21 Immortals

by Rozlan Mohd Noor

  When his mobile rings, Irene turns and looks at him without breaking her stride, and asks if he needs to answer the call before coming in. He nods, and takes a few steps back. Through the corner of his eyes, he sees Irene stop at the secretary’s desk, lean close and say something to her, looking in his direction a few times.

  “Yes, Jo.”

  “I think we’ve got something good from D7. The vic was SS. I’m going to D7 to get copies of the file.”

  “Good.” So Mr Robert Tham was a member of a secret society. “How about reports from the others?”

  “Nothing yet. I’ll drop by their offices after D7. Maybe they need some persuation.”

  “Good, you do that. Tell me if they’re not handing it out.”

  He walks into Irene’s office, notices the empty secretary’s chair, and pokes his head through her door. She invites him in. Irene steps out from behind her boomerang-shaped glass table, sits in one of the soft leather singles, and beckons him to take the one next to hers. The missing secretary reappears with a mug of coffee and an ashtray. After depositing them on the coffee table in front of him, she leaves, closing the door.

  “Thought you would like some coffee, and I heard you ask if you could smoke in the lobby,” Irene says.

  “Thank you, that is kind of you.” He is impressed. They have, obviously, been watching and listening. He offers her a cigarette, lights hers and gets one himself. He takes a long drag and reaches for his coffee.

  “It’s black. I take it that police officers drink only black coffee.” Irene chuckles. “Learned it from TV. Hope I’m right, but if you want cream or, perhaps, tea, my secretary can get it for you.”

  “No, coffee is good. I suppose you know why I’m here?” he starts, bring out his digital recorder. “Do you mind if I tape this interview? I’m getting too old to remember details.”

  Irene hesitates. “Interview? Sorry, I don’t understand. I just got back from Hong Kong late last night. Business. I thought you are here about the donation Robert pledged.”

  “I’m so sorry, I thought you knew, or were informed by your staff. Mr Tham and his family are deceased. We found the bodies yesterday.” He watches her face for signs, but sees only genuine shock. Her jaw drops and her eyes go watery. He gives her a moment before saying, “I need to ask you a few questions; are you up to it?”

  Irene nods awkwardly, takes an extra-long drag on the cigarette, squashes it in the ashtray, and asks, “What happened?”

  “We’re still working on it, trying to piece things together to get a clearer picture. The maid found them when she came back on Sunday morning. When was the last you saw Mr Tham?”

  “Thursday evening, before I left for Hong Kong. Our meeting finished late.”

  “Did he appear, or act, different?”

  “No, he was his usual self. Last week was tiring, problems at our factory in Indonesia. Robert managed to resolve most of it. If anything, I would say, he was relaxed, talking about his coming family weekend getaway. He was looking forward to it.”

  “May I know what the problems in Indonesia were?”

  “Equity. That is the biggest hassle in setting up business over there.”

  “Could that have led to Mr Tham’s death?”

  She laughs. “No, Inspector. That’ll not benefit them. Robert’s death will be a loss to them financially.”

  “The holiday, did he mention where they were going?”

  “I believe, to Langkawi.”

  “Did he have a driver?”

  “No, he drives himself. He says drivers are liabilities; they talk too much. You know what he means,” Irene smiles, regaining her composure.

  “Is there anything you can tell me about Mr Tham? Anything that might help us in our investigations?”

  “I don’t know what to tell. I met Robert about nine years ago at a charity function. I was then a buyer for a foreign label. We started talking, Robert expressed interest in starting a line of his own and I wanted out of my dead-end career. We clicked and a year later RT was born. After that, RT started creating waves in the industry and we now manufacture in Hong Kong, China, Thailand, and we are about to set up in Indonesia. We are well established in Southeast Asia, Australia, South America,” she says with obvious pride.

  “What about enemies? Did Mr Tham have any?”

  “I don’t know. As in all businesses, competition is tough; the fashion industry is no different, possibly even worse. I am sure some are envious of our success, but I don’t know whether they can be termed enemies.”

  “Did Mr Tham have any other businesses?”

  “Yes, but they were not linked to RT. That was one of my conditions for joining him, that his other businesses were his, and not linked to RT. Robert kept his promise; his other businesses were never run from here, and I have never been involved.”

  “What kind of businesses? Do you know?”

  “I know he has a real-estate company, RT Realty. He started it to offset the sales commission of this bungalow, then continued it as a business. I have heard he is a partner in a used car business, but I don’t know the details. He did mention something about venturing into entertainment; you know, karaoke lounges and pubs, but I don’t know whether he did.”

  “Is there anyone I can talk to, who knows more about his other businesses? Maybe his partners.”

  “I don’t know. We never did talk about any of that, and he does not believe in having a secretary; handles all his calls and business affairs himself.”

  “What about families?”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. I don’t know. I remember hearing that he is an only child and that his parents are dead. Robert never spoke about them and I was not introduced to anyone. Robert was private about his past, and that suited me fine. So I don’t know anything about Robert’s family. I have never been invited to his house, not even for Chinese New Year. It’s strictly RT business between us.”

  “How about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “I mean, are you a partner, shareholder?”

  Smiling, Irene says, “I’m a partner, a small partner. I own ten per cent of the company. The rest is owned by Robert. What are you getting at? That I killed Robert to take over the company?”

  He laughs, “Did you?”

  “What do you think, Inspector?” Irene looks amused.

  “At this point, I don’t know what to think. So, without Mr Tham, who holds ninety per cent of the shares, who benefits?”

  “I don’t know. I know it’s not me.”

  “How about the operations, signing cheques and all?”

  “It has always been me handling the operations; I suppose that will continue until someone comes and shows me that he, or she, owns the ninety per cent.”

  “Are you married?”

  Irene laughs out loud, “Is that for the investigation, or for your knowledge? I was, Inspector; now you’re going to ask me if I’m seeing someone, right.”

  “Nope, but since you have brought it up, are you?”

  “I’m available. How’s that?” she teases him.

  “That’s it for now. I won’t take more of your time,” Mislan says, trying to sound formal and failing. Handing her his call card he says, “Please call me if you think of something.” With that, he retrieves his recorder, slings on his backpack and stands. Irene opens a gold cardholder and gives him her business card.

  She, then, walks him to the lobby where they shake hands and he thanks her again. When the front door opens with a click, he stands in the doorway and asks her who owns all the vehicles. She points to a blue BMW Z4, saying it is hers, whereas the silver Porsche Cayenne and white Mercedes E240 Kompressor belonged to Robert Tham.

  “Which car did he normally drive?”

  “Both of them. He changed cars as he pleased. He said it was for safety reasons. That’s odd.”

  “What?”

  “The Cayenne. I thought Robert was going to use it on his holiday. Maybe he changed his mind.” />
  8

  As he waits for the air-conditioner to cool his car, Mislan speed dials Sergeant Johan and instructs him to wait at the station guardhouse. When he takes out the digital recorder from his shirt pocket, he realises it is still running. He switches it off and puts it in the backpack. He keys in another speed dial number, this time for Safia, to ask if she is game for a quick lunch, to which she says, “Yes, a very quick lunch.” He puts his car into gear and drives past the touristy Bintang Walk before taking a right towards Pudu. An immediate left into Jalan Galloway leads him to his headquarters in Hang Tuah. He sees Johan at the guardhouse and pulls over, signalling to him with two flashes of his headlights.

  “Where are we headed?” Johan asks, climbing into the passenger’s seat.

  “HUKM. Have you got anything from D7?”

  Johan unbuckles his clutch bag and extracts a few sheets. “Tham aka Robert Tham aka Lan‑si Tham was a member of the 21 Immortals. Recruited at seventeen, he was active in Chow Kit. He has been linked to several protection-money rackets, extortion and assault cases, but was never charged. He became the lieutenant of the South side in eighty-two when Four Finger Loo rose to the position of Tiger General. In eighty-eight he was rumoured to be the Tiger General in the north, that is, Perak and Penang. After the SS operation of ninety-five, his file went inactive.

  “What do you mean ‘went inactive’?”

  “Tutup. It was like D7 had no further interest in him.”

  “What do you make of it? You think he was recruited, or did he snitch and make a deal?”

  “The D7 officer who made these copies is an old-timer. He asked me why I was interested. Told him it was routine, but you know how they like to talk. He said he remembered the big sweep. D7 bragged that they had a big fish at the time. Maybe it was him.”

  “You think the killing was payback by the 21?”

  “Maybe. Secret societies are notorious for it. Many of those rounded up are now free. It’s the only motive that makes any sense.”

  He nods. “Who was the case officer?”

  “Inspector Song Chee Chin, now with the Petaling Jaya police.”

  “Is anyone handling it now?”

  “Nope. It has been closed and archived.”

  “I knew Song when I was in the district. He was in charge of SS. We worked on the Campbell Road gang fights together. I’ll call him, run your theory, and see what he thinks. Meanwhile, Jo, please check Maria’s story. Get the help of a mata gelap on standby,” he says, telling his assistant to get the help of a plain-clothes detective.

  “How did it go at RT?” Johan asks.

  “It went. They usually see nothing, hear nothing, and know nothing. I don’t buy it, though. How could anyone work with someone for nine years and know nothing about him, his business, friends or family?”

  “What’s there not to buy?” Johan says, amused. “I once lived with a girl for two years. I knew nothing about her until one day a man showed up with a four-year-old child claiming to be her husband and the boy, their son.”

  Bursting into laughter, Mislan says, “You’re joking, right?”

  “I’m not shitting you. It’s the truth,” Johan replies.

  “Then, what happened?”

  “I told the guy he had the wrong house. After they left, which took some convincing, I packed her things, carried it to her car, and told her never to come back.”

  “You’re a class act, Jo. Did you ever see her again?”

  “Nope. Guess she must have moved in with another ignorant bastard. A pity, though. She was good under the sheets,” Johan says, shaking his head, laughing and swearing.

  They are silent for the remainder of the journey. He is preoccupied with Johan’s story: a file closed, and the case officer transferred to Petaling Jaya. Maybe Johan is right; it is payback, but why the charade? What is the message?

  Traffic is heavy and it takes them more than forty minutes to make the journey of eleven kilometres. The Depatment of Forensic Pathology is next to the morgue, at the back of the hospital complex, with its entrance hidden from public view. He parks his car in the lot reserved for government vehicles. An ancient-looking sleepy security guard seated at the entrance does not bother to approach them to verify their identity or credentials.

  He calls Safia. “Hi, your office or the canteen?”

  “Why don’t you wait for me in the canteen? Give me ten; I have to shoot off this report.”

  “All right.” He takes his backpack, and gestures for Johan to follow him. They walk towards the main building past the physiotherapy centre, take the lift to ‘G’, and go to the canteen. The nasi campur line is long. It is lunchtime. He looks at Johan, and as if reading his mind, the sergeant nods and they head for the snacks and sandwiches counter where there are two large women queuing. He chooses some kuih and two packets of tuna sandwiches, pays for them and tells Johan to get some drinks while he locates a table where they can have some privacy.

  He finds one by the window. He realises that it overlooks the morgue only after settling down. Smiling, he thinks of the irony, “The hospital has it right, a canteen overlooking a morgue.”

  “What are you smiling at?” Johan says, as he puts down the drinks.

  “Tak ada apa-apa.”

  Johan looks out of the window, curious. Just then Dr Safia emerges from the building across. “She’s a looker, eh,” he remarks. “Word around the office is, you two are an item.”

  “Just friends,” the inspector says curtly, killing further conversation on the subject.

  Mislan sees Safia standing at the canteen’s door, her eyes searching over the heads of the crowd. He waves to her and watches as she walks towards them, her unbuttoned bleached-white hospital gown floating by her side with each rhythmic sway of her body. Her movements are graceful and her smile never leaves her face. She handles the dead daily, she always smiles. What makes her so? Why did she become a pathologist? Were they more than just friends?

  “Thanks for your time,” he says.

  “No problem, I need the distraction. Sergeant Johan, how are you?” she extends her hand.

  “Hi, doc. I’m fine, thanks,” Johan replies, standing instantly to shake her hand.

  “We just got some kuih and sandwiches. You want something else?”

  “Not to worry, these are fine.”

  “You okay with coffee?” Johan asks.

  She nods.

  He waits for her to sip her drink. “Anything new so far?”

  “Just got the toxi report. It’s confirmed. Cause-of-death: hydrogen cyanide poisoning through inhalation,” she says unwrapping the tuna sandwich. Noticing he is about to ask her another question, she holds up the sandwich and says, “Hold on. For the deceased to have that level of hydrogen cyanide in their system, they must have been directly exposed to it in an enclosed area. Hydrogen cyanide, or HCN, as you know, is lethal, colourless and odourless. The deceased wouldn’t have realised its presence. My guess is they were in an enclosed airtight area when the gas was introduced. Now, you may ask your questions.”

  “Are you saying it cannot be sprayed on them in an open environment?”

  “I suppose if you hold down the victim, you can spray it directly into their faces. You’ll have to wear breathing apparatus, or you’ll suffer the same fate. HCN dilutes fast in the open, so the level of concentration may not be enough to kill them as quickly as you want to.”

  “Hmm. What about the embalming fluid?”

  “I spoke to Prof David Teh from the University of Malaya, an expert. He’s willing to look at the report and give us his opinion. I’ve faxed it to him. I’ll call him later to see if he can tell us anything.”

  “Great, and you’ll let me know soon after, right.”

  “You’ll be the first,” Safia smiles.

  “Back to the COD, let me get this right; you said the vics were poisoned with hydrogen cyanide. By inhalation, but it was not sprayed on them. You figure they were in a sort of airtight chamber? T
his case is going nowhere. I’ve got more questions than answers.” He takes out his cigarette packet.

  Johan points to the no ‘smoking sign’ behind him, and shakes his head. He looks back, smiles and returns the pack to his pocket.

  “Like what?” Safia takes another bite of the sandwich.

  “The killers must have built an airtight chamber with gas piping and all. You’ll need special skills or knowledge for that, won’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Hydrogen cyanide, is that easily available?” the sergeant asks.

  Turning to face Johan, Safia says, “Yes, it’s in the seafood we eat, but at a safe level. It’s also used in manufacturing paper. You could produce it in a lab, I suppose. Don’t know about canning it under pressure for a gas chamber, though. That’s something else for which you might need special equipment and expertise. During the Second World War, the Nazi used it against the Jews; some reports say Saddam used it against his enemies. About the chamber, I think a walk-in chiller will serve the purpose; it is airtight and piped.”

  “Yes, let’s consider that … I mean the chiller thing … there were no defensive wounds on the vics, right?” It is more a statement than a question. “You did not find any signs of struggle, bruising, lacerations, or broken nails. If they were locked in a chiller, wouldn’t they know something bad was happening? Wouldn’t they have started banging, kicking, or pulling at the door after a while? That’ll surely have left some bruise marks.”

  Safia nods, “Unless the gas was released as soon as they were locked in.”

  “Even then it’ll take time to fill the chamber. I’m sure they would have started kicking and banging the door the moment they were thrown into the chamber. No, I cannot buy that theory.”

  Johan nods his agreement. “How long does this HCN take to knock you out?”

  “It’s lethal, depending on the concentration level. It takes a few seconds to a minute for systemic chemical asphyxiation. It attacks organs that are most sensitive to low oxygen levels, the central nervous system, the cardiovascular system, and the pulmonary system.”