A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder

by Shamini Flint

  Chelsea gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles showed white.

  She said, ‘Who told you about . . . him?’

  ‘That fat policeman from Singapore. He said you were happy and that you’d had him on the side for a long time. He suggested I was a bit of a fool.’ He continued and there was a wealth of bitterness in his voice. ‘I felt a bit of a fool . . . There was I imagining that you were alone – that you really needed me, needed my help. But you already had someone.’

  Chelsea was silent for so long that Jasper walked over to her chair, willing her to say something, to explain how it was that while he was standing by, ready to offer her all the protection he was capable of, she had turned to someone else.

  At last she said, ‘I suppose I’m glad – I have to be glad. I never wanted an innocent man – I never wanted you – to die trying to protect me. But the inspector was not entirely truthful, I’m afraid.’

  She saw hope dawn on his face and knew that she had misled him. She said hurriedly, ‘I did have an affair – it was brief, physical and meaningless. I ended it the minute divorce proceedings began. I’ve not seen Ravi since and I have no intention or desire to do so.’

  Jasper sat down so suddenly she thought he might have fallen. He was ashen, defeated.

  Chelsea said, ‘I’m sorry, Jasper.’

  He found a vein of strength and humour he had never suspected he possessed. ‘I don’t suppose they’ll believe me if I confess again?’

  Jasper left and Chelsea sat in her chair lost in thought for a few minutes. Jasper’s revelations were extraordinary. She knew at the back of her mind that his release put her back in the frame for the murder. But she tried not to think about it. Marcus was also in trouble. That would have to be her first priority. Chelsea tracked down her mobile phone and looked at the missed calls from her lawyers in disgust. What did the vultures want? More fees? She debated whether to ring the Syariah lawyer or the civil lawyer first. She thought the Moslem lawyer shaded the integrity test. Subhas Chandra’s primary motive in taking her case was to raise his own profile by being associated with the ‘Malaysian divorce of the century’, as the press called it at the time. Now that things were not going her way his enthusiasm had waned markedly, although he was still doing a reasonably conscientious, if despairing, job.

  The choice, such as it was, was taken out of her hands. The phone vibrated and then its old-fashioned peal filled the room. The number was that of Subhas Chandra, her civil lawyer.

  She picked up, feeling a tiny frisson of dread. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Lee, is that you?’ The lawyer’s great booming voice hurt her eardrum. She moved the phone away and said, ‘Yes – I’m sorry I missed your calls. Have there been any developments?’

  His voice exploded like a cannon. ‘Developments? What do you think? Of course the revelations will have an impact on your case.’

  Chelsea was confused and her tone reflected it. ‘What revelations?’

  There was complete silence at the other end. She said, ‘Hello, are you there?’

  In a completely normal tone – Subhas Chandra had forgotten to put on his lawyer voice – he said tentatively, ‘Today’s newspapers? Have you seen them?’

  Chelsea shook her head, remembered she was on the phone, and said, ‘Not yet. I’ve been busy this morning.’

  ‘You should take a look.’ His voice was still quiet. ‘But I’m afraid it’s not good news.’

  Chelsea told him to hang on and she walked to the dining table where the newspapers were usually placed so she could read them with breakfast if she so chose. It was her usual routine on days when she was not interrupted first thing in the morning by a lover’s declaration.

  She had never understood the expression ‘blood running cold’ prior to that moment. It had seemed theatrical, impossible. Now, as she stood there and shivered, she knew precisely what it meant.

  Subhas Chandra asked, ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Have you got the papers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid.’

  Chelsea realised dimly that he was not talking about the shame her son must feel that his father’s exploits were front page news. The lawyer would not even know that Jasper was out. This was bad news in some way that she could not even fathom – as if the immediate horror was not enough.

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’ Her voice was constricted by the bands of fear around her throat. She doubted the lawyer had heard her.

  He must have guessed what she was saying though because he said, ‘Custody!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Alan had a Moslem girlfriend . . . ’

  ‘So?’

  ‘His conversion may have been genuine.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! He didn’t convert to marry some teenager.’

  ‘All right – you and I know what Alan was like. But the fact is that this will have an impact on the case, civil and Syariah.’

  ‘Spell it out,’ Chelsea said curtly. She needed to completely understand what she was up against.

  ‘We’ve been arguing that the civil courts should determine whether the conversion was genuine. The reason we had a shot at persuading them to look at Alan’s sudden religious awakening was because of the prima facie injustice of the case. It was difficult to leave you with no remedy. The court of public opinion was on your side and judges don’t like to look heartless. But now that there is a small chance Alan was genuine, they are not going to feel the same pressure to help you.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘That’s not all. Even if by some chance they still agree to look at the matter, there’s now evidence that the conversion to Islam might have been for real and not just to get the kids – so we could lose.’

  ‘I understand.’ Her voice grew harsh. ‘You’re saying that just because the last of Alan’s numerous infidelities happened to be with a Moslem, I could lose the kids?’

  Subhas Chandra said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I assume that my Syariah lawyer, who has also been trying to call me this morning, will have the same view of the matter – that the Syariah courts might use his relationship with Sharifah as evidence that the conversion to Islam was genuine.’

  ‘I would think so. This gives the courts a loophole. It means they don’t have to rule on the issue as a matter of principle. To be frank, I think they’d jump at the chance.’

  Chelsea looked at her phone – a poisonous piece of plastic and circuitry that could bring her news like this.

  The lawyer said, trying to be reassuring, ‘At least, with Jasper Lee in jail for Alan’s murder, there’s no further danger to your son. Otherwise, this evidence – the newspaper story – would raise eyebrows with the police.’

  She said automatically, ‘Jasper’s been released.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Chelsea repeated, ‘Jasper’s been released. He didn’t kill Alan.’ She rang off leaving the lawyer at the other end more shocked than he had ever been in his illustrious career.

  She debated calling her Syariah lawyer and decided against it. She would have to speak to him soon, but there was no doubt he would say the same thing – that the judges would use the evidence that the conversion might have been genuine to wash their hands of her. Chelsea hurried up the stairs. She’d better find Marcus and prepare him for the morning papers. Unless he had seen them, in which case she would just have to try and reassure him. Clichés popped into her head – it was always darkest before dawn, even this cloud probably had a silver lining, that which did not break them would make them stronger. Marcus would not be easily convinced.

  But he was not in his room. The bed was made, he had showered and changed, but he was not there. She looked out of the window. His car was gone. She reminded herself that she would have to confiscate his sports car now that Alan was not there to stand in her way and then wondered how her mind still had time for the mundane in the face of the u
nfolding crisis. She guessed that Marcus had gone to see Sharifah.

  The doorbell clanged, its electronic sound reverberating around the house. Chelsea hoped it was not Jasper back again. She could not cope with any further emotional outpourings.

  She went down and saw the maid let two policemen into the house – Inspectors Singh and Mohammad. She could not believe it. Surely they were not here to rearrest her or arrest Marcus. Both men looked solemn, worried.

  Chelsea mentally girded herself. They watched her with deliberately impassive faces. Despite that, she sensed sympathy from them – and it annoyed her. No doubt they had seen the morning papers too. She didn’t need their commiserations. She needed them to find the murderer and stop hounding her family.

  She asked brusquely, ‘What do you want?’

  Singh said, ‘We have bad news. There’s been an accident.’

  Nineteen

  Rupert Winfield checked into the Mandarin Oriental. It was not his usual sort of hotel. He much preferred backpacker hangouts. On the other hand, this was not his usual sort of visit to the city. His plan required that he reinvent himself, albeit briefly, as the sort of man who stayed at luxury hotels and wore expensive, tailored suits. Rupert pulled back the curtains and gazed at the Twin Towers. They were so close he felt that he could lean out of the window and touch them. The glass pane was reinforced, though, and there was no way of opening it. He knew the proximity was an illusion created by the sheer size of the buildings opposite. He supposed they were beautiful, these immense monuments to man’s ability to dominate nature. There was an appeal in feeling separate and powerful, almost God-like in talent and achievement, when compared with the other creatures on earth.

  But Rupert had become accustomed to the Penan way. For them, nature was all powerful. Their ability to survive depended on a symbiotic relationship with the jungle around them – not a parasitic one. Rupert wondered why the parasites who lived in cities did not understand the most fundamental tenet of nature – that a parasite eventually kills its host. Did these people not know that if they continued to feed and spread and grow, with the tendrils of their greed wrapping themselves around their host, the day would come when it could no longer sustain them and when it died they would too? How much better was the Penan way that posed no threat to its surroundings? Their practice of molong – never taking more than they needed – was in such desperate contrast to the people he could see far below, scurrying about their acquisitive businesses, never content with what they had, always wanting more.

  He had never dreamed that the quiet nomadic jungle folk would appeal to some emptiness in his heart and draw him into their culture and traditions. Rupert remembered that they had bestowed on him the honorific title laki Penan, which meant ‘Penan man’. It was intended as an honour and received by him as such. But these quiet people, in their animal skin clothes with their diet of sago, were not to be left alone to wander through the lush jungles, living off the land, leaving no mark when they moved on, teaching their children the secrets of the forests. The greed of others could not coexist with the selflessness of the Penan with their gentle humour and generous hearts.

  Rupert wondered whether it was really necessary for the timber companies to log their way through the Penan’s tramping grounds. He suspected they did it not just because of their voracious appetite for hardwoods and the money it brought in, but because of a visceral fear that someday they might have to acknowledge that they were wrong. Everything they had sought and bought had not brought them happiness, let alone contentment. A jungle people dressed in loincloths had known best. It was better to destroy the potential source of such unpalatable truths than have them live to witness the lives of quiet desperation of their tormentors.

  He wandered into the luxurious bathroom, almost tripping over the bedding on the floor. He had been forced to sleep on the carpeted floor because the bed was too soft for someone accustomed to hard earth beds or the wooden planks of a native longhouse floor. Not that he was sleeping much anyway. Recent events weighed on him too much. It reminded him of the times he had played with the Penan children and they had wrestled with him and sat on his chest until he was short of breath, laughing and giggling with their laki Penan, secretly proud that they were brave enough to take such liberties with someone from the outside world.

  Rupert had a long bath and a close shave. He looked at himself in the vast mirror. His body was thin and wiry, without a spare ounce of flesh. There was a random collection of scar tissue of many shapes and sizes. The jungle was dangerous for the uninitiated. Still, he had learnt the tricks of survival and there were fewer recent scars than old marks. His learning curve was etched on his body. He cupped his smooth chin in one hand. It looked peculiar. His jaw was several shades lighter than the rest of his weather-beaten face. It was the best he could do. Rupert shrugged. He had learnt from the Penan not to sweat the things he could not change.

  The doorbell rang and he slipped on a dressing gown and went to answer it. It was the hairdresser he had asked to be sent up. He slipped the newspapers out of the cloth bag hanging on the door and sat down to read the latest details on the Lee family scandals while his hair was neatly trimmed for him. It served to keep him abreast of developments but also indicated to the stylist that he was not in the mood for small talk. A second ring was the delivery of the suit he had ordered. He had been fitted for it the previous day and it was ready, as had been promised, within twenty-four hours. Amazing what efficiencies the pursuit of material wealth could engender, thought Rupert while smiling at the man and paying him.

  Singh despised himself for his choice of words. ‘We have bad news. There’s been an accident.’

  He had used them before, stood at other doorsteps with information that would crush the recipient and been unable to forewarn or to prepare the ground for what he needed to disclose, except with such triteness.

  Watching Chelsea’s face drain of blood was like watching the tide go out in fast forward. She at least understood that this was the opening line in a tragedy. She could not speak. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Singh knew he had to break the news to her – but he could not bring himself to do it. This was not one of those instances where knowing was better than not knowing. Ignorance was the last scintilla of protection this woman had.

  It was Mohammad who stepped in. He said, reaching out to her and then letting his hand fall to his side, ‘It’s about Marcus. He’s been in an accident . . . a car accident.’

  ‘Is . . . is he . . . dead?’

  Singh took hold of Chelsea by her upper arm. She did not seem to notice. Her eyes were fixed on Mohammad’s face, trying to read his answer, to anticipate it in that second before he spoke again.

  He said, ‘No, he’s still alive. But it doesn’t look good.’

  Mohammad had said enough to spur Chelsea into action. She had only taken in the first part. Marcus was still alive. If he was alive, he needed his mother and she needed to get to him.

  She said frantically, ‘Where is he?’

  Singh said, ‘Come, we’ll take you.’

  Shukor was waiting with the car. Mohammad climbed in the front and Chelsea and Singh slid in the back. Shukor set off immediately, slipping the siren onto the roof and weaving through traffic.

  Chelsea asked, unnaturally calm, only the fingernails digging into her palms giving away her anxiety, ‘What happened?’

  Singh said, ‘The details are sketchy. He went off a bridge and ended up in a river. He was rescued by people on the banks, just before the car was submerged entirely, and taken to hospital.’

  He did not say, there was no need to add to her pain, that eyewitnesses had insisted that the car had accelerated and swerved towards the barriers intentionally.

  But Chelsea Liew was no fool. She asked, ‘Did he do it on purpose?’

  Mohammad interjected from the front, ‘Why would you think that?’ He was still the policeman on the trail of a murderer.

  She was not in the mood f
or mind games with the police. ‘You must have seen the newspapers,’ she said tiredly.

  Singh answered her original question quietly. ‘There’s some evidence that it wasn’t an accident.’

  Chelsea shielded her eyes with a hand and leaned her head against the window.

  In twenty minutes they were at the hospital. Shukor dropped them at the main entrance and the small, ill-assorted group of people hurried in. Mohammad, familiar with the layout of the hospital from previous visits in the line of duty, took them directly to the intensive care unit. Chelsea looked around desperately, trying to distinguish her son amongst the patients lying in the ward, all bristling with tubes and wires and bandages and completely unrecognisable.

  Mohammad showed his police ID to the nurse at the reception, a matronly figure with iron-grey hair and an air of hard competence, and asked in a low voice, ‘Marcus Lee?’

  She looked down at the chart on her desk, running a neatly trimmed, unvarnished nail down the list of patients. Chelsea looked at her in agony.

  The nurse said, ‘He’s not here. He’s been taken downstairs for emergency surgery. There’s a lot to do. They won’t be out for a while yet.’ And then she glanced at Chelsea and her face softened. She had children of her own. She said, ‘There’s a waiting room outside the OT – the operating theatre. You can wait there. I’m sure the doctors will be out to tell you how it is going as soon as possible. I will send word down that the family is here.’

  Chelsea nodded, her eyes revealing her gratitude.

  They turned to leave and the nurse asked, ‘Will there be other family arriving? The father?’

  Singh wondered if the nurse was the only person in Kuala Lumpur who did not recognise the woman in front of her nor know who the boy on the operating table was.

  Chelsea shook her head – she was not expecting anyone else – and went to look for her son.

  Kian Min felt pleased with himself. He had heard that Douglas Wee had been picked up by the police. That should act as a warning to him not to mess with the new boss of Lee Timber. Bloody Alan, though – he had not expected that the bastard would sign a contract with the Chinese conglomerate. It was annoying that even from the grave he could ruin well-laid plans for the expansion of the business. Kian Min preferred the Hong Kong company as a partner in the bio-fuels venture purely on commercial grounds. He suspected that Alan had probably been swayed not by Douglas Wee’s business acumen but by the combination of prostitutes and alcohol that he wielded so well. Douglas had offered the same entertainment to Kian Min, but he was not interested. Kian Min did not seek the pleasures of the flesh. His thrills were derived from a deal executed, a rival trampled or an opportunity spotted. Women were trouble and not much else. One only had to look at what had happened to Alan – and see his weaknesses manifest in the next generation, if there was any truth in these newspaper reports about Marcus. Kian Min remembered that Marcus, under the Lee patriarch’s trust, would inherit the company when he died and felt a flash of irritation. The boy seemed as feckless as his father.