Crime Scene: Singapore

by Stephen Leather

  The really clever employees will keep a little notepad next to the cash register where they jot down the amount skimmed on each purchase. That way, they can add it up easily and see how much they can lighten the cash register before they end their shift.

  But we try to stop that before it gets that far. We’ll call or SMS the owner or manager right there at the bar or in the toilet. The owner then makes a surprise appearance and confronts the cheating employee. Or the manager will do it. The only trouble with the latter arrangement is that the manager is often in on the embezzling, taking his cut for allowing the employee to pull it off. Sometimes the manager even initiates the whole operation. That’s something else we try to determine.

  As you may have noticed, I use the term ‘we’ a lot there. The reason is that I usually assign my full-time assistant or one of our freelancers to do this work. I take my cut as owner of the firm and give the spy the rest of the fees we earned. I save myself for the more complicated, and more interesting, assignments.

  In fact, our biggest revenue-spinner for years has been spying on adulterous spouses. To be blunt, we’d be out of business if it wasn’t for sexual jealousy. I think every private detective agency in the Lion City would be.

  Lust, I would argue, is the number one renewable resource in Singapore. Especially lust for someone you’re not married to. There seems to be a lot of cheating going on—or at least people who think they’re being cheated on.

  You’d think this source of income would dry up at some point. I mean, what are the permutations of adultery in a medium-sized city like Singapore? Yet every week, we have new clients finding their way to our office, or repeat customers, all with slight variations on the same sad tale: their wives or their husbands are cheating on them. Or at least, they’re pretty sure they’re cheating. I shake my head, assume a very sympathetic look, etched in shared pain, and start jotting down calculations of how much I should charge and stand to make from this patch of misery.

  * * *

  I can divide my whole career, my whole life really, into two parts: before Glenda came on the scene and after she came on the scene.

  Let me make this introduction to Glenda brief: She was Chinese, was relatively tall for a Chinese lady, and when I say she was gorgeous, I am looking at six strokes of the cane for aggravated understatement.

  When I first laid eyes on her there in my office, I swallowed hard. Swallowed so hard, I started choking a little. I excused myself with a hand gesture while she smiled sympathetically.

  She then asked if she could sit down. ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Sure. Anywhere.’ As there was only one other chair in my office other than the one I was sitting in, that was not the most cool of suggestions. But this babe had really knocked me off my stride. The fact that such a woman had come to me, I was starting to think that maybe there might really be a God … though he was something of an absentee landlord in these parts.

  She introduced herself, then smiled again, looked down all demure like and said, ‘I’ve been speaking to a few people, and I’ve been told that you are very possibly the best private detective in Singapore.’

  I nodded politely, then replied, ‘I think we’re in the realm of the very possible on that one.’

  ‘Good,’ she answered. ‘Because I need the very best.’

  ‘I’ll try to measure up to my reputation,’ I averred. (I love that word.)

  She sighed and looked away. Playing my part perfectly, I started getting my deeply concerned look ready. I was in the pre-deep concern stage, when she turned back and threw me a pained smile. My own face shifted into Concern 2.0.

  ‘It’s my husband,’ she said, a hairline crack in her voice. ‘What he’s been doing to me.’

  I am an expert at this. I’ve done it so many times, I should take out a franchise on it. I leaned forward, elbows plunked on the desk and put on the look of deep, total concern. ‘No!’ I said. ‘A woman like you, and your husband’s not treating you like the best thing that could ever happen to him?’

  ‘Far from it; far, far from it.’

  ‘What a fool,’ I said, with just the right blend of disbelief and indignation. But this time, for maybe the first time in years, I kind of meant what I was saying.

  ‘He’s been cheating on me.’

  ‘No way.’

  A sad nod. ‘He curses me when I confront him about it. He belittles me in front of our friends and his family. He stops my credit cards out of spite, no other reason.’

  ‘This sounds … despicable.’

  ‘And sometimes he even …’ A choke came into her voice as her fantastic eyes started watering.

  I leaned forward a few inches more. My voice was drenched in high tide concern. ‘He resorts to … intense physical persuasion?’

  ‘Very intense. I’ve … got bruises in places you can’t imagine.’

  I’ve got a very vivid imagination with regard to such things; that’s one of the advantages of being a private eye. But I didn’t want to contradict her at this point. It’s good to let a new client think at the start that you don’t know as much as you really do. It gives you another edge.

  Let the client tell her story, that’s one of the first rules you learn in this game. I nodded.

  ‘He beats me. And not just with his fists. He uses … objects.’

  At this point, she started crying. This happens a lot in my business. In fact, I’m surprised there’s no severe water damage in that spot where the client’s chair sits. Usually I sit there in my seat and try to calm them down; I’ll pull out a bottle of mildly drinkable Scotch and pour them a big gulp. But with Glenda, I decided to be really noble. I jumped up and made my around the desk (bumping my knee badly as I made the turn) to where she sat. I was ready to put my arms around her and comfort her ardently. But she raised a hand and told me it was alright. I winced slightly and limped back to my seat.

  ‘So that’s why you came here. You want me to …’ I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to get proof of his philandering or his manhandling. Either one would get her a signed-and-sealed divorce with no trouble. The two things together, she’d probably be looking at two-thirds of everything this bastard had, including his balls. And I would get my own juicy taste on part of that amount. (Though I’d pass on his balls.) I was waiting for her to tell me what she wanted, my Terms of Agreement within a few fingernails of my reach. And then she hit me with a bombshell.

  She nodded as if this next sentence was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘I want you to kill him for me.’

  This broke my composure. For maybe five seconds. Then I decided that this must be, like, a metaphor for picking the bastard clean. I smiled; I figured I was looking at a sizeable fee on this case.

  ‘And by “kill him”, you mean …’

  Her look suddenly got mean. ‘I want him dead. I want to stand over his grave, look at that thick carpet of fresh dirt and spit down on him.’ She paused for a moment, then sobrely intoned, ‘He has no right to be alive. I want you to kill him for me. Either yourself or one of your agents.’

  I couldn’t make any sound for the next moments. I gurgled a bit, then started getting some words out. ‘Mrs … Lee. I don’t think you understand the nature of my business. I’m involved in private investigation. I can get you all the incriminating evidence you want about his husband of yours. But this thing, this … killing people is just not one of the services I offer.’

  She had a very disappointed look at this revelation. It was full of hurt really. It almost broke my heart. She looked up. ‘Can you recommend someone else at least?’

  ‘Mrs Lee, this is Singapore. We are very civilised here. We are mostly law-abiding people. We have very strict laws here against killing people—even abusive spouses. And I don’t see those laws being changed anytime soon. I’m sorry. I really wish I could help you, but …’

  ‘I understand,’ she said as she eased herself out of her chair in a seductive manner. ‘I guess I was being unrealistic in my expectations.’ I nod
ded. I felt like I was watching ecstasy about to slip out of my office—and my life. She turned, but then she turned around again. ‘Let me give you my card anyway. If you find some way that you can help me, just give me a call. The number on the back. That’s a second phone, and I use a SIM card on that one.’

  I smiled in admiration. ‘Can’t be traced.’

  ‘Can’t be traced. Well, thank you, Mr Lozario. I appreciate all your concern and helpful information here. Maybe the next time I need your help, it will be with some service you can provide.’

  ‘I would certainly hope so.’

  She turned again and this time walked straight to the door and out of my life. I savoured every step, staring at her shoulder blade-length hair, her sloping back, her hips, her ass, her legs, her ass again. I stopped there, but she was out the door a second later.

  After she was gone, I started to ask myself if that whole episode had really happened, the way that I just recounted it. Was she such a vision of loveliness, was she that alluring in her manner, did she really ask me to kill her husband for her? I decided that it made no difference whether it happened or not; it was a wondrous, maybe even magical, episode that I needed to fill in the empty spaces in my life.

  * * *

  I had been divorced for eight years at the time that Glenda walked into my office. And except for some extremely awkward episodes with prostitutes in Geylang, I hadn’t had much sex during that time. Come to think of it, I didn’t have much sex in the last two years of my six-year marriage. So when I was lying in bed that night, thinking of Glenda, I … well, let’s just say that I became very grateful for the solace of my own right palm. I became grateful four times, waking up a number of times with visions of that gorgeous woman scrambling my senses.

  I tried throwing myself into my work for the next three days, so I wouldn’t even think about what had happened that day. Of course, the more I didn’t think about it, the more I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Friday morning, I decided I would just give Glenda a quick call, see how she was getting along with her problem. I was thinking of asking if we could maybe meet for coffee and explore other possibilities for dealing with that problem.

  And then the phone rang and, amazingly, it was Glenda on the line. I couldn’t believe it, and I decided that I had been a little unfair in my judgement of God and his dispensing of grace. I gave her a big ‘hello’.

  ‘Have you had time to consider what I asked you about on Tuesday?’

  ‘I … have been giving it some thought.’

  ‘Maybe we should get together and see what’s possible.’

  ‘I think that’s a very good idea. When are you free?’

  ‘My husband is off on a “business trip” this weekend. I don’t think he’s going to be too lonely on this trip.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So I thought maybe we could meet for a drink this evening, discuss the whole matter, from start to finish.’

  ‘I think that’s an excellent idea. When and where?’

  We made arrangements to meet on another part of the island, a corner where people who go places don’t go very often. After one drink, she suggested we go back to my place and continue our discussion. I did not raise any substantial objections and tried my hardest not to speed that much as I drove back to my condo complex. When I got there, the guard, who I have done a number of serious favours for, waved me in and didn’t even cast a glance at who was sitting next to me. That’s another advantage of being a private eye.

  OK, I admit that I don’t have a lot of major experience in sexual encounters, but that first evening with Glenda was fantastic to say the least. Not only was she three times as gorgeous without her expensive clothing, but she was amazing in bed, a gold-medal Olympian as far as I’m concerned. And I was myself at the peak of my performance, which I attribute mainly to her.

  Afterwards, we lay there, staring out at the next pastel-tinted building, stroking palms. My breathing was just getting back to normal when she sighed, turned and nuzzled her face into my chest. I immediately realised this had to be one of the peak moments of my earthly existence. Then she started speaking, her face still on my chest, nibbling lightly at the hair.

  ‘Do you think you might be able to help me get rid of my husband? It would be so much easier for us to get together like this if he were out of the picture.’

  ‘I’m sure it would be.’

  ‘I don’t know how these things are done, but I’m sure it’s a lot easier than it sounds. Especially for someone like you, who is so clever … and works in a related field.’ At this point, she had started moving down from my chest, past my slightly protruding gut, and began another form of persuasion. I breathed deeply and closed my eyes. I knew that I had just taken on a new client.

  The next morning—late the next morning, I should point out—we sat at my small kitchen table sipping at our instant coffees and discussing how we should proceed with killing her monster of a husband. I did a rundown of the many pitfalls with her, the mistakes often made before and after a crime, the clues criminals inadvertently leave behind.

  ‘But you know all these things. You’re a master of the field. You’re the best. That’s why I came to you in the first place. And, I have to admit, I’m so glad I did; for many reasons.’ I nodded and told her that I would work out a plan.

  She had a lot of things to do that day, but asked if she could drop by later. I of course told her I would cancel all my other appointments and would gladly entertain her later. I spent much of the evening hours watching TV, but she arrived shortly before midnight. And it was another night of high ecstasy. She and I were clearly partners now.

  Her husband returned Sunday evening, so she didn’t come over. On Tuesday, she came to the office and dropped off a helpful packet with photos, maps, etc. to help me track her husband. I smiled. Usually I just follow a cheating spouse and shoot them with my phone camera. This time, I was thinking, I might have to shoot him with a revolver. And that was starting to worry me.

  I also have this standard contract which I sign with new clients after filling out the specific brief the client wants me to handle. This time, of course, I dispensed with that part of the deal. I would just have to trust her.

  On Thursday evening, I got down to the fieldwork on this case. Glenda told me that her husband was meeting a business client that evening, supposedly, but she was sure he was actually out there doing the dirty on her.

  As I already mentioned, I do have one full-time assistant on the payroll along with several freelancers, two of them fairly reliable. They are near essential in tracking a suspect. I say that in all sincerity. But on this job, I couldn’t use any of them; I just couldn’t risk them finding it oh so convenient that a guy we were trailing suddenly ends up comfortably dead. As difficult, and dangerous, as it is to go solo on a tracking exercise, I had to do it.

  I eased my Audi into a narrow corner not far from his Merc in the park house and waited for him to come out and head off to his assignation. Which he did after only a short time, for which I was grateful. Self-employed cheating spouses generally do make the easiest targets; they’ve got more control of their time and are far more punctual.

  So Mr Wee headed off, took the Mount Pleasant Flyover, hit the PIE, then turned around after a short stretch and headed back to where he had got on the PIE. At the end of all this, he ended up about ten streets from the park house where he’d started from.

  From this, I deduced one of two things: either he suspected his wife had put a tail on him or he was heading off somewhere else, then got a call telling him to change his plans. My seventh sense told me it was the former, and I had to be really careful here not to show any shadow. One false move from me and he would start acting like a boy scout on a celibacy pledge.

  I parked on the other side of the small street, about fifty metres from him, then watched as he climbed out and bounced off to a fancy bar. I then noted time and place in my palm-sized notebook. That done, I flipped the switch on m
y car stereo to start playing my audio book where I’d left off. The book? A Stephen Leather classic. I love those books.

  I thought I might be able to rip through several chapters on this watch (to say nothing of bloating my fee), but my prey was evidently a fast operator. He and his lady friend emerged exactly twenty-three minutes later, obviously enjoying some joke one of them had just delivered as they strolled over to the Merc. Wee played the gentleman, holding the door for her, helping her all the way in, then leaning over to whisper something. He waddled around to the other side of the car and climbed in. He didn’t have to unlock the door, which suggested that she’d done it for him; this was more than a business acquaintance.

  I watched as the white Merc pulled out, then slowly pulled out myself and took after them. They drove to a condo in Upper Bukit Timah, which is where he turned in. I knew I couldn’t follow them into the complex, so I pulled into a side street and parked there. I then came back, armed with another audio book, and took my sentry post against the wall of a building almost directly across from the front gate of the condo.

  All I needed to confirm Glenda’s suspicions was for him to be there more than a few minutes. He was there for one hour, 17 minutes from the time he drove in. He clearly was not just dropping her off and wishing her a pleasant evening. They had spent the intervening period in a room up there. Discussing the vagaries of the stock market over cranberry juice, no doubt.

  But then I reminded myself this case was completely different. On this one, I didn’t have to prove infidelity, piling up evidence that would stand up in a divorce court. Glenda had all she needed about the guy. What I was doing now was seeing how he operated, to get an idea of his movements and then to see how I could ‘intervene’.