like a bad smell. He couldn’t make it any more obvious he fancied her. ‘So what are you up to tonight?’

‘Lots of things.’ Jhumpa looked at the door again. Bez had gone out to talk to the director. He’d been gone at least ten minutes; why didn’t they just come in and say she’d got it?

‘You know, I could always put in a good word for you.’ The assistant leaned in and Jhumpa tried not to wince. Someone had overdone the garlic last night. Shifting down the sofa she gave him a look. Back off. ‘I don’t need your help, thanks.’

The boy - who was all of twenty and covered in acne - leered at her. ‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Your face looks familiar.’

‘Probably.’ Jhumpa checked her iPhone again. What was Bez doing? Why didn’t he come back and save her? They must be talking money.

‘Come on, be friendly,’ the boy wheedled. ‘We can have a good time together.’

His breath was disgusting. Jhumpa was about to ask if he’d heard about the new brand of electric toothbrushes Phillips had bought out when the door finally opened. Bez came through, looking every inch the hotshot in his new D&G glasses.

She jumped up, relieved. ‘There you are!’

‘Jhumpa.’ Bez glanced at the boy. ‘Can we have a word in private?’

He didn’t look very happy. Jhumpa felt a jolt in her stomach. This wasn’t part of the plan. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the assistant said smugly, as if he knew something was going on. As soon as they were alone Bez turned to her.

‘Jhumpa, when did you last hear from your father?’

Her agent could be random, but this was a new one for him. ‘What are you talking about?’ she said. ‘Have I got the part or not?’

‘What?’ For once Bez’s mind wasn’t on the job. ‘I just spoke to the director, we won’t know for a few days yet.’

‘Oh, great.’ She sighed, trying to ignore her disappointment. ‘What’s the hold up? I thought he liked me.’

‘He does,’ Bez said vaguely. ‘Look, I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s about your father.’

Jhumpa stared. ‘Why do you keep going on about my dad?’

Bez sounded really serious. ‘I’ve just had the police on the phone. Trying to get hold of you.’

‘The police? Why?’ Now she was getting worried.

‘You should sit down.’ He started steering her back to the sofa, but Jhumpa pulled free. ‘Bez, what’s going on? Is my dad OK?’

Her agent looked scared. ‘There’s no easy way to say this. Your dad’s been kidnapped. On the Kashmiri border.’

‘Kidnapped?’ Jhumpa said stupidly. ‘Bez, is this your idea of a sick joke?’

‘No!’

As it slowly dawned on her that he was being serious, Jhumpa felt like she was starring in her own horror movie. ‘By who?’

‘Rebels…’ He trailed off. ‘They think your dad was mistaken for a spy.’

‘A what?’ This didn’t make sense, her dad was meant to be in Bhutan! As her legs buckled, Jhumpa sat down heavily on the sofa.

‘The police are on their way,’ Bez told her. He stood there awkwardly. ‘Jhumpa, I’m really sorry.’

She didn’t hear him. All she could think were two words. Kashmiri rebels. Only last month they’d been all over the news, for the kidnapping and brutal murder of five American tourists. The Kashmir region was a province in north India and a hotbed for terrorists and religious conflict. Basically one of the most dangerous places on earth. What was her dad doing there?

‘He’s not dead yet,’ Bez said unhelpfully.

Jhumpa looked up, face shock-white. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But for how long?’

Chapter Three

The Orkney Islands, UK

‘Hey there, Kate Middleton, how are the royal duties going?’

Luci Cadwallader - tall, fresh-faced and a dead ringer for Britain’s new Duchess of Cambridge - looked up from the pile of earth she was sifting through.

‘You’re such a twat,’ she said, grinning.

‘Charming. I bet Kate doesn’t talk to Wills like that. And I bought you coffee.’ Sam waggled the Thermos flask. ‘Hazelnut latte with an extra sprinkling of chocolate?’

‘I didn’t know Café Nero had started delivering to the Orkney Islands.’

‘They haven’t, but pretending’s the only way I can get through this stuff,’ Sam sighed. He unscrewed the top. ‘Shall I play mother?’

‘Pour away.’ Luci sat back and took her muddy gloves off. She could do with a break - they’d been out here since seven that morning.

‘Any luck?’ Sam enquired sympathetically.

‘Nada. I did think I’d found part of a paleolithic axe head but it turned out to be a weird shaped pebble. Don’t tell anyone, will you?’

‘Your secret is safe with me, chickie. One sugar or two with your ditchwater?’

‘Two. That stuff needs all the help it can get.’

Luci sat back on her heels and cupped the warm coffee. All around she could see her colleagues hard at work on the windswept moor. The tiny island of Wirra (population thirty) had the best-preserved Neolithic settlement in the Orkneys. Only a few weeks ago one of their team had discovered what had been described as the earliest carved representation of a human figure found in the British Isles. Pre-neolithic they were saying. It was beyond exciting.

Luci was mad about archaeology. Nineteen years old, she was in her first year at Oxford University studying for a degree in it. A love for the past ran in the family. Her father was Viscount Peter Cadwallader, Professor of Biological Archaeology at York University. The family seat was a sprawling pile in Gloucestershire and Viscount Peter spent his time between home, university and jetting off round the world on digs. At the moment he was in Bhutan excavating the remains of an ancient palace. Luci was so jealous! She would have loved to have gone with him. The wild splendour of the Orkneys weren’t a bad second, though. Off the northwest tip of Scotland, the white sandy beaches and vast blue skies looked more like a holiday brochure for New Zealand.

Luci was really close to her dad. Her mum had run off with her dad’s best friend when Luci was a baby, and her father had done a brilliant job bringing her up. Intelligent, outgoing and cheery, Luci was an accomplished sportswoman who’d captained every team at her boarding school in Hampshire and represented Great Britain in the Under 18 women’s triathlon. She was also a dab hand at country sports. Hunting, fishing, even shooting: Luci loved nothing more than picking off pheasants out of the sky over her family estate with her own 12-bore shotgun.

She wasn’t squeamish about chucking the dead birds in the back of the Land Rover, either.

‘You’re so annoying, you know,’ Sam told her.

‘What have I done now?’

‘Look at you, no make up and week-old hair and you still look stunning!’ Sam sighed dramatically and wiped a finger over his eyebrow. ‘Hamish is never going to notice me now.’

Hamish was their handsome forty-something team leader, who Sam had a massive crush on. Despite the fact Hamish was happily married with three children, Sam was convinced he could ‘turn’ him.

Luci giggled. She was so pleased she’d met Sam. The youngest by far on this dig, they’d become firm friends. Even if he did call her ‘HRH Kate’, and constantly joked about her royal wedding.

‘What do you fancy doing tonight?’ Sam said. ‘Boujis? Studio 54? We could even try Chinawhite if we’re desperate.’

‘Or we could just go to the bar in our hotel and have a single malt whiskey instead? You were rocking that juke box the other night.’

‘Don’t rub it in,’ Sam sighed. ‘Our social life is desperate.’ He still hadn’t recovered from the fact they didn’t have broadband here. How he’d ever ended up being an archaeologist was anyone’s guess.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Luci said lazily. ‘I quite like it.’ She loved being out here, away from everything and everybody. There was zero phone reception and at least Adam couldn’t get hold of her. Now her ex, they’d met at Uni and had gone out for three months. He’d been sweet but a bit clingy, and when he suggested Luci cancel her dig to spend the summer with him, she knew it was time to call it a day. Her inbox was going to go mental when she finally switched her phone on again. Hopefully he’ll have got the hint by then. She hated upsetting people.

A chugging sound made them look round. It was the boat, coming in from the mainland. ‘Am I going mad or is it Wednesday?’ Sam asked.

Luci checked her Tag watch, a present from her dad for her eighteenth. ‘Nope, it’s definitely Wednesday.’ Mondays and Thursdays were meant to be the days the ferry came in and brought fresh food and supplies for the island. Maybe they were doing a special delivery.

The boat docked and they saw Hamish walk down the jetty. He exchanged a few words with the captain, then a few moments later the gangplank was lowered. A man in a dark suit appeared and walked unsteadily down it. The suitcase he was carrying looked utterly bizarre in the surroundings.

‘Aye up, what’s going on here?’ Sam said.

‘I don’t know, but they’re coming our way. Get up and look busy.’ She didn’t want Hamish to think they were slacking.

She and Sam got back to work, but a few minutes later a pair of shadows fell over them. ‘Luci, have you got a minute?’ Hamish asked.

‘Sure.’ She put down her trowel and stood up.

‘Luci, this is Jeremy… sorry, I can’t remember your last name,’ Hamish said to the man.

‘Jeremy Fitzwilliam,’ the man said crisply. ‘I’m with the Foreign Office.’

‘Mind where you’re standing,’ Luci said cheerily. ‘We don’t want you trampling on anyone’s house.’

Jeremy Fitzwilliam didn’t smile. He looked a bit of a stiff, Luci thought. She watched him open his briefcase and take some official looking papers out.

‘Miss Cadwallader,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news about your father…’

Chapter Four

The sky above Buenos Aires, Argentina One month later

The London-bound Virgin Airways jet left Buenos Aires airport bang on schedule. Celine looked round as the 747 soared into the air; save an old couple and a guy with his head buried in a newspaper at the back, the cabin was empty. Celine was relieved - she couldn’t take crowds of people right now.

Even with the lights dimmed for take off, it didn’t detract from the luxury of travelling First Class. The gold and purple colour scheme made it look more like a Monaco nightclub, while silver-plated chandeliers swayed gently overhead. And just in case anyone couldn’t see where to sling their Gucci hand luggage, the overhead compartments were thoughtfully lit up with Swarovski-encrusted panels.

Normally, Celine would love this kind of stuff, but tonight she was in her own little world. As the plane climbed through the clouds she looked out the window, the city laid out beneath like a glittering carpet. Somewhere down there was her school, her friends, her home. My old life. Before her parents had gone missing. The whole thing still felt like a sick wind-up.

The seat belt lights flashed off and the captain’s deep voice came back. ‘We’ve just reached our cruising height of 29,000 feet, the weather ahead looks to be good with a little patch of turbulence over the Atlantic. I’ll come back to you a bit further into the journey but in the meantime sit back, relax and enjoy the flight.’

Celine heard the chink of glasses from the galley as the cabin crew got the drinks ready. Suddenly she felt overwhelmed by exhaustion. She reached for the sleep mask and put it on, praying for oblivion.

‘Hi there.’

The voice sounded miles away. Celine had been in the middle of this really weird dream where her parents had been stuck down a mine-shift trying to escape a Samurai-sword-wielding Mrs Gonzales. As she came round, the eye-mask felt wet for some reason. Celine touched it and realised she’d been crying in her sleep.

She hastily wiped her cheeks and turned away. Hoping whoever it was would get the message.

‘I’m Remy.’

The voice was French and male. God. This was all she needed, some fat balding businessman trying it on with her. Celine lifted the mask and was about to tell him where to go when a smouldering pair of brown eyes stopped her dead.

‘Hello,’ the man said. He looked like a manga warrior, all silky black hair, tanned skin and cheekbones you could cut your finger on.

In short, seriously hot.

He was also wearing a D&G blazer, totally that season. Celine could tell by the collar.

‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’ He smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘I’ve just been given a complimentary bottle of champagne and I’d prefer to share it with someone.’

‘Uh, OK,’ Celine answered in French. She rubbed her eyes. ‘How long have I been asleep for?’

‘About three hours,’ the man said. He looked in his mid- twenties. ‘Not that I’ve been stalking you or anything, but it’s not exactly busy in here.’ He stuck his hand out, accessorised with a cool silver thumb ring. ‘I’m Remy Chevalier.’

‘Celine.’

‘Your place or mine?’

‘Excuse me?’

He laughed. ‘I mean, where do you want to drink the champagne? I could come and sit up here.’ Celine needed to stretch her legs. ‘Why don’t we hit the bar?’

Ten minutes later they were already on their second glass. Celine had a sudden urge to get wasted. Forget about everything for a while. It helped that Remy’s arm was brushing hers at this moment, sending little thrills through her body. He was even better with the blazer off. Under his tailored black shirt Celine could make out a ripped body. Remy probably did loads of martial arts or something - he looked like that kind of guy.

Right now, Remy was telling her about his job. Fashion buyer at Selfridges. ‘This is my fourth flight this week,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been in Buenos Aires having meetings.’

‘That is so weird!’ Celine said. ‘You know, I want to be a fashion designer.’

Remy took in the studded black T-shirt and cropped leather trousers. ‘I thought you worked in the industry already, to be honest. I love what you’re doing with the whole punk thing going on at the moment.’ He touched the safety pin necklace round her neck. ‘Nice touch.’

Celine’s skin had prickled nicely at the gesture. ‘I’ve got some drawings with me actually. I’d love you to look at them.’

‘Sure, I’d be happy to.’

Celine went to retrieve her sketchpad from her bag. By the time she’d got back, Remy had already ordered another bottle of Moet from the barman.

‘Here you go.’ She handed the pad to him and sat down again.

Remy put his glass down and started flipping through. ‘Wow, Celine. These are really good.’

‘Really?’ Celine knew she was good, but it was amazing to get an expert’s opinion.

‘Completely. Your style is unique.’ He stopped at a drawing of a tuxedo with huge embroidered shoulders. ‘I love this, the detailing is exquisite.’ Remy glanced up. ‘I could have a word with my boss. You never know.’

Celine couldn’t believe it. ‘Really?’

‘Really’ Remy said. ‘I’ll give you my card.’

He got one out of his wallet and handed it to her. Celine looked at the familiar Selfridges logo. ‘Remy Chevalier, Assistant Fashion Buyer,’ she read. ‘Very nice.’

‘It’s not a bad job.’ Remy clinked his glass against hers. ‘You get to meet lots of interesting people.’

Was that a come on? Celine looked at Remy’s full lips. She was imagining kissing them when she realised he was saying something.

‘Where do you come from?

‘Oh… er… Back there. Buenos Aires.’

Remy looked surprised. ‘You’re Argentinean?’

‘Yup.’

‘Wow, your accent is flawless. I would have thought you were French.’

Celine shrugged. ‘Languages are one of my many talents.’

‘I imagine a girl like you has lots of talents.’ He was definitely flirting.

She gave a saucy little grin. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

The moment was severed as the barman came up and refilled their glasses. Remy settled himself on his stool. ‘I’ve told you all about myself and I know little about you, Celine, other than your interest in fashion. What are you in London for, business or pleasure?’

She knew she wouldn’t be allowed to forget for long. ‘Neither.’

Remy saw her face change. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘It’s OK.’ Celine fiddled with the flute of her wine glass. ‘Remy, can I tell you something?’

‘Of course.’

She’d not told anyone about the purpose of her trip, but Celine suddenly had a desperate need to unburden herself. Besides, it wasn’t as if Remy knew anything about it. I hardly know what’s going on myself.

She put her champagne flute down. ‘Back in a minute.’

Celine went back to her bag and returned this time with a thick black envelope.

‘What’s that?’ Remy said.

‘I need to tell you the story first.’ Celine paused. ‘My surname is Van Der Berg, I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it?’

He shook his head helplessly. ‘Sorry, no.’

‘I wouldn’t really expect you to. All you need to know is that they’re really famous archaeologists.’

Remy’s eyes widened. ‘Like Indiana Jones?’

‘Not exactly.’ Why did everyone think that? ‘Anyway, six weeks ago they went off on this dig. In Tibet.’ Celine sighed. ‘At least they told me it was Tibet but then it turned out it was actually Kashmir, and they’d been kidnapped by rebels.’

‘Oh my God.’ Remy looked shocked. ‘That’s terrible. And you’ve heard nothing from them since?’

‘Nothing.’ Despite all the military troops apparently combing the area. Celine was trying to stay on the positive side. She had to.

‘Why were they kidnapped? Do these people want a ransom? I read something in the news about a similar story once.’

‘I don’t know. Anyway, as you can imagine life hasn’t been that great recently.’ She managed a tight smile. ‘I’m meant to sit around and do nothing while half the Indian army are out looking for them. But three days ago, this letter came.’

She opened the envelope and took out a piece of black paper with swirly gold writing across it.

1st July

Cadwallader House

Nr Southrop

Gloucestershire

England

Your parents’ fate is in your hands. A meeting will take place at the above address on the 21st July at 10 a.m.

I suggest you cancel your plans for the rest of the summer.

Tell no one.

A Friend.

Remy frowned. ‘That’s very cloak and dagger.’

‘Tell me about it. There was a plane ticket inside the ticket, which is why I’m here, and instructions to meet a car at Heathrow.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Nothing.’

Remy was silent for a moment. ‘Celine, I don’t like the sound of this. It could be dangerous.’

‘I know.’ She’d thought about it enough! ‘But what am I supposed to do, Remy? What if it is real and I did nothing? I’d never be able to forgive myself. I mean, my parents bug me and want me to do this stupid college course I’m so not interested in, but they’re still my parents.’

After a moment, Remy nodded. ‘I do understand, Celine. You’re very brave. I don’t think I could do it.’

‘Come back and tell me that again when it’s all over.’ Celine didn’t want to think about it any longer. ‘Can we talk about something else? Or at least drink ourselves stupid.’

‘You won’t hear any complaints from me.’ Remy bent down to pick up something from the floor. ‘Does this belong to you?’

‘My earring, it must have fallen out.’ She went to take it off him but Remy grabbed her hand.

‘Be careful, Celine, won’t you? It’s not the sort of thing a girl like you should be getting involved in.’

She had no time to answer, as just then they hit a patch of turbulence and the whole plane lurched. Immediately, the seat-belt signs pinged back into life. Remy picked up the bottle. ‘Let’s finish this sitting down.’

It was a shaky walk back and Remy was right behind her. Close enough Celine could make out the Marc Jacobs aftershave. He even smells sexy.

Remy followed her to her seat. ‘I’ll come and sit by you, hey? In case you get scared.’

With the turbulence and all the champagne, Celine started to feel really dizzy. Remy had barely sat down before she’d lost her balance and fallen right on top of him.

‘Oops!’ She started laughing. ‘I’m really sorry.’

He looked at her. She looked at him. Their mouths were inches from each other. ‘So…’ Celine said, but then she shut up, because that was when he started kissing her.

Chapter Five

London, UK Two days later

Jhumpa looked out of her hotel room window. Below, shiny black cabs and big red buses were streaming past like a procession of brightly coloured bugs. This city beat to a different rhythm than the one she’d left behind in India, but it was no less exciting. It was why she’d booked herself into the famous Dorchester hotel, the epitome of English elegance and luxury.

She was meant to go straight to the house in Glandularshire, or wherever it was, but her flight hadn’t landed at Heathrow until midnight. Jhumpa wanted a good night’s sleep, so she was prepared and fresh for whatever lay ahead. She still felt edgy. Someone else was calling the shots and she didn’t like it.

Her suite on the ninth floor had a panoramic view of the city.

Jhumpa cast her eye over the skyline: she could see the London Eye, Houses of Parliament, Big Ben. Even at night it was pretty amazing; just like she’d seen in the movies.

There was a stirring from the bed. The delicious form of Caleb stretched out and turned over under the starched white sheets. Even from here Jhumpa could see the tightly packed bands of muscles across his back. She smiled to herself. Yes, bumping into Caleb had turned out very well indeed.

Jhumpa wasn’t normally into one-night stands. Back home in Mumbai she was always very selective about who she brought back to the apartment. The last thing she wanted was someone doing a kiss-and-tell on her when she was a famous actress and spoiling her public image. But things weren’t normal right now, and when she’d been sitting in the hotel bar nursing a Cosmopolitan and Caleb had come over and offered to buy her another… well, one thing had left to another.

Even if Caleb hadn’t been so hot, Jhumpa would have been pleased to have someone to talk to. She would never have admitted it, but she’d been feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable the moment Caleb had chosen to walk up. Good timing. Funny how a complete stranger could fulfil such a purpose.

Caleb was just her type. Blue-eyed and dirty blonde, he looked like an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Jhumpa liked her American boys and when she’d found out he was an aspiring actor like her, they had lots to talk about. Caleb had already asked her to go and stay with him in Hollywood, said he could introduce her to a few people. Jhumpa would wait and see. Caleb might be pretty, but he could be just another jobbing barman with aspirations of being the next De Niro. No offence, but Jhumpa wasn’t going to waste her time on people who were never going to make it.

Caleb was cute, at least, and was taking her mind off things. As well as the whole drama with her dad, just before she’d left India, Jhumpa found out she hadn’t got the servant girl role in Emerald Summer.

“Too beautiful,” was what the director said, apparently. She’d be a “distraction”. Jhumpa had been devastated but put a brave face on. Everything happened for a reason. She was destined for bigger and better things.

At least she would be, once this whole weird business was sorted out. Jhumpa stared out the window again. Where are you, daddy? She’d lied to everyone about why she was taking a trip - had told no one about the weird note she’d received in the post, telling her to go to Cadwallader house, if she wanted to help her dad.

Time to myself, she’d told Bez and her friends. Get away from everything. Everyone understood, and the police had promised to keep her updated with any developments. Every time the phone went Jhumpa’s stomach dropped like a stone. Thinking this would be the call to say her dad was dead.

‘You OK?’

Caleb was sitting up, hair tousled sexily.

‘Completely.’ She pulled the silk dressing gown tighter and padded across the room. Caleb pulled her down for a kiss. His lips were as soft as clouds. Jhumpa could still feel their traces on her body.

‘Can’t you sleep?’ he asked. Nice accent, lazy Californian.

‘My body clock is all over the place.’

He gave a chuckle. ‘I can think of something we could do.’

Jhumpa smiled as Caleb’s hands started to move over her dressing gown. ‘I need my sleep.’

‘I need you,’ he said.

‘Caleb…’ she smiled warningly. He was really nice. Pity they lived on other sides of the world.

He stopped caressing and looked at her ruefully. ‘OK, I know. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

‘You got it.’ Jhumpa hadn’t said much, just that she had an important meeting. She put her arms round his neck, keen to move off the subject.

‘When did you get that tattoo?’ She’d noticed the small dagger behind Caleb’s ear at the bar. It didn’t seem to go with what he was about.

‘Thailand, a couple of years back. You like it?’

‘It’s alright.’ Personally, Jhumpa didn’t know why people wanted to ruin their bodies with tattoos. They were, like, mega tacky. Caleb’s was quite subtle though.

He laughed again. ‘You’re not a tattoo kind of girl, I already guessed that.’ He started planting butterfly kisses on her neck, making her shiver. ‘You’re a real lady, Jhumpa, you know that?’

His mouth felt lovely and Jhumpa’s good intentions fell by the wayside. She was thousands of miles from home, in a city where no one knew her. She needed a release. Seductively, she lowered her dressing gown.

‘I’m not always a lady.’

Caleb’s blue eyes darkened with lust. ‘And I’m not always such a gentleman.’

A hundred miles away in Gloucestershire, Luci Cadwallader hadn’t been able to sleep either. After tossing and turning for hours she’d given up on the idea. Instead she was walking round the north-east corner of the estate, her feet swishing through the long grass. It might be the middle of the night but going for a walk always made Luci feel better.

A pale moon shone down on the English countryside, bathing it in a ghostly glow. Somewhere up ahead in the woods an owl hooted. Most people would be scared to walk here by themselves but it didn’t bother Luci. She knew every blade of grass like the back of her hand.

On the slope, Cadwallader Hall stood in darkness. None of the staff had stirred when she’d slipped out. Luci shoved her hands in her pockets and carried on walking. If she stayed out here long enough the sun would rise. She didn’t want to get back into bed and be alone with her thoughts again.

It had been thirty-three days since she’d left the Orkneys, throwing everything into a suitcase while Jeremy Fitzwilliam waited. They’d flown from Glasgow airport straight to the Indian embassy in London. Everything since then had been a bit of a blur.

Luci still didn’t understand why her dad had been in Kashmir. Sure, the Indian border wasn’t that far from Bhutan, relatively speaking, but wouldn’t her father have mentioned he was going to a different country? They kept in touch as much as they could when he was away: emails, Facebook, Skype. Even though his phone was going straight to voicemail Luci was still leaving messages. Hearing his voice made her somehow feel closer to him.

The embassy had told her what they knew. It wasn’t much. For some reason unknown to everyone, her dad had been in the region and had been kidnapped by Kashmiri rebels. Quite why, they weren’t sure, but the general opinion was that the rebels had thought Luci’s dad was a spy. Luci hadn’t believed it at first. He wasn’t a spy! He was her kind, loving, dashing father who made funny origami out of notepad paper and was obsessed with watching cricket. Viscount Peter Cadwallader was a university professor, a scholar, a country gent. About as far from a spy as you could get.

But as the days had gone by and there was still no word, Luci had started to feel less sure. Her dad had definitely been away a lot more over the last year. Research, he said, and Luci had taken his word for it. Why wouldn’t she? Now, she was starting to question things. Research for what?

Then that letter had turned up, asking her to attend a meeting at her own house. Weird. At the bottom, there was a note telling her to make up two of the spare rooms. Who else was coming? Stevenson, the butler, knew nothing about it, and neither did the family lawyer when she’d phoned him. The whole thing was like an Agatha Christie movie. The more Luci tried to work out it out, the more confused and frustrated she got.

By this time tomorrow, the houseguests would be here. All Luci could do was wait. Sighing, she brushed the head of a passing cow parsley. It was going to seem like the longest day ever.

Suddenly there was a noise in the undergrowth behind her. Like someone had stepped on a twig. Luci stopped and turned round.

‘Hello?’

The woods were dark and silent. From nowhere, Luci felt a prickle down her neck. Someone or something was watching.

‘Who’s there?’ There’d been a few poachers in the area recently. Luci didn’t fancy a run in: they might turn nasty about being caught out. It was a ten-minute walk to the house and too far for anyone to hear her shouts for help.

‘Hello?’ she said again, sounding a lot braver than she felt.

Nothing. Luci frowned. Maybe she’d imagined it. Or maybe it was an animal. Poor thing’s probably more frightened than you are, she told herself.

All the same, she had a sudden urge to get out of there. Luci turned round and started walking back, but an irrational fear gripped her and she started running, faster and faster until she was pelting up the front lawns, hair flying as if the hounds of hell were in hot pursuit. At last she reached the back door and came to a shuddering, gasping halt.

Her heart was hammering so hard it hurt, Luci looked back down to the woods. They were as quiet as the grave, no sign of life. With the safety of home reached, her panic seemed like a total over-reaction.

What’s the matter with you? Luci shook her head. She’d been spending far too much time by herself lately. A cup of cocoa in the kitchen was what she needed right now.

Halfway down the corridor, Luci went back and made sure the door was double-locked again.

Chapter Six

All that could be heard was the ticking of the grandfather clock. The three girls sat in silence, looking anywhere but at each other. Celine started jangling the silver bangles on her wrist, full of restless energy. This is fun. Someone had better tell her what was going on in a minute.

She’d arrived at Heathrow airport drunk as anything. They’d stopped via Madrid and she and Remy had made full use of the VIP lounge. She could hardly remember the last bit of the flight, except for the old people making a complaint about her and Remy, and the airhostess coming to have a discreet word. Over-reaction! It hadn’t been like they were having sex or anything.

She’d said goodbye to Remy with a passionate snog in a waiting area near Arrivals. A suited chauffeur and a grey Bentley had been waiting outside to whisk her off, through the dreary London outskirts towards the countryside. That’s when she’d started sobering up and the euphoria of the last fifteen hours had quickly disappeared. In a car with no idea where she was going, a bad taste in her mouth and a banging head, Celine’s trepidation had returned with a vengeance. The last fun-filled fifteen hours with Remy had felt like some kind of amazing dream.

Now, sitting in the drawing room of this random English mansion, Celine looked over at the other girls. The Indian girl - Jhumpa, Celine thought her name was - was still tapping away on her iPhone. She clearly thought she was above everyone else. Celine didn’t like her. And what was with the smart jeans and Chanel jacket? She looked like she was about to go into a business conference.

Miss Up-Herself looked up and sighed irritably. ‘Is there anywhere with better reception? I’m trying to send an important work email and it’s really slow.’

‘Near side of the lake’s the best,’ the other girl said, Luci, the English one whose house it was.

‘The lake?’ From Jhumpa’s disgusted expression, Luci may as well have said Timbuktu.

‘Yeah.’ Luci grinned. ‘Sorry, it’s about the best place out here.’ She looked so English, Celine thought, with her shiny brown hair and fitted checked shirt. Apparently she’d just got back from riding when Celine had turned up, and was still in her jodhpurs and riding boots.

There was a discreet knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ Luci called. An old guy in a black suit walked in with a tray and set it down.

‘Thank you, Stevenson.’

‘Will there be anything else?’

‘No, thank you,’ Luci told him.

Stephenson nodded and discreetly withdrew once more. ‘You have a butler?’ Celine exclaimed. ‘How frightfully English.’

Luci looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Stephenson’s been with the family for years.’ She leaned forward. ‘What can I get you Celine, tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee, please, no milk or sugar,’ Jhumpa cut in. Celine shot her a look: don’t mind me.

They endured another painful minute of silence as Luci poured out tea and coffee. Celine wondered when they were going to eat. She was starving.

‘So,’ Luci said. ‘I guess you guys got the letter as well, then?’

‘That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’ Jhumpa said. She looked across at the punky-haired Argentinean girl, who looked like that model Agyness Deyn. Celine. She’d obviously had a good time getting here - Jhumpa had smelt the stale alcohol on her breath when they’d been introduced to each other.

No one seemed to be saying anything, so Jhumpa took the lead. ‘So, has anyone else’s dad gone missing?’ It was said a lot more nonchalantly than she was feeling.

‘Yes, mine,’ Luci said quietly.

‘Both mine have. My parents, I mean.’ Already pale with a hangover, even more colour drained out of Celine’s face.

It quickly become evident all the girls’ parents had been kidnapped from the same place, the Kashmiri border. Despite the fact they’d told their daughters they were going somewhere else. Something very strange is going on here, thought Celine.

‘Did they know each other, do you think?’ Luci asked.

Jhumpa shrugged. ‘I don’t know who my dad was friends with in the archaeology world.’

‘But he was an archaeologist?’ said Luci, frowning.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Mine was… is… too.’ Luci looked at Celine, questioningly.

Celine nodded. ‘Yeah. Mine as well.’

‘All archaeologists. All going missing at the same time, from the same place,’ said Jhumpa. ‘They must have known each other.’

‘My dad would have mentioned your parents, I’m sure,’ Luci said, although she didn’t sound sure at all. ‘He tells me everything about his work…’ Seconds passed, feeling like years. No one had mentioned the S-word yet. ‘Do you think our parents are spies?’ Luci ventured.

‘No way,’ Celine said. ‘My parents live for their work, there’s no way they’d have time to be spies.’

‘Have they been going away a lot more lately?’ Luci asked.

‘Yes…but that doesn’t mean anything.’ Celine creased her forehead; her parents had seemed a bit preoccupied recently. She’d never thought anything of it until now. ‘This is stupid! Who would they be spies for?’

‘At least we don’t have to wait to find out much longer,’ Jhumpa said. ‘Whoever has called this mysterious meeting will tell us what’s going on.’ She looked suspiciously at Luci. ‘You really have no idea what’s going on? This is your house, after all.’

‘I swear, I know as much as you guys. Someone’s coming here tomorrow, to tell us how to save our parents. That’s all.’

‘That’s if we can still save them,’ Celine said bleakly.

Jhumpa looked at her sharply. ‘Don’t talk like that.’

‘Why not?’ Celine demanded. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it?’

Luci jumped in. ‘Guys, let’s not argue. I know it’s hard but I’m sure things will become clearer tomorrow. No news is good news, hey? As far as we know, they’re still alive and well. Let’s keep thinking like that.’

Jhumpa muttered something under her breath, but Luci didn’t rise to it. If the letter was right - cancel your plans for the rest of the summer - they were going to be spending a lot of time together. They may as well get to know each other.

‘What do you do back home, Celine?’

‘I’ve just finished school.’ She rolled eyes black with eyeliner. ‘I’m meant to be going to college in the States to study archaeology. Follow in the footsteps of my famous parents.’

‘That’s a coincidence,’ Luci exclaimed. ‘I just finished my first year doing archaeology at Oxford. How cool is that?’

‘Uber cool,’ Jhumpa said sarcastically. Great, more archaeologists!

‘How about you, Jhumpa?’ Luci asked.

She tossed her hair back. ‘I’m an actress.’

‘What have you been in?’ Celine asked. All that hair flicking was starting to get on her nerves.

‘Nothing huge yet, but my agent’s got me loads of auditions lined up. I model as well, I’ve just shot an advert for L’Oreal.’

Luci was impressed. ‘Like Cheryl Cole?’

Jhumpa bestowed her with a gracious smile. ‘Yes, but mine was better produced than Cheryl’s.’

‘I’ve never seen it,’ Celine said, determined to put Jhumpa in her place. God, she loved herself!

‘That’s because it’s L’Oreal India,’ Jhumpa said patronisingly.

‘Well, I live in Argentina and I haven’t got a clue what you’re going on about. And I know about fashion.’ Celine did recognise Jhumpa’s face, actually, but there was no way she was telling her that.

‘Do you really?’ Jhumpa enquired, looking at Celine’s tie-dye T-shirt dress and studded ankle boots. ‘I assumed your invite said to wear fancy dress.’

A major catfight was about to kick off. ‘How about I show you to your rooms?’ Luci said hastily.

Jhumpa unpacked the last of her clothes and hung them up. There was a mirror on the door of the wardrobe and she had a quick sneak at her reflection. Every other mirror in this place seemed to be black with age; Luci’s family were seriously into their antiques. Jhumpa was pulling a well-practised pout, when something stopped her dead. Was that a white hair she was seeing?

This would never do, she was an L’Oreal model! Rushing over to her vanity case, Jhumpa got her tweezers out and swiftly removed the offending item. Please God; don’t let me start going grey. She’d have to start dying her hair in secret.

Hair drama over, Jhumpa wandered over to the four-poster bed. It creaked alarmingly as she sat down and for a second Jhumpa thought it was going to collapse. The chaise longue and long velvet curtains were a bit tired-looking. Cadwallader Hall had a kind of faded grandeur, like it was stuck in a time capsule from a hundred years ago. No doubt what English people referred to as having lots of “charm”.

The bed was making strange noises underneath her, so Jhumpa got up and walked over to the window. She had to admit the grounds were spectacular. Miles of lush green fields as far as the eye could see. Very different from the view of her apartment in Mumbai.

A clock chimed somewhere in the house. One hour until dinner with her new friends. That was a joke. Luci seemed all right but Jhumpa knew for a fact that Celine didn’t like her. Jhumpa didn’t care: girls were always bitchy about her. That’s what you get when you are a strong, independent woman. People felt intimidated. There wasn’t anything Jhumpa could do about it.

People may think she was a cold bitch, but that was just the way Jhumpa dealt with things. Her dad had had no idea how to relate to a little girl and Jhumpa had bought herself up, really. Early on, she’d learned to compartmentalise. There had been so many things to worry about, things she didn’t know and was scared of, that it had all become overwhelming. The only way she’d coped was to put all the problems in different boxes, tucked away in her brain. That way she didn’t think about them any more.

It was the same with her father. Jhumpa knew she should feel scared and upset, but it was like the whole thing was happening to someone else. The few occasions she’d wanted to cry, Jhumpa had dug her precious nails into her palm until she’d drawn blood. Crying was not going to help her father. She hadn’t cried since she was nine years old. She had to think practically, and find her dad.

Anything Jhumpa put her mind to, she achieved. Her father’s rescue would be no different.

They ate in the formal dining room, round a long, polished mahogany table that sat thirty. Dinner was delicious, pâté to start, Cook’s world-famous shepherd’s pie and a dense chocolate mousse to finish. Each girl wolfed her food down, suddenly ravenous. Stephenson hovered unintrusively in the background on hand to refill their cut-crystal wine glasses when they ran dry. They weren’t massive measures, Celine noticed. The butler was probably under orders to make sure they behaved themselves.

While Celine was wearing harems and a designer T-shirt, Jhumpa had come looking down like she was going to the Oscars. Hair freshly blow-dried and make up immaculate, she was wearing a long, low-cut red dress that draped seductively over her curves. Celine thought it was a bit OTT but she had to admit it went well with the Indian gold piled on at Jhumpa’s wrists and ears. She’d maybe punk it up a bit, if it was her: wear those earrings with a denim jacket instead. Think outside the box a bit, darling. Jhumpa was far too conservative.

Maybe it was the wine, or the fact that they had food in their bellies, but this time the girls were more relaxed with each other. As Stephenson cleared away the cheese plates and retired for the evening, Celine’s eyes fell on the drinks cabinet. The wine had been really nice at dinner but she fancied something stronger.

‘Can I have a look?’

Luci was curled up barefoot in the chair at the head of the table. ‘Help yourself. Be warned though, my dad has really random things in there.’

‘Like Peruvian brandy?’ Celine took the top off and sniffed. ‘Woah!’

Luci laughed at the expression on her face. ‘You want one?’

‘Why not? A few shots always get the party going.’

‘Not for me.’ Jhumpa said snootily. ‘I only drink good wine.’

‘Come on, live a little.’ Celine poured them all a measure out and bought it back to the table.

‘We need a toast.’ She pushed the glass towards Jhumpa. ‘C’mon. To finding our parents.’

Luci picked her glass up, ‘To our parents.’

They both looked at Jhumpa. ‘All right,’ she sighed. ‘If it makes you happy. But just the one.’

‘Famous last words,’ Celine said. She held her glass aloft and the others followed.

‘To finding our parents!’

They started to work their way through the spirits; Spanish liqueur, a French whiskey, German schnapps. By the time they were on this lemon-tasting thing from Turkey even Jhumpa had loosened up and was giggling at a funny story Luci had just told them. The thought of what lay ahead was ever near but all of three were determined to enjoy themselves. Like warriors on the eve of battle, Luci thought, looking round the table. Their last night of freedom.

Pretty soon the subject of guys came up. ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ Celine asked her.

‘I did have. Adam. We met at Uni.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was nice.’ Luci grinned; ‘A bit too nice. How about you, Celine?’

‘Nothing serious.’ Her eyes flashed mischievously. ‘Although I did meet a guy on the plane over. Remy. He was a fashion buyer for Selfridges.’

‘Wow,’ Luci said. ‘Are you going to see him again?’

Celine shrugged. ‘He lives over here, so it would be pretty difficult. I got the feeling he was a bit of a player, anyway.’ She grinned again. ‘He was a seriously good kisser. Things got pretty full on.’

Luci laughed. ‘You could have joined the mile-high club.’

Celine gave a wink. ‘How do you know I haven’t already?’

‘Listen to you pair of old fishwives,’ Jhumpa said. ‘Gossiping about your wares for anyone to hear!’

The other two exchanged amused glances. ‘How about you, Jhumpa?’ Celine said. ‘Got any hot man-action going on at the moment?’

‘As if I’d tell you,’ came the tart reply.

Celine refilled their glasses. ‘Chill out, it’s not like we’re not going to tell anyone.’

‘It doesn’t mean we have to talk like whores.’

‘God, Jhumpa!’ Celine exclaimed. ‘It’s just girls talk.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Very prim and proper, aren’t you?’

‘Not at all.’ Jhumpa folded her napkin and put it on the table. ‘I just don’t feel the need to share every detail of my love life with everyone.’

‘Are you seeing someone then?’ Luci asked.

‘I might be.’

Celine rolled her eyes. ‘Cut the mystery, when did you last have sex?’

Jhumpa looked between the pair of them. ‘Last night, actually.’

They hadn’t expected that. ‘With who?!’ Luci said. ‘You only flew in yesterday.’

Jhumpa took a tiny sip of her shot. ‘Like I say, it’s my business.’

Celine started laughing. ‘You had a one-night stand. Jhumpa, you tramp!’

‘I am no such thing!’ she said indignantly. ‘I liked him; he liked me. We took precautions. I knew exactly what I was doing.’

‘Are you going to see him again?’ Luci asked.

Jhumpa did the hair toss thing again. ‘Maybe. He’s texted me but I haven’t replied yet.’

‘Playing hard to get, are we?’ Celine told her. Her speech was starting to slur. ‘Has anyone got any drugs?’

‘Celine!’ Jhumpa was shocked. ‘You don’t use them do you?’

‘I’m not talking about heroin! I mean something to smoke - just a joint. Luci?’

‘Sorry, no. The nearest thing to getting trashed is over there, in daddy’s drinks cupboard.’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Celine said getting up. She swayed across the room, bumping into Jhumpa’s chair on the way. ‘Right, bitches, what can I get you?’

Chapter Seven

Celine was having another weird dream. This time her parents were marching across the front lawn at St Winifred’s, playing in a steel band. The instruments clashed and clanged like a giant nightmare alarm clock. ‘Shut up already,’ she moaned. As she started to come to, the noise didn’t stop. Celine opened one eye. The noise was coming from right underneath her.

Boing boing boing.

WTF? Celine sat up in the lumpy bed, last night’s eye make-up halfway down her face. Her head felt like someone had jumped on it. What had she drunk last night? Downstairs, it sounded like Big Ben was going off. Celine fell out of bed on to the clothes she’d left in a pile last night. Pulling them back on, Celine went to investigate.

She met a bleary-eyed Jhumpa and Luci in the corridor, both still in their night clothes. ‘What’s that noise?’ Celine asked, covering her ears with her hands. She felt bad enough as it was.

‘It’s Stephenson, ringing the gong,’ Luci said. ‘It means we’ve got a visitor.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Shit, it’s eleven o’clock!’

‘You slept in your clothes last night?’ Jhumpa wrinkled her pretty nose at Celine. The Indian girl was wearing a cream silk dressing gown and nightdress, like she was lady of the manor or something.

‘No, dear, I just put them back on,’ Celine said. ‘OMG, my head! Does anyone have any painkillers?’ She needed to go back to bed.

‘OK,’ Luci said. ‘Let’s get dressed and meet back here.’

They reassembled fifteen minutes later, Celine still feeling like utter death. Jhumpa, meanwhile, looked like she’d just stepped off a photo shoot; hair a shiny mane and pristine white pumps and pedal pushers. A cashmere jumper knotted over her shoulders completed the look. ‘What is she, a Fembot?’ Celine grumbled to no one in particular. She was in a bad mood; she couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to pack her leather trilby! It was totally what she needed to hide under right now.

Stephenson was in the entrance hall waiting for them. ‘Your ladyship.’

‘Morning,’ Luci said, blushing slightly. She’d had a bleary flashback of stumbling into the suit of armour in the entrance hall on the way to bed last night. The crash had been enough to wake the dead. The last thing Luci wanted was Stephenson thinking she was getting pissed and didn’t care about her dad. I shouldn’t have let Celine talk me into that last shot.

The butler’s face was as impassive as ever. ‘There’s a gentleman waiting to see you in your father’s study.’

‘News about Daddy?’ Luci said, in a fleeting moment of hope.

‘I’m afraid not, your Ladyship.’ The butler paused. ‘Please, follow me.’

Each girl’s mind was whirring with possibilities as they followed him down the corridor. Who could it be? If the authorities didn’t know what had happened to their parents, who else would? All three could sense the sudden change. Danger was in the air.

Despite it being a sunny day the curtains were drawn and it took several moments to adjust. Jhumpa saw him first; a distinguished old man was sitting in the armchair by the window. Taking the pipe out of his mouth, he looked over his walrus moustache at them.

‘Good morning, ladies.’

Celine and Jhumpa were completely confused, but Luci gave a loud gasp. ‘Professor Adams! What are you doing here?’

‘I apologise for all the skulduggery,’ Professor Adams said to them later.

‘I’m sure you have your reasons,’ Luci said. She’d just been explaining how they knew each other to the other two. A brilliant archaeologist, Professor Adams had been her father’s mentor at York University. Retired for years, Professor’s Adams reputation still preceded him. He’d been a frequent visitor to Cadwallader Hall over the years.

‘All very cosy,’ Jhumpa said impatiently, ‘but I don’t understand what it’s got to do with us.’

Professor Adams surveyed her keenly. Even with the white hair and wrinkled skin, his eyes were sharp and clear. ‘What I am about to tell you must stay between these four walls. It is a matter of utmost importance; a matter that will have dreadful repercussions if certain people aren’t stopped.’

The girls all looked at each other. This sounded really serious. ‘We’re listening,’ Jhumpa said. She didn’t sound so snappy now.

The old professor sat back and steepled his fingers. ‘Your parents all belong to an ancient secret society called The Reclaimers. It was started over a thousand years ago by Christian pilgrims, wanting to return religious artefacts lost through war to their rightful place in the Church. It was a hard, often bloody task. Only the brave survived and many lives were lost over the years.’ He looked at each girl significantly. ‘Only the brave and dedicated can ever hope to become a Reclaimer. It is a lifelong responsibility, full of peril and danger, that no one in the outside world will ever know about.’

‘Over the centuries the remit has widened to other priceless things,’ Professor Adams continued. ‘Objects that tell the story of civilisation: a painting, the scribbled words of prophets, even a little wooden goblet that is widely thought to be the Cup of Christ. There are a lot of people out there in the world who want to use these things for their own ill gains. The Reclaimers try to stop them. To return these objects to where they belong.’

Celine was spellbound. ‘So our parents are these Reclaimers?’ She couldn’t believe it; her mum and dad were the ones who moaned at her about doing her schoolwork and not eating enough fresh fruit. The people Professor Adams were talking about sounded like heroes.

The professor nodded. ‘Your parents were involved in a search for something called The Eye of the Tiger. It is a legendary diamond which was brought to the country of Bhutan by a man called Guru Rinpoche, an eighth century guru hailed as the ‘Second Buddha’. He was a very important man, instrumental in spreading Buddhism throughout the Eastern world.

‘Legend has it Guru Rinpoche left several holy treasures in Bhutan and Tibet, called termas, including the famous Tibetan Book of The Dead. When he came to Bhutan, legend has it he rode on a flying tiger.’

‘Airports on strike, were they?’ Celine quipped. Professor Adams didn’t laugh.

‘When Guru Rinpoche climbed down from the flying tiger, the beast reportedly vanished, leaving behind only one diamond eye. Hence the name, the Eye of the Tiger. He left the diamond there - the place now known as Tiger’s Nest Monastery; a tiny, windswept ledge clinging to a mountainside in the Himalayas. The story goes that if the Eye were ever to leave Bhutan, the country would collapse.’

Jhumpa’s analytical brain was struggling to take it all in. ‘Professor Adams, I don’t mean to be rude but isn’t this a just a fairytale?’

‘That’s what many people think,’ Professor Adams said gravely. ‘But I’m certain the Eye does exist; I have seen the evidence.’

Celine shot a look at Jhumpa - why was she so down on everything? ‘Anyway, Professor…Do go on.’

‘Where was I? Ah, yes. The Eye became the centrepiece of the monastery, a shrine at which people would come and worship. As the years passed, however, instability and fighting started to rock the peaceful Himalayas and the Abbot of the monastery became fearful. Too many people had come to know about the Eye’s existence. If any harm came to it, or it fell into the wrong hands, the very future of Bhutan was in danger.’ He paused. ‘The future of Buddhism, actually. I cannot stress enough the religious significance.

‘The Abbot took the Eye away and hid it, so no one could steal it. Somewhere only the right person would find it. Many years passed and eventually peace was restored to Bhutan. Now it is a free and independent country and the monks of Tiger’s Nest are desperate for the Eye to be restored to the monastery. It’s the very cornerstone of their country and faith.’

‘Where is the Eye now?’ Luci asked.

‘Nobody knows. Most people outside Bhutan think, like you, Jhumpa, that it is just a fairytale.’ Professor Adams’ eyes gleamed. ‘Like myself, however, your parents believed the Eye was real. They spent years trying to locate its whereabouts and were convinced they were close to discovering it. This last trip was going to lead them to it, until they were double-crossed and sent on a wild goose-chase to Kashmir. It was very convenient that there happened to be a band of rebels waiting for them. I am convinced someone paid them off.’

‘To hold our parents hostage?’ Luci was shocked.

‘I’m afraid so, my dear. Your father and the others were becoming far too much of a nuisance to those who want the Eye for their own purposes.’

‘And who are they?’ Jhumpa asked.

The Professor’s lip curled. ‘Mercenaries, who will stop at nothing to get what they want. The Eye is believed to be the world’s largest diamond; it would sell for unimaginable amounts, could even wield unimaginable power, if you believe in that sort of thing. As for me, I believe your parents are being kept alive in case they have any information on the Eye’s whereabouts.’

Luci felt sick. She couldn’t bear to think of her father being mistreated. A horrible vision flashed into her mind. Her father, chained to the wall of a cave, starved and thirsty.

‘We have to find them,’ she said. ‘Professor Adams, tell me what I need to do.’

He nodded approvingly. ‘You’re a spirited girl, Luci. I can see why your father has so much faith in you.’ Reaching down into the leather briefcase by his side, he pulled out a wad of papers.

‘I received this just after your parents went missing. It contains the details of a private bank account for you to use for expenses, along with a letter written by Luci’s father in the event that anything should happen. He asks that you girls carry on the work they’d been doing and find the Eye before the others do.’ He passed the letter round. ‘It’s been signed by all your parents.’

They all read it in silence. ‘Why us?’ Celine asked. ‘This sounds really dangerous, I can’t believe my parents would do this to me.’

‘You’re the only people they truly trust,’ Professor Adams said simply. A small smile crossed his lips. ‘And from what I hear, you make quite a triumvirate - a linguist, a mathematician and an archaeologist? Yes, I think you’ll be very well equipped for the journey ahead.’

‘What if we don’t want to look for it?’ Jhumpa said. Why would she want to risk her life to find some diamond for a country she’d never been to? Probably never would either, unless they thought about opening a Chanel there. Bhutan could just collapse for all she cared.

‘It is your parents’ express wish,’ Professor Adams said gravely. ‘I pray they will be found in time, but in the meantime they have asked you to carry on the quest. Who knows? You may find a clue to their whereabouts along the way.’ His eyes gleamed behind the spectacles. ‘It is imperative the Eye is returned to its rightful place.’

‘Was there anything else in the letter, Professor? How do we know where to start looking?’

‘There is a name,’ the professor said. ‘A Doctor Bate. He works in Marrakech at the university.’

Celine had an image of a fusty bearded guy as old as one of his fossils. ‘So this Doctor Bate will tell us where my dad is?’

Professor Adams held his hands out. ‘That’s all I know I’m afraid.’

‘This is crazy,’ Jhumpa said. ‘We’re expected to go chasing off all over the place with just a name in Marrakech to go on?’

‘What else have we got, Jhumpa?’ Luci said. ‘At least it’s a start.’

Celine gave a small nod. ‘Luci’s right. And I know I’d rather be out doing something than going mad sitting here.’

Anticipation crackled though the air. The professor was watching them closely.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Jhumpa said crossly. ‘I suppose I’m in then.’

Luci and Celine grinned nervously at each. Game on.

As Luci showed Professor Adams out, he stopped at the front door. ‘Good luck, Luci. You know, if I was twenty years younger, I would have loved to come along.’

Was that a wistful gleam in his eye?

‘Professor, were you one of the Reclaimers?’ she asked.

The old man slowly peeled back his shirtsleeve. On the underside of his wrist was a small black symbol.

‘My dad’s got that on his shoulder!’ Luci said. ‘He always told me it was something stupid he got done when he was younger.’

‘So he would have.’ Professor Adams smiled. ‘The mark of the Reclaimers is a great privilege, Luci, but one to be guarded.’

‘I’ll honour that privilege, I promise.’

Professor Adams suddenly looked deadly serious. ‘You’re entering a viper’s nest, Luci. Be careful who you trust.’

‘I will,’ she said.

He shook her hand. ‘Until next time.’

‘Next time,’ Luci called after him. She stood and watched as the little car disappeared down the driveway in a cloud of dust.

Chapter Eight

Marrakech, Morocco

It was just a wooden door, down a quiet street off the medina. But once the girls had stepped through into the Riad Aziz, they’d found themselves in a scene out of Arabian Nights. With a huge, domed roof and arched doorways, the centrepiece of the house was a mosaic-tiled courtyard with a pool in the middle. Rose petals floated lazily on the surface, scenting the air. Gold lanterns lit the way along the richly painted corridors. On the floor above, a marble balcony stretched the whole way round the courtyard.

The private suites were no less luxurious, with sunken baths and fireplaces, hand-stitched camel leather on the floors. The girls had landed late and gone straight to their antique wooden beds. Next morning they met on Jhumpa’s private terrace for breakfast. The plan was to have a day to acclimatise, and then go to find this Doctor Bate. Celine and Luci wanted to go and explore in the meantime, but Jhumpa had other ideas.

‘I’m booked into the spa for a massage, manicure and pedicure.’ She sat there regally in her silk dressing gown, sipping from a glass of mint tea.

‘Don’t you want to come with us?’ Luci said. Marrakech looked amazing. She’d been online first thing, checking out what to go and see.

Jhumpa sniffed her pretty little nose. ‘It looks like Mumbai, only smaller.’

‘What is that girl like?’ Celine asked, as they walked out after breakfast. ‘I can’t believe how much she loves herself.’

Luci smiled. ‘Let her be, she’s probably tired.’ Even after twenty-four hours, she could see how high maintenance Jhumpa was. She was also clearly super intelligent, so maybe Professor Adams was right about their talents coming in handy.

‘Whatever, she’s really getting on my nerves.’ They walked out into a wall of heat and Celine shoved on her fluorescent blue Ray-Bans. ‘Let’s go shopping.’

Both girls quickly fell in love with the ancient city. A bustling labyrinth of street markets, it was a riot of colour, noise and delicious cooking smells. Tiny crevices no more than three feet wide were occupied by old men, selling the traditional leather Moroccan slippers. One cave-like shop seemed to stock only old bicycle tyres. There was jewellery, rugs, spice stalls: each owner calling out to them to come and buy their wares.

Celine was doing most of the haggling and the tall, striking blonde girl who spoke fluent Arabic quickly attracted lots of attention. Luci had wandered off to look at a robed man claiming to be selling love potions and came back to find Celine surrounded by a crowd of people having a good-natured argument with a shop owner about the price of his textiles. She eventually came out looking smug with the bargain tucked under her arm.

‘There is some seriously amazing stuff here!’

Next up was a tagine stall, where Luci managed to persuade Celine that the massive clay pot she wanted probably wouldn’t fit in her suitcase. There was a shop next door selling metallic poufs. Celine wouldn’t be put off here, especially when the beaming owner said he could send as many back to Buenos Aires as she liked. Luci gave up and went outside to wait.

Twenty minutes passed before Celine finally came out. Luci looked up from stroking a stray cat that had wandered up. There were hundreds of the skinny creatures all over the city. ‘Has your thirst for shopping been quenched?’

‘For the time being. Talking of thirsts, can we go and get a beer?’

‘How about a mint tea?’ Luci said and frogmarched her over to this really cool underground café she’d seen all the locals go into. The place went quiet as they walked in. Luci wasn’t surprised; even in a place like Marrakech, Celine’s puffball skirt and striped braces were a little out of the ordinary.

The cool stone interior was heaven after the oven-like temperatures outside. After ordering mint tea in Arabic and some baklava, Celine pushed up her sunglasses and sighed happily. ‘So totally in my element. I could stay here forever.’

‘We haven’t got that luxury, unfortunately.’ Their mission was never far away from Luci’s thoughts. ‘Do you want to go check out some of the sights afterwards?’

‘You go, I’ll probably stay round here.’ Celine’s eyes gleamed. ‘There’s this silver necklace back there I have to get my hands on.’

After filling up on tea and the honeyed sweet pastry, they paid and went their separate ways outside. Luci politely refused the man selling hot snails on a street corner and decided to head back into the alleyways. She had the hotel guidebook with her, but it didn’t stop a very persistent young boy trying to show her the way. In the end she gave him a few coins because he made her laugh with a spot-on impression of Andy from Little Britain.

For the next few hours, Marrakech stole her. Luci went down into the 16th century tombs and walked up high on the medina walls. The El Bahlia royal palace was amazing, as was the Museum of Islamic Art. Streets seemed to appear from nowhere or disappear, and twice she ended up back at the place she’d started out in. Luci went with the flow, taking endless pictures. It was all part of the fun of exploring.

Last on the list was the famous Jemaa El Fna, the biggest open-air square in the world. When Luci walked out on to it, she wasn’t disappointed. It was massive, stretching away the length and breadth of at least three football pitches. Over on the far horizon she could see the towering peaks of the Atlas Mountains.

In the middle of the square was the food market - hundreds of identikit makeshift restaurants. Enticing smells wafted across and Luci realised she was starving. Giving the snake charmer coaxing a sleepy cobra out of its box a wide berth, she went to fill her stomach.

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