by Vaseem Khan
Suresh Rao had once been the Assistant Commissioner of Police in charge of three suburban police stations including Sahar. For many years he had been Chopra’s commanding officer; for many more years, he had been Chopra’s personal nemesis.
The two men had never seen eye to eye. Rao represented everything that Chopra loathed in the Indian police service. A man who donned the uniform to serve himself rather than the public who had placed their trust in him.
Following the scandal of the human trafficking ring he had heard that Rao had been hauled off by the Criminal Bureau of Investigation as part of a thorough enquiry into all those allegedly involved. But, in the perverse way of such things in Mumbai, far from having the stars ripped from his shoulder as Chopra had felt the man deserved, Rao had ended up being promoted into that same CBI unit and given the responsibility to investigate fellow officers accused of corruption.
Only in India, Chopra had thought darkly when he had heard the news.
Behind Rao towered a white man, one of the largest he had ever seen. His broad shoulders spread the width of the doorframe and a venomous paunch extended into the room. The man’s face was thick and red, and above it the great dome of his skull gave way to a short skirt of peppery brown hair around a terrific island of baldness. A bristling moustache – streaked with grey and resembling a horse brush – sat under a bulbous nose. His eyes were gemstone blue and shaded by magnificent eyebrows.
The man was dressed in brown cavalry twill trousers, black oxfords and a starched white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A linen jacket dangled from one massive fist. A crumpled black tie stamped with a prominent red and yellow crown hung loosely around his mottled neck. Saddlebags of sweat radiated from under his arms. The man’s face was flushed and lathered. In fact, he was perspiring so heavily that even his sweat seemed to be sweating.
Chopra watched as the man lifted a sodden handkerchief to dab at his forehead.
‘I asked you a question, Chopra.’ Rao had moved closer so that the top of his own head was now level with Chopra’s chin.
‘I am here to see my client,’ Chopra said woodenly.
‘Client? What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Garewal here has requested my help.’
Rao looked from Chopra to the stricken figure of Inspector Shekhar Garewal. Chopra saw that a cloud of terror shadowed Garewal’s expression. With a burst of anger he understood that it was Rao who had inflicted the punishment manifest on his former colleague’s face.
Rao let out an angry laugh. ‘Garewal is beyond help. And you are not a police officer any more.’
‘At least I was a police officer, Rao. No one has ever accused you of that.’
Rao’s eyes bulged and his grip tightened on the lathi stick that he had unconsciously slipped from his belt.
‘I want to know why Garewal is being held here,’ Chopra continued. ‘Why is he accused of this crime? Why is he not permitted a lawyer?’
‘By Gods, man, you haven’t changed!’ Rao exploded. ‘Always the cockerel! Well, take a look around. This is Mumbai Central Prison. Innocent men don’t end up here. Your friend Garewal has made a big mistake and now he will pay for it. If you don’t like it, take it up with the Chief Minister.’
‘Perhaps I will,’ said Chopra hotly.
‘Who is this fellow, Rao?’
Chopra looked from ACP Rao’s glowering face to the enormous white man looming behind him.
‘No one,’ Rao ground out.
‘My name is Chopra,’ Chopra said stiffly. ‘Inspector Chopra. Retired.’
He reached into his pocket and removed a business card, which he handed to the big man. The man squinted at the card, his bristling moustache dancing above his upper lip as he mouthed the words. ‘The Baby Ganesh Detective Agency… You’re a private detective?’ His eyebrows came together in a V of consternation. He had somehow contrived to make the words ‘private detective’ sound like ‘loathsome cockroach’.
‘Yes. And this man is now my client. He is innocent of the crime you have accused him of. I will be investigating the incident.’
‘You will do no such thing!’ Rao whinnied. ‘You have no jurisdiction here. What do you think this is? A kitty party? I heard about your agency. Do you know what they’re saying about you on the force? You are a joke. Garewal has no rights. This is a matter of national security. The only one doing any investigating here will be me. Why don’t you go back to looking for lost cats and dogs?’
Chopra stared coldly at Rao. He willed himself to control his fury. Then he turned to Garewal. ‘Hang in there, Garewal. I will be in touch.’
He stalked out of the cell, barging past the two men. As he reached the door he stopped and turned to the white man. ‘I didn’t get your name.’
‘That’s none of your business,’ Rao said.
‘I can speak for myself,’ growled the big man. ‘My name is Bomberton. Detective Chief Inspector Bomberton. From New Scotland Yard. I run the Metropolitan Police’s Art and Antiques Unit.’
‘You are here to investigate the theft of the crown?’
‘What else do you think he is doing here?’ Rao blared. ‘Enjoying the scenic views?’
Chopra stared at Bomberton. ‘I will give you a word of advice.’ He pointed at Rao. ‘If you listen to this man you will never find the crown.’
He turned and walked out of the cell, Rao’s furious last words echoing in his ears: ‘If I see you here again I will have you arrested! Do you hear me, Chopra? I’ll throw you in a hole so deep you’ll never see the light of day again!’
IRFAN MAKES A DELIVERY
The drive from Poppy’s Bar & Restaurant to Chopra’s home ought to have taken barely fifteen minutes, but in the horrendous traffic of the lunchtime suburbs could easily take an hour. For this reason, at precisely 12.15 p.m. each day, Irfan set off on his sturdy Eastman delivery bicycle to make the journey back to the Air Force Colony complex.
Deftly leaning his red-framed cycle around corners – seemingly unhindered by the deformity of his left hand – and whistling a tune from the latest Bollywood blockbuster, Irfan would imagine that he was Assistant Commissioner of Police Jai Dixit, the hero from his favourite movie Dhoom, which featured a glamorous motorcycle gang.
When Irfan arrived at the complex he discovered, to his delight, the Nepalese security guard Bahadur hard at work washing Chopra’s Royal Enfield Bullet.
The enormous 500cc motorbike was Chopra’s pride and joy, but Irfan knew his boss was constrained from riding it as often as he would have liked by Poppy Madam’s unwavering disapproval.
Eyes shining, Irfan set his bicycle against the compound’s gate, removed the package containing Mrs Subramanium’s lunch from the pannier and approached Bahadur, who was down on his haunches in his flip-flops and shorts, carefully rubbing down the bike’s gleaming metal spokes with a yellow cloth.
‘Here, let me,’ said Irfan. ‘That’s not the way to do it.’ He set down his package next to the motorbike, and took the cloth from Bahadur. ‘It’s all in the wrists,’ he said authoritatively. During his years on the street, Irfan had found many ways to earn a living, including polishing shoes and washing cars amongst other less savoury vocations.
Bahadur stood up, pushed his cap back on his head, and watched with interest. He was sweating heavily in his tatty white vest. Yet he did not begrudge having to clean the bike. Like Irfan he held a deep fascination for the Bullet.
When the spokes had been polished to his satisfaction, Irfan handed the cloth back to the guard. ‘Hold this.’
He scrabbled up onto the bike and grasped the handles. His feet couldn’t quite reach the pedals, but what did that matter? He was sitting on top of a Bullet! The most powerful motorbike in the whole of India! No longer was he Irfan the delivery boy, but rather a daredevil policeman – like Chopra – chasing the dangerous head of an evil bike gang down the Western Express Highway at two hundred miles per hour!
‘Irfan, what are you doing here?’
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br /> Irfan turned to see Poppy getting out of a rickshaw.
‘Hello, Poppy Madam!’ he said cheerily. ‘I was just delivering Mrs Subramanium’s lunch order.’
‘Or not delivering, would be a more apt description.’
Both Poppy and Irfan turned to see Mrs Subramanium, the president of the apartment complex’s Managing Committee, descending upon them.
Poppy narrowed her eyes.
Mrs Subramanium had long been her nemesis, a perennial thorn in her side. With her short grey hair and dark saris, Mrs Subramanium cut an intimidating presence in the complex, materialising when you least expected to issue dire edicts from her legendary building regulations manual. Most people were frightened witless by the aging widow, but Poppy refused to be cowed. As a consequence, the two women were frequently at loggerheads.
‘Boy, you are late. Again.’
‘Sorry, Mrs Subramanium Madam,’ said Irfan, scrambling to get off the bike. Unfortunately, as he did so, his foot caught the bike’s support stand, knocking it aside. The bike began to waver under him. As he sought to regain his balance, the bike teetered, and then toppled over, squashing the package beside it. Irfan leaped aside just in time to land in the arms of the unfortunate Poppy, who cried out in alarm, then hugged him. ‘Be careful, you silly boy!’
Mrs Subramanium meanwhile had moved closer to inspect the remnants of her lunch.
The thin dahl had leaked from the sides of the package and was running towards Bahadur’s feet. Bahadur stared at the approaching yellow rivulet in rapt fascination.
‘This is outrageous,’ said Mrs Subramanium eventually, turning to Poppy. ‘I will be speaking with your mother.’
Poppy glared at the older woman. She knew that her mother and Mrs Subramanium were as thick as thieves. In hindsight, their alliance had been inevitable. Both were widows, of a similar age, and possessed equally insufferable dispositions. Both treated her as if she were still twelve years old, a girl to be bossed and bullied.
‘My mother does not own the restaurant,’ said Poppy icily. ‘It says Poppy’s on the signboard, in case you had not noticed.’
‘Well, then, Poppy will have to see to my lunch,’ said Mrs Subramanium haughtily. She turned on her heel, swished her sari, and walked back into the building.
‘I’m sorry, Poppy Madam,’ said Irfan, hanging his head.
‘What are you sorry about?’ said Poppy. ‘That woman would complain if you served her gold bars for lunch.’ She smiled at the boy. ‘I have some time before I go back to work. Why don’t I take you for an ice cream?’
‘Poornima Madam will be very cross if I don’t get back to the restaurant.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about her. Come on, we’ll go to Natural’s.’
Irfan shook his head. ‘No, Poppy Madam. I am working now. I must do my job. It would not be right to go and eat ice cream when I should be working. Chopra Sir would not do that.’
Poppy stared at the boy, a faint smile playing over her lips. ‘No, you are right. Chopra Sir would not do that.’ She gave Irfan another hug, and tousled his bonnet of dark hair. ‘You are my conscientious little man, aren’t you! Go on then, off you go. And ride carefully!’
THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
The Prince of Wales Museum was a hive of activity. A convoy of official vehicles now guarded the front entrance on M.G. Road, hemmed in by dozens of mobile news trucks. Swarms of journalists and cameramen waited beyond the police barricade like mosquitoes ready to pounce at the first scent of blood. A crowd of passers-by had also gathered and, in the absence of new developments, were being endlessly interviewed for their opinions.
If there was one thing Mumbai would never be short of, Chopra thought darkly, it was passers-by.
He parked the Tata Venture on the edges of the melee. Then he went to the rear of the van, swung open the door and lowered the ramp.
Ganesha trotted out into the afternoon haze, his ears flapping gently as he greeted the sun. He blinked as he took in the raucous crowd.
A group of eunuchs had begun to sing nearby in their gravelly voices, accosting a pair of Force One guards, demanding money to go away. Itinerant peddlers of everything from twice-fried samosas to straw hats that would dissolve at the first hint of rain moved amongst the crowd. A nukkud natak – street theatre – performance was attracting a great deal of attention as the costumed actors caricatured the all-round incompetence of the Force One Unit.
Chopra gave a rueful smile. Another thing one could always expect of his fellow Mumbaikers was that they would excel themselves in making a comedy out of a tragedy.
‘Come on, boy,’ he muttered.
At the entrance to the museum’s formal gardens they were confronted by a phalanx of Force One guards. Chopra took out his identity card. The senior-most guard stared at the card as if it were written in ancient Sanskrit. Clearly, this fell beyond his jurisdiction.
‘Look,’ growled Chopra, ‘I am a special advisor authorised by the Chief Minister himself. He was here this morning, wasn’t he?’
The man’s dark face took on a look of panic. Chopra guessed that the CM had not had many good things to say to the Force One contingent. ‘Do you want him to come back?’
The man looked around wildly as if the CM might appear in a ball of flames behind him at that very instant. He ushered Chopra through and did not even seem to register the fact that the former policeman was accompanied by a baby elephant.
In the museum’s Central Gallery Chopra was confronted by the surreal sight of two white men in plastic crime-scene suits chatting and sipping cups of steaming tea. As Ganesha came in, they stopped talking and stared at him.
‘I say, do you know there is an elephant behind you?’
Chopra nodded. ‘He is with me.’
‘You have a pet elephant?’ The man seemed incredulous.
‘He is not a pet.’
He left Ganesha there, examining the waxworks of the royal family, and walked up two flights of steps to the Tata Gallery.
When he had first gone to see Garewal Chopra hadn’t been sure that he could help, or for that matter whether he even wished to. But the encounter with Rao had left him resolved to prove Garewal’s innocence or, at the very least, to establish for himself that Garewal was guilty as charged.
ACP Suresh Rao always seemed to bring out the worst in him, he reflected.
He had decided that the first thing to do was return to the scene of the crime. He had often found, during his long career, that taking a second look at the scene the day after the crime was one of the wisest things any investigator could do.
The Tata Gallery was bustling with activity.
A half-dozen or so white-suited forensic technicians were crowded into the gallery going over the scene using a variety of arcane instruments, many that he did not recognise.
Forensic science was still an emerging discipline in India. Chopra, who had made a habit of perusing forensic textbooks and international criminology journals during his police years, had often lamented the fact that much of what he read would remain a distant dream as far as the Brihanmumbai Police was concerned.
The first thing he noted was that the remaining Crown Jewels had vanished. He had expected no less.
The theft of the Koh-i-Noor had put paid to the magnificent exhibition. He had no doubt that even now the priceless collection would be under heavy military guard awaiting transport back to its home in the Tower of London. The news channels were beside themselves, but the Indian government remained resolutely tight-lipped as to the current location of the hoard.
Chopra’s eyes scanned the room.
A smattering of glass particles from the shattered display case sparkled on the carpet as they caught the light from a ring of arc lamps. His wandering gaze alighted on the gaping hole in the gallery’s rear door. He recalled now that the door had been sealed for the duration of the exhibition. At the time it had seemed like a sensible precaution. Reducing the number of entrances into the gallery allowed th
e Force One guards to concentrate their vigilance on a single one. In hindsight, it seemed an unforgiveable error to have left the rear door completely unguarded. The hole in that door – just large enough for a man to squeeze through – now served as a chastening rebuke.
‘And exactly who might you be when you’re at home?’
He turned to see a tall, thin figure bearing down on him. The man pulled off the white hood of his forensic boiler suit to reveal a head of spiked orange hair and a pink freckled face in which green eyes sat below red eyebrows and above a large, sunburnt nose. Chopra couldn’t place the man’s accent. It was English but not quite English.
‘Inspector Chopra. Retired. Special Advisor to the Mumbai Police. I am investigating the theft of the Koh-i-Noor diamond.’
‘Och, are ye now?’ the man said, giving him an appraising look. ‘Well, that would be grand, except that as far as I’ve been told it’s a crown we’re looking for.’
Chopra coloured. But the ginger-headed man broke into a grin. ‘Semantics. Never had much time for them myself.’ He stuck out a gloved hand. ‘Duncan McTavish. I work for the Met Polis. Forensics. What can I do for you, Chopra? And where’s that oaf Bomberton?’
‘I am not with Detective Chief Inspector Bomberton.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector. Hell’s bells, Chopra, you make him sound like the Second Coming. Between you and me the man is a complete buffoon.’
‘Why have they sent him here, then?’
McTavish tapped the side of his freckled nose. ‘Connections, Chopra. It seems our DCI Bomberton is distantly related to the royal family. Five hundredth in line to the throne or some such guff. Pardon me for not bowing and scraping in the presence of His Majesty.’
‘What about you?’
‘Och, I’m a Scot, Chopra. The day they make a Scot King of England is the day I’ll dance naked on the Windsor Castle lawn.’
‘I meant, what are you doing here?’