The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown

by Vaseem Khan

  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 th
e 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.’

  Lodi smiled. ‘Irfan is a runaway. He is fond of telling lies and causing his father much grief. It has taken me many months to find him.’

  ‘I do not believe you.’

  ‘Then why do you not ask the boy?’

  Chopra knelt down and took Irfan’s hand. ‘Irfan. Do not be afraid. No one can harm you here. Just tell me the truth. Is this man your father?’

  He watched as Irfan looked up at Lodi. And then the boy closed his eyes, a shudder passing through him.

  ‘Yes.’

  A SLEEPLESS NIGHT FOR POPPY AND CHOPRA

  ‘But why didn’t you stop him?’

  Poppy paced the floor of their bedroom, wielding her hairbrush in one hand and her night cream in the other. Her obvious agitation sent ripples of protest through the fabric of her cotton nightgown.

  ‘He was the boy’s father,’ said Chopra calmly. ‘What could I do?’

  ‘He was a liar and a villain. You said so yourself.’

  ‘Irfan confirmed his story. The boy agreed to go with him. I couldn’t stop him.’

  ‘He is a child!’ Poppy wailed. ‘He was afraid. You should have asked for some proof, a birth certificate or… or… something! Anything!’

  ‘Have you any idea how many children are born in the slums without birth certificates each year?’

  Poppy turned to her husband, anguish in her eyes. ‘But how can he just go like that?’

  Chopra, seated on the bed in his shorts and T-shirt, knew that this was the question to which there was no easy answer.

  How could he explain to Poppy how hard he had tried to convince Irfan not to go, to at least wait a day while Chopra investigated the matter? How could he explain the feeling of helplessness that had overcome him as he had watched Irfan walk out of the door with a stranger?

  But, in the end, what hold did he have over the boy?

  Irfan had arrived of his own accord and was now leaving by his own wish. The boy had repeatedly confirmed that Lodi was his father and that he was going with him willingly. Beyond that Chopra had not been able to ascertain anything, no matter how hard he tried.

  The situation had left him deeply upset, not least because of how vested he himself had become in the boy’s welfare.

  Chopra had done everything he could for Irfan since he had entered their lives. Indeed, he did not think he could have offered Irfan more had the boy lived in his own home, had he signed documents to lay a legal claim to the child.

  Chopra believed in destiny. He believed that human beings possessed the ability to change minor eddies within the great river of their fates, but not the course of that river. If he were to attempt to alter Irfan’s life entirely – for instance, by enrolling him into the sort of fancy school that Poppy kept insisting the boy needed – he believed that he might upset some sort of cosmic accounting and nothing good would come of it. If Irfan himself wished to attend school, then certainly he would arrange it. But he would not force his and Poppy’s own belief systems on the boy. He was confident that with just a little guidance Irfan would make something of himself one day.

  His brow darkened as he privately admitted that he had seen himself as that guiding hand. A father figure to the boy. Not one to smother, but a reassuring presence who would always be there, patiently waiting for whenever he was needed… But now, now that harmless dream had been shattered.

  ‘I cannot sleep,’ he declared, rising from the bed.

  He left his distraught wife and retreated to the relative safety of his office, where he settled into his armchair and switched on the television.

  A late-night debate show was arguing over the ‘legitimacy’ of the theft of the Koh-i-Noor. The crowd was divided. Many felt it was an act of justifiable revanchism; others that it was a crime no matter which way you looked at it.

  Chopra found himself unable to focus on the discussion. He wondered where Irfan was now. Back in the slums? Back with a man who he strongly suspected was responsible for the cigarette burns on Irfan’s body, though the boy had denied it when he had taken him to his office at the restaurant and questioned him privately.

  Fate. Karma. And nothing in between except the Brownian motion of human lives moving along their random paths, bouncing between moments of joy and those of trial and tribulation with only the illusion that they had control over what they were doing.

  What was the point of dwelling on it?

  He picked up the remote and changed the channel. On WD-TV a reporter lurked outside the
apartment complex in which Shekhar Garewal lived. ‘Is this the home of the mastermind behind the theft of the Koh-i-Noor?’ he asked in a sombre baritone.

  The complex was in a relatively affluent sector of Bandra. Chopra wondered which floor Garewal lived on. He wondered how his wife and children were coping with their father’s sudden notoriety. He imagined that they were besieged, that they had turned off the phone, drawn the curtains and no longer dared to venture out into the city.

  It was in his hands now to rescue them from their ordeal.

  The scene shifted to live footage of the exterior of Lilavati Hospital, where the Queen had spent a night before flying back to the UK. News reports confirmed that she was still ill, despondent and upset by the loss of the Koh-i-Noor.

  In spite of the Queen’s absence the crowd outside the hospital had swelled. Hundreds of lit diyas glowed amongst the well-wishers. In the centre of the crowd a temporary shrine had been set up, with a blown-up photograph of Her Majesty set inside a wooden mango crate and perched on a hastily erected stand. Garlands of jasmine flowers were strung around the photograph and sticks of incense poked from the slats in the crate. A line of devotees edged up to the stand, brought their palms together in respectful greeting and offered up a prayer for the Queen.

  The news item returned Chopra’s thoughts to the ‘dark and bloody history of the Koh-i-Noor’ that had been related by the tourist guide Atul Kochar, describing how the great diamond had ended up in the Queen’s possession, having fallen through the centuries trailing misfortune in its wake…

  The first historically verifiable record of the Koh-i-Noor came from the memoirs of Mohammed Babur, descendant of Tamerlane and Genghis Khan, and founder of the Mughal Empire. Babur claimed the diamond had been gifted to him by the Pashtun sultan Ibrahim Lodi, though the truth was far bloodier. Lodi had fallen to Babur’s invading army and the Koh-i-Noor had been part of the plunder claimed by the new ruler of the subcontinent.