The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown by Vaseem Khan

downstairs in my van. And tell him to dress appropriately. Associate private detectives do not carry out their work in string vests and shorts.’
    As Chopra walked back down the stairs he reflected on how quickly a man’s self-respect could be taken from him. So much of what a man
was
was tied up in what he
did
. He recalled the dark days earlier in the year when he himself had been forced to make the transition from police inspector to ordinary citizen. He fully understood Rangwalla’s sense of helplessness.
    At the same time he knew that the police service’s loss was his gain. He could not have found a better man to help him at the agency. Rangwalla had the street smarts and dubious connections that Chopra himself could never hope to attain. Rangwalla was a man bred for police work, particularly the kind that required one to get one’s hands dirty. Chopra had no doubt that under different circumstances, his former lieutenant would have made an excellent criminal.
    Rangwalla was truly a rare breed of pigeon and Chopra was delighted he could help out his old colleague whilst helping himself too.
    Inside the van Ganesha greeted him with a swift trumpet of recrimination.
    He raised his trunk and patted his jutting lower lip. This was a sign that Ganesha was hungry. Chopra realised his own stomach was rumbling. It was well past lunchtime. Ganesha, he knew, preferred to conduct investigations on a full stomach.
    Once Rangwalla had joined them, they stopped at a Punjabi dhaba.
    The smell of butter chicken and tandoori roti always filled Chopra with nostalgia for his historic homeland in the state of Punjab, in spite of the fact that he had never been there. His ancestors had moved down to Maharashtra a few short generations ago and he himself had been born in the village of Jarul in the state’s Aurangabad district. He was now as Marathi as the next Maharashtrian – indeed, Poppy came from a noted Marathi clan.
    As they ate, Chopra asked Rangwalla how he had ended up being sacked from the service.
    â€˜ACP Rao,’ Rangwalla elucidated. ‘After the trafficking ring investigation, he blamed you for the CBI picking him up. As you know he used his connections to get his neck out of the noose and transfer into the CBI himself. Because you had already left the force he couldn’t do anything to you. But he found out that I had helped you. And so he came after me instead. He accused me of beating a suspect to such an extent that the man ended up in hospital.’
    â€˜Did you?’
    â€˜No.’
    Chopra continued to stare at Rangwalla, who had the decency to blush.
    â€˜I mean I may have beaten him a
little
, but no more than usual. Certainly not enough to put him in hospital. The man had beaten his own wife into a coma. He was drunk and resisted arrest. When I threw him in the cells he was absolutely fine. But after Rao interviewed him, the man claimed I had all but killed him. A day later a fake medical report turned up. And that was that.’
    â€˜Well, old friend, it seems that Rao continues to be a thorn in both our sides.’
    Quickly Chopra brought Rangwalla up to speed on his investigation into the theft of the Crown of Queen Elizabeth and the predicament of Shekhar Garewal.
    Rangwalla confessed that even in his present depressed state the case had captured his attention. It had been all over the news. The Indian government had, that very morning, announced an enormous reward for information leading to the return of the diamond. Within a few short hours hundreds of innocent people had been implicated in the crime and dozens of Koh-i-Noor diamonds had been delivered to the authorities. So far each and every one had turned out to be a fake.
    Rangwalla snorted cynically. ‘It’s as if they don’t know their fellow countrymen at all.’
    â€˜This case is a tricky one,’ said Chopra, as he slopped up the last of his butter chicken. ‘These thieves were