Inspector Singh Investigates (14 page)

Lust. Was it at the root of this case? Had Kian Min's lust for power finally led him to kill his brother? Kian Min, Singh guessed, would have been more than happy to have his brother out of the way. But this was a man who paid people to do his dirty work for him. That was his
modus operandi.
He paid people to chase the Penan off their land in Borneo. He paid policemen and government employees to turn a blind eye. Surely, if he wanted his brother dead, he would have paid someone to do it. But the death of Alan Lee had not looked like a professional hit. Singh was convinced that Alan had known his assailant. He would be quite content if Kian Min turned out to be the murderer. But he was not convinced it was the right solution.

What about Alan then? Was it
his
lusts that had led directly to his death? Had that girl, Sharifah, killed him when she woke up to the fact that she was just his latest conquest of the flesh, bought and paid for in cash and kind? He had been tough with the girl during her interview. He suspected Shukor had noticed. Why had he done that when it became apparent that she was not the painted tart he had anticipated? Was it because he thought she had killed Alan Lee and that he was face to face with a coldblooded killer? He pictured her young face, shorn of make–up. Singh had not spent a lifetime as a policeman to leap to conclusions based on appearances. Except, he reminded himself, that was precisely what his sergeant had accused him of doing in the case of Chelsea.

It was a pity that he was above framing likely suspects, Singh thought ruefully – at least not unless he was absolutely sure they had committed the crime. Otherwise, he would have loved to pin the murder of the loathsome Alan Lee on that equally unattractive character, Ravi. There would be a wonderful symmetry in the removal of both the exploitative men in Chelsea Liew's life. But sadly, wishful thinking did not translate into hard evidence.

Singh saw a sign that read 'Bangsar' and turned the car in that direction. At least he was familiar with the area. The petrol gauge inched towards empty. And so did his bag of suspects. There was only Marcus Lee left. God knows he had motives in spades. The regular abuse of his mother. The stolen girlfriend. He was very young, Marcus – young enough that a surge of testosterone might have given him the courage to carry out the murder. And young enough to believe he could get away with it.

He had reached Bangsar but could not for the life of him find his way out. There was only one thing to do. He parked the car neatly by the side of the road, ignoring the double yellow lines. A troop of monkeys from a nearby nature reserve screamed at him from the telephone wires. He glowered back at them but decided not to indulge in a shouting match. The monkeys moved on to a nearby bin and started methodically emptying it, chattering with excitement every time they found something tasty They glared at the inspector from time to time in case he should be considering making a grab for the food. Singh flagged down a taxi and headed for the station.

Inspector Mohammad was not at the station. He was at the Lee Building talking to Lee Kian Min. Kian Min was not amused to be at the receiving end of two visits from the police in as many days. He calmed down a little when Mohammad told him that he was just there to apologise for Sergeant Shukor's behaviour and to assure him that the policeman had been disciplined.

'He should be sacked,' asserted Kian Min, daring the inspector to contradict him.

Mohammad chose discretion. 'It was not my decision,' he said, hinting that if he was in charge, Shukor would have come out of it much the worse. 'The higher–ups thought that he should have a second chance since he is so young and had an unblemished record until the regrettable incident with you.'

'It better not happen again.'

'It won't, Mr Lee.'

Kian Min looked at the inspector expectantly. 'You want something else? I need to carry on with my work.'

'There is something you could help me with, sir.'

Kian Min did not see anything incongruous about the dignified policeman addressing someone his junior as 'sir'. If he had thought about it, he would have found it entirely appropriate.

'I'm a busy man. I don't know why you policemen don't understand that.'

'I won't take much time, sir.'

Kian Min nodded and looked at his watch. 'All right, what do you want?'

'Did you kill Alan Lee?'

'What?'

'I asked you if you killed your brother, Alan Lee?'

'What for I would do that?'

'For this!' said Mohammad, waving a careless hand at the businessman's surroundings.

'I no need to kill him to get this. I was boss of the company already.'

'That's not what I hear. My sources tell me that Alan Lee was the brains behind the success of the company.'

'Alan? The brains?' Kian Min barked with loud, angry laughter. 'Who told you that?' He jabbed his finger at the inspector to emphasise his point. 'They know nothing about Lee Timber. I have been the boss of this company since my father died. Alan was a figurehead only.'

'But what about that decision to switch to growing palm oil for bio–fuels? I read in the papers that it was Alan's last decision in charge before he was killed and the analysts think it's a stroke of genius.'

'Of course it is genius – my genius!' Kian Min was almost shouting now.

'But the newspapers ...'

Kian Min interrupted him. 'I tell you it was my idea! Alan did not even understand the business.'

Mohammad shook his head, like a man struggling to understand what he was being told.

Kian Min said, 'I thought Jasper killed Alan anyway.' 'We have reason to doubt his story,' said Mohammad stolidly.

'Really? That's a pity. But, for your information, I have nothing to do with it.'

'You think Jasper Lee did it?'

'I don't know and I don't care who killed Alan. He was useless, a piece of nothing his whole life.' There was a small speck of saliva at the corner of Kian Min's mouth.

'But you testified at the custody trial that he was a fine man, a good father and a brilliant businessman.'

'Maybe I did, I suppose ... family must stick together.'

'You've been sitting there telling me you don't care who killed your brother but it was most likely your other brother and then you expect me to believe that you felt a
family
obligation?'

Kian Min maintained a sullen reticence for a few seconds and then said, 'Well, murder not the same, right?'

'Perhaps, but perjury – giving false testimony under oath in court – is an offence.'

'I not committed perjury.'

'You lied about your brother's character. I could arrest you right now and drag you down to the police station in shackles.'

Kian Min turned pale. He said, 'How can I change your mind?'

'What are you offering?' asked Inspector Mohammad carefully.

'Some contribution to your retirement fund?'

Mohammad looked at the man across the table with an unreadable expression. 'How much?' he asked bluntly.

'A hundred thousand.'

Mohammad shook his head.

'Five hundred thousand? That should be enough. You can retire in style!'

'That's a lot of money,' said Mohammad thoughtfully.

Sharifah left her apartment hurriedly, jumped into a small Toyota sports car, no doubt another gift from Alan, and set off at top speed. Shukor, waiting in a taxi, had no difficulty following her. But when she reached the neighbourhood where Alan Lee had his mansion, she drove past the house slowly, turned around, parked the car at the bottom of the street and waited. Shukor disembarked from the taxi some way up the street, paid off the driver and sat at a bus stop. He did not think she would spot him. Her whole concentration was on the street, watching cars and people with a fierce intensity. He was obscured by bushes and passers–by and had a newspaper for verisimilitude. But how long were they going to sit there? If she was planning to warn Marcus, she needed to be quicker about it.

The gates to the Lee residence opened. A Mercedes Benz purred out. Shukor, watching Sharifah, saw her duck down silently so the car she was in looked driverless. He wondered at this until he glimpsed the passenger in the back seat. It was Chelsea, her face partially obscured by a very large pair of sunglasses. Shukor realised that Sharifah must have been waiting for her to go out – unable to face the wife.

Sharifah waited a few minutes and then got out of the car. She walked slowly up the hill, each step laboured and reluctant. Shukor stayed a safe distance away but there was no danger of Sharifah turning around. All her attention was on the shiny gold gates of Marcus's home. She reached the entrance, looked around for the bell, found it and gave it a good, long ring. She spoke a few words into the mike and the gates swung open mysteriously. Sharifah took a few tentative steps forward. The gates shut behind her.

Shukor found a shady spot under an acacia tree, and waited for her to come out, whiling away the time by weaving a flower out of the crescent–shaped leaves as his sisters had done when they were young.

Sharifah was terrified. She tried to remember when she had ever been so scared. Perhaps it was the time when she had fallen into the swimming pool and her father had rescued her – but only after she had gone under a couple of times and experienced the raw panic of a four–year–old unable to breathe or swim. It was a not dissimilar sensation she felt now, she thought. Her chest was constricted, her movements slow and uncoordinated, her skin tingling with nerves. The housemaid was at the door as she walked up the long drive. She was ushered in, led to a sitting room, invited to sit down on a comfortable sofa and offered a drink which she declined. Sharifah explained she was a schoolfriend of Marcus.

The maid said, 'I will fetch Master Marcus. May I know your name, please.'

She said, 'I'm Sharifah. But please don't tell him. Just say it's someone from school. I want to surprise him.'

The maid nodded. She was pleased to be part of a conspiracy to cheer up the young master. He had been so miserable for so long now. It was like her mother had always said, wealth didn't make you happy. The young Filipina, leaving her farm in Mindanao to seek employment abroad, had never believed her. Surely the worst state of existence was to be poor, to never be sure that there would be enough money to feed a sprawling, hungry family. She knew better now. Since her job with the Lee family, she had truly understood how lucky she was to belong to a big loving family where everyone looked out for each other. She smiled again at the young, beautiful visitor. She noticed that the girl looked pale. Perhaps there was something more here than met the eye. This could be a girlfriend. She could not fail to cheer Marcus up.

Marcus was slumped in bed playing with a portable Gameboy. He wore the same clothes he had gone to bed in. He smelt, not just of alcohol and cigarettes, but also rancid and unwashed. The maid hoped the girlfriend was the tolerant sort. Marcus, however, had no inclination to drag himself out of bed and go down to his guest.

'Who is it?' he asked irritably.

'I did not ask,' said the maid.

'You know you're always supposed to ask.'

'Yes, Master Marcus. I just forgot.'

'Well, just find out who it is and send him away.'

'Why don't you just come down and say "hello"? Maybe it will make you in a good mood?'

Marcus snorted and then remembered that one of his schoolmates owed him some money. That must be who it was. And he wanted to ask Charlie Hua whether he could get him something to smoke that would help him forget his profound misery. This would be a good time to do it. Charlie was plugged in to all the pushers who hung around the school. And he owed Marcus a favour for lending him money when he had been a bit short. He had said at the time that the loan would save him from a good beating, or worse. Marcus got to his feet.

'All right, I'll see him.'

The maid did not think this was a good time to mention that the visitor was female.

'What are you doing here?' Marcus didn't shout. His voice was barely audible. But anger ran through the words like a major artery. 'Get out of my house!'

She cowered, as if his words were physical blows. Her shoulders shook and she wrapped her arms around herself – part defensive gesture, part an attempt to stop the trembling.

She tried to speak. 'Marcus ...'

He screamed this time. 'No, I don't want to know. Get out!'

She didn't know how to break through his wall of anger. It had an almost physical quality. It was an impenetrable barrier between them. She tried again. 'I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important.'

She rushed the words, got them out, but he did not appear to have heard them. He was still staring at her as if she was some sort of apparition. One small part of his brain noticed her pallor. She had lost weight and was not wearing make up as she had done in those last days with his father.

She said again, 'You have to listen to me, Marcus. This is important or I wouldn't be here.'

Somehow that got through. 'You have something important to tell me? That's a change, isn't it? The last time you had something
important
that you should have told me, you didn't bother, did you? But maybe – just maybe – I would have been just a little bit interested to know that my girlfriend was sleeping with my father.'

The words dripped with sarcasm, but the voice was still pure, undiluted anger.

Sharifah thought she had known, had guessed, how much she must have hurt him. But now she looked at the thin, young boy in front of her and realised that she had no idea what he must have gone through. She lacked the imagination to comprehend what a betrayal like hers could have done to a sensitive character like Marcus.

She said, 'God, Marcus. I am so sorry. I could not have been worse or done worse and I will never forgive myself as I know you will never forgive me.'

He shook his head, as if her words were like a mosquito buzzing in his ear at night time.

'But I must talk to you. You must listen to me.'

Marcus stared at her fixedly, unblinkingly.