by Vaseem Khan
‘Sir, we have many great offers waiting for you in our menswear department!’
Chopra looked around. Poppy was busily examining a shelf full of boys’ shirts. His wife had grown greatly attached to her pupils at the St Xavier school and had decided that this year she would expend her Christmas budget buying gifts for them instead of hosting her own Christmas party. ‘Just imagine their little faces when they open their presents!’ she had sighed.
He slipped his identity card from his wallet and waved it under Santa’s nose. ‘And I have a jail cell waiting for you. Now go away.’
He watched the man scurry off, hitching up his voluminous red trousers as he went.
‘How do you think Irfan would look in this?’ he heard Poppy ask behind him. She held up a garish yellow T-shirt stamped with the logo of Ralph Lauren.
‘Poppy, I really must go.’
She put down the T-shirt and walked over to him. Her concerned eyes carefully examined his face. ‘You are working too hard.’
‘I feel fine.’
‘Did you take your pills?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am glad Rangwalla will be working with you. Perhaps now you can take things a little easier. You know what the doctor said.’
Chopra did know. The doctors had told him to stop being himself; to stop being Inspector Chopra. He could not do that.
‘We interrupt this broadcast with a special bulletin. We are going live now to WD-TV studios.’
Chopra looked up at the giant television screen hanging from the ceiling high above. The screens were dotted around the store, ostensibly to provide entertainment for the shoppers. However, it had not escaped his notice that the broadcasts were regularly interrupted by prolonged adverts for the store’s latest and greatest offers.
A newscaster in a tailored suit appeared on the screen. His face, below a glistening bouffant hairstyle, was grave. ‘Namashkar, ladies and gentlemen. We have a breaking exclusive on the stolen crown investigation brought to you exclusively by WD-TV. We go live to CBI headquarters where Assistant Commissioner of Police Suresh Rao has convened an emergency press conference.’
The picture cut to a whitewashed room lit by bright overhead lighting. Behind a long table bristling with microphones sat DCI Maxwell Bomberton and ACP Suresh Rao, flanked by a number of other important-looking policemen. Bomberton’s balding head glistened under the lights. His red face was puffed with anger.
‘ACP Rao, would you care to comment on the rumours that you have taken one Shekhar Garewal into custody in connection with the theft of the Koh-i-Noor?’
‘I’ll give you a comment,’ growled Bomberton before Rao could open his mouth. ‘You’re damned lucky I don’t arrest you right now and throw you into jail!’ He leaned forward as if he fully intended to leap from the podium and accost the reporter who had dared to ask this question. ‘This is an ongoing police investigation. I demand to know where you got this information!’
‘So it is true?’
‘Answer the question, damnit!’
‘I cannot reveal my sources, sir.’
A thin nasally voice piped up. ‘ACP Rao, this is Romesh Ratnagar of the Times. Let us stop being coy. I request you to herewith confirm that Inspector Shekhar Garewal has been placed under arrest and that even now he is in the Anda Cell of the Arthur Road Jail.’
Rao licked his lips and exchanged nervous glances with his colleagues. Their thoughts clearly mirrored Bomberton’s belligerent words. How had the press got wind of Garewal? ‘I am afraid I am not at liberty to confirm this information.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘What? No. I mean yes. I do know. I just cannot… confirm,’ Rao finished lamely.
‘Ah, I understand. You do not have the authority.’
Rao flushed. ‘Of course I have the authority. It is simply that—’
‘You require DCI Bomberton’s permission before you may speak. I completely understand. I had thought the days of the Raj were over but I see that I was mistaken.’ A sniggering arose from the gathered newspeople as Bomberton scowled.
Rao’s face was now the colour of a beetroot. ‘Look here, Ratnagar,’ he spluttered, ‘DCI Bomberton is a guest of the Mumbai Police. He is not running this investigation.’
‘It appears then that no one is running this investigation, sir, as you do not have the authority even to confirm—’
‘I am running this investigation.’
‘Then you can confirm or deny a simple case of fact! Is Garewal in custody or not?’
Rao glared at Ratnagar. ‘Yes.’
A gasp echoed around the room, followed by a nervous buzz of chatter. Bomberton turned to Rao, his face apoplectic.
Ratnagar shouted down his colleagues, pressing home his advantage. ‘So the very man you saw fit to place in charge of security for the Crown Jewels is the one behind this plot?’
Rao realised that he might have put his foot in his mouth. He struggled hastily to backtrack. ‘We cannot confirm any further details regarding Garewal’s arrest at this time.’
‘Why not? There must be some reason that you have arrested him. We have a right to know. Or is Garewal merely a scapegoat? Have you arrested an innocent man, ACP Rao, to conceal the government’s incompetence? Is the real culprit out there somewhere laughing at the Indian Police Service? Were you hoping to pull the wool over our eyes, sir?’
Rao thumped the desk. The glass of water before him leaped from the podium and fell to the floor. ‘Garewal is as guilty as hell!’
‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Ratnagar smoothly.
‘Because one hour ago we recovered the Crown of Queen Elizabeth from his home!’
A RETURN VISIT TO THE JAIL
Chopra parked the van directly in front of the Arthur Road Jail, ignoring the battered NO PARKING sign that loomed by the side of the road. For a moment he sat there, glaring out at the bustling street. A cycle-courier strained by, knots of muscle prominent in his burnished calves, a cart loaded with freshly laundered linen swaying behind him. In the middle of the road an auto-rickshaw had broken down, earning the wrath of passing motorists. A pair of teenagers on a motorbike hurled abuse at the luckless driver as they roared past in a cloud of sulphurous exhaust fumes. The driver shook a fist at the departing bike, then shrank back into his vehicle as he noticed a traffic constable moving towards him, twirling his lathi stick menacingly.
Chopra knew that he needed to control the anger flooding through his system. Now was a time for him to think clearly and to act rationally; a time to—
A furious hammering erupted on the window.
Chopra turned to see a leper, dressed in a tattered blue bathrobe, brandishing a leprous hand at him. The hand was wrapped in a filthy bandage, the fingers reduced to mere stumps.
The leper, catching sight of the expression on his face, hastily backed away.
Chopra got out of the van and stalked across the road.
He thrust his identity card at the constables stationed at the main gate and ordered them briskly to place a call to the guard in the centre of the Anda Cell.
Five minutes later the man appeared and led him hurriedly back to his desk.
As soon as they entered the inner sanctum of the Anda Cell, the man pirouetted on the soles of his worn leather shoes and blurted, ‘OK, let me see the money now.’ His eyes flickered with unabashed greed.
Chopra grabbed the fellow by his uniform and slammed him against the wall. ‘Listen to me very carefully. There is no money. I am here to talk to Garewal. You will open the door to his cell and then you will sit down quietly until I have finished. If you do not do exactly as I say I will place a call to the Commissioner. I am sure he will be very interested to know why you took a bribe from public enemy number one. Why you allowed Garewal to make a call to the outside. To me. Do we understand each other?’
The stunned guard stared at him in mute terror and then nodded dumbly.
As the cell door swung open Chopra felt another
rush of fury. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply through his nostrils, then stalked into the cell.
Garewal was standing in the gloom, waiting for him.
‘The guard told me Rao is claiming he found the crown at my home,’ he said anxiously. ‘Is it true?’
‘You lied to me,’ Chopra hissed. ‘You used me.’
‘What are you saying?’ Garewal looked aghast. ‘I didn’t do this.’
‘They found the crown! What was it doing in your house?’
‘It was planted there! Surely you can see that?’
‘Planted by who?’
‘By the real thieves.’
‘Why would the thieves steal the crown only to plant it on you?’
‘Perhaps they panicked. The whole country is looking for them.’
‘No one goes to that much trouble and then just gives up a prize like that.’
‘Then maybe it was Rao.’
‘Rao? Why would Rao do it?’ Chopra shook his head. ‘For Rao to plant the crown, he would have had to find it somewhere else first. Where? How? The idea is preposterous.’
Garewal’s eyes were filled with anguish. ‘You have to believe me, Chopra. I did not steal the crown.’
Chopra turned away in disgust. ‘You made a fool of me.’ The set of his shoulders betrayed his anger and disappointment.
Behind him, he heard Garewal approach. ‘Chopra, you are my last hope. I have children. What will happen to them if I am sent away for this crime, a crime I did not commit?’
Chopra did not turn around.
‘I am asking you to trust me. I promise you on the lives of my children that I had nothing to do with this. You are the only one who can save me now.’
Finally Chopra turned. He looked at his former colleague. Garewal’s bruised and battered face was twisted with a look of such pleading that he almost turned away again. How many times during his career had he stared into the eyes of criminals and made a judgement on the truth? But now he was looking into the eyes of a policeman, a man he had known and worked with… Something moved deep inside Garewal’s eyes. It was as if a hunted animal was in there, seeking an escape.
Chopra did not think a man could fake a look like that.
‘All right, Garewal. I will give you the benefit of the doubt. For now. That is the best I can do.’
Tears glistened in Garewal’s eyes. ‘Thank you, old friend. Thank you.’
‘Let us start by looking at the facts, namely that the crown has been recovered, and from your home. Why would anyone steal the crown only to return it? All to frame you? A middle-ranking officer in the Brihanmumbai Police? It makes no sense.’
‘I don’t know why, Chopra. I only know that I did not do it.’
Chopra paused. ‘Then there is something here that we are missing. Something we haven’t understood. You do not mount the sort of operation it took to steal the crown just to hand it right back.’
‘I agree. But what could it be?’
‘I don’t know. But I am going to find out.’
Poornima Devi, slumped in Chopra’s rattan armchair in the courtyard of Poppy’s Bar & Restaurant, peered at Ganesha with her one working eye. ‘What is the matter with him?’
‘He is upset,’ explained Irfan, standing beside the old woman and fanning her with a bamboo fan.
The object of their scrutiny was hunkered under his mango tree, eyelids screwed shut, trunk curled under his face, the very picture of misery. A tickbird sat on his skull as if it were the captain of a seagoing vessel that had run aground.
‘What has he got to be upset about?’ groused Poornima. ‘Sitting there getting fed all day like Emperor Akbar while I, an old woman, work my fingers to the bone.’
The rear door to the restaurant creaked opened and Rosie came panting over the veranda to hand Poornima a glass of freshly churned buttermilk. She waited anxiously while the old harridan sniffed the glass, swallowed a generous mouthful, then sighed luxuriously and sank further into the chair. Then, realising that Rosie was waiting for her approval, she reasserted her perennial scowl. ‘Don’t you have anything better to do than stare at my face?’
Rosie fled.
Poornima turned her attention to the steel thaali balanced on the stool in front of her. The thaali, with its many compartments, contained her lunch, a medley of Chef Lucknowwallah’s best dishes direct from the kitchen. She picked up a glutinous ball of saffron rice with her fingers and stuffed it into the corner of her mouth. ‘It is lucky I have a strong constitution,’ she belched. ‘Anyone else forced to eat that second-rate man’s third-rate cooking would have long ago expired.’
Irfan suppressed a smile.
‘When I lived in Jarul I ate like a queen,’ Poornima continued. ‘They insisted on waiting on me, hand and foot. Wouldn’t let me lift a finger. Did I tell you about my son, Vikram? He is one in a million.’ Irfan knew, from listening to Chopra and Poppy talk, that Vikram was a wastrel of the first order. It was why Poornima Devi had been forced to move in with her daughter. ‘Of course, what would a street urchin like you know about the village?’ she went on. ‘Golden fields of wheat, bajra and jowar as far as the eye can see. The Sarangi river sparkling in the distance. The walls of my beautiful white house ablaze in the midday sun.’ Poornima’s gaze became adrift on the misty oceans of the past. ‘When I was young, men came from miles around to ask for my hand. The most beautiful maiden in seven villages, they used to say! I was married to the village sarpanch, did you know that? He was a good man, but he had many foolish notions. He believed the heart should rule the head. He was always trying to help people. Since when has helping people ever helped anyone? Good-natured, they called him. Hah! Can you spend a good nature? Look at me now, at the mercy of that goonda of a son-in-law of mine.’ She scooped up another ball of rice, then waved it at Ganesha. ‘As for the fool who sent that useless creature here – a bigger loafer was never born in this country.’
From the corner of his eye Irfan noticed Ganesha perk up. The elephant had lifted his head and was staring at Poornima Devi.
‘Bansi. What kind of name is that for a grown man? Wandering around in half a dhoti, pretending to be some sort of sadhu. Reading horoscopes when he could barely read his own name on a chit. Hah! If you ask me that man was as brainless as the silly creature he sent— AAAIIIEEEEEEEE!’
Irfan looked on in astonishment as Poornima leaped wildly from the chair, scattering the thaali’s contents over her white widow’s sari.
‘Madam! What is the matter?’
And then he saw it… A giant Indian hornet, having applied its sting to the cantankerous old woman, buzzed dazedly away.
Poornima, vigorously rubbing her arm, cursed loudly, then fell back, limbs akimbo. ‘Get help!’ she panted. ‘Call an ambulance! Fetch a doctor! I can feel its poison working its way to my heart!’
‘Yes, madam!’ said Irfan. ‘Ganesha, keep an eye on her!’
He turned and raced towards the restaurant.
Ganesha stumbled to his feet and moved cautiously towards the old woman, who had closed her eyes and was now massaging her chest. He prodded her delicately with his trunk, but she only wheezed dramatically.
Chef Lucknowwallah came bounding into the courtyard, trailed by Irfan. ‘Let me see,’ panted the chef.
‘I told you to get a doctor and you bring me this butcher!’ yelped Poornima, instantly jerking back to life.
‘Be quiet, woman,’ growled Lucknowwallah. He unscrewed the pot of ghee he was carrying and scooped out a good dollop with his finger.
‘You’re not smearing that gunk on me!’ screeched Poornima.
‘It is the best thing for a sting,’ said Lucknowwallah. ‘Trust me.’ He lathered the ghee, laced with turmeric and garlic, onto the angry welt while the old woman pulled expressions of excruciating agony.
Finally, he stepped back. ‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’ said Poornima eventually.
‘Is it not better?’
‘I hope you are not expecti
ng me to thank you?’
The triumph dropped out of Lucknowwallah’s grin. ‘No,’ he scowled. ‘Why in the world would I be expecting that?’ He turned and trudged off back into the restaurant.
‘Who the hell do you think you are, Chopra, telling me my job?’
ACP Suresh Rao rose up onto the balls of his feet and thrust his round, red face at Chopra. Angry spittle flew in all directions.
It had taken Chopra forty minutes to race from Arthur Road Jail to the CBI’s Mumbai HQ at Colaba. Now he faced down a furious ACP Rao in an air-conditioned office on the sixth floor of the run-down old building.
‘I am a private investigator,’ said Chopra, the skin tightening around his eyes. ‘Garewal is my client. He has been framed. The real culprit is still out there.’
‘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.’