Singapore Girl_An edge of your seat thriller that will have you hooked

by Murray Bailey

  “Would you? That would be fantastic!”

  What the hell? I thought. After checking out the aid delivery I could go to the hospital and question the girl.

  I packed away the police reports, left a note on the desk for Secretary Coates, and headed for home.

  Sergeant Hegarty shouldn’t have been my driver since my investigation was no longer sanctioned by Major Vernon.

  “I told the night clerk where I was going,” he said as we drove north in the darkness towards Woodlands Crossing. “Vernon may be annoyed but he hadn’t arrived by the time I left.”

  “You could have checked last night when I asked you.”

  “Oh, was that last night? I thought you just called.” He grinned. “I trust you don’t mind that little lie?”

  “No trouble getting the gun?”

  We were both armed. Like me, he had on a Sam Browne with a holstered Browning service revolver. I looked like a plain-clothes cop, which in a way I guess I was.

  He said, “Lieutenant Robshaw approved it.”

  We drove through the jungle, the headlights bobbing in the darkness.

  I said, “There’s something about the body that bothers me.”

  “The dead chap on the causeway?”

  “Why there? Why was he headless?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If it was a warning, then, based on tradition, it should have been a head on a pole.”

  Hegarty nodded. “I guess.”

  “So why no head?” I waited to see if he’d respond but he didn’t. “No head so we can’t identify the man. Why do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Hegarty said again.

  “The hands were removed too. Again, that’s so we couldn’t fingerprint and work out the victim.”

  Hegarty said nothing.

  I said, “Because if we knew the victim it could lead to the murderer.”

  “Blimey!” Hegarty stopped short of the barrier. “I get it. But…”

  “But?”

  “I don’t get it. If it’s a warning then who is the warning for?”

  “Someone who knows what it means.”

  Hegarty spoke briefly to the guards and got them to let us onto the causeway. Army business.

  And that was another thing that bothered me. As we passed the spot where I’d seen the body, I said, “Who is responsible for this no man’s land?”

  “The army.”

  “The army,” I intoned.

  “Blimey! Are you saying this really is an army matter?”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying, Hedge. It’s just all very strange. Vernon has said it’s no longer an army matter, but it just doesn’t sit right with me. The body was placed. It was deliberate. The only other explanation I can come up with is the warning was for someone they knew would be crossing. No point in a warning if the right person—or people—don’t see it.”

  We went through the barriers into Malaya. There was already a van and truck waiting for Customs to open. I hoped one would be a meat wagon but neither was.

  The rain started and we splashed our way to the village of Ulu Tiram and our parking spot near the Sin Sin bar. We sat and waited, the wipers flicking the water left then right across the windscreen.

  He said, “It’s my birthday today.”

  “Happy birthday. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four. I’m celebrating with the lads tonight. Will you join us?”

  Normally officers wouldn’t fraternize with “the lads”, but since I was no longer an MP and I liked the sergeant, I agreed.

  Like before, the lights of the aid truck appeared just after six and we pulled out behind it. Every now and then our lights picked out a logo on the tailgate. A face appearing over a wall—a character called Mr Chad. It was a different Bedford from last time. That one had the outline of a naked woman on the tailgate. I’d seen another with a skull and two burning cigarettes, like a comedy pirate symbol.

  The rain continued as we strained to watch the rear lights. The sky lightened but we were now heading north through the jungle.

  I said, “What will you do after the army?”

  “I can’t imagine there is an after. I’ll still be in at thirty-four, forty-four. Maybe sixty-four.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love it… and I don’t know what else I’d do. What about you?”

  “I’m no longer in the army.”

  “I know, but did you know what you wanted to do?”

  “No,” I said, and I guess I still didn’t know.

  We passed the small kampong where we had stopped and asked for an egg and water. There was no sign of the old man, but other people were around the huts and further afield. I briefly wondered where everyone else had been when we’d stopped here before.

  I also thought about what the man had said about looking for girls.

  “They didn’t turn off,” Hegarty said, breaking into my thoughts.

  We drove passed the sidetrack where the aid truck must have gone last time.

  Hegarty said, “Maybe this one is legit. Maybe we’re going straight to Batty Parfat.”

  “Batu Pahat.”

  We continued north, the rain eased and Hegarty dropped back to a safer distance.

  “Do you think they’ve given us the slip?”

  Maybe they had, but there was no point in worrying about it now so we just settled back and followed. Thirteen miles before Kluang we came to a crossroads. Batu Pahat was to the left. About twenty-five miles west. The Bedford turned right.

  Ten minutes later, at a small village, the truck turned right again. It was another jungle track. I signalled for Hegarty to slow and wait a moment. Livestock wandered on the road. Children ran out and shouted at us so I nodded and Hegarty continued.

  We bumped off the laterite onto wet mud. The tracks of the Bedford were clear as day and we followed. There was only one way to go, no turnings into what quickly became swampy.

  With the windows down we couldn’t hear any other traffic. Either the truck was too far ahead or had stopped. There was the constant chatter of monkeys and the loud mournful call of a hornbill cut the air. We passed trees with slender white trunks and the jeep was filled with a sherbet-sweet scent. Then the jungle closed in, and overhead, orchids flowered high under the green canopy.

  We pulled up a hill and saw how the Bedford had dug its wheels deep in the ground. Hegarty slowed as we crested the rise. The track swept left and then split. Both routes fed into dark jungle.

  Hegarty edged forward. “Left or right?” he said.

  “What?” I was looking at the trees. Did something move? “Stop. Just stop.”

  Hegarty stopped.

  “Listen.” I waited a beat and drew my Browning. “It’s gone quiet.”

  “Silence is golden,” he said. “You know where—”

  But he didn’t finish the explanation of the phrase. He slumped forward and a split second later I heard a gunshot. Then another and another and bullets pinged off metal.

  “Get out!” I shouted, opening the door and rolling. But even as I said it I knew Hedge wouldn’t be getting out. His eyes stared blankly, half his face a scarlet mess.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The firing ceased and for a second there was a surreal calm. I don’t know what happened or where the blow came from because one moment I was peering around the front tyre and the next I felt pain explode in my head.

  I remember the smell of the damp earth and tyre rubber and blackness.

  When I came to I was in the back of a short truck, tied to a bench. My head throbbed and my wrists ached from the restraints. Apart from that I seemed unharmed. I opened my eyes.

  It was dim, because the dark green cover of the rear was pulled down and tied shut. Pinpricks of bright light flashed along the seams as the truck moved from shade to light to shade. I swallowed air that was both stiflingly hot and humid. Sweat dripped from my face.

  There was another man in the dark, trussed up like me. His head was do
wn and I briefly thought he was unconscious. Until he spoke.

  “Stay calm. Take shallower breaths. And don’t struggle. It’s too damned hot in here and there’s no way these bindings will come loose.”

  “Who—?”

  “Jack Smith.”

  “Not army?”

  “No. You?”

  I decided against an explanation and opted for: “Not me. I was with an MP though. Any idea what happened to him?”

  “Dead, I’m afraid. Single shot to the head. Who was he?”

  “Just a friend.” I looked at the spots of light for a moment and then back at Smith. “How long was I out for?”

  The truck bumped over rutted ground and we moved with it, our bindings so tight that there was no way to dampen the jolts.

  “An hour maybe,” he said after the bumps stopped. “We’ve been bouncing around like crazy. It might not seem like it but this is the first semi-decent road we’ve been on. I’m surprised you stayed unconscious for so long.”

  I said, “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So why have they picked you up? What’s your story?”

  “Story?” He cleared his throat. “One minute I was hiking through the jungle, the next I was being confronted by this Chinese gang. I thought they were bandits but, I don’t know, maybe it’s because we aren’t soldiers.”

  “What the hell were you hiking in the jungle for?”

  “Freddy Spencer Chapman. Name ring a bell?”

  “No,” I said, although I had heard of him. It was easier to let this other guy speak and he seemed to like talking.

  “Stayed behind enemy lines when the Japanese took Malaya. Survived the whole war running guerrilla campaigns. He was the Malayan equivalent of Lawrence of Arabia. Well, basically, I’m a fan and I just wanted… you know… I was following his footsteps.”

  I nodded, though he probably couldn’t see me too well.

  He said, “What were you doing with the MP?”

  I said nothing.

  “I mean, are there other MPs around? Could we be rescued?”

  “No.”

  Then he was quiet and I could hear his breathing over the rattle of the truck.

  “Take shallower breaths,” I said, replaying his earlier words to me.

  “I’m worried.”

  I said nothing.

  He said, “I’m worried about what’s really going on. Why were you following them?”

  “Who said I was following them?”

  “But you were, weren’t you? Why else were you out there. Me, I had a reason. Freddy’s first main camp used to be around here. You… you were travelling with an MP. You were looking for someone or you were following them.”

  I said, “I told you, I’m not a soldier. I work for Internal Security in Singapore.”

  “Internal Security?” His tone was almost mocking but then it changed. “But… then… You think they are bandits. You think they’re planning an attack.”

  I said nothing.

  “You think they’re going to attack,” he said again. “Where? Who?”

  “Where would you attack?”

  “The camp at Ulu Tiram.”

  “Kota Tinggi. What makes you say there?”

  “Easy target, not well protected and there’s them stores there. We have a shortage of food here in Malaya. It’s not like Singapore over here you know!”

  I felt the truck steer left. I’d felt it steer left more than right. “I don’t know about you,” I said, “but I get the distinct impression that we’re going round in circles, always turning left.”

  I could hear his breathing get louder.

  “What are they gonna to do with us?”

  I shook my head. I had no idea.

  The breathing quickened, panic building. He started to mutter, “Oh my God!”

  I said, “Stay calm. We’ll be all right.”

  “Oh my God, they’re gonna kill us!” His voice was hysterical now. Then he shouted: “Help! Somebody help!” He thrashed around as much as the tight bindings would allow and banged his feet on the metal floor.

  The vehicle stopped suddenly and the jolt made me grunt.

  Blinding light burst in as the rear flap was pulled back. Two wiry Chinese guys swung up carrying machetes. Smith wailed but all they did was chop at the ropes tying us to the bench. My legs were free but my hands were still locked tight behind my back. A sacking hood went over my head and I was dragged and then pushed. I took a couple of steps, was jabbed in the back again, and fell forward into space.

  The ground hit me hard. I tried to roll, expecting the impact, but my shoulder jarred and my ribs felt like they’d been punched again by Slugger Stevenson—though without boxing gloves this time.

  I lay still for a moment and heard Smith thud beside me. Dirt and dust stuck to my sweat-damp clothes and skin.

  Smith whimpered. I could also hear the tromping of many boots. How many men where there? It was impossible to tell from the noise, but there were a lot more than the two I’d already seen. Somewhere close by, I could also hear the metallic sound of machinery.

  There was something sweet in the air. I could smell it through the earthiness of the sacking. This wasn’t the sherbet smell of citronella trees we’d smelled earlier. This was more chemical.

  Without warning, I was jerked upright and pulled backwards by my bindings. I stumbled and slid for about a hundred yards. Then the pulling stopped. I was spun around and pushed.

  Again I fell onto my face only this time the ground was soft, maybe dry grass. Sounds were now deadened and I figured I was inside—a hut maybe.

  After a minute of no sound I tried to stand. My head bumped into a ceiling; a thatch of some kind, probably palm leaves.

  I manoeuvred around and felt the back wall. In the centre, there was a thick branch supporting the roof and I used this to rub the sacking until it was off my head.

  It was good to breathe the air properly, even though the sweet chemical smell was even stronger than I’d thought.

  The hut was small and circular, about ten feet in diameter. A heavy animal hide covered the entrance. I gently shouldered the flap to look outside.

  No chance. Something hard jabbed me in the face and I staggered back. There was a guard outside and I was going nowhere.

  The walls looked solid, clay in a kind of wattle. The roof was palm leaves, but branches radiating from the central support would prevent me climbing through.

  I sat against the support and closed my eyes. As a child I’d been locked in confined spaces. My disciplinarian father thought isolation was the best punishment. Maybe for some people, but I learned to use the time. I focused on something like a mathematical problem. I learned all my times tables before most of my class had mastered the fives.

  Staying calm and relaxed, that was the trick. As an adult I used the skill to think through cases. The body on the causeway caused me the most difficulty. I started replaying the events of the first day. The body had led to the BVD unit, which in turn led to the aid unit at Kota Tinggi. I got to the point of following the truck this morning when a scream broke my concentration.

  Smith was being tortured, I thought. The screams got louder and louder, broken by sobs and pleading. Then the screaming stopped and was replaced by whimpering. It got closer until the flap opened and Smith was pushed into my hut.

  He lay prone on the floor and moaned for a few minutes. Then gradually he eased himself up, moving like every muscle in his body hurt. The shirt on his back was shredded and his face was covered with grime and blood.

  I watched him.

  “Oh God,” he mumbled. “I thought they were gonna kill me, I did. Oh God, I hope that’s it. I hope they don’t do that again. I don’t know anything. I told them I don’t know anything but they beat me anyway. God, I really thought I was gonna die.” He looked at me, exhausted and deflated. “They’ll do you next. Tell them whatever they want to know—tell them! Maybe it’ll save both of us.”

>   I said, “What do they want to know?”

  “Just what you were doing following them. How much you know about their operation.” His eyes flashed briefly and he added: “You do know what they’re up to, don’t you?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What?” Smith pleaded. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you,” I said. “But first let’s stop this charade. Untie my hands and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Smith’s mouth dropped open. I was impressed at how quickly he got it. He shook his head like a dog shakes water from its body. One minute he was poor tortured Smith, the next he was… well, someone else entirely.

  “How did you guess?” he said.

  “Your story was all over the place. You said you’d been in the back of the truck from before I was picked up and yet you knew about my friend. You knew he’d been killed with a single shot to the head, which implied you’d witnessed it. And yet you didn’t know he was an MP. If you’d seen him you’d have seen the Land Rover. You’d have known.”

  Smith nodded.

  I said, “And that whole thing about Freddy Spencer Chapman.”

  “That’s true. In fact, this is really where his first camp was—although it was never his camp. It was the Chinese bandits he worked with. Ironic isn’t it how we trained them in guerrilla tactics, marksmanship and bomb making. And it’s true he was Malaya’s version of Lawrence of Arabia. It’s just that he never got the recognition.”

  I said, “Why am I still alive?”

  “We’re not murderers.” He gave me a sad smile and shook his head. “The shot that killed your driver was a freak. An accident. The last thing we want is trouble.”

  “Too late. Killing a soldier—not least an MP—will bring you a whole heap of trouble.” I locked eyes with him and used the voice of command. “Untie me, soldier.”

  For a second he looked uncertain and I thought he might actually untie me. They had taken my Browning but I could still feel the Beretta in my ankle holster. They hadn’t thought to check.

  Eventually he shook his head. “How did you know…?”