‘Well, this is the thing,’ said Inspector Singh, unable to obey his own rules about keeping out of trouble, ‘Jasper claims he killed your brother to stop his illegal activity in Borneo. If what you say is true – there is no illegal activity – Jasper Lee has no motive . . . unlike another brother of Alan who did rather well out of his untimely demise.’ As he said this Singh looked around at Kian Min’s office trappings contemptuously and then turned back to look at the man he had just implicitly accused of murder.
To his surprise, Kian Min looked unperturbed, amused even. He ignored the allegation and concentrated on Jasper’s story.
‘So Jasper say he kill Alan to stop him cutting down trees?’ He laughed, a derisory sound. ‘You know, he’s so screwed up he maybe believes it. But that’s not the real reason.’
Shukor jumped in. The inspector would have preferred to let Kian Min keep talking off his own bat. ‘Why then? Why did he kill Alan?’
Kian Min eyed them. The interruption had given him pause for thought. At last, he said, ‘Well, it’s obvious, right?’
This time both policemen kept silent.
‘He did it for Chelsea.’
It was the first time she had gone to see him. She had stayed away for as long as possible but then guilt had driven her to prison. She could not abandon her brother-in-law without at least a visit. He was the reason she was free. Remembering her own experience she was pleasantly surprised when she saw him. He looked thinner and tired but there was a bounce in his step when he came into the room. Jasper had an inner resilience which she had not suspected. They sat in silence for a while. He looked at her with a mildly amused expression on his face, guessing her conflicting emotions – relief not to be incarcerated herself, guilt that he was there. Chelsea looked around, not saying a word, struggling to believe that a few short weeks ago she had been sitting in this room as the accused, not a visitor.
She screwed up the courage to ask, ‘How are you managing?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, it’s not the Mandarin Oriental – but I’m fine!’
She said, ‘Why did you confess?’
He looked at her, meeting her eyes fearlessly. ‘Because I killed Alan.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I know. You even have that fat policeman trying to persuade me that I’m not guilty. But really, I killed Alan and I don’t regret it.’
This last was said with a stubborn look, defying her to contradict him.
She shook her head gently. ‘I won’t pretend that I have any sorrow at Alan’s death. The man I thought I married died for me a long time ago.’
In the silence, they were both remembering a wedding day from many years ago – where the radiance of a young bride had transcended the kitschy white wedding and turned it into something truly beautiful. Jasper had not been asked by his brother to be the best man. The relationship between them had soured by then. Jasper would have refused anyway. Instead, he had sat in the front pew of the big church and watched his brother marry the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He looked at the woman across from him, seeking in her features something of that young woman, girl almost, he had watched that day. She had grown older, of course, and developed an air of sophistication as the wife of one of Malaysia’s leading businessmen. There were a few faint lines on her face, erased to some extent by make-up. He thought to himself that Chelsea had aged in the manner of expensive wine – her face had developed in character what it had lost in beauty. The fine bones were still there and the iridescent, almond eyes. He thought her more attractive now than he had done on that wedding day when his envy of his brother had formed a physical constriction in his throat.
He was lost in the past and did not hear Chelsea speak.
She said again, ‘Jasper!’
He looked up at her, taken aback by her changed appearance, so immersed had he been in his memories.
She looked worried and he smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m fine.’
This made her angry. ‘How can you say that?’ she snapped. ‘I was sitting in that chair not long ago – looking forward to a dawn walk to a hangman’s noose. There is nothing fine about this situation!’
He did not know what to say. Her anger was palpable. He understood that it was concern for him. But he did not know how to deal with this fiery-eyed, assertive woman. All the years he had known her she had been retreating further into a shell until he had become accustomed to the quiet, polite but basically secretive woman. Her release from prison into a world where there was no dominating husband had removed emotional shackles too.
He changed the subject. ‘What’s happening with the custody thing?’
She said, ‘It doesn’t look good. The civil courts released Alan’s body to the Council for burial in accordance with Moslem rites.’
Jasper was no fool. He said thoughtfully, ‘I see – and that might be a precedent they use for the custody issues?’
Chelsea nodded. ‘Which leaves me entirely at the mercy of the Syariah court. They must surely be even less inclined to examine whether Alan was actually a Moslem or just faking it.’
Jasper said, ‘It’s possible, I suppose, that they will be more willing to preserve the sanctity of the religion – by not allowing a conversion of convenience to carry any weight.’
‘That’s my last hope!’ said Chelsea, an edge of desperation in her voice. ‘The worst part is that, if Alan was alive, I might have stood a better chance. The judges would have seen with their own eyes that he could not possibly be a genuine convert. We both know Alan. It’s not an act he could have sustained for very long. Can you imagine it – going to the mosque every Friday, fasting during Ramadan? But now, with Alan dead, it has become a matter of principle – not of people . . .’
Jasper asked, ‘Are you sorry he’s dead then?’
Chelsea did not answer for an interminable moment. Then she said quietly, ‘No, I’m not.’
Jasper reached out and took one of her hands in his. She noticed abstractedly that his nails were not clean – residue from his first week in prison.
He said, ‘You need not worry about me. Really, I’m OK. If they hang me, so be it. I did what I did knowing the consequences.’
When she did not respond, he continued, ‘I just wish there was something more I could do to help you.’
‘You need to concentrate on helping yourself!’ said Chelsea, squeezing his hand to rob her words of the harshness. She rose to her feet, picked up her small clutch purse, put out a hand and touched his cheek fleetingly – a small, sad farewell gesture – and knocked on the door to be let out.
He did not protest her departure. This was no place for her. It was imagining her in a cell like this one that had given him the strength to come in and confess to the murder in the first place. He did not want to see her here, even as a visitor.
Singh held a handkerchief to his nose and stared in disbelief at the misty outlines of the Twin Towers. The sun, struggling to penetrate the gloom, was a pale moonlike orb.
The streets were almost empty – a few dispatch boys on motorbikes scurried along, hankies tied firmly around their noses and mouths. The smell of burning was pervasive and Singh could almost feel the soot clogging his nostrils.
‘They will have to close the schools again,’ said Shukor.
‘Airports too, I suspect,’ was Singh’s response. ‘The haze is bad this year, isn’t it?’
‘Forest fires in Indonesia. When the wind changes, it blows here directly from Sumatra, Borneo, Java and gets trapped in the Klang Valley,’ said Shukor by way of explanation.
The Malaysian suddenly turned on his heel and headed back into the building they had just exited. Singh hurried after him.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, surprised.
The young policeman, face grim, did not answer. He headed straight for the elevator, impatiently jabbing the buttons with a blunt, angry finger. The lift ‘pinged’ and Shukor hurried towards it.
The doors sli
d open and Kian Min walked out. He was surprised to see the policemen still in the building – but his expression of discomfiture was quickly smoothed into the inquiring mask he had presented to them upstairs. It did not last.
Shukor grabbed him by the arm and dragged him towards the exit.
‘What are you doing? Let me go!’ shouted Kian Min angrily.
People in the lobby stopped and stared at the sight of a leading business figure being frog-marched out of their building. Singh, breathless at the pace, was trying to catch Shukor’s eye. He had no idea what had got into the sergeant.
They stopped just outside the main entrance. Shukor let go of the slight Chinese man’s arm.
He said, ‘Look around you!’
Kian Min complied, rubbing his sore arm.
‘What do you see?’
It was clear that Kian Min did not know what the right answer was.
‘What do you see?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I cannot see much. Very hazy!’
Shukor grabbed him by the lapels and held him on tiptoes, Kian Min’s face inches away from his own.
‘Yes, you can’t see anything – because of this haze. Because you and your cronies are clearing land all over – burning the rainforests . . . And here in Kuala Lumpur we cannot see to the end of the street!’
Kian Min shook his head feebly. ‘It’s not me. I am not the one who does it.’
Shukor said, ‘Yes it is. It is you and men like you. You wear your expensive suits and you hide in your expensive offices while your gangsters chase people off their own land so that you can log it and burn it to plant oil palm.’
Kian Min was over his initial shock. He realised the policeman could not do anything to him. They were in a crowded place with plenty of witnesses. He hissed, ‘I will have you kicked out of the police force.’
Shukor said, ‘Well, you’d better be quick – because I am going to prove that it is you and your company that has caused this.’ One arm took in a wide arc that indicated their surroundings and its thick veil of haze. The other let go of Kian Min’s lapels so suddenly that the smaller man stumbled backwards and almost fell before righting himself.
Shukor gave him a last meaningful glare and then walked off at a great pace with the inspector struggling in his wake.
‘What was that about?’ he asked when Shukor slowed down enough for him to catch up.
‘I just got angry, lah.’
Kian Min recovered his equilibrium slowly. His back straightened. He dusted off his jacket and straightened his tie, wincing at the soreness in his arm. He smoothed his hair carefully and then reached into his pocket and slipped out his ultra-slim mobile. He rang a number and listened calmly, timing his breathing with each ring to regain mastery over his emotions.
A man picked up the phone and said ‘Hello’ in an impatient voice.
‘We have a problem,’ said Kian Min.
Chelsea wandered around the living room, straightening ornaments that were perfectly aligned and reorganising photographs on the mantelpiece. All the pictures of Alan had been removed. But still she looked around the room in disgust. If she had a chance, she decided, after this whole thing was over and there was no longer a threat to her children, she would have this room gutted, erasing every trace of the past. In fact, she would have the house gutted and start again from a clean slate. She considered moving instead. That would surely be the easier, more sensible option. She thought about it for a moment and then shook her head and said loudly and firmly, ‘No!’
Moving would be like running away, letting Alan have the last word. His presence was everywhere in the building, festering as if his corpse was rotting under the floor. Alan had chosen the interior designer and agreed the plans and slapped her when she had suggested that the opulent furnishings were not appropriate for the climate or young children. Chelsea made up her mind. She would erase every trace of him. Nothing should remain of Alan – his tastes, his past, his preferences. She would have every piece of furniture he had ever touched destroyed. She would repaint every wall. She would even strip out the marble flooring and carpet over every footstep. This house would not just have every memory of Alan destroyed but every thumb-print as well. And when she had finished, he would be well and truly gone. There would be nothing of him left to haunt her.
The flaw in her plan said tentatively, ‘Mummy?’ And then as she did not answer, again and louder this time, ‘Mummy!’
She looked down at the youngest of her three sons. Her son, but also Alan’s – a flesh-and-blood creature who carried the imprimatur of his father’s genes. She realised that she could wipe away the physical traces of her husband in the house, but these living symbols would remain. Perhaps she would leave the house as it was. Alan was gone. The memory of him would fade. She did not need an exorcism by interior design.
She smiled at her son, who said, ‘I want to play with my Lego. Will you help me?’
She nodded and walked out of the room with him.
Both policemen were standing, both of them looked sheepish. Inspector Mohammad was livid. His face was contorted with rage and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he was able to squeeze words out from behind his clenched teeth.
He said, ‘Let me get this straight: although we have a man in custody who has confessed – confessed! – to killing Alan Lee, you two, a rookie and a foreigner, decided to keep investigating?’
Sergeant Shukor said smartly, ‘Yessir!’
‘And then you went to see Lee Kian Min, one of the most powerful men in the country, and accused him of murder?’
‘Yessir!’
‘And finally, you attacked him in a public street.’
Shukor did not feel able to speak, he simply nodded.
Mohammad steepled his fingers and looked at them in disbelief – genuinely at a loss for words at the magnitude of their insubordination.
Finally, he said, pointing a finger at Shukor, ‘You’re suspended for two weeks. You’d better hope Lee doesn’t take it further. As for you’ – he turned his attention to the fat man – ‘I want you on a plane to Singapore this evening.’
The steady whirring of the stand fan was the only sound to be heard in the room. Singh looked Inspector Mohammad in the eye and said, ‘No.’
Fifteen
‘What do you mean, “no”?’ yelled Inspector Mohammad.
‘I mean no – I’m not leaving. If you want to get me off the case, you’ll have to arrest me.’
‘Fine – have it your way. Shukor, arrest him.’
Shukor took an uncertain step forward, stopped, looked at the inspector from Singapore – a short, fat man with a determined expression and dirty white shoes – turned to his boss and said firmly, ‘I can’t, sir. I’ve been suspended.’
Singh understood what the word ‘apoplectic’ meant for the first time. Mohammad’s face was mottled red right up to the roots of his peppery hair. In contrast, his lips were pale and bloodless, he had them pursed so tight.
Singh stepped in. He could not let the younger policeman ruin his career over his, Singh’s, stubbornness. He said, ‘Look, Mohammad. You’re quite right. We were completely out of line. I was just sniffing around and things snowballed.’
Mohammad’s jaw muscles unclenched slightly. Shukor heaved a tiny, inaudible sigh of relief.
Singh continued persuasively, ‘Listen, if you’ll just hear us out, I’ll get on a plane if you insist. But I don’t think Jasper Lee killed his brother. And I know you don’t want to hang an innocent man.’
Inspector Mohammad exclaimed, ‘What’s the matter with you chaps? Chelsea Liew didn’t do it. Jasper Lee didn’t do it. Alan Lee has a bullet in his chest. Someone did it!’
Singh relaxed. Inspector Mohammad was listening now.
He said, ‘Look, I think I can get Jasper Lee to retract his confession. Will you let me try?’
Mohammad laughed. ‘Well, that’s an unusual approach. Here we usually work to extract confessions from su
spects – by fair or foul means – not persuade them to retract. We leave that to the damned lawyers.’
Singh laughed too. Shukor didn’t dare. He was quiet, hoping to keep his job.
Mohammad said suddenly, slapping the table with both hands and standing up, ‘All right, it’s a deal. If Jasper Lee recants, I’ll reopen the investigation and let you stay.’
The private investigator was angry. The disc he had given Chelsea Liew was worth its weight in gold. He had expected her to pay up and pay up quickly. But days had passed and no messenger had arrived bearing a sealed envelope stuffed full of cash. Mr Chan had a long fingernail and a comb-over – but he also had pride. When he performed the task to which he was assigned he expected more than a pat on the head or a quiet dismissal. He thought back to his interview with Chelsea. She was repulsed by him and his dirty job. He had sensed that immediately. These rich people and their marital problems. They wanted to know the truth. They asked people like him to do the digging so that they did not get dirt under their manicured fingernails. But when the information was brought to them, they were disgusted. They treated him as if he had tramped mud across their expensive carpets. Perhaps he had, but it was their mud, not his.
He could not let this pass. If word got out that he, Mr Chan, could be cheated of his rightful fee, others would not be slow to follow suit. He thought hard, the long fingernail gently scratching a patch of eczema on the side of his bulbous nose. The idea came to him – the perfect punishment for rich bitches who didn’t understand hard work. And the best part was that he could pretend that he had done it for all the right reasons. It would be a useful card to have up his sleeve if ever he needed a favour. Mr Chan picked up his mobile phone and rang one of his contacts.
Jasper Lee was in the interview cell. He looked even thinner – but still cheerful. He looked at the trio, Inspectors Singh and Mohammad and Sergeant Shukor.
‘And what can I do for you, gentlemen?’ he asked. ‘Crime must be a bit slow at the moment if the police can waste three of their top cops on a confessed murderer.’
A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder Page 14
