The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown (17 page)

‘Rangwalla, let's get something straight. We are now partners. I am your boss but I am also your friend. Perhaps I should have said this years ago. Well, better late than never. Now sit down and share a meal with me. And besides, I cannot hear myself think over the rumbling of your belly.'

As the two men ate, Rangwalla described his day.

While Chopra visited the circus the former sub-inspector had been travelling to all corners of the city tracking down the employees of the Prince of Wales Museum from the list that his new-old boss had given him.

Rangwalla removed a sheaf of papers from his postal bag and smoothed them out on the table, instantly smearing them with curry.

Chopra gave his new associate detective a black look and then took the papers.

There were eleven people on the list. Of the eleven, one, a junior curator, had died early into his tenure at the museum, a victim of the so-called Malabar Hill leopard attacks.

The leopard had terrorised the affluent Malabar Hill area for weeks. Another refugee from the city's relentless growth, the big cat appeared to have decided that enough was enough. Its unprecedented boldness had made headlines. It had even been caught on CCTV entering the lobby of an apartment building to attack the security guard as he dozed behind his counter.

The leopard had not actually killed the young curator. It had merely chased him out of a parked taxi and into oncoming traffic. The terrified fellow had been run over by a truck.

A second employee had quit her post a month after joining, and left the state following her marriage. Rangwalla had tracked her down and phoned her in far-off Kanyakumari. He was satisfied that she had nothing to do with the robbery.

Of the remaining nine, eight still worked at the museum.

Rangwalla, employing the arcane skills for ferreting out information that Chopra had come to rely on over the long years of their association, had obtained photocopies of personal documents for each of these individuals, as well as statements from colleagues, neighbours and family members.

Chopra quickly scanned the dossiers and realised that, superficially, at least, each of these individuals was a law-abiding citizen with no conceivable connection to the crime or to anyone capable of committing such a crime.

That left one.

Rangwalla tapped the sheet. ‘This is your man.'

The sheet of paper showed a headshot of a dark-skinned man with a flat cap of oiled hair, a thin moustache and a pugnacious expression. The document, a copy of a driving licence issued by the state of Maharashtra, named the individual as one Prakash Yadav.

‘What makes you so sure?'

‘Because that driving licence is a fake. A very good one. The same goes for all the other documents he submitted when he applied for the position of security guard at the museum six months ago. Those documents were vetted by the security agencies and came up clean. That is how good they are. Do you remember Ragu the forger? I showed the documents to him. He said they were the best fakes he has ever seen.

‘A day before the heist, Yadav took extended leave, claiming that his father had passed away back in his native village. Earlier today I spoke to the sarpanch of the village he named on his papers. No one there has ever heard of him.' Rangwalla paused to mop up the last of his curry. ‘There is also the fact that as a security guard he would have had access to all areas of the museum. He was a night-shift guard which would have given him plenty of time to chisel out that hole in complete secrecy.'

Chopra was silent. Rangwalla had uncovered something of great significance. A first thread that they could use to unravel the mystery.

‘So we have no idea who he really is?'

‘No. And not much chance of finding him either. This man is no mastermind. He was employed for one reason – to get into the museum before the new security measures were installed and plant the gas canisters inside the Kali statue ready for the day of the heist. If what this McTavish person told you is correct then he also installed a computer virus into the CCTV system just before he vanished.' Rangwalla knuckled his jaw. ‘As soon as he completed his assignment, he was no longer needed. If you ask me, he is probably lying at the bottom of Mahim Creek modelling a pair of concrete sandals.'

Rangwalla was, in all probability, correct, thought Chopra. There would be no reason for those who had orchestrated a crime of this magnitude to leave alive a walking, talking liability such as Yadav – and if this was the case the trail might end right here.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

‘Come in.'

A large belly entered the room, followed by its owner, a big man in a navy blue safari suit. The man was swarthy, with a thick moustache and curly hair. He beamed at Chopra. ‘Myself Pramod Kondvilkar. You are Chopra, yes?'

‘What can I do for you, Mr Kondvilkar?'

Kondvilkar flashed his eyes at Rangwalla. ‘In private, if you don't mind.'

When Rangwalla had left Kondvilkar lowered his bulk into the vacated seat. The wooden frame protested beneath the unaccustomed strain and Kondvilkar's fleshy arms flopped over the sides.

‘Forgive me, sir, but it has been a trying day.'

‘What can I do for you?' repeated Chopra, his tone clipped and to the point. He was overcome by an instant feeling of dislike. Kondvilkar emanated a palpable sense of sleazy menace. His apparent bonhomie did not fool Chopra for a second. He had seen enough sharks in his time to know when one came swimming by.

For his part, the big man continued to smile pleasantly. ‘I am working for the Maharashtra Dangerous Animals Division, Chopra Sir. I have received a complaint. It seems that you are keeping one elephant here on these premises. It seems that this elephant attacked a young child yesterday. At the St Xavier school, yes?

‘He did not attack the boy. He merely defended himself. The boy set fire to Ganesha's tail.'

‘Ganesha? Ah, what a correct name for an elephant!' Kondvilkar continued to beam genially. ‘But, Chopra Sir, you will be agreeing that when an elephant defends itself against a human it is not a fair contest, yes?'

‘What is it that you want?' Chopra ground out the words.

Kondvilkar raised his hands. ‘For myself, nothing, sir. No, no, goodness me. But you see, my bosses, they are saying we cannot have dangerous elephants on the loose. They are wild creatures. Why, in the villages, they are known to cause much destruction and injury to human life. My bosses wish me to take this Ganesha of yours into custody.'

Chopra's hands whitened on the arms of his chair. ‘You will do no such th—!'

‘Calm yourself, sir,' Kondvilkar interrupted, patting the air placatingly. ‘I am on your side. Elephant is avatar of our Lord Ganesh, yes? How can he be harming anyone? I think that if I tell my bosses this, they will believe me.'

‘Then why don't you do that?'

Kondvilkar's white teeth flashed once more. ‘Such paperwork costs a small fee, Chopra Sir.'

‘Fee?' Chopra replied warily. ‘What do you mean?'

Kondvilkar's smile crept around his mouth but he said nothing.

Understanding dawned. ‘You are asking me for a bribe?'

Kondvilkar looked pained. ‘Who said anything about a bribe? Why to use such dirty words?'

A yawning silence stretched across the suddenly chilly expanse of Chopra's desk. ‘Stand up.'

‘Sir?'

‘I said stand up.'

Kondvilkar stopped smiling.

Slowly, he hauled himself to his feet.

Chopra walked around the desk. Without warning he reached out and grabbed Kondvilkar by the scruff of the neck.

‘Hey! What are you doing? Have you gone mad?'

Pushing Kondvilkar before him, Chopra made his way through the restaurant where a buzz of laughter erupted at the sight of the protesting official and the enraged former policeman.

‘You are making a big mistake, Chopra! You will pay for this! That elephant is a menace! I will have him put down!'

Chopra heaved Kondvilkar out into the road. He tripped over the steps leading up into the restaurant and fell in a heap on the dusty street.

A rickshawwallah parked outside the restaurant erupted in a bray of laughter.

Kondvilkar rose to his feet and dusted himself off. ‘You mark my words, Chopra. You have not heard the last of me.'

Chopra watched the fat man waddle off down the street.

Back inside the office, it took him some time to calm his thoughts.

Intellectually, Chopra knew that things would grind to a halt on the subcontinent if the system of bribes and kickbacks were eliminated overnight.

In one sense Kondvilkar had been correct.

Bribery permeated so much of life in his country that most people simply considered it a cost of living like any of the other taxes or surcharges the politicians dreamed up. And with government salaries so low the temptation to go along with the status quo was very strong indeed.

But it was a slippery slope. If you paid one bribe, you could not stop there. You would become known as someone who offered bribes. As a policeman, you would also be someone who
took
bribes. And if you did that then what was the point of your uniform?

There had never been a price at which Chopra was willing to sell his integrity, in or out of uniform.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. It had been a trying day. He dearly wished to rest. He did not know that the day's most unpleasant surprise was yet to come.

An hour later he stepped back out into the bustling restaurant. It had become his routine to look the place over before he headed home each night. Often he would sit for a few minutes with old colleagues or new acquaintances. It was a good way to keep up with the police grapevine. Chopra had never been the most gregarious of men, but he found this daily ritual invigorating.

Word of the restaurant had spread and, by and large, Mumbai's police fraternity had embraced his vision. It gratified him to see so many policemen in the place. It gratified him even more to see that most left their rank at the door.

And, contrary to his own expectations, he was discovering that he quite enjoyed having a circle of friends who were actually glad to see him each evening.

It was a somewhat new experience for Chopra, who had spent his career maintaining a professional distance between himself and his colleagues, particularly those he did not feel measured up to his own lofty standards of integrity. He was now beginning to realise that policemen were people too, plagued by the same desires and foibles as ordinary citizens. It was inevitable that they would occasionally succumb to the weaknesses that were part and parcel of the human condition. Some resisted better than others.

Then again, every finger was not the same, as his father would have said. But put them together and you made a fist.

It was while he was sitting with Inspector Joshi from the Marol station, congratulating the younger man on his recent promotion, that he noticed the grizzled-looking gentleman seated across the aisle. The man had a dark face but light hazel eyes. A scar ran from the lower lip to under his unshaven chin. He wore a dark kurta and a gold bracelet on his wrist. A short rolled turban covered his hair.

Chopra could not recall ever seeing the man in the restaurant before.

He was dining alone, mopping up what looked like Chef's chicken jalfrezi with a tandoori flatbread.

There was something about the coarse-looking individual that gave him pause. An aura that he had come across many times during his years in the service. The aura of a born criminal. But then again, what criminal would be foolish enough to eat
here
?

The man belched loudly, then raised his hand and called out loudly for a waiter.

Chopra turned and saw Irfan approaching, holding a jug of water. Irfan reached the man, who looked up and met his eyes.

The copper water jug clanged off the restaurant's marble flooring as Irfan froze.

The man's face split into a slow smile that sent shivers up Chopra's spine. ‘Hello, Irfan,' said the man. ‘At last, I have found you.'

Chopra stood and stepped across the aisle. He looked down at Irfan and saw his petrified expression. There was no doubt in his mind that the boy was terrified.

‘Irfan, do you know this man?'

The man glanced up at him. Then he turned back to Irfan. ‘Why don't you tell him who I am, Irfan?'

Chopra glowered at the man. ‘Why don't you tell me yourself?'

The man unfurled from his seat. Chopra realised that his thin face had made him seem smaller than he was. In reality, the man was taller even than himself, with a rangy physique, muscle on bone. ‘My name is Lodi. Mukhthar Lodi. And I am the boy's father.'

Chopra was astounded. Of all the things he had thought the man might say, this was the most unexpected. He felt his knees tremble.

Controlling his voice, he said, sternly, ‘You are lying. Irfan is an orphan. He told me so himself.'