Singapore Girl: An edge of your seat thriller that will have you hooked (An Ash Carter Thriller Book 2)

by Murray Bailey

  Sergeant Dave “Hedge” Hegarty received a posthumous award—a DSO—for his role in the discovery of the illegal drugs operation by communist terrorists. It was a small thing that gave me most satisfaction.

  But that was all in the future.

  After discovering Laura, I returned to Singapore, got cleaned up and knocked on the door of the house in the government sector. The Malay butler answered and ushered me into the library-styled room.

  Coates was there, blue smoke swirling above his armchair. He looked surprised to see me, like he never expected to see me again. He put down a thick cigar and stood up, his fake leg causing more awkwardness than usual.

  “What have you got to say for yourself?” he said, like a headmaster about to scold a pupil.

  I smiled. “I’ve had a good morning.”

  “You’ve not been at your post.”

  “I found the missing girl and I solved the murder of the man on the causeway.”

  He waited for me to say more, but I was watching his reaction, trying to read him.

  Eventually he said, “How is Major Vernon?”

  “Indisposed.”

  He looked at me askance.

  I said, “Did you get my message about the client list?”

  “You’re talking in riddles.”

  “Did you get it?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t understand. I still don’t understand. All I know is you are this close”—he showed a small gap between his thumb and index finger—“to being fired. And you don’t want that, do you!”

  I nodded. He was threatening me with disclosure of what he thought he knew about my past. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.

  I said, “Vernon has been arrested and the JB police will find out who the other men are—the men who were complicit in a sex-slave business at a school.” I watched his eyes. “Including underage girls.”

  His eyes narrowed. I wondered if he’d become defensive, but instead he was thinking. He said, “Could Yipp be on that list?”

  “No,” I said, and was certain of it.

  “OK, how can we use this?” He waved me over to a chair and sat opposite. “Could Yipp be involved in running the school?”

  “No.”

  “But what if he were? I mean, can we show a connection somehow?”

  “He’s not connected,” I said.

  “Do you have proof?”

  “No.”

  “You have a lot to learn,” he said, shaking his head again in the teacher mode. “You don’t have proof either way. You can’t prove he wasn’t involved.”

  I said nothing.

  “This is the way for you to save your job, Carter. Do this and I’ll overlook your insubordination.”

  I said, “Even if he were involved, it’s not a security issue.”

  He smiled mirthlessly and we both knew this was personal. Coates knew Yipp wasn’t a communist, knew he wasn’t really a threat.

  I said, “You’d have more luck looking into the maternity ward at a hospital in JB—the Sultana Aminah Hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a trade in babies going on there. And Yipp is definitely involved in that.”

  Now his eyes went bright.

  I added: “And speak to Lady Hage-Dando—she runs the orphanage. She’ll give you plenty of detail about the baby trade.”

  “I want you to do it—make amends.”

  “Later,” I said. “I’ve just got back and I’ve things to sort out.”

  For a moment I thought he would argue, but he just waved me away. Before the door closed behind me I heard him on the telephone, probably to the police commissioner. Probably mobilizing things against Yipp.

  I doubted he’d get anywhere. Yipp was too careful. I’d seen that in the records I’d had to go over and over again. He was an investor and on the board of the hospital. Yes, there was the adoption of babies, but proving the mothers were coerced, proving that Yipp made money at their expense, would be nigh impossible. And as for Lady Hage-Dando? As lovely and kind as she was, any evidence she provided would be nonsense.

  When I arrived at my desk, I sat down and wrote two letters. The first was to Sergeant Hegarty’s parents. I knew that nothing I could write would make them feel any better about losing their son, but I wanted them to know what a great guy he was. He had helped me when others wouldn’t, even at considerable personal cost. I told them about tracking down the Chinese gang in the jungle and that he was a hero. He had died instantly from the gunshot and hadn’t suffered.

  My final point to his parents was that I would always remember his humour, his smile and his eyebrows. Most of all I’d think of him whenever I heard a cliché or phrase, especially “silence is golden”. I found this one ironic since he liked to talk so much.

  I wrote a second letter and then pulled out the police records and my notes. While I’d been killing time with Stevenson, waiting to attack the school, I’d thought about the police reports. It wasn’t the obvious. It wasn’t what was said. The important thing was what wasn’t said.

  Yipp wasn’t a security threat; he was a threat to the British power base. He effectively owned large sectors of the city. You could call it protection or you could call it internal security. Yipp and Coates were two sides of the same coin.

  I took a map and drew the areas of Yipp’s implied control. There were two sectors that stood out, small areas that appeared to be islands surrounded by Yipp’s influence. One included the building from where we followed the men to Singorah airfield. They had been working for him even if they denied it. That location was a distraction from the other.

  I picked up a satchel and stuffed my map in it followed by a handful of the police reports—including the Singorah one. The rest of the reports, I returned to their boxes.

  Then I stood up and walked out.

  The wind blew hard across Fullerton Square as I strode over to the General Post Office. In my hand were two letters: one for the Hegartys and the second for Secretary Coates. My resignation.

  I had a third letter in my pocket, burning a hole. It was the one that Gary Bender had given me as he sat dying in the Land Rover.

  I hadn’t thrown it away. I couldn’t.

  Bender may not have deserved it, but a mother is a mother after all. So I posted it along with the other two.

  I crossed the Cavenagh Bridge and walked along the Esplanade. Cars and buses came into the centre and left the centre. People walked purposefully and strolled around the Padang. The rugby posts were being erected. Singapore life continued. It always would, whether I was here or not.

  On Beach Road I stopped briefly to watch a thunderstorm out over the South China Sea. I thought about my job—my ex-job—generally, about Andrew Yipp specifically. And then I made my decision.

  I tossed my satchel over the sea wall and watched it sink beneath the waves. A weight was lifted. I was free of Coates and now I was free of Yipp. No more political games and manoeuvres.

  I strode along the coast, the sun on my back, and wondered what I’d do next.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  Once again I must thank my father, David Bailey, and Ian Johnson for their stories on Singapore in the 1950s. I would also like to thank Ray Theobald who provided considerable help (including photographs) that brought the Kota Tinggi camp and the BVD to life.

  I’m grateful to my sister, Dr Kerry Bailey-Jones, for assisting with all things medical. Also to Di Yang for help with the Chinese warning note. Thanks to my early reviewers, my wife and Pete Tonkin, for their feedback and helping me with the reader’s perspective. I’m also grateful to my excellent editor, Richard Sheehan. How you do it is a mystery to me.

  My final thanks go to the lovely people of Neyber, the financial wellbeing company. With permission I have used some of their names for many of the characters as a thank you for encouragement and support.

  Want to know what happens next?

  Exclusively read the first four chapters of Ash Ca
rter’s next adventure:

  Singapore Boxer

  ONE

  All they had to do was last three minutes in the ring with me. A knockout was classed as a hand or knee touching the canvas. If they were lucky they could remain standing and get their money back. But they wanted the big prize. Knock me down and win fifty pounds.

  I’d been a prize fighter at the New World Amusement Park for a month and no one had put me down. Not even close.

  I sidestepped the latest wild punch and connected a roundhouse to the young pretender’s cheek. He staggered sideways, looked bemused that something had hit him, and then dropped to his knees.

  The crowd cheered. Although I have to confess I’d grown used to the sound, that was more of an appreciation of another’s misfortune than support for me: a sarcastic whoop! rather than a cheer.

  He was helped out of the ring and I prepared for the next lad. Maybe they were reasonable brawlers but very few of them knew how to box properly. Since we were surrounded by entertainment and alcohol, most of the bravado was also fuelled by booze. Peer pressure also encouraged the foolhardy to have a go.

  The prize fighting took place five days a week between 5 and 7pm. There was no point in fighting after seven since the park became out of bounds to soldiers. And most of the customers were men on shore leave, enjoying the exotic dancers, striptease and sideshows that New World offered over a site the size of a football pitch.

  There were three prize fighters and we usually took it in turns. I’d fought three bouts this evening and I had two more to go. Neither of my colleagues had turned up. The astute men in the crowd would be watching and waiting. Why have a go when I’m fresh? The best time to challenge would be on my last fight.

  I could see three likely contenders. Two were soldiers surrounded by their mates. Their eyes tracked my moves hoping to spot a weakness. Hoping to learn my instinctive combinations.

  Then there was a third man. I’d seen him the previous day, watching, assessing. He wasn’t in uniform—he wore a grey suit—and he didn’t look like a fighter. He didn’t look like a heavyweight but I assessed his height to be similar to my six two. I’d heard of Thai fighters whose looks were deceptive. But this was no Thai. This guy was white and very British. His stance spoke of confidence, maybe even arrogance, and his face was inscrutable.

  One of the army lads clambered into the ring. He was big. His oversize face was like a sunburnt moon on a heavy frame.

  The bell rang and we touched gloves. He stepped forward, left glove up by his giant face, right hand jabbing.

  I stepped back and let him jab. I glanced down at the promoter and he shook his head at me. I was asking permission to end this quickly. I knew the drill. Make it too quick and you put off the others. Draw it out; make the challengers think they have a chance. That’s what the promoter wanted. Better for business that way.

  I traded a few blows and moved around the ring. The guy followed. His mates cheered loudly each time he made contact, although no judge would have given him points.

  He wasn’t bad, maybe a bit obvious. His right jab was OK, but when he shielded with his right glove, half his massive face was exposed.

  I glanced at the promoter again. Surely we could end this? I got a shrug.

  The next time my opponent threw a left, I stepped right and slammed my right into the side of his nose. He did a nice pirouette before collapsing on the ropes.

  The crowd did their whoop and Moonface was pulled out of the ring.

  I walked to my corner and took water and a towel.

  The white guy in a suit watched me.

  The squaddie in the second group shrugged his mates aside and handed over his five shillings.

  He had hard eyes and a better stance than the last guy. He also had three or four inches on me and solid-looking muscles. His biceps were almost as big as my thighs.

  “The bigger they are the harder they fall!” my father used to say in my early years playing school rugby. Better advice came from my first boxing coach. He used to say, “The bigger they are the longer their reach.”

  Estimating a man’s reach could be the difference between clear air and a punch in the face.

  The bell sounded, and because he’d been watching, he didn’t come for me. He knew I liked to counterpunch. So he stepped back and grinned. He dropped his hands as though encouraging me to attack. Encouraging me to come within range of his longer arms. I decided to see what he’d got, so I obliged. It was more fun that way.

  I skipped forward and jabbed and moved. He landed a couple of heavy blows on my arms. Strong but slow. He probably worked out. Large muscles, good for intimidation, not so good for fast punches.

  “Fought before?” I asked as we moved around the ring.

  “A bit,” he said, and took a punch in the mouth.

  He spat blood and his eyes narrowed more. Then he surprised me with a combination that first took my breath and ended with a blow to my eye. I rolled with most of it but it was still a good shot.

  His mates went crazy as I back-pedalled briefly.

  I wanted him to come after me then so I could counterpunch but he didn’t. He stepped back and dropped his hands like he’d done at the start. Maybe he thought he was taunting me but this was against the clock. We moved in again and traded blows. Most of his missed, but he made contact with a couple that felt like sledgehammers.

  When the final bell rang, he blinked sweat from his eyes and staggered back to the ropes. He’d done well and deserved his five shillings back.

  I gave him a respectful nod.

  “Lucky it wasn’t two or three rounds,” he said between ragged breaths, “I’d have got you eventually.”

  I smiled. He wouldn’t have lasted another round. The guy had given everything he had in that three-minute burst. “Tomorrow. I’m back tomorrow,” I said.

  My second put a robe over my shoulders and I climbed through the ropes. That’s when I saw the guy in the suit again. He was right in front of me. Same rigid posture. Same lack of expression.

  He stepped towards me.

  “Didn’t fancy your chances?” I said.

  “I was just watching.”

  I took a swig of water.

  He said, “Why do you do it?”

  “Entertainment.”

  “Really?” For the first time, his face made an expression. It seemed to be somewhere between disapproval and doubt.

  I started to walk towards the tent where I could get changed.

  The strange man kept pace with me.

  “Can I help you?”

  “After watching that,” he said, “I was thinking perhaps I could help you, sir.”

  I stopped.

  He said, “You’re Captain Ash Carter, ex-Royal Military Police, ex-Special Investigations Branch.”

  I said nothing. Was this the moment I’d been waiting for? The moment that my past caught up with me?

  He said, “Boxing for money is a bit beneath you, isn’t it?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I beg to differ.” He lowered his voice. “I have a job for you.”

  TWO

  I figured the guy in the suit was a government man. I’d worked for the government and I’d had enough. Politics wasn’t for me. Working for a politician also wasn’t for me.

  I’d shaken my head and walked away. After washing and dressing, I came out of our changing room. I expected him to be outside, waiting. But he wasn’t.

  The crowds were thin now that the 7pm watershed had passed. The food stalls stayed open for a few more hours and there would be a film at the cinema, but the soldiers had left. MPs would do a quick patrol of the grounds and any soldier within the out of bounds sector would soon find themselves in the clink.

  There were plenty of bars outside the three “Worlds”—the amusement parks—where a man could burn his shore leave money. Spending your last hours of freedom behind bars was enough to deter all but the foolhardy.

  I walked under the white stone arch onto
Jalan Besar. My apartment on Beach Road was only a few minutes’ walk away. West towards the city centre and then south to the coast.

  Night had already fallen and the streets were much darker than New World had been. Despite the gloom I still spotted them straight away. They were on the corner by Kitchener Road, standing under a street light, looking anything but innocent.

  I was on the opposite side of the road and kept walking.

  “Oi!” Hard-eyes shouted across to me. He stepped into the road and his men formed a phalanx behind him. I counted eight of them. They looked like kids in a schoolyard, itching for a fight. In fact, they looked little older than schoolkids.

  I raised a friendly hand. “See you tomorrow. I’ll look forward to it.”

  Hard-eyes waited for a car to pass and then marched across towards me. His men strung out behind him, identifying three that were braver than the others. If there was a fight I figured those three would join in quickly. The others would wait until I was subdued, probably on the floor and safe to kick.

  I stopped and faced them as Hard-eyes stepped onto my pavement.

  I said, “I leave my fighting to the ring.”

  He puffed up his chest. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “Shame then.” I made to walk past him but he stepped in my way.

  Again I said, “I leave my fighting to the ring. And there are better things to do with your last hours. There are lots of good bars. And if you’re looking for girls…”

  “I’ve found a girl.” He laughed. “It’s you! You’re too girly to fight without gloves.”

  One of his men blew me a kiss and the others joined in with the laughter.

  I was still calm and said, “You know MPs patrol this area. You get caught fighting and you’ll be in the clink.”

  Hard-eyes tensed up. I could see him planning his attack, assessing my counters. He was still more than an arm’s reach away, standing square on. A big and threatening pose. A mistake.