Read Inspector Singh Investigates Online
Authors: Shamini Flint
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural, #International Mystery & Crime
Only Marcus emerged without blame – but he was made to look like a pathetic young thing, superseded by his own father in the affections of his girlfriend. The newspaper stopped just short of suggesting that motives for murder abounded in the love triangle they had discovered. Jasper's confession was a bulwark against that particular storyline – but they would have a field day when Jasper was eventually released. Singh shook his head. An ugly case was getting uglier. His thoughts turned to Chelsea. She was going to be a very unhappy woman when she saw the papers that morning.
Mohammad ordered Jasper's release. When Singh heard, he was furious.
'Why in God's name did you do that?'
'He's innocent,' replied Mohammad patiently.
'You know and I know that has nothing to do with it. I'm not asking you why you released him, I'm asking you why you released him
now!'
'It seemed like good timing. The other suspects more or less know that we don't think Jasper did it any more.'
'Good timing?' Singh almost exploded with rage. 'How can this be good timing? About the only thing the newspapers didn't do this morning was accuse Marcus Lee of murder. By tomorrow, even that will change.'
'That's whjfcl did it,' confessed Mohammad unexpectedly.
'What do you mean?' Singh's patience was long gone. He snapped at his Malaysian counterpart like a bad tempered dog.
'Unlike you, I'm trying to find a murderer!' The phlegmatic Inspector Mohammad was getting annoyed.
'What's that supposed to mean?'
I
am trying to catch a murderer.' Mohammad enunciated each word carefully as if he was talking to someone of subnormal intelligence. '
You
are trying to protect Chelsea Liew from the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune".'
Singh did not know it but it was a sign of how angry Mohammad was when he started quoting Shakespeare. Shukor tried to catch the Singaporean's eye but to no avail. The Sikh was six inches shorter but toe to toe with Mohammad and neither was backing down.
'That's nonsense anyway,' said Singh through gritted teeth. 'She's not even a real suspect any more.'
'That's precisely what I mean. Your remit was to protect her from being hanged for a murder she didn't commit, not shield her from the harsh winds of fate. If Marcus Lee killed his father, he's going to swing for it. If we let the newspapers have a go at him, he might do something silly and give himself away. You might not have noticed but we are down to a small band of suspects with no way of narrowing the list further.'
Singh looked at the other man thoughtfully. Was he right? Had he, a policeman who prided himself on his objectivity, who prided himself on never losing sight of the endgame, so lost his sense of perspective that he was no longer looking for a murderer but just trying to protect a woman who had caught his fancy?
Mohammad sensed that he had caused at least a pinprick of doubt and was satisfied. He said, 'I'm off to bring Douglas Wee in for questioning.'
Met with blank stares from the others, he said impatiently, 'You know, Lee Kian Min's latest sacrificial lamb.' And then perhaps regretting his harsh words a little bit, he said, 'I'll call you in when I've got him – you might want to sit in.'
Singh nodded absently and the other man beckoned to Shukor and left. Inspector Singh sat down on a stool and bent over to tie a shoe–lace. He felt slightly light–headed from doubling over and squashing his huge gut. He sat up once more, waited for the dizziness to pass and pondered Mohammad's words.
It was possible, he decided, that he was not behaving as professionally as was his norm. It might be about Chelsea but he thought it was also partly because he was not in Singapore. There, constrained by superiors who distrusted him, colleagues who were suspicious of his methods, subordinates who feared him and the endless red tape that engulfed any investigation, he did not have the freedom to follow his own instincts so single–mindedly. But here he was functioning partly as a private investigator and partly as some consultant flown in for his two cents' worth of advice. It had led to a feeling of freedom from the normal constraints of police work.
After all, back in Singapore he would hardly have agreed to work freelance for an ex–murder suspect to prove someone innocent. He would never have gone to visit a suspect and then let a junior policeman rough the suspect up, not even one as deserving of a good kicking as Lee Kian Min. It was this free and easy Kuala Lumpur society with its hard edge of aggression that had sucked him insidiously into its culture. Singh shook his head. What did they put in the water in these parts? The stuff they pumped over to Singapore was a less potent blend.
Marcus woke up that morning in a good mood. Considering that he was suspected of murder, he had slept well. He got out of bed, showered quickly, brushed his teeth vigorously and dressed. Marcus did not lack self–awareness so he was perfectly aware that his good cheer was the result of Sharifah's apparent concern for his welfare. It was absurd that the goodwill of a woman who had pretty much ruined his life should have the power to raise his spirits this way. But there was no doubt – he felt great. And with the careful alibi they had worked out the previous evening, he felt safe too.
Then he saw the newspapers. Marcus was only seventeen. When he saw how public his humiliation was to be, how impossible it would be to forget the past and reconnect with Sharifah, he sat down on his bed and sobbed – big, heavy, dehydrating tears – like a child who had lost something precious.
*
Chelsea overslept. As a result she did not wake up to the newspapers like the other protagonists. She missed three frantic calls from her civil lawyer and two from her Syariah lawyer. When she got up it was close to eleven in the morning. She reached for her expensive wristwatch, which she took off and kept by the bedside table at night, and looked at the time in surprise. She did not feel like she had slept for twelve hours. Her eyes were dry and her head was full of what felt like clogging strands of cobwebs. Her mouth tasted like it had done after three weeks of prison food. She dragged herself out of bed and walked slowly to the bathroom.
She thought ruefully that she looked exactly like a woman who had been through a lot. Her skin was stretched taut over the bones, her irises were faded and the whites of her eyes had a hint of yellow – like the early stages of jaundice. She remembered that all three of her children had been born with jaundice, tiny things with yellow feet and eyes to match their new–born skin, lying under hospital ultra–violet lamps in little wrap–around sunglasses. She had been panic stricken when it was Marcus, only moderately worried with the second and had taken the newborn jaundice of her third child in her stride. Experience facilitated the ability to judge whether a situation was as bad as one feared – a mother's instinctive fears could be trumped by the medical certainties. Could it be that her worry about Marcus was misplaced? It was impossible to know. She liked the fat policeman from Singapore. She admired his ability to lumber towards his goal, like a short–sighted rhino making a beeline towards lunch, ignoring all distractions. She had appreciated his support when she was isolated in the physical confines of the Malaysian jail and the mental prison that Alan had created for her. But she was under no illusions – Singh was not going to ignore the truth for her. If Marcus had killed Alan, and he found some evidence, there would be no dereliction of duty on his part.
Chelsea stood under the hot shower and turned it on. She turned her face to the water and tried to wash away the worries and the wrinkles. One of the true advantages of wealth, she decided, was a high–powered shower. She remembered the bathroom in the small house where she grew up. There was no hot water, of course. The whole household bathed using a plastic bucket to pour cold water from a large, tiled receptacle in one corner of the bathroom. Floors were cement, slippery and always wet. Soap was very pink and harsh on the skin. And the towels – Chelsea smiled when she remembered the threadbare towels, thin, cotton rectangles with hardly any water–absorbing qualities.
She dried herself quickly on a carpet–sized, fluffy towel. She considered make–up and jewellery but eschewed both. She understood public opinion. This was not the time to appear too much in control. She debated what her first step of the day should be. Perhaps she should contact Inspector Singh and somehow convince him that her son was innocent. She paused in the middle of the thought. Could she be convincing? She admitted to herself that she was not sure that Marcus had not killed Alan. At any time when he was growing up she would have sworn that her gentle son, who would weep over a dead kitten or spend hours digging in the garden for worms to feed a small mynah bird that had fallen from its nest, was incapable of harming anyone. But the perfect storm of events that he had encountered would have left him completely off balance.
Chelsea almost wished that she had not insisted to Singh that Jasper was innocent. Did she really mean that? she wondered. Would she prefer that an innocent man was hanged in place of her son? She acknowledged that, while her conscience spoke out firmly against leaving Jasper unaided, her heart was much less certain.
Chelsea heard the doorbell and grimaced. The last thing she wanted was a visitor right now. She peeked out from behind the curtain and saw to her surprise that it was Jasper. Her brief pleasure was immediately swamped by the confirmation of her fears. If the police had released Jasper, they must be on the trail of her son.
Eighteen
Jasper was dressed in civilian clothes that were too big for him. His blue jeans and white shirt were clean but not pressed. He was not wearing socks. His hair was a little too long and he had a furtive air that would have seemed appropriate in prison but was at odds with his luxurious surroundings in Alan Lee's home. Chelsea had run down the stairs, opened the front door and hugged him tightly. He stood stiffly in her embrace and then let her usher him into the house. She made him sit down, fussed over him, asked him what he wanted to eat or drink and whether she should have lunch cooked for him. He sat on the edge of his chair with his hands on his knees, quite still, except for a finger and thumb that picked nervously at a loose thread on his jeans.
She realised that there was something wrong, sat down in a chair opposite him and said in a gentle tone, 'What is it, Jasper?'
He did not answer and she did not press him immediately. She understood the first feeling of freedom. There was relief, of course, but also a sense of spaces that were too big and contained too much nothingness. Choice was oppressive on the outside. Chelsea had found it difficult to decide what to wear and what to eat when she was first released. But it had passed quickly, and it would be the same for Jasper. Neither of them had been inside for that long.
She asked, 'Did you get out yesterday?'
He shook his head. 'No, this morning.'
'And you came straight to see me? That's very kind of you, Jasper.'
He looked up at her when she said this but then turned his glance to the floor again, blinking slightly as if she was too bright a light that he had looked at directly.
Chelsea opted for a conversational tone. 'As you can see, I'm bearing up.'
He spoke in a half whisper, 'I'm glad of that, of course.'
Jasper did not sound glad, he sounded worried and tired. She wondered again why he had come to her almost as soon as he was released.
'Why did they let you go? Did you change your mind about the confession?'
Jasper nodded once.
She said, unconsciously echoing his words, 'Well,
I'm
glad of that!' She continued, 'Although I'll never understand why you confessed in the first place ...'
This provoked a response. He spoke quietly. 'I did it for you.'
Marcus made up his mind. He got into the small Mercedes SLK that his father had bought him when he had obtained,his driving licence. His mother was furious but he, Marcus, had been so smug. He knew he was just a spoilt, rich kid – but damn, it had its moments. Marcus did not see himself as exceptionally wasteful or lazy. He was not dishonest. Having too much money hadn't ruined him. It was having a father who had engineered a public humiliation from the grave that had destroyed him. Marcus thought to himself that although he felt like the wronged party, he had not done Sharifah any favours by introducing her to his father. She had been a joyful, engaged teenager looking forward to a bright future as a scientist. He'd never understood that ambition – he hated chemistry and physics and all the other impossible subjects. He'd probably have gone to a third–rate university, got some sort of degree in marketing or business administration and joined the family business. His mother would not have been happy about that but what choice did he have? He wasn't brimming with any particular talent. Marcus realised that he was thinking about his future plans in the past tense. So be it, his subconscious had raced ahead of him.
He pulled up at traffic lights turning red. The car was so silent he wondered for a second if it had stalled. It would be a mundane way to have his plans thwarted. But no, he could hear the faint purring of the powerful engine. The light turned green and he accelerated out of the blocks, leaving the other cars far behind. He rarely put the car through its paces –he was content just to have it – and had never felt a strong desire to treat the highways as his own personal racetrack.
But today was different. His personal misery had become a public ordeal. The newspapers had not even latched on to the possibility that he might have killed his father – that would be tomorrow's news. He thought about school. How would he ever be able to go back? And it was not just school. Wherever he went, restaurants, bookshops, the guy under the umbrella at the bottom of the road who sold newspapers ... all of them would know him, not just as the son of that larger–than–life, even in death, figure – Alan Lee – but also as the poor sap who had not been able to keep his girlfriend away from a man thirty years older than him, and his own father to boot.
As he drove down the street, weaving in and out of traffic, he saw a beautiful Chinese woman with a long, easy stride and was reminded of his mother. It had been really embarrassing at first, having a former model for a mother. All the kids had teased him and asked him to strut his stuff down the school aisles. But it was good–natured fun. It was not their fault that he was not particularly good looking –pleasant–faced in a forgettable way – unlike his striking mother. There were times when he was growing up when he had almost hated her – had not been able to understand why she let his father mistreat her so much. He had even wondered what she had done to deserve it. He knew better now. He remembered her fierce insistence that she believed him, knew he could not have killed anyone, let alone one of his parents. He had known she was lying. How could she know?
Marcus realised that he was being cowardly compared to her. After all, she knew the sheer, bloody awfulness of being gossiped about by strangers and shunned by friends. But she had never taken the easy way out. She was still fighting for her children. Marcus wondered whether he would have had more courage if he had kids. Or was he a fatally flawed character like his own father? After all, he must have some imprint of his father's genes, it was only natural. He wished that he had not thought about children. There was no space in his small two–seater car for regret.
He reached the spot he wanted. A wide, high curve of highway, elevated over one of the rivers that ran through Kuala Lumpur. He accelerated until the car was almost flying. When he had reached the apex of the bridge he wrenched the wheel. In a shard of time, he had ploughed through the barriers and was airborne. The car was propelled through the air until the laws of physics dictated that it slow down. Under the influence of gravity's insistent pull, Marcus was dragged back to earth.
Douglas Wee was a rat. That was Singh's opinion. It was the large front teeth that stuck out and the reddened nostrils – perhaps he was recovering from a cold. His hair was short and somehow furry. The eyes were close set in a pointy face and scanned his surroundings furtively.
'Of course I no kill Alan Lee. What for I want to do that?'
'You tell me,' said Inspector Mohammad, looking at the specimen in front of him with some disgust. He was not yet privy to Singh's theory about the relationship of this man to rats, but he would have been in agreement.
'Why you say I kill Alan Lee? He very big business for my company. Better for me when he alive.'
'So you say, but we have credible evidence that your business interests were best served by his demise,' said Mohammad. The other man's dialect was bringing out the policeman's most idiosyncratic turn of speech. It was hopelessly lost on Douglas Wee.
He merely looked at the tall, dignified Malaysian with genuine bafflement.
Singh stepped in. 'He said better for you if Alan Lee is dead.'
'That not true,' whined the rat.
'Lee Kian Min says you killed Alan,' said Inspector Singh, throwing caution to the winds.
Douglas Wee spat angrily and they all looked at the slimy, bubbly gob of saliva on the interview–room floor.
Singh was unexpectedly reminded of the froth on beer. He scratched his beard, which always itched when he was repulsed by humankind. It was the last two things in the world he wanted associated in his mind, a long cold beer and typhoid.
'Why he say that?'
'We don't know, you tell us!'
Wee looked as if he was gearing up to spit again. A flinty glare from Inspector Mohammad caused him to swallow instead and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down furiously.
'He not like me, one,' said Wee at last, by way of explanation.
'I don't like you either but I'm not accusing you of murder,' pointed out Singh.
Wee reached into his breast pocket, took out a red, silk handkerchief, patted his brow, wiped the beads of sweat, glistening like diamonds on a river bed, off his upper lip, blew his nose hard and said, 'It's business.'
'You're going to have to explain that,' said Mohammad.
'Is very complicated,' said Wee, implying that the police might not have the wit to follow the cut and thrust of his commercial dealings.
'Try us,' said Mohammad ironically.
Wee looked confused again – but decided it was an invitation to speak.
'Lee Timber wants to go into bio–fuels business ...'
The policemen around him nodded their awareness of this.
'Got two companies want to buy the oil – sign contract for future oil production. My boss in China very keen. But also another Hong Kong businessman.'
'And Alan didn't want to grow oil palm so you killed him,' stated Singh.
'No, no! At first, Alan no want to grow palm oil but later he change mind.'
'That's not what Kian Min said,' pointed out Inspector Mohammad.
Wee looked cross. 'You want to hear my story or you just want to say I wrong about everything?'
Singh waved him on apologetically and Douglas looked mollified.
'At first, Alan not agree to bio–fuels. But then he make deal with his brother – he want him say that he was a good man in the court – Alan was fighting with his wife.'
Singh's ears, large, sticking out and hairy, pricked up.
'Are you saying that Alan and Kian Min made a deal – favourable character testimony in exchange for agreeing to the new business strategy?' asked Inspector Mohammad.
Wee looked doubtful. 'I think that's what I'm also saying.' He continued more confidently, he sensed he had their attention now, 'But Alan like my company to sign contract, Kian Min prefer other Hong Kong one. But Alan sign contract with me. Kian Min did not know about it.' He was triumphant. Even in a police station his having landed a deal against fierce competition was a source of pride.
'So what happened after that?'
'Alan got killed,' said Wee in a depressed voice. 'And Kian Min want to get out of contract. But I say "no". He very angry with me. He say contract not legal. I say if he tries to get out I ... I sue him.'
The hesitation probably indicated that more direct methods of dissuasion had been threatened. The policemen did not care. Douglas Wee was turning out to be a very useful source of information.
'And now he's trying to get you out of the way by telling us you had something to do with Alan Lee's death?'
Wee understood this. He said clearly, 'I think so, yes.'
Singh asked Mohammad, 'But why would Kian Min have led us to this guy when he's just landed him in more trouble?'
Mohammad looked thoughtful. 'I would assume that he didn't know this fellow was on sufficiently good terms with Alan to know so much about their private arrangements.'
'You could be right,' said Singh.
Chelsea did not respond except to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief and, he sensed, an instinctive rejection of what he was asserting. He said again, 'I did it for you.'
She asked, in a quiet voice, her tone suggesting that she dreaded his answer, 'What do you mean?'
His nerves were taut, like the strings of a badminton racquet, and his answer was whipped back. 'What do you think I mean?'
She said, probably untruthfully, 'I really have no idea what you're getting at.'
Jasper went to stand by a window. It was an overdressed piece of glass. There were flimsy day curtains and night curtains of heavy brocade, frills along the top and more brushing the floor. The curtains were tied back with a thick cord, a knot and tassels at the end. He looked out over the well–tended grounds and could see the glint of a pool under the shade of a rain tree. This was what Alan had given the woman he loved and then some – material possessions that reeked of wealth and ostentation. But he had also hit her and tried to take her children away. And in the end he had died – and very few tears were shed by anyone.
Without looking at her, Jasper said, 'I love you.'
She did not respond and he dared not turn around to see her face. He could not bear to see rejection or dismay or even amusement. The silence in the room grew until it was bigger than both of them, a thick fog of unuttered words.
It was Jasper who spoke again, the quiet oppressed him more than her. It had always been the way that the first to declare love was the most vulnerable. He was no different.
He said, 'I guess you've never known that.'
The impulse to speak did not come with the discipline to stop. Jasper was explaining now, begging for understanding, for sympathy, for forgiveness. But he did not beg for his love to be reciprocated because he knew about Ravi, thanks to the policeman from Singapore who had taken such unholy pleasure in breaking the news to him.
Jasper said, 'Since your wedding day. Can you believe it? It was the first time I saw you. I couldn't believe that you were marrying my brother. Not Alan. I knew what he was like – selfish, unfaithful, violent. Do you know, I almost spoke up – when they asked if anyone had objections ... Can you imagine the scandal if I'd done it?'
She said, 'I wish you had.'
He turned to look at her for the first time and the pain in his heart was intensely physical. He relished it. It made him feel human. This capacity for suffering, for
feeling,
was what distinguished him from his brothers. He could not have this woman but she had given him the most intense emotions he had ever experienced.
Jasper chuckled. 'You might not have thought so at the time.'
She smiled in return but only with her lips and not with her eyes, which remained wary. 'I am really so sorry, Jasper. I had no idea.'