The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown (15 page)

‘Framed! What are you talking about?' spluttered Rao. ‘We found the crown in Garewal's house. How do you think it got there? By accident?' Rao jabbed at Chopra's chest. ‘You are not always right. This time I am the clever one. It has been Garewal right from the beginning. Why do you think we arrested him? Immediately after the theft we received an anonymous tip-off. We were told to check Garewal's bank account. Do you know what we found? A transfer of one million rupees made just one hour after the theft from an offshore hawala account. Garewal's payoff for setting up the operation. And now the crown turns up in his home! There is no doubt. Garewal is guilty. He has made a fool of you. There will be a promotion in this for me.'

‘Rao, you do not even deserve the stars you are wearing now.' Chopra's mind was racing. Here was another piece of the puzzle.

Rao's claim that a large sum of money had appeared in Garewal's account explained why they had arrested him so quickly. Again he felt crocodiles of doubt swimming against the tide of his own belief that Garewal was innocent.

Meanwhile, an incensed Rao continued, ‘We will see just how smart you are when I get the diamond back too, Chopr—' The ACP stopped as his ears caught up with his mouth.

Chopra's eyes narrowed. ‘That's it! I knew there was something you were not telling us. They've taken the Koh-i-Noor, haven't they? They dug it out of the crown and then they planted the crown in Garewal's home. They had what they wanted all along. They didn't need the crown. By planting it on Garewal they deflected suspicion on to him
and
got rid of the incriminating evidence.' Chopra snapped his fingers as another thought fell into place. ‘And that's why you didn't mention the crown in your press conference until you were forced into it. If you had recovered the crown
and
the Koh-i-Noor you would have been crowing about it from the rooftops. But now you will have to tell the truth. And you will be forced to admit that Garewal is innocent.'

‘You are delusional, Chopra,' growled Rao, shaking his head. ‘Garewal himself must have removed the Koh-i-Noor. He has passed it on to his fellow conspirators. We don't know who they are yet, but we will soon. Garewal will crack. I will
make
Garewal crack, that I promise you.'

‘These so-called conspirators are the same ones who gave you the anonymous tip-off,' said Chopra. ‘They knew you would go chasing off after your own tail.'

‘Are you saying they transferred one million rupees into Garewal's account just to frame him?' Rao's voice was incredulous.

‘What is such a sum when set against the Koh-i-Noor diamond?' Chopra was almost shouting, but he didn't care.

‘Nonsense! This time it is you who are the fool. Garewal and his gang pulled this off together. The plan was for Garewal to keep the crown at his house, remove the Koh-i-Noor and send it on, perhaps even get it out of the country and into the hands of a buyer. Maybe the crown was part of Garewal's payoff. Or perhaps Garewal tried to cheat his associates. Garewal slipped up, Chopra. It is as simple as that.'

‘What about the tip-off? Doesn't it seem suspicious to you at all?'

Rao shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe someone had an attack of conscience. Maybe Garewal's greed turned them against him. Either way, it doesn't matter. I have Garewal right where I want him. It is just a matter of time. We will find the rest of the culprits and we will recover the Koh-i-Noor. The Prime Minister himself will pin a medal to my chest. And Garewal will spend the rest of his life breaking rocks in the deepest darkest hole we can find for him.'

Chopra slammed his hand on the horn. Around him a crescendo of furious trumpeting arose like the devil's own orchestra. He had once read that in some foreign countries injudicious use of the horn was prohibited by law. He wondered how Mumbai would fare if such a law was enacted in the city.

All around him, the traffic was gridlocked.

Chopra sat in his Tata Venture on Swami Vivekanand Road in Bandra West just yards from the Turner Road junction, seething with anger at Rao's pig-headedness. It seemed clear to him that there was at least the possibility of a grand conspiracy behind the theft of the Koh-i-Noor. That a very sophisticated team of criminals had carried out the heist and had then planned their escape just as carefully, including the framing of Shekhar Garewal. The transferred funds, planting the crown in Garewal's home – these acts all spoke of an outfit that was slick, professional and well financed. To Chopra this meant backing – the sort of backing that had access to specialist skills and almost limitless resources.

In other words: organised crime.

He was convinced more than ever that Bulbul Kanodia – backed by the Chauhan gang – was behind the robbery.

With this realisation his next course of action, over which he had been fretting, became clear. It was time for him to confront Kanodia, to rattle Bulbul's cage and see what he could learn.

Having made this decision Chopra had driven directly from his unpleasant meeting with ACP Rao to the headquarters of Kanodia's jewellery chain, the flagship Paramathma store in Bandra.

It was time to beard the former fence in his lair.

If he could actually get there.

Before Chopra was a scene of chaos, caused by a morcha – a protest march – led by a voluble group of eunuchs and social workers. The marchers, an invading army against which the authorities were powerless, had taken over the junction. The situation had been compounded by an overturned bullock-cart, which had spilled dozens of musk melons across the junction's cratered tarmac, drawing in an opportunistic crowd of beggars and lepers.

The eunuchs were campaigning for equality.

A recent supreme court settlement had finally confirmed that the country's vast eunuch population should be classified as a third gender. This had been an important first step to improving their plight. Now the eunuchs were fighting to have legislation passed that guaranteed them equality in all areas of life, particularly in employment.

Chopra wholly supported the movement. He had long ago decided that the eunuchs – many of whom had been taken at a young age and mutilated against their will – had the worst lot in a society where caste prejudice and poverty meant a life of misery for millions on the lowest rungs of the ladder. Sadly, it would take more than legislation to change millennia of prejudice. As he had learned over the years, the hearts of his fellow countrymen were not ruled by laws written by clerks locked away in distant air-conditioned offices, but by older laws, of superstition, mistrust and unthinking hatred.

He suddenly realised that he knew the eunuch boisterously demonstrating at the head of the parade. It was Anarkali, one of his many local street informants in Sahar, a strapping six-foot-tall specimen in a bright yellow sari and permanent stubble. Anarkali was waving a placard around and exhorting her fellow third genderites to make themselves heard above the din of horns. On the placard were the words: ONE DAY THE PRIME MINISTER WILL BE A EUNUCH.

A number of news crews had arrived to cover the action.

A blue police truck was parked at the edge of the melee, a line of policemen from the nearby Bandra station leaning against it, eating roast peanuts and watching the show. Chopra knew that they would not intervene unless things got ugly. No one wanted to risk being cursed by a eunuch. You never knew what they might wish upon you. A eunuch's curse was said to persist for generations.

Chopra had had enough. He removed the keys from the ignition, checked that the handbrake was on and got out of the van.

It took him five minutes to locate the Paramathma store. The jewellery emporium was sandwiched between an Italian furniture boutique and an interior design consultancy specialising in the ancient Chinese practice of feng shui, which had recently taken Mumbai by storm. To Chopra's supreme irritation Poppy had rearranged the furniture of their flat on three separate occasions in the past months as first one then another feng shui guru gained prominence.

As he approached, a liveried doorman in a golden turban bowed at the waist and swung open the gilded doors.

Chopra had never been inside a store like this. He had never worn jewellery himself and Poppy had always been content with the jewellery she had inherited from her mother and in which she had been married. Of course, if they had had a daughter he would eventually have found himself in such a place, haggling himself into an early grave as a prelude to her wedding.

The interior of the emporium was a shrine to all that glittered and was gold.

The floors and walls were coated in dazzling white Italian marble. Ornate chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. A koi-filled fountain was situated in the centre of the vast space, surrounded by a dozen gold-plated Buddhas dribbling water from their navels. Blow-up posters of demure models in saris wearing exquisite jewellery and expressions of wistful contentment were strategically placed around the room. Armed security guards lurked behind hand-tooled pillars in the form of bejewelled caryatids.

A number of display counters were dotted around, each with an attendant clutch of sales clerks and boisterous clientele.

Behind a particularly extravagant counter Chopra espied an older-looking gentleman in a dapper suit writing on a vellum notepad. The gentleman straightened as he approached, a smile of instant welcome affixing itself to his parched features. Chopra guessed him to be in his sixties, but his hair and moustache had been dyed jet black.

He took out his identity card. ‘I am looking for Bulbul Kanodia.'

The man's forehead creased into a series of horizontal lines. ‘I am sorry?'

Chopra realised his mistake. ‘I mean Mr Balram Kanodia. The proprietor of this establishment.'

‘Ah. Mr Kanodia Sir. I am afraid he is not here today. Perhaps I may be of assistance instead?'

‘Yes. You can be of assistance by telling me where he is.'

‘But what is this in connection with, sir?'

‘It is a police matter.'

‘Police?' The man paled as if Chopra had said a dirty word. ‘Please lower your voice, sir. There are respectable people in the store.'

Chopra leaned forward. ‘Where is Kanodia?'

The man pursed his lips. ‘I am afraid that I am not at liberty to say.'

‘I see. In that case I wonder if you have been watching the news?'

The man seemed perplexed by the unexpected change of direction. ‘The news?'

‘Yes. For instance, did you know that the eunuchs are marching just five minutes down the road?'

‘Why, of course. They have been making a racket for hours. Between you and me, they are a nuisance. Quite unnatural creatures.' The man shuddered. ‘If it were up to me I would round them all up and put them outside the city. Let them live in some colony far away from us normal people.'

Chopra smiled savagely. ‘Is that so?'

The man rapped his knuckles on the glass of the display counter. ‘Absolutely.'

‘Well then, how would it be if those eunuchs decided to pay your store a visit? How would it be if they decided to camp outside your door for the next seven days?'

‘What? My God, why would they do that?'

‘Because the leader of the protest is a friend of mine.' Chopra glared at the man. ‘How do you think your sales figures will fare then?'

The man swallowed. His hand rose involuntarily to pull at his collar, which had suddenly become very tight. ‘What is it you wish to know?'

‘Where can I find Kanodia?'

‘He is at the circus.'

‘What?' Chopra gaped. ‘Did you say circus?'

‘Yes. The Grand Trunk Circus. They are currently camped on Cross Maidan. Mr Kanodia wishes to contract their services.'

‘Whatever for?'

‘It is his daughter's sixteenth birthday tomorrow. He is hosting a lavish party at his residence on the Bandstand. He wishes to surprise her. She is very fond of the circus, it seems.'

Chopra was silent, his mind whirling with sudden possibilities.

He had come here because he believed that confronting Kanodia was now the only avenue left to him if he wished to pursue his investigation. And yet, at the same time, a nagging doubt persisted. There remained the possibility, no matter how small, that he was wrong, that Kanodia was innocent of any involvement in the theft. After all, what did he
really
have to go on? Kanodia's presence inside the Tata Gallery at the time of the robbery? A guilty expression? Chopra's own presumption that the former fence was connected to organised crime?

The plain fact was that all he really had was conjecture.

He wondered if Rao had interviewed Kanodia yet. He suspected that he had not. Rao was focused on breaking Garewal. Perhaps Kanodia did not figure in his investigation at all.

What was it someone had once said? The difference between truth and fiction is that fiction has to make sense…

What if Kanodia had absolutely nothing to do with the theft? What if Garewal
was
guilty? In that case, all that remained was to find Garewal's accomplices. They in turn would lead the authorities to the Koh-i-Noor diamond.

Or what if both he and Rao were wrong, and it was neither Garewal nor Kanodia, but someone else entirely?

After all, hadn't any number of nationalist organisations complained about the Koh-i-Noor being paraded under India's nose by the British? Hadn't scores of warnings poured in from fringe radicals threatening to steal the diamond?

One thing Chopra knew well about his country was that it was large enough to house all manner of lunatics. And a lunatic with a cause was the most dangerous kind of all.