The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown (23 page)

On those rare occasions that Chopra ventured to the south Mumbai district of Colaba he usually made a point of looking in on his old friend and batchmate Inspector Girish Poolchand.

Poolchand, a shiftless sot who had scraped his way through police training school with Chopra all those years ago, had subsequently secured a plum posting in the Colaba station to which he had clung with a limpet-like tenacity for over two decades.

Chopra had long since given up trying to convert Poolchand to the ranks of the assiduous.

Poolchand was one of many in the service who swam with the prevailing currents, waiting only to be washed up on the beach of retirement nirvana with a full pension and no further responsibilities in life save the consumption of cheap whisky and the recounting of ever-taller tales from his disingenuously remembered police years.

Whenever they met, the two men would pat each other on the back and ask after each other's families, before swiftly repairing to the renowned Leopold Café where Poolchand was a fixture in the notorious upstairs bar. Here he would partake daily of a liquid lunch safely hidden from the inconvenient eyes of those dining below – which often included his seniors at the station – behind a wall of smoked glass.

Today, however, Chopra sat alone in the bustling restaurant.

For the first time in years he had not called upon his old sparring partner. His business today was a matter for himself and the party he had persuaded – with considerable effort – to meet him here.

As a wheezing ceiling fan swirled lazily above him, Chopra found a low-wattage anxiety oozing around his colon. He was not one to second-guess himself, but the coming encounter unnerved him. His only consolation was that the meeting would take place on familiar ground. After all, didn't they say that choosing the terrain was half the battle?

As he looked around at the evening rush, he reflected, not for the first time, that Leopold's – once a rutputty eat-and-go joint – was now a bona fide Mumbai institution.

Located in the bustling heart of Colaba, the café – one hundred and forty-one years old and counting – was one of the few places in the city where foreigners and locals of all ranks, faiths and backgrounds regularly congregated. In the past Leopold's had enjoyed a dubious reputation. For many years it had operated as a sort of ‘free zone', profitably ignored by the authorities, a den of genteel iniquity where all manner of shady characters conducted their business, and where tourists and Mumbaikers alike came to purchase drugs or organise illicit liaisons. And this in spite of the café's indiscreet location directly opposite the Colaba police station.

Recently, however, things had changed.

Ever since the terror attacks that claimed one hundred and sixty-four lives in Mumbai, Leopold's had become something of a beacon, a symbol of the city's indomitable spirit. The restaurant had been one of the first places attacked by the gunmen – ten people had died in the café itself – but the owners, uncowed, had reopened for business within days, sending a message to all those who thought terror could dampen the exuberance of the subcontinent's greatest city.

As Chopra looked around the bustling restaurant he noted, once again, the bullet holes in the mirrored walls, left there as a mark of respect by the café's owners for those who had fallen. The bullet holes were a reminder to all who dined at Leopold's of how ephemeral life could be.

‘All right, Chopra, what the devil is this all about?'

Chopra turned to find Detective Chief Inspector Maxwell Bomberton looming over him. Bomberton looked hot and bothered.

‘And a good day to you too, DCI Bomberton.'

Bomberton did not seem overly impressed by the fact that it was Christmas Eve in the city of Mumbai. There was a distinct absence of Yuletide spirit emanating from his robust frame. ‘Well, man, don't just sit there, spit it out!'

Chopra stiffened. ‘Garewal had nothing to do with the theft of the crown,' he said woodenly.

Bomberton glared at him, then collapsed into the seat opposite. A ceiling fan ruffled the few remaining wisps of hair on his prominent pink dome, which appeared to have been recently sunburnt.

Around them the din of the evening crowd rose and fell in a dozen languages. Food smells wafted from the kitchen as red-clad waiters buzzed between the cheap tables, where menus were trapped beneath squares of ancient, pockmarked glass. An attempt had been made to add a modicum of Christmas cheer to the proceedings – tinsel had been wrapped around the ceiling fans and a Christmas tree lurked behind the juice bar. Thankfully, the owners had drawn the line at hiring a pseudo-Santa to harangue the customers.

Chopra had considered his present course of action carefully.

The card that he had found at Bulbul Kanodia's home had convinced him that at 11 p.m. the next day the ‘long-lost national treasure' would be present at ‘The King's Ransom'. It had not taken him long to discover that this was not, in the strictest sense, a place.

The King's Ransom
was a boat.

A yacht, in fact, that belonged to one of the richest men in the country, industrialist Mohan Kartik.

This fact had bemused Chopra at first. Surely Mohan Kartik – billionaire entrepreneur and business advisor to the Indian government – could not be involved in the theft of the Koh-i-Noor diamond? And then his mood had darkened as he reflected that greed knew no boundaries and avarice was a law unto itself. There was no rule that said a billionaire could not covet something as priceless as the Koh-i-Noor. Only time would tell how dirty Mohan Kartik's hands were in this affair.

Earlier in the day Chopra had taken the time to visit another old acquaintance, Kishore Dubey, an investigative journalist at the
Mid Day
, Mumbai's daily tabloid. Dubey had all the latest celebrity gossip at his fingertips and the nose of a bloodhound. For many years he had worked for a provincial paper in the Andheri suburbs. As a consequence he had been useful to Chopra, on occasion, when he had needed the help of the local papers.

Now Dubey took the time to piece together a profile of Mohan Kartik for him. Inevitably, the former policeman had had to hold at bay his old friend's insatiable curiosity. It was too early to even hint at what he was up to, but Dubey was a veteran newsman and not about to let Chopra off without extorting a promise that if anything came of whatever it was that he was investigating, Dubey would get the exclusive.

Returning from the bustling
Mid Day
offices Chopra had realised that if he aspired to make any further progress in his investigation then he had to get on board
The King's Ransom
, a proposition that, under the best of circumstances, presented a considerable challenge. The more he had thought about the problem the more he had come to realise that he could not achieve his goal without assistance.

‘OK, let's have it.' Bomberton slouched in his seat like a shaggy hound that had just returned from an unsuccessful hunt.

Chopra frowned. ‘I was thinking we might
share
intelligence.'

Bomberton removed a handkerchief and mopped his face. ‘Keep talking, Chopra. I haven't heard anything yet to make me want to share even this sweaty handkerchief with you.'

Chopra stared at the bellicose Englishman, then nodded stiffly. ‘Very well, I will begin… I believe that the theft was carried out by a gang. One of the members of the gang was this man.' He set the photocopy of Prakash Yadav's driving licence that Rangwalla had given him down on to the table. ‘He is the one who placed the gas canisters inside the Kali statue in the Tata Gallery.'

Bomberton squinted angrily at the photograph. ‘I won't bother to ask how you cottoned on to Yadav. I suppose you went after the personnel records, same as us. We've been looking high and low for the man. Rao is determined to prove that this Yadav fellow is one of Garewal's accomplices. But the man is a ghost. He simply doesn't exist.'

‘I do not think you will find him,' said Chopra. ‘Whoever he really is.'

‘You're probably right. If I was the mastermind behind this I wouldn't leave a loose end like Yadav alive.'

‘Then there is this man…' Chopra now set down a photo of Bulbul Kanodia from the police file Sub-Inspector Surat had delivered to him. ‘He was in the Tata Gallery when it was hit. He is a former jewel fence. Now he runs a chain of jewellery stores.'

Bomberton slowly shook his head. ‘We vetted everyone in the gallery. None of the names we were given by the ticket office came back with a criminal record.'

‘That is not possible. Kanodia spent two years in Mumbai Central Prison. I myself arrested him. I have his old case file.'

‘He came up clean when we looked.'

Chopra was perplexed. ‘How can this be? Unless…' He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Someone has expunged his record.' The revelation should not have surprised him. It was one more brick in the case against Kanodia. How else could his sudden reversal of fortunes be explained? From convicted criminal to renowned businessman in the blink of an eye. Even in Mumbai this was no mean feat. And yet a clean chit was not difficult to obtain, not if you had the money and influence of the Chauhan gang behind you… At least he understood now why Rao had not brought Kanodia in for further interrogation.

‘Wouldn't be hard to arrange in this country,' said Bomberton dryly, mirroring Chopra's thoughts. He mopped his brow again. ‘Look, just because the man had a criminal record, doesn't mean he stole the crown. Maybe he had his record cleaned up because he didn't want the smell following him around. Not after he went straight.'

‘He did not go straight,' Chopra said stiffly. ‘It is my belief that Kanodia's jewellery chain is financed by organised criminals. It is my belief that they are behind the theft of the Koh-i-Noor.'

A waiter arrived and demanded an order. Bomberton bristled at the man's surly tone, but Chopra placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘The waiters here are very rude. It is part of the charm. Think of them as actors.'

Bomberton glared at the man before ordering a beer. Chopra asked for a lime water.

Around them the restaurant's patrons raised a din that spilled out into the crowded Colaba Causeway where hawkers sold all manner of kitsch – silk scarves from Shimla, ornate hookahs from the Middle East, Kashmiri carpets, alabaster deities, pirated DVDs, sequinned handbags, Kolhapuri sandals, miniature Taj Mahals, brass bugles and even antique gramophones.

‘I went to Kanodia's house today,' Chopra continued. ‘I found this.' He dug out the invitation and handed it to Bomberton.

The detective squinted at the card then threw it back on the table. ‘This could be anything.'

‘I believe this card refers to the Koh-i-Noor diamond. I believe Kanodia has invited possible buyers of the diamond to
The King's Ransom
to negotiate its sale.
The King's Ransom
is a yacht. It belongs to one of India's richest men.'

Bomberton's blue eyes evaluated Chopra. Then he picked up the card and took a second look.

Eventually he dug out a packet of cigarettes from his linen jacket and lit one. He blew a cloud of smoke over the table, then said, ‘Let's say I go along with your theory. So, on the day of the theft Kanodia's accomplices break in through the rear door of the Tata Gallery using explosives they may or may not have brought with them, retrieve the gas canisters from inside the Kali statue, set them off, wait for everyone to pass out, then break into the display case—'

‘Do you know how they did that?' Chopra interrupted. ‘That is something I have not figured out.'

Bomberton seemed to weigh up whether or not to tell Chopra, then shrugged. ‘Do you know what a resonance frequency is?'

Chopra shook his head.

‘Every material has one. It is the point at which a material will achieve maximum oscillation – or vibration – when acted upon by a force. Have you ever seen an opera singer shatter a glass using her voice?'

‘I thought that was just a myth.'

‘It's no myth. McTavish believes that the thieves used something similar. A device that created a high-pitched sound attuned to the exact structure of the glass in that particular type of display case. An unfortunate defect that the manufacturer will no doubt live to regret.'

Chopra remembered the sound he had heard just before passing out, a sound just on the edge of hearing, a sound that had set his teeth on edge.

‘So this device was also in the Kali statue?'

‘Possibly. Or else the thieves brought it in with them. It could have been concealed in any small object with an in-built speaker. A mobile phone, a camera—'

‘But those were taken away from us before we entered the museum.'

‘Something else then.'

Chopra thought about this. And then he recalled what had happened in the queue to pass through the metal scanner to enter the museum. The individual he would later identify as Bulbul Kanodia had argued with the Force One guards. He had insisted on taking in his asthma inhaler… At least this explained why Kanodia was personally present in the gallery at the time of the heist. And yet there were still questions to be answered, questions about exactly how other aspects of the plot had been carried out…