A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder

by Shamini Flint

  Jasper Lee’s voice was rising with anger – his genuine disgust at his brother’s actions apparent in the reddening face.

  The inspector’s voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you’re some sort of eco-terrorist?’

  Jasper was stung into a reaction. ‘I don’t care what you believe! You asked me for an explanation and I’ve given you one.’

  The inspector snorted.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ asked Jasper tiredly.

  ‘The truth would be a good place to start.’

  The self-confessed murderer stared past the policeman at the grimy walls of his cell.

  He said, ‘You ask me for the truth but you don’t believe me when I tell you. I know it sounds farfetched, when you live your life in air-conditioned cities – shopping and going to the movies – that I could have killed my brother to save the rainforests.’

  The inspector was silent. This did not seem the time to point out that he hadn’t been shopping or to a movie in years.

  Jasper continued, ‘But if you’re out there, in Borneo, you would understand.’

  Inspector Singh raised one of his expressive eyebrows.

  Jasper hung his head, refusing to meet the policeman’s eyes.

  Finally, the inspector said, ‘All right – let’s say I take your word for it – you killed your brother because of these . . . jungle people. Why now?’

  Jasper looked at him, brow wrinkled with perplexity.

  ‘Presumably Alan has been up to no good for years. Why did you kill him now? Besides, I understood it was your other brother, Lee Kian Min, who was the brains behind Lee Timber anyway. Haven’t you just made things worse? You killed the wrong brother.’

  Kian Min was frankly mystified. He had no idea why his brother Jasper had confessed to the murder of Alan. Even if he had committed the murder, which Kian Min thought highly unlikely, Jasper wouldn’t have had the balls, surely there was no reason to implicate himself by confessing so dramatically.

  Kian Min had taken Alan’s messy divorce and lengthy custody battle in his stride. When Alan had asked him to testify as to his good character, to nullify the damage Jasper had done by appearing for Chelsea, he had laughed out loud and then agreed to help – for a price. He remembered the occasion well. Alan had summoned him on the office intercom. Even when he wanted a favour, he still demanded that his brother come up to the big office to see him. Kian Min would have wagered money that Alan did not even know where, in the huge Lee Building on Jalan Raja Chulan, he had his modest office. But he had trotted up dutifully and agreed to help – if his brother would cease objecting to his big idea to expand the business.

  He had never understood Alan’s reluctance to adopt his most recent business development plan. Alan rarely got involved in planning and never had a view on prudent policy. Every now and then though, to Kian Min’s intense irritation, he would step in and veto some plan. Or more rarely, as it required work, propose some seat of his pants idea to turn water into wine. Kian Min was certain that Alan did it just to yank his chain, stop him getting ideas above himself about where he belonged in the company’s hierarchy, remind him who, by an accident of birth, was the boss of Lee Timber.

  Alan’s most recent effort had been to veto Kian Min’s plans to turn the land they logged in East Malaysia into oil palm plantations. Kian Min firmly believed that the future of the business was in bio-fuels. And the company had a huge advantage muscling into the market because of the land concessions they had and could easily buy from corrupt government officials. But Alan had refused. He had asserted that Lee Timber was a timber company and he was not going to compromise on the legacy his father had left him. He had implied that he, Alan, had inherited the trade because his father had trusted him with the family business. In vain had Kian Min pointed out the advantages of diversifying and the dangers of staying hooked on a logging industry that was fast running out of trees. Alan was obdurate. Until, that is, he had needed his brother to testify at the custody hearings. Kian Min had spelt out the cost of his cooperation – setting up of the bio-fuels unit. Alan had agreed immediately.

  ‘What happened to all your big talk about protecting Father’s legacy?’ Kian Min had asked snidely.

  ‘I couldn’t care less. I just love that look on your face when I screw up one of your pretty little business plans.’

  Kian Min, standing before his brother’s desk like a schoolboy summoned to see the headmaster, had grown pale with anger, but had not said anything.

  Alan had waved his hand to indicate that his brother could leave the room.

  His parting words were, ‘Get out! That sour face of yours is going to put me off my lunch.’

  Inspector Singh looked mournfully at his shoes. His snowy white sneakers were streaked with mud and covered in a fine film of grey dirt. In Singapore, where one could eat lunch off the pavements, he never had any difficulty keeping his footwear pristine. But Kuala Lumpur was a more challenging proposition. The density of cars on the complex network of roads, its location in an airless, windless valley and the largely sporadic tree cover meant that there was always a layer of grime on his clothes and footwear. He wondered whether the time had come to abandon this affectation and buy a pair of black, leather shoes. He scratched his chest through the white vest he always wore under his shirt. A bead of sweat rolled down from his turban and left a moist trail all the way to his collar.

  He watched a young Malay woman with a baby under one arm try and heave a pram onto the high pavement. He got to his feet and went over, helping her lift the pram up. She gave him a grateful look and then scurried into the nearest air-conditioned shop, desperate to get out of the sweltering heat. The infant in the pram wore a full body suit, mittens and a cap over his head. His small face was red and dazed. Her toddler was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. A mini-man with damp hair plastered to his forehead.

  Inspector Singh shook his big head to himself. He knew what these observations were about. He was taking in detail, scrutinising his surroundings, immersing himself in his environment. All his detective skills and instincts were in overdrive. But he was impeded by his lack of status and his peculiar remit. He picked up a newspaper and settled back into his chair, waiting for his coffee and his guest.

  Moving quietly as he always did, Singh did not notice the young sergeant until he was right in front of him. The older man gestured at a chair, inviting Shukor to sit down. He did not. He stood looking down at the inspector, a troubled expression on his face.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Singh.

  ‘There’s another man.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Chelsea had . . . has maybe, a boyfriend.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Sergeant Shukor slipped a letter across the table. It was handwritten with looping juvenile strokes and much underlining for emphasis. The inspector picked it up gingerly and read the enthusiastic plans of a young man composed on the demise of his lover’s husband.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘We were putting together the stuff we took from searches of the Lee residence after Chelsea was arrested. I came across this while I was tidying.’

  ‘Alan Lee didn’t know about this enthusiastic young man!’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, I suspect it would have come up in the custody battle. It might even have stopped him from converting to Islam. Adultery is never viewed with enthusiasm by the courts. She might have lost custody without any of these religious episodes.’ Singh continued thoughtfully, ‘In fact, if she was still in the dock for murder, this letter would have been the final nail in the coffin.’

  ‘Are you going to ask her about it?’

  Singh grimaced and gestured at the letter. ‘I would very much prefer to know as little as possible about the repulsive creature who wrote this piece of epistolary art.’ He picked it up again and looked at the signature. ‘One Ravi, apparently. But you’re right. We do have to mak
e sure this has no bearing on the case. Chelsea may not be a suspect any more. But she seems very sure that Jasper did not do it. Maybe she knows something we don’t about this boyfriend of hers! If his literary effusions are to be taken seriously, he is a creature of strong emotions.’

  Chelsea got up off the bed, walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water over her face. She took the soft bath towel and scrubbed herself dry. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were those of a cornered wild beast. She sucked in a few deep breaths. Everything she had ever done, she had done for the children. They needed her more than ever now. She did not know where she was to find the strength. She felt physically sick, cowed by what she had just discovered on the disc from the private investigator.

  A pounding on the door distracted her.

  Her youngest son was yelling for her to come out. He wanted to show her something. It was important. She unlocked the door and he came tumbling in, all excited about the grasshopper he had caught in the garden.

  She said distractedly, ‘That’s very nice. Remember to be gentle with it. Mummy can’t come to look at it now. She has to go out for a while.’

  The boy looked rebellious and Chelsea put her arms around him and hugged him tight.

  She said, a little catch in her throat, ‘I’ll be back soon, honey.’

  The chauffeur was outside but she waved him away and grabbed the car keys. She did not want anyone to know where she was going. She nosed the car out of the garage and into the street. She drove past the spot where Alan had been killed. The notepaper with the address jotted down on it lay on the passenger seat. She knew where she was going. She was not sure what she was going to do when she got there.

  Rose Condominiums turned out to be an elegant, low-rise development some distance away from any main road. Chelsea took the elevator up to the fourth floor and hurried down a wide, well-lit corridor until she was outside apartment #04-04. She hesitated. She noticed the number four, considered unlucky by the Chinese as signifying death, and made up her mind. She put a finger on the doorbell and pressed firmly. She could hear the faintest of rings through the heavy door.

  A few moments later the door was opened a crack and a young face peeped out. Her mouth rounded into a literal ‘o’ of surprise when she realised who it was. The older woman’s recent notoriety meant she was instantly recognisable wherever she went. She stood there uncertainly. Chelsea took a step forward, signalling her intention to enter. The woman shrugged and stepped aside. Chelsea walked into the apartment. It was a pleasant, airy place with water-colours on the walls and Persian carpets on the floor. A very large, smoky cat twined itself around her legs, mewing softly.

  Chelsea remarked calmly, ‘Nice place. Did my husband pay for it?’

  The girl, she was no more than a girl really, did not say anything but her guilty face spoke volumes.

  Sharifah picked up the cat and hugged it to her cheek. She asked quietly, ‘What do you want?’

  Chelsea wandered over to the dining table. It was piled high with books and papers. The girl was studying – they were mostly science texts.

  She asked, genuinely curious, ‘Why in the world did you get involved with him?’

  ‘I don’t know really. He was so kind. He bought me so many things. He seemed so worldly.’

  Chelsea could have screamed at the other woman for being so naïve. The only thing that held her back was the knowledge that she had fallen into the same trap herself so many years ago.

  Sharifah said defiantly, ‘He said he would marry me. I believed him. He said he was divorcing you. It was all in the newspapers so I knew it was true.’

  Chelsea shrugged. ‘He might have done, I suppose.’

  ‘He even agreed to convert to Islam because I’m a Moslem!’ insisted Sharifah, stung by the disbelief in Chelsea’s voice.

  Chelsea looked up sharply at this. ‘He did convert,’ she said abruptly. Could it be that he had done it to marry this woman? If he had really intended to marry her, he would have had no choice. It was the law. Marriage to a Moslem in Malaysia required the non-Moslem to convert to Islam. That would destroy her case that the conversion was a cynical ploy to get the children, that Alan had not been a genuine Moslem and therefore the kids weren’t either. The Syariah court would almost certainly take the kids away from her. She looked at Sharifah, trying to decide if Alan had really fallen in love with her. It was not impossible. There was no fool like an old fool. And she really was beautiful – young, fresh, with that gentle voice.

  Sharifah said, ‘I really believed he wanted to marry me. But then someone killed him. I heard at first it was you . . . but then they arrested the brother.’

  ‘Jasper confessed.’

  ‘I see,’ but it was clear that she didn’t.

  ‘Were you upset when he died?’ asked Chelsea.

  ‘Of course,’ asserted the young woman, but she looked down, sleek hair falling over her face like a veil.

  Chelsea looked at her pityingly. Her regret did not ring true. Perhaps she had begun to suspect that a relationship with an older man, however rich, was not all it was cracked up to be. Probably Alan had started to hit her. Possibly she had woken up in his arms one morning and realised that things were not going to be so rosy when she was still a young woman but her husband had become an old man. Or perhaps she really cared about that young man who had begged her so passionately to come away with him.

  Sharifah screwed up the courage to ask again, ‘What do you want? Why are you here?’

  ‘It’s not about my husband, actually. It’s about my son.’

  Twelve

  Sharifah looked frightened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am not interested in your sordid affair with my ex-husband. I want to know about your . . . relationship with my son.’

  ‘How do you know about it?’ Sharifah’s hair was tinted with a hint of auburn and she pulled at strands of it nervously.

  Chelsea waved the question aside with a well-manicured hand. ‘Tell me the truth.’

  Sharifah’s voice, when she spoke, was the merest whisper. She said, ‘Marcus and I were at school together. We started going out. He didn’t want to tell anyone because I’m a Moslem and he was afraid we would get into trouble. For a while, we were very happy.’ She looked up defensively. ‘I don’t mean that we were making long-term plans or anything – just that we hung out and had a good time, that’s all.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Once, when the driver came to pick him up from school, I got in too. We were planning to go to the movies. Marcus never wanted to go home so he was always making plans.’

  Her words hurt but Chelsea gave no outward sign of it. She listened impassively.

  Sharifah continued, ‘His dad was in the car. It was just a coincidence. He had a meeting nearby or something. He chatted to me a little bit. Not much. Marcus was always telling me how much he hated his dad but he seemed all right to me.’

  Chelsea knew just how good Alan Lee had been at dissembling. Few people would suspect him capable of the cruelty he had shown her on meeting him for the first time.

  ‘I guess he must have found out who I was . . . he pursued me.’

  ‘And you swapped the son for the father?’

  ‘Marcus was just a boy. Alan seemed so grown up. I didn’t know what to do.’

  Chelsea was silent.

  Sharifah said, ‘When Alan was killed, I was so worried that Marcus had done it. But then they arrested you . . . and now you say his brother has confessed?’

  It was a prosaic escape. Mrs Wong led him downstairs – he stayed behind her, hidden from view by her wide girth and floral skirts. On the ground floor he fell to his knees, scurrying after her on all fours like a dog on heat. She did not say a word but marched down the corridor to the kitchen. There they both ignored the bemused stare of the toothless old man who washed the dishes. She opened the shutters. Rupert Winfield climbed out of the window, only standing up when he was outside and on the oppo
site side of the building to the watchful policeman.

  He said through the open window, ‘Thank you!’

  She was more practical. ‘Money, passport?’

  He patted his breast pocket to reassure her and himself. ‘Yes, I’m OK. I have everything.’

  ‘Don’t go to airport, lah!’

  It was good advice. He nodded. She put up her hand in a tentative gesture of goodbye. He clasped the raised hand in both of his, bringing them close to his chest. She understood that his thanks were heartfelt.

  The airport was out of bounds but he had to get back to Kuala Lumpur. In Kuala Lumpur, he knew people who knew people. He would get in touch with that wildlife activist, Jasper Lee. He was a good guy and he was related to the Lee family. He was pretty sure it was them who were behind the shocking events he had witnessed. Jasper might have some idea who was ultimately responsible for the attack on the Penan. But first he had to get there. And it was not going to be easy with a crooked policeman on his tail. He had no illusions. He was a threat to a multimillion dollar industry. They feared he would approach the newspapers with his story or seek out policemen and government servants who had not been bought. He could spread the story of the treatment of the Penan at the hands of the logging industry and allege indifference and corruption on the part of the police in Borneo.

  The policeman who had tried to ambush him at the bed and breakfast was not pursuing him for a chat. If he disappeared here in Borneo, it would just be one more tale of a white man who had mistakenly believed he could tame the jungles. The Englishman slipped on a pair of shades. With his blue eyes obscured, his race was indistinguishable to the casual observer. It was his best chance of escape.

  Rupert flagged down a taxi and headed to a fishing village a few miles outside Kuching. The men were out to sea. In the distance he could see boats bobbing up and down on a fractious ocean. There was only one boat tethered close to the river mouth. The fisherman on board was cleaning his nets and whistling through the gap in his teeth. It was a cheerful vessel, gleaming with a coat of fresh paint. It looked reasonably seaworthy as well. A Malaysian flag fluttered merrily at the helm. Rupert asked the man in broken Malay, ‘Why you not go out today?’