A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder

by Shamini Flint

  There was another possibility. Perhaps Chelsea Liew had provided the backbone Ravi lacked to kill her husband. Singh wiped his face with a big, white handkerchief. He really did not want to contemplate Chelsea’s involvement in the killing, whether she pulled the trigger or not.

  Singh sat, wedged into a spindly, cushioned chair, waiting for Chelsea. He had turned down offers of refreshments, tea, freshly squeezed watermelon juice or coffee, from the demure, uniformed Indonesian maid. The best place to get honest impressions of people, as long as you could persuade them to talk, decided the inspector, was from the domestic help. Quarrels took place in front of them. Secrets were revealed as if they were not there. They were the most likely members of the household to pick up the phone when a boyfriend called, the most likely to discover the lipstick marks on a straying husband’s shirt.

  Singh decided to test his theory. ‘Tell me about your boss, Alan Lee,’ he said.

  The Indonesian housemaid in her frilly apron was cagey, reluctant to speak.

  She said at last, ‘Nothing to tell, sir.’

  ‘Nothing?’ The policeman’s tone was disbelieving.

  She spoke more firmly this time. ‘Nothing!’

  In the inspector’s experience, sometimes those who tried to help did the most damage. Their attempts to mislead often flagged new avenues of investigation.

  He persevered. ‘The whole family must be very sad that the boss was killed,’ he remarked.

  He could see her struggle between the desire to agree with everything he said and the temptation to say what she really felt about her dead employer.

  Finally, she said, ‘Sometimes he had a very bad temper.’

  ‘I know, I know! I heard that he hit his wife, Mrs Lee. But maybe she asked for it?’

  The domestic help was not about to lambast him for being politically incorrect. Instead, she assured the policeman in hushed tones that Chelsea was a wonderful wife and mother who had never done anything inappropriate that could have provoked her husband to anger.

  The inspector knew this was not true because he knew about Ravi. The sheer emphasis in the Indonesian’s voice as she painted a picture of a paragon who could do no wrong made him suspect that the maid knew about the boyfriend too. Her loyalty to Chelsea impressed him. She was prepared to lie to a policeman to protect her, a courageous decision for a foreign worker in Malaysia dependent on the goodwill of the authorities for her livelihood.

  The door opened and Chelsea came in. Dressed in a pair of white linen trousers, with an equally cool sky-blue shirt worn open over a white camisole, she looked fresh and well – a far cry from the traumatised woman of a couple of weeks ago.

  She said now, as if theirs was a relationship of casual, gossipy friendship rather than a bond forged in the most unusual of circumstances, ‘How are things going?’

  He shrugged, bearded chin sinking against his chest as if he was trying to avoid speech.

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘Go on, you can tell me! I’ve had my fair share of difficult news in the past few months. Have you found some evidence against Jasper? I won’t believe you if you tell me you have.’ She smiled to rob her words of offence.

  The inspector said heavily, ‘Not as such, no. He says he killed his brother because he was cutting down the rainforests.’

  ‘Really?’ She shook her head, disbelief tinged with affection. ‘I know Jasper takes these things seriously but surely that’s a bit farfetched?’

  Singh nodded. ‘It strikes me as a bit odd too.’

  There was an awkward pause between them. Singh tried to look competent and menacing at the same time, sitting up straight and stroking his beard.

  She said, holding his glance, ‘That’s not really what you came to discuss, is it?’

  He was the first to look away. He stared past her, looked at the ceiling briefly, tied a shoe-lace and then sat back up in his chair.

  Chelsea said, half amused and half worried, ‘For God’s sake, how bad can it be?’

  Singh said brusquely, ‘We know about your boyfriend.’

  It was her turn to sit back in her chair and avoid meeting his eye.

  She said quietly, looking down at her hands, ‘Ravi was the mistake of a woman with nowhere to turn . . . and no one to turn to. He is not relevant.’

  ‘On the contrary, aside from Jasper, he’s the best suspect we have.’

  Chelsea looked at him directly. ‘I’ve told you – Ravi meant nothing then and means nothing now.’

  ‘Have it your way. But that leaves Jasper in the frame – by himself.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten someone,’ Chelsea said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kian Min, Alan’s younger brother. He’s taken over the company. It’s been his life’s ambition to do that. Who is to say that he didn’t kill Alan to inherit Lee Timber?’

  ‘It’s interesting,’ remarked the inspector, ‘that you are so anxious to help one brother, Jasper, but have no qualms about pointing a finger at the other brother, Kian Min.’

  ‘It’s not interesting at all,’ snapped Chelsea. ‘Jasper is a kind, decent man. Lee Kian Min would make Alan look like the good guy.’

  Singh put up a hand. ‘Fine, I’ll look into it.’

  They hauled Ravi in for questioning. Sergeant Shukor was only too pleased to lend a hand. He did not even mention the possible reaction of his superiors or indulge in his usual angst about getting into trouble if he continued to help the Singapore policeman. Like the inspector, he was curious to see the man who had cuckolded Alan Lee.

  Ravi was extremely good looking, the fat policeman acknowledged to himself a little ruefully. He was in perfect physical condition – strong without being excessively muscular. With his mixed Indian-Chinese parentage, he had even features, warm eyes and flawless skin.

  Nevertheless, it did not take them long, either of them, to get the measure of the man.

  Ravi started out blustering. ‘How can you arrest me? For what? I haven’t done anything!’

  ‘You were having an affair with a wealthy woman whose husband has turned up dead,’ pointed out Singh.

  Ravi turned pale. His eyes shifted from one policeman to the other. He stammered, ‘I . . . I didn’t do it. You can’t go around accusing people of murder just like that. I want a lawyer. I won’t say anything more until I have a lawyer! You’re violating my rights.’

  Singh suspected that Ravi’s knowledge of police methods was derived entirely from American television drama.

  Shukor said patiently, ‘You’ve not been arrested. This is just a chat. You can walk out if you like.’

  Ravi considered his options. The policemen watched him silently. Ravi decided belatedly on cooperation, no doubt afraid, thought Singh cynically, of the police proceeding to use the evidence of others without giving him a chance to put his side of the story forward.

  ‘She pursued me, of course,’ he offered as his opening remark in the cooperative phase.

  Inspector Singh took a deep breath. He said, ‘In what way?’

  ‘We met at a party. I could see she was attracted to me.’

  ‘How could you tell?’ asked Shukor.

  The inspector wondered whether the policeman was wasting valuable interview time trying to pick up tips about women from someone who fancied himself an expert.

  Even in the company of two men, Ravi could not help running his fingers through his hair. A practised, flirtatious gesture.

  He said, ‘Well, she couldn’t take her eyes off me. I noticed that right away. And when we were introduced and shook hands, she held my hand for just that bit longer than necessary.’ He continued smugly, ‘You can always tell, can’t you?’

  ‘Moving on,’ said Singh brusquely, ‘what happened next?’

  ‘I gave her my phone number.’

  ‘And she called you?’

  ‘Not exactly, no. But we . . . er . . . bumped into each other a couple of days later at the Marriott and had coffee together.’

  Singh had se
en it so many times before. A man, little better than a gigolo, setting his sights on a rich, lonely, unhappy woman and engineering coincidences until he had wormed his way into her affections and her bed. He was just surprised that Chelsea had fallen prey to such a predator. He supposed that he had no idea what she had been through. And she was evidently an appalling judge of the male character. She had married Alan Lee, after all.

  ‘Go on,’ said Shukor brusquely to the boyfriend.

  When discussing his successes with women, Ravi was not reluctant to talk.

  ‘It was the usual story,’ he continued, smirking slightly. ‘She pursued me. We ended up having a relationship. I was reluctant because she was married, but in the end I could not say no.’ Ravi stopped to admire the picture he painted of a moral man tempted too far by a determined woman.

  ‘How much did you take her for?’ asked the inspector abruptly.

  Ravi looked pained. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘How did you feel when she called off the relationship?’

  ‘Who said she called it off?’

  ‘She did!’

  Ravi looked unsure whether to contradict this version of events, but decided against it.

  ‘She was worried about the custody battle.’

  ‘So how did you feel when your meal ticket was threatened?’

  ‘She was not a meal ticket. She was the woman I loved!’

  Sergeant Shukor snorted derisively. Ravi looked at him angrily and then, taking in the policeman’s physique, decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

  He said again in a quiet tone, ‘I loved her. I would have married her and been a father to her children.’

  Singh could not resist sarcasm. ‘You mean you would have been willing to marry an extremely wealthy and beautiful woman? You amaze me!’

  Ravi started to say something and then thought better of it. He slumped in the chair, looking sullen. This was not going the way he planned.

  Singh asked, ‘So did you kill him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you kill Alan Lee?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘You had every reason.’

  ‘I did not kill him. Anyway, I thought the brother confessed.’

  The policeman did not answer him and he said again more plaintively, ‘But I thought the brother confessed! ‘

  Later, when the policemen were alone, Shukor asked, ‘Could Ravi have done it?’

  Inspector Singh shrugged. ‘He strikes me as a coward, but people have surprised me before with the lengths to which they will go for a few bucks. He had an excellent motive. Without Alan in the picture he must have felt secure enough of Chelsea to think that he had found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.’

  Shukor said tentatively, ‘But we’ve still got Jasper’s confession, lah.’

  Singh sighed. ‘You’re quite right. There is still that damned confession.’

  The office was closed. Rupert leaned his forehead on the grimy wall and closed his eyes. He was too tired, too dirty and too worried to face another hurdle. Jasper Lee was his best hope. He needed someone with access and information. A conduit who knew the issues would have been perfect. Someone who he had worked with and trusted was an additional plus. But the door was locked and the place musty and damp. No one had been in for a while. He tried to peer through the tinted glass. It was dark inside the room. He could not even make out the silhouette of furniture. It was impossible to know when the office had been abandoned. There was certainly no way of knowing where Jasper Lee had gone.

  Rupert suddenly wanted to be somewhere else. This narrow corridor at the top of a stairwell felt too much like a dead end. He ran lightly down the stairs. It was dangerous in the half-light cast by a single bare light bulb but he was determined to get back to the bustle of the street. Once down again, and feeling the safety of anonymity in a crowd, he walked into the coffee shop at the base of the building and asked an old crone chopping vegetables where Jasper had gone. She cackled at him, showing gold teeth sporadically protruding from red gums but did not answer. A harassed woman, sautéing vegetables in a big pot of boiling water and then deftly flicking them onto a row of plates while another worker squirted soy sauce and a spoonful of fried garlic on each, said, ‘She no speak Engris one!’

  He turned to her gratefully. ‘Maybe you can help me? I am looking for Jasper Lee – the man with the office upstairs? He might have come here to eat.’

  She looked at him curiously, pushing a strand of hair, damp with sweat, behind her ear.

  ‘Why you want him?’

  ‘He’s an old friend of mine.’

  ‘He not here any more.’

  Rupert nodded encouragingly, willing her to continue. He could tell that Jasper wasn’t around any more. He needed to know where he had gone.

  Answering the silent question, she said, ‘He go to jail!’

  ‘Jail?’

  Rupert’s first thought was that somehow the police had guessed where he would be going and had deprived him of his one ally in the battle against the logging companies. Then he realised that was farfetched.

  He asked, ‘Why is he in jail? What did he do?’

  ‘He kill his brother. He go to jail. They sure hang him!’

  She seemed to relish this unseemly end to her neighbour’s career. The pleasure in being the bearer of such unique news overcame any sympathy she felt for a man facing such an unpleasant fate – even one she had served in her coffee shop on numerous occasions over the last few years.

  She continued, pointing to a small table, ‘He always like to sit there and eat noodles.’ For a moment she must have felt some pity for Jasper because she said in a soft voice, ‘He always like my food.’ But then she shrugged and went back to her task of scooping vegetables out of the boiling water, scowling when she saw that her thirty seconds of conversation had resulted in limp, overcooked greens.

  Rupert walked down the street. He did not notice the noise or the crowds. He did not flinch from the buses thundering down the roads and brushing the pavements. He was too shocked at what he had just heard. He could not believe for a second that the gentle man he had known, with his overwhelming compassion for every living thing, could have taken a life. He of all people knew the time and effort that Jasper had put in to protect those who were weaker than him in society. What could have led him to kill his brother? Possibly it was some sort of trumped-up charge by the police to get Jasper Lee out of the way. That would not have surprised the Englishman, who had spent the last twenty-four hours escaping from corrupt policemen. He knew that Jasper’s research was getting closer and closer to proving the extent of the illegal logging going on in Borneo. Someone might have seen fit to frame him for a murder he had not committed.

  How was he to find out more? Rupert Winfield set out for the library newspaper archives. Sitting there half an hour later, scrolling down the history of Jasper’s internment, he was not a happy man. It seemed that the person he had hoped to turn to in his predicament was in a lot of trouble. So much for his theory, formulated on his walk through town, that Jasper had been framed because he was causing trouble for the logging industry. The man had confessed to killing his brother. Alan Lee, the man he held responsible for the events in Borneo, was dead. He, Rupert, would never have the opportunity now to confront him with the consequences of his actions. But he still found it hard to believe that Jasper had killed him.

  He stretched and sneezed. Even when the old newspapers were on screen they seemed to exude mustiness. It reminded him of his time researching dusty books when he was studying the indigenous tribes of Borneo. He had never anticipated that his academic interest would be so bound up in his own fate. But his life among the simplest of folk, first as a researcher, then as a defender, had completely changed his career path. Not for him, he had decided, the ivory towers of academe. He had traded it for a cause. And it had left him with a strong sense of fulfilment over the years.

  He
looked around him. An empty, soulless room with a bank of computer screens and a network of wires running across the floor, along the walls, taped down to the carpet with strips of brown packing tape. It reminded him of the squirming mass of black baby cobras he had once found under a rock. He sat lost in the past, forgetting his immediate troubles in memories of the jungle.

  It would not have been Inspector Singh’s choice to move in to his sister’s house. But now that he was no longer in Kuala Lumpur in his official capacity as a Singaporean policeman seconded to a Malaysian case, his budget did not stretch to a hotel. He had called his sister and told her he would be coming to stay for a few days. She seemed indifferent rather than enthusiastic. But there had never been any danger of refusal. The right of family to come and stay indefinitely, whatever the inconvenience and expense, was hardwired into her brain. It was the Asian way. Hospitality was paramount – especially to relatives. They might bitch about each other, nag, complain and occasionally quarrel. But the door was still open if you wanted to stay.

  He was at her door now with his small suitcase. She let him in and he sat silently in the gloomy living room waiting for her to make him a drink. It did not take her long to return with the cup of tea, tepid from the addition of cold milk.

  She asked, ‘How come you are not staying at the hotel?’

  He debated telling her that he was freelancing and decided against it. It would give her too much ammunition with which to nag at him for the duration of his stay. She would go on and on about the importance of staying on the good side of one’s employers – with her usual sprinkling of judicious anecdotes about her late husband’s talent in this field. Singh, who remembered her husband as a gruff, choleric man whose temper had led to an early heart attack, wondered what his sister would have done if he had still been alive to give the lie to all the numerous stories she made up about him to make a conversational point.