Read Inspector Singh Investigates Online
Authors: Shamini Flint
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural, #International Mystery & Crime
'Why didn't you walk out then?'
'I'm not sure. Why don't women walk out? I used to read all the women's magazines – full of good advice to women trapped in abusive relationships. I didn't even
really
believe I was one of them. I remember thinking to myself, he might hit me once in a while but at least I'm not one of those battered wives. Of course, in reality, I was a textbook case. In denial, for my own sake, for my self–respect. For the sake of the children. I don't really know. Alan' – it was the first time since meeting the inspector that she had used her husband's name and he duly noted it – 'would always have some excuse – he was stressed with work and just snapped, I had spent too much time talking to some man at a party ... He was always apologetic afterwards. He would bring me gifts, take me out, he would even cry with remorse. I doubted myself. Perhaps it
was
somehow my fault. He had seemed a good man when I married him. Perhaps I was a really lousy wife, a lousy person to have changed him into something so awful. Maybe I was a slut – talking to men at parties.'
She tossed her head, a glint of pride. 'It's hard to believe now, but there was a time when men would seek my company.'
He looked at her. Hair drawn back. Pale. Hollow cheeked. Defiant. Meeting his eyes – challenging him to disbelieve that the wreck she was had been a new model once.
'I imagine men would seek your company if you walked out of this prison today,' he remarked.
She was embarrassed. A hint of pink, the first colour he had seen, flushed through the translucent skin.
She said, 'Oh! Those would just be the reporters.'
He felt the first stirrings of genuine engagement with the welfare of this woman.
A loud knock on the door put an end to the conversation. It was time for her to go back to her cell.
They both stood outside the prison, young policeman and old. The inspector squinted against the sun. Sergeant Shukor pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and slipped them on. His wrap–around, ski–style, black shades added to his air of danger and competence. The inspector tried to recall if he had ever looked the part of a professional policeman in the way that the younger man did. He doubted it. He looked down at his sneakers, having to crane to see past his ample stomach. They were extremely grubby after a few days in the dust and grime of Kuala Lumpur. He looked around. The entire city had the feel of a place where contracts for upkeep and beau–tification were handed out to companies with connections rather than competence. The pavement on which he stood had been relaid with shaped tiles intended to create floral patterns. Most were cracked, some were missing – tiles were unevenly laid or had popped up under the intense sun. It was impossible to walk along and think – every moment had to be spent avoiding twisting an ankle. Instead of leafy trees to provide some shade, palms were planted at regular intervals. These were a recent addition, propped up with lengths of wood. Fairy lights were decoratively coiled around each trunk. The wires made the tree look like it was set up for death by electrocution.
The inspector sighed and kicked at a protruding piece of pavement. 'Whose bright idea was this anyway?'
Sergeant Shukor shrugged, a gesture of resignation made powerful by the breadth of his shoulders. He was not going to defend the uneven pavements from criticism. No sense of misplaced national pride was called for – especially as he himself had just stubbed his toe.
And yet, the inspector thought, Kuala Lumpur had a certain something. It was difficult to put his finger on what it was exactly. There was a sense of freedom perhaps, of anarchy even, that Singapore so sorely lacked. Perhaps it was the lack of deference to authority, the physical space, the ability to take a step back and enjoy a moment of quiet that lent Kuala Lumpur its atmosphere. Singaporeans were always adding to the list of reasons each one kept to hand, in case they met a Malaysian, of why it was so much better on the island than the peninsula. They ranged from law and order to cleanliness, from clean government to good schools, and always ended on the strength of the Singaporean economy. But in the end, the Malaysian would nod, as if to agree to the points made – and then shrug to indicate that they probably wouldn't trade passports, not really. And if pressed for a reason they would fall back on that old chestnut which somehow seemed to capture everything that was wrong about Singapore – but your government bans chewing gum. The nanny state and the police state all rolled into one.
Singh dragged himself back to the issue at hand and said, 'OK, let's start at the top. If Chelsea did not murder her husband, who did?'
'You believe her, sir?'
'Yes, I do,' said Inspector Singh firmly.
Shukor sighed. He could smell trouble. One blundering Singaporean policeman stampeding all over a cut and dried case was not what Inspector Mohammad had wanted when he assigned Shukor to babysit. He liked the policeman from Singapore – he was honest, direct and seemed to care about the people involved in the case. They were not just ciphers to him. But this bee in his bonnet about Chelsea's innocence was unhelpful. They only had her denial to go on. How was it that was enough to convince the senior policeman? He came with a big reputation for success and a bad one for being his own man. He hadn't got either by being gullible.
Singh interrupted his train of thought. 'Well? Who else do we have?'
Shukor said, 'I have no idea, sir.'
'All right. There's work to be done then. Let's go find out who killed Alan Lee.'
Six
The lunchtime meal of the Lee family had evolved substantially over time. The staple of the early days, when the Lee patriarch used to preside over the table, was the mega–meal of the food–loving Chinese. In his day, the senior Lee would arrive home for lunch in a chauffeured limousine, the Mercedes Benz so beloved for the status it conferred as well as its robust build. One of his two wives would have cooked. Numerous dishes would be served – all designed for general health and well–being. Judicious use of longevity herbs and a sprinkling of powders purchased from the apothecary – selected after careful consultation from the rows of jars behind the counter – would, when combined correctly, give the body the perfect balance of elements.
Chelsea Liew, product of a different generation, would usually have a sandwich, carefully crafted by the maid – tuna mixed with onions and garlic diced fine, a hint of lime squeezed in – or perhaps a baked vegetable sandwich – aubergine and pumpkin taken out of the oven when softened to perfection, crispy round the edges, sprinkled with sesame seeds and served between two slices of brown bread, a far cry from her childhood meals of
congee
with fried anchovies.
Alan Lee would usually eat at one of the high–end Kuala Lumpur restaurants – fine
dim sum
at the Mandarin Oriental Chinese restaurant with a view of the Twin Towers – tallest buildings in the world in the recent past, now superseded by the national equivalent of penis–envy in some other country with big ambitions. Or Alan would eat Western food, a sign of personal success, indicating to the world that he did not merely have wealth, but class as well, as manifested by his cosmopolitan tastes. Even French
nouvelle cuisine
was available to the new elite of Kuala Lumpur. Gone were the days when the only 'Western' dish available was the chicken chop and chips at the Coliseum cafe on Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman. Despite this, quite a few members of this select, wealthy club would stop at a stall on the way back to the office to purchase a top–up meal of
laksa
or
roti chanai.
Alan Lee himself had not been averse to substantiating a meal with a packet of noodles bought on the way back to his gleaming office.
Kian Min, the workaholic, ate little and usually at his desk. His secretary would buy a packed lunch before she left for her own break. She had long since given up trying to work out what it was he wanted or liked. Now, keen that purchasing lunch for the boss should not encroach on her own free time, she usually bought him something from a nearby food court, her choice as to his meal based entirely on the length of the queues at the different outlets. Kian Min was indifferent and did not seem to notice if he was fed a leathery lamb steak, an oily biryani rice or fried noodles.
*
Much had changed recently in the dining habits of the Lee family. Chelsea was in prison, picking over a mess of white rice and unidentifiable gravy. The two younger children of Alan and Chelsea were being served bowls of
congee
with finely sliced ginger and fish cakes. The eldest, Marcus Lee, had refused lunch because he had a hangover.
Jasper Lee, back from his fleeting visit to Borneo, was at a Chinese coffee shop. Since leaving the family business, he had managed on a shoestring budget, eschewing by choice his prior lifestyle. He sat on a stool at a brown, Formica–topped table. The four–legged stools were from Ikea. Their aluminium stools with plastic coloured seats were cheaper than the rattan or wooden ones that used to adorn cheap restaurants. Jasper paused to regret yet another casualty of globalisation, unnoticed and hardly regretted, but affecting some of the charm that had once been prevalent at food outlets, even those as grubby as this one.
The smell of
koay teow
frying, the flames leaping around the wok, perched on a portable stove and attached by a rubber tube to a nearby gas tank, triggered an explosion of gastric juices in his stomach and sent a sharp stab of acidic pain towards his chest. The meal, with a glass of fresh icy soya bean juice, would cost less than five ringgit. Despite this, Jasper knew he would enjoy it far more than the expensive dishes of exotic, endangered species with self–consciously lyrical names that an expensive Chinese restaurant would offer him.
The cook wiped the sweat from his brow and a few drops fell into the wok, sizzling against the hot sides. He said to Jasper, 'Want extra chilli?' and when Jasper nodded, scooped up a gob with a spatula from a large plastic container and flicked it in.
Jasper tucked in heartily. In the old days, he would have been unable to eat under pressure as great as he was suffering now. But years on his own had taught him that a failure to eat regularly only exacerbated the nature of the problem he faced. He picked the mussels out of his food carefully. One slipped through his guard, filling his mouth with its stale metallic taste – like the warm iron taste of blood. He almost gagged but managed to spit it out, half chewed.
A cat slipped out from a drain where it had been waiting for just such a moment. Heavily pregnant with large teats almost brushing the ground and a mangy coat through which ribs were visible, the cat was no different from the hundreds of other strays that lived in the vicinity of hawker centres and fought over scraps while avoiding the odd kick from a disgusted patron. Jasper felt sorry for the beast. Leaving money wedged under his empty glass, he quickly tipped his plate onto the floor. The cat barely waited for him to step away before attacking the food with the ferocity of a mother driven by a biological imperative to look after her unborn young.
Crudely, it put him in mind of his brother's wife, Chelsea. It was no hardship for anyone to believe that she had gunned down his brother to protect her children. He did not feel any anger towards this woman accused of killing Alan. Instead, he wondered what she had eaten for lunch. He had no idea what prison food in Malaysia involved. He shuddered and then steeled himself. He had made up his mind what to do. There was no turning back now.
His father had accused him of being feckless and disloyal when he had walked out of the family home. He had always felt that it was the ounce of truth in those accusations which had made them so hard to bear. Perhaps his principled stand about the family business, his desire to wash his hands of what he saw as tainted money, tainted wealth, boiled down to his inability to live up to his father's expectations. It was easier to walk away than admit failure.
He would run away now if he could.
'Let's start at the beginning and do things the old–fashioned way,' said Inspector Singh.
Shukor hazarded a guess. He had begun to understand the other policeman's elliptical references. 'Who gains from the death of Alan Lee?'
'Yes.'
'No will has turned up.'
'So the kids get everything? How old are they?'
'The oldest boy is seventeen, the others are twelve and seven.'
'Three boys, huh? I suppose that the oldest might have fancied some spare cash if his father kept him short?' The inspector did not sound convinced by his own accusation.
Shukor said, 'It's more complicated than that, sir.'
'What do you mean?'
'If it is finally agreed that he died a Moslem, the Islamic laws on intestacy are not the same as for non–Moslems.'
Singh rolled his eyes. 'Give it to me straight. Who gets the incredible wealth of Alan Lee under Islamic law?'
'To be frank, sir, I don't know. But I think there will be shares for all the family – the brothers as well as the sons, maybe even Chelsea.'
'Let's not bring Chelsea back into it. She has motives to spare. But the brothers might get something?'
'I'll check with a lawyer, sir – but probably, yes.'
The inspector looked thoughtful.
Shukor said diffidently, 'There's one more thing, sir.'
'One more thing? What is it this time?'
The younger man smiled. 'The family holding in Lee Timber ... It was placed in a trust by the father. Kian Min inherits after Alan.'
'What?'
'Kian Min gets Lee Timber, sir. It is only the rest of the wealth, cash, property and so on, that is divided up amongst the rest of the family.'
'You know something, Shukor? It sounds to me like Lee Kian Min had a damn good motive to do away with his brother.'
Jasper Lee walked to his appointment concentrating on the here and now. He walked along the kerb in dusty shoes looking at his feet as he put one ahead of the other. He noticed that he walked with quick, small strides and consciously slowed down. There was no particular hurry. He noted the plastic bags and cans collected around the base of every tree. He listened to the horns blaring on the road beside him. He looked at the passengers interestedly, absorbing their uniform expressions of frustration and anger at the traffic jam they found themselves in. The fumes from revving cars with nowhere to go made him feel light–headed. He breathed deeply. Not even the perfect dawn air, deep in the jungles of Borneo, had filled him with such a lust for life as the whiff of carbon monoxide that afternoon. The evening sun's rays, peeping through the forest leaves and turning everything to gold, did not have the same power to enchant him as the blazing afternoon sun on his bare head.
Jasper understood now why people talked about their lives flashing before their eyes. In his case, it was not so much his whole life but a highlights reel. Peculiarly, he was neither seeing his past nor reliving it. It was the sensations associated with significant moments that flowed over him. He heard the door slam behind him as he left home for the last time, smelt the scent of the woman he loved the first time he met her, felt the wind rush through his hair as he piloted his little plane high above the rainforests. It was a mosaic of emotion and experience, a reward for doing the right thing.
Jasper Lee walked into the Bukit Aman police station and cleared his throat to catch the attention of the duty sergeant, who was immersed in the sports pages of the afternoon tabloid, his half–eaten packet of rice and curry, wrapped in banana leaf and newspaper and tied up with a rubber band, on the desk in front of him. The policeman dragged himself away from his newspaper long enough to look up and ask grumpily, 'Ya?'
Jasper Lee said firmly, without hesitation, 'I have come to confess to the murder of my brother, Alan Lee.'
Seven
The young man of mixed parentage looked at himself in the mirror. It was a full–length, teak–bordered mirror set in the lightest part of the room. Ravi liked what he saw. His stone–washed jeans were moulded across his thighs and artistically frayed at the knees. He had bought them like that, of course. He'd never worn a piece of clothing long enough to wear it out. He wore a black T–shirt firmly tucked into low–cut, hip–hugging denim jeans and a broad belt with a square, masculine buckle. His hair was cut close to a well–shaped head. He looked good, he thought. He took care of himself. He exercised daily at a big, glass–enclosed gym. He looked after his skin and his hair. But he made sure to keep his look natural. Only he knew the effort that went into his careless good looks.
Looking at his reflection with admiration, he could not understand why Chelsea had refused to see him. After all, he had taken a big risk asking for her. Nobody knew about him. About them. He had been willing to take a chance on being found out but she had rebuffed his attempt without even the courtesy of seeing him first. A policeman had broken the news to him, the smirk on his face suggesting he was being laughed at because a woman in jail, whose options for company were limited, did not want to see him.
Mind you, she had rebuffed his early efforts to get to know her as well. But he had played his cards well. He, Ravi, was experienced in the ways of rich, lonely women. He had maintained a physical distance. He had treated Chelsea with studious, old–fashioned courtesy, listening to her stories with a sympathetic ear. He had never once put himself first in his dealings with her. Finally, she had started to open up, unburden herself. Really talk to him. As he had guessed from the start – it was the same with the other abused women he had targeted – she was only too willing to sleep with him the moment she started talking to him. For women like Chelsea Liew, the commitment was communication. Sex was a reward to men who had earned her trust.
They had managed their relationship very well. The husband had never suspected. Alan Lee had been a little bit too confident that he had beaten his wife into submission. It was easy to arrange assignations. Interludes between shopping trips while the kids were in school. He had Chelsea precisely where he wanted her – dependent on him for emotional solace and physical pleasure. The small gifts she gave him had turned into cash handouts.
But to his intense annoyance, she had broken off all contact the minute the custody battle for the children had begun. He had protested that they were discreet, nobody need find out about their liaison, but she was firm. She was not going to give her husband any ammunition in the battle for the children. She, who was alleging adultery as grounds for divorce and custody, did not intend to be caught, literally, with her pants around her ankles. Ravi had hoped to go back to the well a few more times. But if it was not possible, he could live with that. He knew when to cut his losses and walk away. There were plenty of other rich, lonely women in Kuala Lumpur.
But then Alan Lee had been killed. What a euphoric moment. He smiled at the recollection of his own short–lived delight. He had sent her a letter immediately, professing undying love, predicting a future together, talking about his willingness to be a father to her children. She did not respond but he had not been worried. He knew she had been too busy and careful during the divorce and custody hearings to have replaced him. With the husband out of the way, he would soon insinuate himself back into her good graces, her bed and hopefully marriage –his ticket to the good life.
He could not believe it when Chelsea was arrested for murder. His golden goose was about to be hanged from the neck. And to add insult to injury, she would not even see him. He kicked the bed in frustration and scuffed one of his ankle boots. Taking a piece of cloth, he sat on the bed and started polishing the spot with neat circular movements.
Sergeant Shukor's mobile phone rang. He extricated the phone with his left hand. His right hand was still soiled from tucking into his lunch of
roti telur
and dhal curry. He was sitting across from Inspector Singh, the table so small that they were generating static between their trousered knees. The inspector ignored the contortions of his Malaysian colleague as he tried to answer the phone with one hand. He wiped his plate clean with his last piece of
thosai –
an Indian bread made with rice and lentil flour. He had eaten three without pausing for conversation. The sergeant was nodding his head, listening to the man at the other end of the phone. He waved his hand in the air, signalling for the bill. Inspector Singh glared at him, indicating with a curt shake of the head that the sergeant was being premature, the older policeman fancied some dessert.
But his subordinate tapped the phone suggestively. Whatever the message was, it could not wait. As the bill arrived, Inspector Singh took a handful of grubby ringgit from his pocket and tossed them on the table. With a nod to the old Punjabi man with a snowy white beard to the middle of his chest, Inspector Singh followed Shukor out into the blazing sunshine and blinked as his eyes watered in the unexpected light. They were standing close to Masjid Jamek or Jamek mosque, built at the confluence of two rivers. The rivers themselves, small and muddy brown with concrete embankments, looked like large drains. Any romance attached to their presence in the heart of Kuala Lumpur had been ruined by the need to shore them up to prevent landslips. But the mosque itself was an exquisite building, Moorish in design and perfectly proportioned.
Sergeant Shukor stood with pursed lips and hands on hips.
'What's the matter? What's happened?' asked the inspector.
'There's been a confession.'
'A confession? Chelsea has confessed?' Singh's heart sank. He had been quite wrong about her.
'No. Not her. The brother! Jasper Lee has just confessed.'
'Confessed to what?'
'His brother's murder!'
'But why? Why did he kill Alan Lee?'
'No idea, lah!' exclaimed the young policeman. 'Let's go and find out.'
The Malaysian police now had two people in jail for the murder of Alan Lee and Inspector Singh was incensed.
'Why can't you just release her?' he asked angrily.
'You should understand, Inspector. We cannot release her until the prosecutor drops the charges or the judge dismisses the case. The prosecutor won't dismiss the case yet because he doesn't know the details of this new confession – maybe Jasper Lee and the widow were working together?'
'Don't be ridiculous!' snapped the inspector.
Inspector Mohammad shrugged.
'OK, why doesn't the judge order her release?'
'Holiday, I'm afraid,' he said laconically.
'What?'
'The judge is on holiday.'
Inspector Singh kicked the table. It was the height of rudeness to his Malaysian counterpart but he could not bottle up his frustration. Chelsea Liew was innocent but they would not let her go.
'What about another bail application?'
'Her lawyer is working on it, I believe. I wouldn't worry, Singh. She'll be out soon enough.'
The fight went out of him. Singh, of all people, knew the bureaucracy of a police force. He, who always found himself swamped by paperwork. The Malaysian police were not going to come out of this smelling of roses having incarcerated the beautiful mother of three children while a murderer roamed free. They were not going to compound any errors by acting hastily at this late stage. He would have to bide his time. More importantly, Chelsea Liew would have to bide her time until her release.
Inspector Mohammad was looking at his Singaporean colleague with interest. 'You were convinced she was innocent, weren't you? I mean, even before this confession from the brother.'
Inspector Singh nodded.
'Why? On what grounds?'
Singh thought hard, understanding that the policeman was asking him a serious question, genuinely wondering why the Singaporean had been so sure that Chelsea was innocent, when all the facts pointed the other way. Finally, he said, 'I'm not sure I was convinced, to be honest. But she had so much strength and what looked like ... integrity, I thought I'd take her word for it and look around for another possibility. And there seemed to be a few about –although I never suspected Jasper.'
Mohammad nodded ruefully. 'Well, I owe you an apology, I suppose. I was sure she'd done it. Didn't look under many rocks after that ... '
It was handsomely said and Singh's respect for the man increased. He shook the Malaysian's hand and realised there was nothing to prevent him catching a taxi to the airport and hopping on a shuttle back to Singapore. His work was done albeit without any actual input from himself. He had been sent to see that Chelsea got a fair deal. The outcome was even better than that. She would walk free. His superiors in Singapore would have to find some other way of forcing him into early retirement. He debated asking Shukor to take him to the airport and then thought better of it. He had a curiosity to see how things turned out. He would hang around for a few days.
Inspector Mohammad, with that perspicuity that Singh was beginning to recognise, must have guessed his reluctance to leave just yet.
He said, 'Would you like to sit in on the interview with Jasper Lee?'
It was an olive branch to the Singapore police officer. Inspector Singh seized it at once. The men set off for the labyrinth of detention cells. It was not hard to believe that anyone incarcerated here would be prepared to confess to just about any crime. It was harder to see why Jasper Lee, a free man, had decided to subject himself to this place.
It was an interview with Jasper Lee but he was not saying much. The Malaysian policemen were persistent, repeating themselves, demanding answers –pointing out that he was putting his head in a noose. The self–confessed murderer was indifferent. If anything, he seemed slightly amused by their efforts.
He said again, 'I've told you I killed him, shot him in the chest. What more do you want?'
'What weapon did you use?'
'What do you think?' asked Jasper cuttingly. 'A gun, of course.'
'What sort of gun?'
'How do I know? The kind you point and shoot.'
'Where did you get it?'
Jasper shrugged. 'You can always buy these things if you really want to.'
His insouciance was starting to visibly irritate the policeman asking the questions. Inspector Singh suspected that if he had not been there, they might have considered roughing him up by now. And he could see why they might be tempted. This man, voluntarily confessing to murder and somehow finding it amusing,
was
extremely tiresome. Or perhaps he was doing the Malaysian police a disservice. He could not picture the placid Sergeant Shukor beating up a prisoner. As for Inspector Mohammad, he was the most correct gentleman Singh had ever come across. The idea of him laying a finger on anyone was ludicrous. On the other hand, Singh reminded himself, this was the country where a top policeman had given the deputy prime minister a black eye. It would not do to be sanguine.
Inspector Singh looked at Jasper curiously. He had, in all his experience, never met a self–confessed murderer who took such pleasure in his role. Jasper Lee was still in civilian clothing. Despite his confession he had not been charged yet. The police preferred to ask him questions first – so unexpected was his arrival on the scene. He was a small, plump man. Conservatively, but casually, dressed. Not handsome like his brother Alan had been. In fact, fate had rather cruelly made him a caricature of his good–looking younger brother. He was shorter and rounder, with receding hair and protruding ears –like the drawings done on the spot at tourist venues for easily amused visitors. Jasper had a mole on one cheek from which grew a couple of 'lucky' hairs. Traditional Chinese believed that a mole with hair brought luck. It was not uncommon to see older men twirling those strands of hair in the same way that men of other cultures twirled their moustaches.
Despite his bravado, there were bags under Jasper Lee's dark eyes and, behind his black, plastic frames, he looked tired. He was cheerful now but he had been losing sleep in the recent past, perhaps weighing up his decision to come in and confess. It took courage to face a mandatory death penalty.
Inspector Singh asked, 'Why did you kill him?'
Inspector Mohammad's lips thinned with displeasure that the inspector from Singapore was taking advantage of the situation to insert himself into the interview process. He did not, however, interrupt. He was curious to hear the answer to the question. None was forthcoming. Singh asked again, 'Why did you do it? There must be some explanation! He was your brother.'
Jasper Lee shrugged. 'Any number of reasons actually. Alan Lee was cruel and corrupt. I despised him for what he was doing to the environment. He deserved to die for that alone.'
'What?' ejaculated Inspector Singh. 'You killed your brother to stop him cutting down a few trees?'
'Yes. It's not just a few trees, is it? He and his cronies are cutting swathes through the jungles of Borneo. Bribing, or if that fails, intimidating everyone who gets in their way. Men like him are destroying the rainforests. Sometimes, if you want to protect something you care about, you have to take extreme steps.'
Sergeant Shukor had the last surprised word in the face of the unexpected motive. He said, '
You dah gila, ke?'
Have you gone quite mad?
Eight
'He's lying,' said Chelsea flatly.
The inspector stared at her in surprise. He asked, 'What do you mean?'
She said again, 'Jasper's lying. He did not kill Alan.'
'He confessed!'
She shook her head angrily. 'I don't care. Jasper is not capable of killing anyone. He's far too gentle. He wouldn't know where to begin!'
'Why would he confess then?'
'How do I know? Maybe one of your chums beat him up.'
Inspector Singh took a deep breath, trying to keep a lid on his temper. This woman was being incredibly obtuse. And he didn't understand why. She might be a former model. But she did not fit the stereotype. She was far too smart not to see the implications of what she was asserting so forcefully.
He said patiently, 'For your information, I've just been with Jasper Lee while the Malaysian police interviewed him. No one laid a finger on him. They didn't have to. I've never seen anyone confess to premeditated murder with such enthusiasm.'
Chelsea Liew snorted. A derisive, disbelieving sound.
The inspector continued, 'You do realise what you are saying, don't you? His confession gets you off the hook. Your lawyers are applying for bail again. The prosecutor is bound to drop the charges. Or the judge will dismiss them. You will soon be a free woman!'
Chelsea Liew looked at the inspector in disgust. 'You think I'm better off because some
other
innocent goes to the gallows?'
The fat man said indignantly, 'Actually, yes – I do think it's better that they hang the man who confesses to a murder rather than a battered wife and mother of three who has protested her innocence all along!'
Singh was alone in the cell with Chelsea. The Malaysian police had left it to him to break the news of Jasper's confession to her – quietly washing their hands of the Singaporean whom they had wrongly held in custody for one long month. He was more than willing to be the bearer of such good news to a woman who had given up hope. He had pictured her surprise as colour flooded back into her pale face. Instead, he had this unexpected, persistent denial. The worry lines between her eyes had deepened. He did not understand it. He tried again.
'Nobody who's innocent confesses to a murder where the penalty is certain death.'
'In your experience?' she asked, her voice tinged with sarcasm.
He was stung by this and snapped angrily, 'In my many, many years of experience, yes!'
She was sitting on her chair, sunk slightly into it, knees higher than her lap with two arms around them. Now she uncoiled and stood, looking down at him from her greater height.
She said, enunciating each word carefully, as if talking to a child or an idiot, 'Jasper Lee did not kill anyone.'
He grabbed her arm. 'There is only one way you could know that for sure!'
She wrenched free angrily. 'Now you are accusing me of murder again? No! I am not confessing ... unlike the combined talent of the Singapore and Malaysian police force, I just know an innocent person when I see one.'
He changed tactics. 'Fine! What does it matter to you whether he did it or not? You get out and go home to your kids!'
She sat down heavily on the seat again, adopting her previous upright, semi–foetal position. Defensive, tired but not quite defeated.
She said, 'I will. I will do that. I owe it to my children not to walk away from an open door. But then I will work to clear Jasper's name!'
Singh said tiredly, 'That could land you right back in here.'
'So be it.'
'Jasper has confessed!'
The man at the other end of the phone could hear the excitement in Kian Min's voice. He asked, 'That means we can go ahead?'
There was a silence punctuated by static crackling on the line.
Again the question was asked. 'Mr Lee, are you there? Can we go ahead?'
After a few more long moments of hesitation, 'Yes, OK. You can go ahead!'
Wai Ming, who preferred to be known as Bruce –after his boyhood idol, Bruce Lee – punched the air once. Then he walked out of his trailer and shouted in dialect, 'The time for waiting is over!'
For those among the band of ruffians lounging around outside who did not understand him the first time, he repeated himself in Malay. A muted cheer could be heard from the men. One or two stubbed out cigarettes, a couple of others went back to the job of oiling and cleaning their guns with extra care. Someone switched off the TV, powered by an outdoor generator that drowned out the sound of the Malay–dubbed Brazilian soap opera which was playing grainily. A native Iban sharpened his
parang,
a powerful blade ten inches long, against a stone. The metallic sounds and flying sparks scared away a pair of hornbills sitting on a branch overhead.
The dew hung like individual teardrops at the tip of each leaf. A fine mist reduced visibility slightly. It was still cool. It would take a while for the sun to penetrate the canopy and warm the jungle at ground level. A nightjar brushed the cheek of one of the men as it rushed home to bed. He flinched slightly. It was an unlucky bird, an ill omen to see on an expedition. They were walking single file along the riverbank. On their left, the muddy brown Rajang moved sluggishly through Borneo towards the South China Sea. A sudden excited chattering broke the stillness of the jungle. The men, acting of one mind, stopped in their tracks. Overhead, a group of macaque monkeys, disturbed by the appearance of their simian cousins, gesticulated excitedly. They soon got tired of this sport and made off as a unit deeper into the jungle. The men started again, keeping their eyes peeled, scanning the horizon for telltale signs of human activity. They kept a close eye on the river, wary of crocodiles masquerading as logs, on the lookout for an easy breakfast.
Chelsea Liew's eyes flashed. There were spots of high colour on her cheeks. She was wearing a headscarf, worn by pious Moslem women to indicate modesty and religiosity. It was a common enough sight in Malaysia where growing numbers of Moslem women had adopted the headdress worn around the head, all hair tucked away and invisible, with a full cloak reaching almost to waist level, draping the upper body. Pressure from menfolk, peer pressure, genuine choice – it was difficult to know why so many women had adopted the stricter Islamic code of dress, although the full burqa was still fairly uncommon. Those dressed in the black, shapeless gowns, with black socks, shoes, gloves and an opaque veil, tended to be part of the huge contingent of oil–rich, Arab tourists who came to Malaysia to shop for designer clothes to wear under their black coveralls.
Chelsea Liew wore a transparent gossamer headscarf lined with beads. Her hair peeped out enticingly. It could hardly have been the intention of the Syariah court, in insisting on a mandatory head covering for women appearing before the court, whether Moslem or not, to enhance the appeal of the wearer. But that was what they had achieved in the case of Chelsea Liew. The difference between observing the letter and the spirit of the law was crystal clear when viewed in the context of Chelsea's headgear.
Chelsea's relief at her release from prison had immediately turned sour. She had gone home to her children. They had asked her no questions, too thankful to have their mother back to question the manner of her return. It was as if the boys had decided that to know too much would tempt fate –they sealed themselves from the past by remaining ignorant of it. Chelsea knew that at least Marcus, the eldest boy, knew that she was out of jail because their uncle had confessed – it was in all the newspapers. But she acquiesced in his withdrawn silence, thankful for the respite from the immediate past.
And then she had received an official document from the Syariah court requiring her presence at a custody hearing regarding her children. Apparently, the Islamic Council felt it necessary to seek custody of her children, the offspring of a Moslem man, rather than have them brought up by a non–Moslem mother. It was their view that the children would be better off fostered in a Moslem home and they had applied to the Syariah court that the children be placed with Moslem caregivers.
Chelsea had frantically consulted her lawyers only to discover that they did not have
locus standi,
the right to appear, before the Syariah court. Their practice was wholly before the parallel civil jurisdiction that held sway in Malaysia over most matters except that of Moslem family law. Her lawyers could advise but they could not appear. Finally, she had found a Moslem lawyer to represent her and they had arrived for the hearing only to be barred at the door. Her clothing, knee–length skirt and jacket over long–sleeved blouse, was not modest enough for the presiding judge. Her lawyer had hastily arranged a twenty–four–hour adjournment. Chelsea was now dressed in the customary Malay dress, the
baju kurung,
a shapeless long–sleeved knee–length blouse with a closed neck, a long maxi–skirt and the required scarf.
In the end, in the manner of all courts, religious or secular, the hearing was postponed. The judge, dressed in long black robes and sporting the fist–length beard believed by some Moslems to be required of their religion, was anxious to usher them all out of his courtroom. The law and his personal sympathies were pulling in opposite directions. He would give everyone a few weeks to mull things over.
Outside, the rain beat down. The sky was an impenetrable dark grey. Crashes of thunder followed hard on the heels of bolts of lightning that lit up the heavens and caused the air around them to tingle with electricity. The weather required a grander denouement than a postponement of a hearing. This was a storm more appropriate to families pulled asunder by the majesty of the law. At least the rain had thinned the ranks of waiting reporters. A few stood huddled together, under voluminous raincoats, next to the main entrance of the beautiful courthouse building. Chelsea deliberately unwound her head covering, shook out her hair and stuffed the scarf into her handbag.
The inspector had found out about the hearing from the newspapers and decided to attend. He had a curiosity about this woman as well as a concern. Looking at the teeming downpour, Singh did not have much hope of summoning one of the beat–up red and white taxis that plied the streets. There was hardly any traffic on the roads, an unusual occurrence in Kuala Lumpur. Everyone was driven to look for cover – trying to avoid one of the flash floods that regularly beset the city, a foreseeable, but ignored, consequence of the continuous frenzied building without adequate drainage for the monsoons. The inspector glanced at Chelsea and caught her eye. She shouted to be heard above the rain and beckoned imperiously, her summons emphasised by a clap of thunder. 'Come with me. I want to talk to you!'
Docilely, he walked over and her chauffeur held a large golf umbrella over his head and ushered him into the Mercedes Benz. This was a different woman from the creature whom he had first met behind bars. That Chelsea had been tired, defeated and regretful at having tilted against her husband's wealth and influence. But now, free, rested and in a battle to maintain custody of her children, the indomitable woman he had sensed even in her darkest hours was back. And, free from prison and no longer a suspect in her ex–husband's murder, she had been allowed to resume the trappings of his wealth – the car, the clothes, the chauffeur. He did not begrudge her a cent of it. She had paid for the accoutrements of the rich in blood and tears. Of all the things that Alan Lee had done to thwart her, Shukor had told him, he had not made a will, and her children were now entitled to much of his money, except for the ownership of Lee Timber, which went to Kian Min. She, Chelsea, had her divorce settlement. If it was determined that Alan had died a Moslem, his money would devolve in accordance with Syariah rules and include chunks for his parents and siblings. However, most of it would be reserved for his children. Even if he had left a will, as a Moslem he would not have been permitted to give away all of his property as he wished. No doubt an unforeseen consequence of his conversion, thought Chelsea cynically. Even if a will did turn up and he had left all his money to whichever woman he was sleeping with at the time of making it, his becoming Moslem would protect the children. Not that having access to his money would be of any use to her if her ex–husband managed to extend an arm from beyond the grave and snatch her kids away. Her lips thinned into a straight line. She was not going to lose her children.
Inspector Singh sat next to her on the cream leather seats in the back of the car but did not say a word. He was happy to let her break the silence when she was ready. There was a reason she had asked him along. She would come to it eventually.
The inspector's superiors in Singapore had got wind that Chelsea was a free woman and were insisting that he get back to Singapore. He was booked on an evening flight that day. He was glad that he would have a chance to speak to Chelsea Liew before he left. He needed to get a sense, for his own peace of mind, that she had the tools and courage to fight.
The electric gates of the Lee residence drew open and the Mercedes purred into the driveway. The gates immediately closed behind them. He could see the closed–circuit television cameras on every promontory, covering every angle. In the distance he could hear the deep sound of big dogs barking. There was a guard dog contingent on the premises.
Chelsea must have guessed the direction his thoughts were taking because she said, 'Didn't do him much good, did it?'
She nodded her head in the general direction of the barking dogs to indicate what she meant.
'Where exactly was he killed?' asked the inspector. 'I know it was in the vicinity of the house.'
She nodded coolly. 'Yes, he was shot about two hundred yards down the road. If the car was needed to go and pick up one of the children from school, the driver sometimes dropped him off at the bottom of the hill. Whoever killed him knew that.'
They were out of the car now and walking in the main door. Two children ran down the stairs and then pulled up short when they saw their mother had a guest. The inspector tried to smile at them in a friendly manner, but it was more of a nervous grimace. It was a long time since he had interacted with children. They glared at him, indifferent to his overtures.