A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder

by Shamini Flint

  The Malaysian was the first to blink. He stood up, walked over to a filing cabinet, slid open a drawer and took out a large folder.

  He said, ‘I do not like it but certain quarters have demanded that I cooperate. This is what we have done so far. We have the wife in custody. You can see her if you like. You can interview any other person in Malaysia but only if they agree. We cannot make anyone talk to you. I will send you my ADC. He will assist you.’

  And watch my every move and report back to you, thought the inspector, but he did not say anything. This was a higher level of cooperation, however reluctant, than he had expected. Pressure must have been brought to bear at the highest levels. He nodded his thanks to the scowling man and picked up the folder.

  The Malaysian leaned forward and put two splayed hands on the table. He said, ‘One more thing: if you overstep your authority, I will put you in the jail cell next to the accused. And I don’t think the Singapore government will send anyone to rescue you!’

  Inspector Singh nodded cheerfully, assuming correctly that amusement would be the response that his opposite number would find most infuriating. He wondered when Malaysian officialdom would get over its need to indulge in theatrical bullying.

  A few strides later he was out of the door. The muffled sound of footsteps caused him to turn round and he saw a young policeman hurrying after him. Singh stopped and waited.

  ‘Sir!’ A smart salute accompanied the greeting. ‘I am Sergeant Shukor, aide-de-camp to Superintendent Khalid Ibrahim. He asked me to help you with this case.’

  ‘Good. You can start by finding me a place to sit down and read this report,’ ordered Inspector Singh. ‘And then I’ll need some tea.’

  Inspector Singh lumbered after the young policeman assigned to be his minder and was shown into a small room with a desk and filing cabinet. He sat down heavily in the lone chair in the room which creaked a noisy protest. Singh swivelled around to look out of the heavily tinted glass windows behind him. On a field, a posse of young men dressed in blue shorts and white T-shirts were being put through their paces by a trainer whose booming voice could be heard faintly by the inspector. At least there was still an emphasis on fitness and not just computer skills in the police-training manual, he thought. As if to emphasise his own devotion to health, he lit a cigarette and wedged his large posterior more firmly into his chair.

  He glanced at Sergeant Shukor, who was still standing smartly to attention. The young man had a tanned strong jaw, a broad flat nose and eyes that were slightly too widely spaced. If the sergeant has been a briefcase carrier his whole career, he could not have got his hands very dirty, thought the inspector. The Malaysian policeman’s dark blue uniform was pressed to perfection and tight enough to grip muscular thighs and forearms. His regulation service revolver – shiny, black and dangerous – was neatly holstered.

  Singh asked, ‘So who is actually in charge of the Lee murder investigation?’

  ‘Inspector Mohammad, sir.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be talking to him before getting to work?’

  The sergeant looked uncomfortable. He was remarkably transparent for a police officer. His emotions were both visible and decipherable as they flitted across his face.

  Singh asked, ‘What is it?’

  ‘He was supposed to be here to meet you, sir. But he hasn’t turned up.’

  The inspector from Singapore grimaced. ‘Not another Malaysian policeman with a bad attitude?’

  ‘He’s not exactly like that, sir.’

  Singh was just about to probe deeper when there was a quiet knock on the door.

  At a glance from the senior policeman, Shukor opened it.

  A very tall man with thick, short, iron grey hair and a thin, ascetic face walked in. He was dressed in an extremely smart, dark suit, wore a pale blue shirt and a darker blue tie and had cufflinks with a college crest on them. He looked like he belonged on the stage, playing a Shakespearean tragedy, or in a boardroom with lots of deferential subordinates agreeing to everything he said.

  He said, ‘Inspector Singh? I’m Inspector Mohammad. Thank you for coming down to help us poor Malaysians stumbling around in the dark on this case.’

  His voice matched his looks – smooth and effortlessly classy. And his hostility was going to be subtle and difficult to overcome. Singh, suddenly conscious of his damp shirt and pot belly, took the cigarette out of his mouth and said, ‘It’s my pleasure, Inspector Mohammad.’

  ‘Please call me Mohammad. We don’t have time for formality if we’re to work together.’

  Inspector Singh nodded. ‘I understand from the sergeant here that you’re in charge of this case?’

  ‘The murder of Alan Lee? Yes, I’m afraid so. Still, it seems a fairly open and shut case, doesn’t it?’

  Singh gestured to the pile of papers in front of him. ‘I was just making myself familiar with the facts.’

  Inspector Mohammad’s lip curled. ‘It’s not pretty, I’m afraid. Well, I’d better leave you to it. Shukor here will get you anything you need and I’m in my office when you’re done.’

  He walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Inspector Singh whistled softly through pursed lips. He said, ‘Now where did that come from?’

  Sergeant Shukor did not pretend to misunderstand the question. ‘He’s from a very wealthy family, sir. Perak royalty, actually.’

  Singh nodded his head. Nine of the thirteen states in Malaysia were former sultanates and had hereditary royalty. It meant that there were a lot of people who could claim to be royalty, or at least related to royalty, knocking about.

  Shukor continued, ‘He went to boarding school in England and has a doctorate from Cambridge in Criminal Psychology.’

  ‘Then what’s he doing here?’

  ‘They say he loves the job and doesn’t want to be promoted till it’s all management and no police work.’

  Inspector Singh could understand the reluctance to turn into a bureaucrat. He had the same instincts.

  ‘They leave him alone, you see – because he’s so well connected,’ explained Shukor further.

  Singh frowned. He was not well connected – and his higher-ups left him alone when it suited them, but not otherwise.

  He set aside his curiosity about the Malaysian policeman, and said brusquely, ‘Can you get me in to see the suspect?’

  The young man nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Inspector Mohammad said you would want to see her first so I have already arranged it.’

  Good anticipation but he did not like the suggestion that he was predictable or predicted.

  ‘I will see her in two hours. I will familiarise myself with the investigation first.’

  The young man understood this to be a dismissal and saluted smartly. ‘In that case, I will get you a cup of tea, sir.’

  Inspector Singh looked around for an ashtray. There wasn’t one. He dropped the fag end on the carpet and stamped it out hurriedly. The material covering the floor looked flammable. He kicked the butt under the desk. It was time to get down to work. He needed to find the quickest way out of this mess and back to Singapore. Singh untied the string that held the case file together and started to read.

  The file heading was ‘Chelsea Liew’ and in brackets were the words ‘Singapore IC’. In that short reference was the whole reason for his being in Malaysia. Chelsea Liew was a Singapore citizen. She held a Singapore identity card. She had married a Malaysian and had lived in the Kuala Lumpur suburb of Bangsar for the last twenty years. She had three children who held Malaysian passports. But she was Singaporean. And she was accused of murdering her ex-husband. As a rule, the arrest of a Singaporean by any foreign country would not have involved the Singapore police. The embassy might have had a quick look if requested to ensure that the citizen in trouble was getting the rudiments of due process, but nothing more than that.

  This case was different though. The religious overtones, custody battles, public outcry in both countries and political sensitiviti
es between Malaysia and Singapore had resulted in a request by the Singapore government – keen to be seen to be doing something – to the Malaysian government – keen to be seen to be above the fray – that a Singaporean policeman be seconded to the investigation. So here he was, sitting in a grubby room in the Malaysian Police Bukit Aman headquarters, with a file three inches thick, feeling very sorry for himself.

  Singh looked at the folder. He thought he recognised the efficiency of Sergeant Shukor in the neatly labelled piles of newspaper clippings, court transcripts and police interview notes. He was familiar with the essentials of the matter. But now he sat back in his protesting chair and let the full story unfold before him. The cup of tea Shukor had brought him sat untouched on the table.

  Three

  From the day of their white wedding twenty years before, Chelsea Liew and her Malaysian husband, Alan Lee, had featured regularly in the gossip columns. Even Inspector Singh was aware of the beautiful Singaporean model swept off her feet in a whirlwind romance by the dashing Malaysian heir to a timber fortune. She had married her mogul and gone to live in a secluded bungalow with twenty-four-hour security and a car to match every dress. Singh stared at the faded newsprint of the happy couple. It was the Singapore equivalent of a royal wedding. Details of the matching placemats, the politicians in attendance and the estimated cost of the celebratory dinner for a thousand guests were dissected in depth in the newspapers. The wedding dress, especially made for her by a Parisian designer, had been imitated by almost every bride in Singapore that year. The fairy tale of a poor but beautiful girl who had gone on to marry one of the most eligible bachelors in Malaysia had captured the public imagination. And through all the publicity, speculation and envy, the bride had looked serene and the groom proud.

  Chelsea had given up her modelling career upon marriage. It was rumoured that she had wanted to continue working but her husband had put his foot down. They didn’t need the money. There was no need for her to make an exhibition of herself. Singh vaguely remembered his own wife, she of the firm opinions and grim forebodings, had warned that no good ever came of a woman giving up her independence for a man. The inspector had been vaguely irritated by this. She, Mrs Singh, had promptly abandoned her job as a teacher on marrying him and never hinted at a desire to go back, not even when it became apparent that no children would be forthcoming from the marriage. Although to be fair, thought Singh, his wife had not given up her independence on their wedding day – she had merely confiscated his. Anyway, her bleak outlook for the couple had caused Singh to secretly wish the rich man and his trophy bride well. Perhaps this fairy-tale marriage would have a happy ending.

  But it was his wife who was proved right. The gossip and innuendo had started almost immediately the honeymoon was over. Chelsea Liew was reported to have put on weight. Her husband was seen out on the town. She had an unexplained black eye. Instead of the radiant pictures of her smiling into the camera, magazines started to carry pictures of her turning away hurriedly or holding up her handbag to obscure her face. Then she had three difficult pregnancies and bore her husband three fine sons. There was a temporary respite in the steady drip of bad news. Alan Lee was reported to be ecstatic over the birth of his sons and heirs. She was briefly described as the perfect role model for mothers everywhere – devoted to her growing family.

  His business dealings were also generating publicity. Alan Lee had taken over the family business upon his father’s death, bypassing the elder brother, Jasper, who had rejected the timber business and become a wildlife activist – ensuring regular run-ins played out on the front pages of the Malaysian newspapers. Alan Lee was an important man in business and his patronage was sought by politicians. As Chelsea disappeared completely from the public eye, Alan Lee was often photographed with other women, described coyly as his friends or colleagues.

  Finally, twenty years into the marriage, Chelsea had sued for divorce and sole custody of the children, alleging abuse and adultery. The accusations and counter-accusations were a large part of the file. The transcripts of the divorce proceedings, with both parties fighting tooth and nail for custody of the children, made vicious and ugly reading. Her medical records showed evidence of traumatic injuries consistent with beatings. Alan had insisted they were self-inflicted and the symptoms of a dangerous, deranged woman who should not have the care of her children. She had, through her lawyers, asserted persistent adultery. He had looked sorry and insisted that he had just needed some comfort after his wife had turned on him. It did not affect his ability to be a good father.

  Even the renegade brother, Jasper Lee, had testified – appearing on behalf of Chelsea. He claimed that Alan Lee, far from being a model parent, was an absent father whose business dealings were so tainted with criminality that he would be an unfit father for his children. Alan Lee’s lawyers had done their best to discredit his brother on the grounds he was the frustrated black sheep of the family who, not content with breaking his father’s heart by walking out on the family business, was now seeking revenge against the brother who had taken over. The youngest son of the family, Kian Min, had stepped in to contradict Jasper by testifying to Alan Lee’s strong character and kind heart. This had caused some surprise. It was no secret that the youngest son had tried to persuade the father, when Jasper had walked out on the business, to give him control of Lee Timber. It had not been an unreasonable request. Alan was a playboy, pursuing beautiful women. He had not completed the engineering degree for which he had been sent to the United States and was always asking for money. The father was tempted to bypass his middle son in favour of the youngest.

  But Alan, perhaps suspecting that he had pushed his luck far enough, had returned home in the nick of time, settled down with Chelsea, shown a tepid interest in the business and the rules of primogeniture had triumphed. It was implied in the newspapers that Kian Min, who still worked at the company but was barely on speaking terms with Alan, must have received quite a sweetener to perjure himself on behalf of his despised brother.

  Public opinion favoured the wife when court was adjourned suddenly for two weeks. There was much speculation in the interim as to the reason for the sudden delay. Did Alan believe he was going to lose? Did he have a plan to kidnap the children and spirit them out of the country? Did she? And being Malaysia, there was the inevitable suggestion that the judge had an interest in reaching a particular outcome. After all, Alan Lee had money. And money had been known to subvert justice.

  In the end, it was none of these things.

  When court reconvened, Alan Lee dropped his bombshell. Sergeant Shukor had a flair for the dramatic because he had included the court transcript of proceedings and artist sketches of the main characters. Inspector Singh lit another cigarette and was soon absorbed in the courtroom drama.

  The policeman intoned, ‘Bangun,’ or ‘All rise’ in a solemn voice. The judge, a huge Indian man with a beak for a nose and scanty hair, walked through the hidden door behind the dais on which he sat. He hitched up his gown, cleared his throat loudly and sat down. The courtroom was packed. This was the first day back after the unexpected two-week adjournment. The press, including members of the Singapore press, had queued since early morning to ensure a seat. The lawyers made a show of rustling papers and diving into thick legal tomes. Journalists whispered to each other and scribbled notes furiously.

  Artists sketched rapidly, trying to convey the atmosphere of the courtroom with a few quick strokes of the pen. Inspector Singh, looking at the pictures in the file, thought that they had done a good job. There were hints of dark wood panelling and a cool mustiness. The judge seemed larger than life – the court staff smaller. The couple fighting over their children sat next to their respective lawyers, an aisle and twenty years of unhappiness separating them. She was dressed conservatively. A dark suit with a white shirt, the skirt well below her knees. Her make-up was light, not sufficient to hide the shadows beneath her eyes. Her lips were pursed together tightly, as if she was physical
ly battling to prevent her anger from spilling out.

  Alan Lee, on the other hand, had spent less time thinking about his clothes. Or perhaps he was badly advised. He wore a light suit. It struck an inappropriate note in the sombre setting. His tie was almost festive. And he appeared smug – as if he alone did not doubt the outcome would be in his favour. The lawyers, drawn wearing their white shirts, winged collars and black gowns, looked like birds of prey picking over the carcass of what had once been a marriage. The journalists were pencilled in quickly and indistinctly, like a pack of scavengers hovering on the perimeter, waiting to pounce on the remnants of the celebrity couple’s privacy.

  The judge glared at the packed courtroom before him and waited until there was complete silence.

  He asked, ‘Are all parties present in the matter of Liew v. Lee?’

  He spoke in English although Malay was the official language of the courts. When the trial had first begun, he had, as was required, opened proceedings in Malay. But senior counsel on both sides had immediately asked for permission to proceed in English and the judge had granted it with alacrity. Their excuse was not that their Malay (and that of the judge) was atrocious, but that Chelsea Liew, being Singaporean, would not be able to follow proceedings.

  Singh knew that so many languages were spoken in Malaysia that quite often the wheels of justice ground to a standstill for the lack of an interpreter who could restore the Tower of Babel to a court of law.

  At the judge’s question, Chelsea Liew’s counsel said respectfully, ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Alan Lee’s lawyer, Mr Loh, was a feisty Chinese man who had a reputation for using every trick in the book to ensure success for his clients. Despite that, it had never been suggested that he broke the law. It was just that he used the complexity of the law to the advantage of his clients in circumstances where more honourable practitioners might have shown some latitude and more rectitude. He said now, brightly, ‘Yes, my lord!’