A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder

by Shamini Flint

  ‘Why don’t you tell us how you drove Marcus Lee to kill his own father?’

  Sixteen

  Mr Chan, the private investigator, had given a copy of the disc to the police. Chelsea Liew, he thought, would think twice about not paying up for work done in the future. And he was quite sure he had found a way to recoup the losses that he had made on the Lee investigation. He neatly arranged his hair, changed into a fresh shirt and approached the newspapers with an exclusive. The tape in exchange for two thousand ringgit. When he explained, in lascivious detail, what was on the tape, he started a bidding war. In the end he walked away with five thousand ringgit. Not bad, he thought smugly. His cunning had resulted in a much better outcome than he could have predicted when that woman had not paid him. It was only when he got to the car that he experienced a pang of regret that caused his stomach juices to wash over his ulcers. Doubled over and gasping with pain, one hand on the door of his car to keep from ending up on his knees in the dust, gravel and dog shit that characterised the open plots of city land doubling as car parks, Mr Chan was really cross with himself. He should have approached the Singapore newspapers too. They would have paid double at least and in a more valuable currency.

  The newspaper that won the tape watched it, cut stills from it, consulted their lawyers and prepared the morning edition with an enthusiasm that had not been seen on the newsroom floor for many years. They had the Malaysian scoop of the year.

  Chelsea had persuaded Marcus to sit down with her for a coffee. It had not been easy. He had insisted he was busy, he had schoolwork, he was just popping out for a moment – they could do it later. But she had insisted, finally she had begged and he had agreed to join her for a quick drink. They sat at the dining table, a heavy, rectangular table with sixteen chairs around it, sipping hot coffee. The two younger boys had gone to the park with their nanny. They would not be interrupted – not for a while anyway.

  Chelsea broke the silence that was becoming oppressive. ‘I’m worried about you, Marcus.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Marcus. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re fine. You’re hardly at home. You don’t speak to me or the boys any more. Your clothes stink of alcohol and cigarettes. I checked with the school – you’ve not been turning up there.’

  ‘I don’t like you spying on me!’

  ‘I’m not spying on you. I’m your mother, I’m worried about you.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re a great mother . . .’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Marcus, I did my best for you. I’m doing my best for all you kids. Things haven’t been easy – you know that.’

  Marcus fidgeted in his chair. ‘Can I go now?’

  Chelsea said quietly, ‘I know about Sharifah.’

  His skinny body grew stock still. He looked up at his mother and saw the sympathy and pity on her face.

  Images of Sharifah flitted through his mind like a series of photos on a screen saver. And then the last time he had seen her – at that club. Standing there, all dressed up like he had never seen her – looking so much older than she had ever done before. Wearing clothes his father had bought her, wearing jewellery his father had bought her, selling herself to a rich man. He had begged her to come away with him. Promised her that he loved her. Tried to explain the sort of man his father was. He had thought, for a moment, that he was getting through to her. Her face had softened, she had looked younger. More like the girl he had known at school. And then he had realised that she was looking at him with sympathy, with pity. That same expression she had worn he now saw on his mother’s face.

  Marcus put his head down on his folded arms. His mother reached out and put an arm around him. He did not shake it off. For a long time they stayed in the same position until at last Marcus sat up.

  He looked at his mother with red-rimmed eyes and said, ‘How do you know about Sharifah?’

  ‘That’s not important.’

  ‘You know about Dad too? What he did?’

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her anger at her dead husband burned so hot she felt as if she could set fire to things simply by touching them.

  ‘I hated him. I’m so glad he’s dead,’ said the boy bitterly.

  ‘Marcus, I need to ask you an important question. And whatever you tell me, I will protect you. But I need to know the truth.’

  Marcus looked at her, his face twisted with sadness. She asked softly, ‘Did you kill your father?’

  ‘Marcus did not kill his father.’ Sharifah spoke emphatically, complete conviction in her voice.

  ‘How would you know that for a fact?’ asked Singh.

  ‘I know Marcus. He would never do a thing like that!’

  ‘I can just see the court taking your word for it,’ said Singh snidely. ‘You’d make a wonderful character witness – your behaviour in this matter has been so upstanding.’

  Sharifah winced at the sarcasm but would not budge from her position. ‘Marcus Lee is a very gentle boy.’

  ‘A gentle boy, not like that big strong man, his father, eh? If that’s how you spoke to him – and not just about him – no wonder he was provoked to kill his father.’

  ‘He did not kill his father! ‘

  ‘Somebody did.’

  ‘I thought it was the uncle.’

  ‘I bet that made you feel better,’ remarked Inspector Singh with his usual intuitive insight. ‘You must have been very worried, when you heard Alan Lee was dead, that you had driven Marcus to do it.’

  ‘I was not worried at all,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Look, the only way you could know for sure Marcus Lee did not murder his father is if you killed Alan yourself.’

  ‘No, I know Marcus didn’t do it . . . because I was with him at the time of the murder.’

  Singh looked at her disbelievingly. ‘That’s your story?’

  She nodded, pale but determined.

  ‘So what was this? The grand reunion?’

  She thought about her answer.

  Trying to remember exactly what she had said earlier so that she would not contradict herself, guessed the inspector. It would be almost amusing if it wasn’t an effort to mislead them in a murder investigation.

  Sharifah said, ‘No . . . I hadn’t broken up with Alan. We were still getting married. But I wanted to apologise to Marcus – make him understand.’

  ‘I struggle to see a situation in which Marcus would be willing to listen to an apology from you.’

  ‘I thought I had to try.’

  ‘So when was this grand reconciliation and forgiveness fest?’

  ‘I told you – the day Alan was murdered.’

  ‘And which day was that?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You don’t remember the day your fiancé was killed?’

  ‘Of course I remember. I mean I don’t remember the exact date!’

  ‘Do you remember what time this reunion with Marcus was?’

  ‘Not exactly. But we were together quite a while.’

  ‘I can see why that would be – you had a lot to talk about, after all.’

  Shukor wondered why the inspector was being so unpleasant to Sharifah. He had not seen him, until that moment, be so harsh and sarcastic with a witness. She was very young, this girl. She had made some pretty awful mistakes – but that was what young people did. She was unlucky in the unintended consequences that had flowed from them, that was all.

  Singh had not finished. He said abruptly, ‘Morning or afternoon?’

  She was confused. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Were you with him in the morning or the afternoon?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t remember. Both!’

  Singh laughed out loud. He said, ‘I feel sorry for you, spouting these lies in front of the prosecution at Marcus Lee’s trial for murder.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  The inspector didn’t answer her question. In
stead, he turned to Shukor and said, ‘Come on – let’s go. We’ve got work to do.’

  Shukor nodded to Sharifah almost apologetically and trailed after his superior officer. He had no idea why Singh had been so aggressive with Sharifah and he certainly wasn’t going to ask. He didn’t relish feeling the rough edge of the inspector’s tongue. It was bad enough to be a witness to it. Still, it had produced results. The young woman – he felt another pang of sympathy as he remembered her wide, frightened eyes – had tied herself in knots with her hastily concocted version of events, desperate to provide her ex-boyfriend an alibi. Shukor could not decide whether her attempts had been provoked by guilt or a residual affection for Marcus.

  The two men took the lift to the ground floor and got into the car. They drove quietly for a couple of minutes.

  At last Shukor asked, ‘Are we on the way to arrest Marcus?’

  ‘No. In fact, just pull over here.’

  Shukor stopped by the side of the road. ‘What now, sir?’

  ‘I want you to go back.’

  ‘Back?’

  ‘Yes, to the apartment building. Find a convenient bush, hide behind it. Wait for Sharifah to come out and stay on her tail. Don’t let her see you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But what are you hoping she’ll do?’

  ‘Run to Marcus and warn him.’

  ‘Won’t she just call him?’

  ‘I suspect she’ll want to see him face to face. Try and get this alibi straight. Besides’ – Singh fished in his pocket – ‘I nicked her mobile phone.’

  Shukor looked shocked at this petty theft but did not protest. He said, ‘You don’t believe she was with him?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Shukor ruefully, climbing out of the car.

  Inspector Singh got out too and walked around to the other side, sliding into the driver’s seat with difficulty and moving the seat back so his stomach had more space.

  Shukor put a hand on the door and leaned forward earnestly. He asked, ‘Do you think she did it, sir? Or him?’

  ‘Don’t know. But both scenarios are quite possible. Alan Lee might have dumped her. She could have killed him for revenge. Marcus was certainly angry enough. They might even have done it together.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Marcus would have inherited a stack of money – and Sharifah could have married a young, rich man.’

  ‘I don’t think she did it.’

  Singh laughed. ‘You’re never going to be a successful policeman if you don’t believe a beautiful woman can commit murder!’

  ‘Isn’t that why you believe Chelsea is innocent?’

  Singh’s laughter dried up. There was more than a hint of truth in what the young policeman had said. He snapped, ‘Get on with the job.’

  ‘What are you going to do, sir?’

  ‘Get lost on the way back to the office.’

  Singh accelerated away, spitting dust and pebbles at the policeman standing by the road.

  Shukor dusted himself off and headed back in the direction he had come.

  Inspector Singh was as good as his word. In a very short time, he was completely lost. He regretted not taking a taxi. The traffic was heavy, the drivers aggressive and many of the cars looked like they were on the verge of a breakdown. In Singapore, by contrast, remembered Singh wistfully, the vast majority of cars were less than ten years old. The tax system worked such that it was usually better to scrap a car or export it and buy a new one than hang on to an old jalopy. A tiny island, the government was desperate that Singapore should not turn into a parking lot, so it invested in public transport and kept cars expensive. As a result, cars had real value and owners looked after them. A dirty car was a rarity in Singapore, let alone an old one. In Malaysia, Singh guessed, there were no such incentives. So old men ferried their extended families around in beat-up vans with six or seven kids hanging out of the windows and waving to the other cars. Salesmen drove ancient run-arounds. Thirty-year-old Mercedes Benz doubled up as taxis. Motorbikes weaved in and out of traffic. Small cars with 500cc engines, basically motorbikes with a body, raced along the fast lane at murderous speeds. Four-wheel drives, raised high with extra-large tyres, sped by. Mysterious limousines with dark, tinted windows went about their shady business. It was all too challenging for a policeman from Singapore who was unfamiliar with the road network.

  Singh wondered whether his wandering around Kuala Lumpur, taking wrong turns and making u-turns, was supposed to be some sort of metaphor for the way the case was shaping up. There had certainly been enough confusion to go around.

  First, was the arrest of Chelsea. He wriggled in his seat, trying to get his shirt, adhering to his back with sweat, to unstick. It was quite revealing, the sergeant’s comment, that he was so convinced about Chelsea’s innocence because he had been bowled over by her looks. Singh, who loved cricket and had once, in his youth, opened the batting for Singapore, loved his cricketing analogies. It was possible, of course. What was it that they said? There was no fool like an old fool.

  Singh swerved suddenly to avoid a motorbike which had raced up to overtake him on the left just as he considered changing lane. He almost hit a Mercedes Benz, a big, ugly, inflated beast of a car. The driver horned and the man in the back looked up briefly and then returned to his papers. The inspector went back to his circuitous musings and turned his attention to Jasper. His doubts as to Chelsea’s guilt had been so spectacularly vindicated. Jasper Lee had walked in of his own accord, and confessed. Singh searched his mind. Had he doubted the confession? He had to admit he had not. Not until Chelsea had insisted that Jasper did not kill Alan Lee. Even then, he was humouring her more than anything else. Further evidence of his partiality for Chelsea? Shukor would certainly think so. Singh was not convinced the young man was wrong.

  He was passing the Twin Towers now – two massive rockets in geometric designs brushing against the sky. He remembered the rumours, constantly circulating, that the towers were leaning this way or that way. They looked steady enough to him. Apparently, the task of building them had been given to two different contractors, so that they would work as quickly as possible in the race to touch the heavens first. Singh hoped it was not true. It sounded like a recipe for short cuts and shoddy work.

  And what of the other brother? Kian Min had a lot in common with Alan, his dead brother. It was just that Alan’s lusts were of the flesh, Kian Min’s were for power and wealth.

  Lust. Was it at the root of this case? Had Kian Min’s lust for power finally led him to kill his brother? Kian Min, Singh guessed, would have been more than happy to have his brother out of the way. But this was a man who paid people to do his dirty work for him. That was his modus operandi. He paid people to chase the Penan off their land in Borneo. He paid policemen and government employees to turn a blind eye. Surely, if he wanted his brother dead, he would have paid someone to do it. But the death of Alan Lee had not looked like a professional hit. Singh was convinced that Alan had known his assailant. He would be quite content if Kian Min turned out to be the murderer. But he was not convinced it was the right solution.

  What about Alan then? Was it his lusts that had led directly to his death? Had that girl, Sharifah, killed him when she woke up to the fact that she was just his latest conquest of the flesh, bought and paid for in cash and kind? He had been tough with the girl during her interview. He suspected Shukor had noticed. Why had he done that when it became apparent that she was not the painted tart he had anticipated? Was it because he thought she had killed Alan Lee and that he was face to face with a cold-blooded killer? He pictured her young face, shorn of make-up. Singh had not spent a lifetime as a policeman to leap to conclusions based on appearances. Except, he reminded himself, that was precisely what his sergeant had accused him of doing in the case of Chelsea.

  It was a pity that he was above framing likely suspects, Singh thought ruefully – at least not unless he was absolutely sure they had committed the crime. Otherwise,
he would have loved to pin the murder of the loathsome Alan Lee on that equally unattractive character, Ravi. There would be a wonderful symmetry in the removal of both the exploitative men in Chelsea Liew’s life. But sadly, wishful thinking did not translate into hard evidence.

  Singh saw a sign that read ‘Bangsar’ and turned the car in that direction. At least he was familiar with the area. The petrol gauge inched towards empty. And so did his bag of suspects. There was only Marcus Lee left. God knows he had motives in spades. The regular abuse of his mother. The stolen girlfriend. He was very young, Marcus – young enough that a surge of testosterone might have given him the courage to carry out the murder. And young enough to believe he could get away with it.

  He had reached Bangsar but could not for the life of him find his way out. There was only one thing to do. He parked the car neatly by the side of the road, ignoring the double yellow lines. A troop of monkeys from a nearby nature reserve screamed at him from the telephone wires. He glowered back at them but decided not to indulge in a shouting match. The monkeys moved on to a nearby bin and started methodically emptying it, chattering with excitement every time they found something tasty. They glared at the inspector from time to time in case he should be considering making a grab for the food. Singh flagged down a taxi and headed for the station.

  Inspector Mohammad was not at the station. He was at the Lee Building talking to Lee Kian Min. Kian Min was not amused to be at the receiving end of two visits from the police in as many days. He calmed down a little when Mohammad told him that he was just there to apologise for Sergeant Shukor’s behaviour and to assure him that the policeman had been disciplined.

  ‘He should be sacked,’ asserted Kian Min, daring the inspector to contradict him.

  Mohammad chose discretion. ‘It was not my decision,’ he said, hinting that if he was in charge, Shukor would have come out of it much the worse. ‘The higher-ups thought that he should have a second chance since he is so young and had an unblemished record until the regrettable incident with you.’