A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder

by Shamini Flint

  The judge, looking vaguely irritated at this unnecessary good cheer, said, ‘I assume counsel for both parties are ready to proceed with the custody hearings?’

  Mr Loh said unexpectedly, ‘We are making an oral application to dismiss these custody proceedings, my lord.’

  There was complete silence in the court.

  Chelsea Liew’s lawyer leapt to his feet. He was angry and his voice radiated with it. He said, ‘On what grounds? My lord, the respondent is wasting the court’s time!’

  The judge said, ‘Mr Chandra has a point. On what grounds could I possibly dismiss proceedings? We have almost reached the conclusion of the custody hearings.’

  Mr Loh said firmly, ‘We are invoking Article 121(1A) of the Constitution of the Federation of Malaysia, my lord.’

  There was a muttering in the court as journalists asked each other what the provision was and members of the public echoed the question. Alan Lee was smiling. Chelsea Liew sat up straight on the wooden bench, her anxiety peaking as she looked from the judge to her lawyer, her eyes demanding an explanation.

  Her lawyer did his best. He said, ‘Article 121(1A)? But what has that got to do with anything, my lord?’ He looked at the judge almost pleadingly. ‘My client has suffered enough. She is desperate to rebuild her life with her children. Mr Loh and his client are in contempt of court with their irrelevant application.’

  The judge said, ‘You are trying my patience, Mr Loh.’

  Mr Loh said firmly, ‘We are applying to dismiss proceedings on the grounds that this court has no jurisdiction to hear this matter. The proper forum for a custody dispute between the parties is the Syariah court.’

  There was uproar in the court as the massed audience suddenly and collectively got wind of where the argument was going. The judge rapped his gavel loudly and glared around the court. The volume of noise subsided although there were still low murmurs. This genie could not be forced back into the bottle.

  The judge turned back to Mr Loh and asked in a long-suffering voice, ‘Why should the Moslem religious court – the Syariah court – have jurisdiction?’

  Mr Loh replied in a high, clear voice that could be heard in all corners of the courtroom, ‘My client, Alan Lee, has recently become a Moslem, my lord. All family law matters concerning Moslems are within the jurisdiction of the Syariah court under Article 121(1A) of the Constitution.’

  Mr Chandra said indignantly, ‘But Chelsea Liew is not a Moslem. Neither are her children!’

  Mr Loh had the upper hand and he knew it. He said, ‘I am not an expert, of course, but I understand the religion of minors under Islamic law is that of the father . . . or he can declare them to be Moslem, which he has done.’

  The transcript that Inspector Singh was reading ended rather prosaically with, ‘Court adjourned. Applicant, Mdm. Chelsea Liew, caused a disturbance and had to be removed.’

  The newspapers were less reticent about the ‘disturbance in court’ caused by Chelsea Liew. Inspector Singh found an article from the Malay Mail, an afternoon tabloid, which was particularly graphic. ‘Madam Chelsea Liew started to scream obscenities at her ex-husband, Alan Lee. She tried to push past her lawyer, Mr Subhas Chandra, but he blocked her path. At this point she clambered over the table, leaving one shoe behind. She rushed over to Mr Lee and kicked and scratched him. He tried to protect his face but she raked him down the side of his cheek with her fingernails. Blood trickled down his face. The Malay Mail understands that he needed medical treatment, including stitches, from a plastic surgeon to prevent long-term damage to his physical appearance. It took the intervention of three policewomen to restrain Chelsea Liew, who was taken into custody and later released without charge. Her last words to her husband as she was dragged from the courts were “I will kill you for this!”’

  Four

  In an interview with the press outside the hospital where he received treatment for his face wounds, Mr Alan Lee said, ‘It is an insult to me and my religion to suggest that I converted to Islam to get custody of my children. In these difficult times since the breakup of my marriage, I have been looking for spiritual guidance and I found it in Islam. I am proud to be Moslem and look forward to raising my children in the one true faith.’

  Turning the page, Inspector Singh saw that the next document was the autopsy report on Alan Lee, killed exactly one week after the tumultuous court hearing. The autopsy had established that Alan Lee had died of injuries sustained from a bullet wound to the chest. The bullet from the revolver had penetrated a lung and then proceeded to sever the main artery leading to the heart. The deceased had succumbed to the heart wound before the lung injury but either would have been sufficient to kill him.

  He had been shot on a deserted street two hundred yards from his front gate. The gun had not been traced. His wallet, Rolex watch and gold chain were left undisturbed. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the Kuala Lumpur General Hospital.

  His ex-wife and the mother of his three children, Chelsea Liew, was arrested within hours and charged with his murder.

  Inspector Singh wiped the newsprint off his fingers by rubbing his hands against his trousers. He felt like a voyeur, not a policeman. To look at facts like these could not leave anyone untainted. He tapped his foot, in his trademark white sneakers, against the ground. For a while, he watched the steady drip of water from the air-conditioning unit soak into the carpet.

  It was hard, thought Singh, to believe that Alan Lee’s sudden discovery of religion was anything except cynical. The judge had agreed to adjourn the custody hearing until the various issues of jurisdiction were determined. But he did not hide his contempt for what he saw as a cheap legal trick that brought the administration of justice into disrepute. The newspapers interviewed friends and colleagues expressing surprise that Alan Lee, of all people, should seek solace in a higher power. But the conversion to Islam, suspect as a matter of faith, was a powerful weapon as a matter of law.

  Inspector Singh extricated himself from his chair with difficulty, stretched and went in search of Sergeant Shukor. He found him waiting outside the door. He stood to attention and saluted smartly as the inspector came out.

  ‘Have you been here all this while?’ asked the inspector in surprise.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Crime rates must have come down a bit in Kuala Lumpur if you have time to loiter outside my door all day . . . ’

  Sergeant Shukor smiled. ‘Not really, sir. But I have been told to stay close to you.’

  Inspector Singh shrugged. ‘Well then, take me to the widow!’

  ‘I’m here to help you,’ said the inspector, almost pleadingly.

  There was no response from the woman sitting opposite him at the table. She was in the small interview room when they arrived, brought up from her cell. But she had not yet uttered a word nor even looked at them. She sat, as she had from the moment they entered the room, knees together, shoulders rounded, head bowed. Unmoved by the inspector’s pleas and unmoving.

  The inspector tried again. ‘You are a Singapore citizen. The Singapore government sent me to make sure that you are treated fairly.’

  He reflected when he said this that it was not an exact truth. The government was largely indifferent to the fate of this one woman. It did, however, want to look authoritative and caring in an election year. And public opinion in Singapore was incensed by what it saw as the victimisation of someone they felt they knew personally, so intense and detailed was the media coverage of the divorce and custody battles.

  The policeman could see just enough of Chelsea Liew’s face to understand her success as a supermodel, although her recent experiences had left their mark. Her cheekbones were high, almost protruding through translucent skin. She had large almond eyes but they were red-rimmed, with deep blue shadows underneath. Her hair was scraped back firmly and tied in a ponytail. Grey hairs were visible all along the line of her forehead. Her lips, so luscious in those cosmetic adverts of the late eighties, were bloodless, dry and chap
ped. Her neck, thin and long, protruded from an oversized T-shirt. The inspector could see that she was at least six inches taller than him. Even seated and slumped, it was evident that the long legs in baggy prison pyjamas, feet slipped into flip-flops, were of a length to have stridden down catwalks – before marriage and murder had reduced her to silence.

  He said, ‘If you do not help me, I cannot help you.’

  She looked up for the first time. For a second, as she had glanced up at him with those famous almond-shaped eyes, he had felt a remarkable sense of déjà vu. It was like looking at an old magazine cover, to once again be at the receiving end of that celebrated gaze. But now the brown eyes were filled with pain.

  She spoke, the words wrenched reluctantly out of her. ‘Nobody can help me now.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked, more gently than was his wont. The case-hardened policeman felt an unusual sympathy for the accused.

  She gestured, a small sharp movement with one hand which encompassed the prison walls around her.

  ‘I will only leave this place to walk to my death.’

  ‘Did you kill your husband?’

  ‘You would use that word for twenty years of brutality?’

  ‘What about the children?’

  ‘What can I do for them now?’

  ‘Not much while you’re in here.’

  Quiet descended on the room again.

  The inspector said, ‘At least let me talk to people. Find out what happened. Please! It will cost you nothing if I fail. But if I succeed, we might get you out of here and back with your kids.’

  She nodded once, a terse gesture, as if she was conferring a favour on him rather than dependent on him to find her an escape route.

  Chelsea Liew rose to her feet. Inspector Singh got up too and watched her shuffle to the door. Sergeant Shukor opened it for her and she walked out. Inspector Singh had almost forgotten the sergeant was there. The waiting policewoman handcuffed her briskly and led her away.

  The two men left in the room were a study in physical contrasts. One fit, strong, clean-shaven, well groomed. The other dishevelled, overweight and bearded.

  Inspector Singh asked, ‘What do you think? Did she do it?’

  Shukor shrugged. ‘She had the best motive.’

  The senior policeman nodded. ‘She certainly did. What does your boss think?’

  ‘Inspector Mohammad?’

  Singh nodded curtly.

  ‘That she’s one hundred per cent guilty, sir.’

  The policeman was not surprised. Police work was rarely complicated. Locked-door mysteries and multiple suspects were the stuff of fiction. Usually, the person last heard threatening to kill someone who was later found dead was the murderer. He could not even blame Inspector Mohammad. He was not leaping to conclusions, just following the facts.

  ‘What now, sir?’ asked Shukor, interrupting his reverie.

  ‘I go to my sister’s house for the evening and then back to my hotel.’

  ‘I will get the car, sir – and wait for you in the front.’

  Alan Lee’s brother, Jasper, sat in a small office on the second floor of an old shophouse near Chinatown. From his shuttered windows, he could see the red, pagoda-roofed entrance to Petaling Street, bustling and crowded as always. Rows and rows of stalls sold knock-off Gucci handbags, Tag Heuer watches and Mont Blanc pens. The quality was often indistinguishable from the original right down to the labelling and watermarks. Jasper Lee wore a fake Rolex he had bought down the road almost three years earlier. Hordes of tourists wandered down the narrow streets, summoned in imperative tones by the Chinese vendors; the experienced bargained hard for their fakes, the uninitiated paid top dollar and felt content to have something to show off when they got home.

  Jasper was indifferent to the sounds of horns blaring and engines revving directly under his window. He had learnt to tune out the sounds. He ignored the stink of overflowing garbage-filled drains mingled with the pungent, eye-watering odour of dried anchovies piled high on the pavements in front of the dry food wholesaler on the ground floor.

  In the early days, when the freedom of having walked away from the family business and his father’s expectations had filled him with a sense of profound relief, he was delighted by the sights and sounds that were in such contrast to his own privileged upbringing. It was so colourful and raw compared to his stultifying existence under the watchful eye of a stern father.

  Those heady, early days of autonomy were behind him. His past had caught up with him. He remembered his father’s last words, shouted after him in angry Cantonese, as he had stormed out the door of the family home. ‘One day you will understand that your family is what is most important.’

  He had disagreed with the old man, the patriarch of the family, insisting that shared values were more important than shared blood. He was not so sure any more. His younger brother had been gunned down on a Bangsar street. His sister-in-law, for whom he felt an overwhelming sense of panic, was in prison. His mother was in a state of collapse. His three nephews were in the care of Chelsea’s mother. God only knew what his youngest brother was doing. Perhaps it did come down to family in the end.

  Jasper looked around him at the photos of orangutans stuck to the walls, all taken in the depths of the Borneo rainforest on one of his excursions into the wilderness. There were wizened patriarchs looking calmly at the camera, young bucks captured on film screeching their aggression at any intruder, family groups of female orangutans and their babies. The whole sense was of a gentle, separate community – so different from the ugly reality of his own existence.

  He got to his feet slowly, like an old man. There was one more thing he needed to do before making up his mind.

  A heavy thunderstorm had reduced traffic to a standstill. The sky was dark although it was still early in the evening. The rain fell like large teardrops, straight down. It was a few years since Inspector Singh had been to Kuala Lumpur and he had forgotten the flash floods and gridlock that rain caused. Kuala Lumpur was just one large construction site, he thought, peering out of the window. There were looming cranes, looking spindly and unstable, in every direction. Every now and then one of them would take a direct hit from a bolt of lightning that would light up the sky to the brightness of a tropical noon. In the briefly illuminated skies, jagged half-built skyscrapers looked like twisted ruins. Concrete pillars to carry automated trains, the latest attempt to deal with traffic congestion, stood at regular intervals, like giant sentries that had been petrified by some powerful enemy.

  The inspector thought that the very skies were weeping for the three boys whose father was dead and whose mother was in prison charged with his murder. It was a fanciful thought for the taciturn policeman. The strange surroundings were affecting his natural balance. He found himself unable to forget the brown, pain-filled eyes of the widow. Chelsea Liew! A ridiculous name – par for the course with the adoption of Western names by Singaporeans aiming to give themselves a cosmopolitan air. Unfortunately, they often picked the most improbable monikers. Inspector Singh had come across young Singaporeans revelling in first names like Mayfair and Rothmans.

  A sudden lull in the rain drumming down on the roof of the car interrupted his daydreaming. He realised that they had inched forward a few yards and were now sheltered by a massive six-lane flyover. Both sides of the road were jammed with motorbikes, their riders taking refuge from the rain under the looming concrete structure. The car lights glinted off their shiny, plastic raincoats. A few youths were perched along the side of the road smoking cigarettes, probably the clove cigarettes from Indonesia that had become so popular – as if the fumes from the dozens of cars crawling forward in first gear were not sufficient poison to the lungs.

  The inspector, who had started the day in Singapore in a bad mood, was now extremely irritable. He contemplated the sheer impossibility of the case that had been dumped on his lap as they inched forward towards their destination. How was he to investigate the murder of Alan
Lee? He had no jurisdiction. The Malaysian police did not intend to be helpful. Inspector Mohammad was going to be a handful. He was being spied on by the young man patiently driving the car he was stuck in and, as if these things on their own were not a sufficient impediment, Chelsea Liew was not cooperating. He had assumed that she would be full of suggestions as to alternative suspects – desperate to save her own neck. Instead, she seemed indifferent to his promised efforts and had given him no information to work with. Exhausted, perhaps, with what she had been through. Unable or unwilling to take on the system any more. All he had got was a grudging agreement that he should try to find the truth. And that, Inspector Singh admitted to himself, was the rub. Was he looking for the truth? Or was the most obvious answer, quickly seized upon by the Malaysian police, the correct one?

  Finally, they drew up outside the house of Inspector Singh’s sister. The sergeant indicated that he would be around the corner having dinner at one of the stalls that lined the streets in the evening. The inspector nodded and then, mentally girding himself for the encounter with his family, rang the doorbell.

  His sister, a large, big-boned woman with a nose Caesar would have been proud to possess, was dressed in a cotton caftan – floral batik in hot pink. The material was frayed around the neck. She nodded to her brother and held the door open to indicate that he was welcome. They did not hug or kiss despite not having seen each other for over a year. It would have been completely out of character for either of them to have expressed emotion physically. Asians of their generation were not tactile. Affection was expressed, if at all, through food. To make an effort over dinner, to have a few extra dishes, to remember what someone liked best and serve it piping hot – that was the way to show family feeling.