Inspector Singh Investigates (10 page)

Alan Lee's conversion to Islam was a master tactical stroke and he, Subhas Chandra, the foremost divorce lawyer in the country, had been taken completely by surprise. It rankled. He sharpened another pencil and then rifled through his papers until he found the cutting from a newspaper that he had kept. It was a picture of him on the steps of the courthouse. He remembered the moment well. He was rushing to avoid reporters, something he had never had to do before. He did not want to be asked any questions about Alan Lee's conversion to Islam. This was quite contrary to his usual practice of holding an ad hoc press conference outside the court to make sure he, and of course his client, got the best press. His billowing gown had snagged the stair rail and he had turned in surprise. That was the moment he had been photographed: mouth slightly open, eyebrows raised, eyes wide. The caption had read, 'Lawyer struck by bolt from blue!' Clever, really.

And now there was more bad news. He reached for the phone and then sat back in his chair again. It was the most expensive orthopaedic chair that money could buy – but he shifted uncomfortably. He would have loved to resign from the case but headlines about the lawyer who abandoned his client just when the going got tough would not endear him to any future clients. He would have to stick it out.

He reached for the phone again and rang Chelsea Liew's mobile. She picked up immediately. Her 'Hello' sounded strained.

He said, 'What is it?'

She did not answer his question directly. 'Nothing in particular. What do you want?'

He paused and could sense her growing impatience on the phone. He screwed up his courage, put on his most lawyerly voice – deep, slow tones usually reserved for when he was in court – and said, 'I have some bad news. I'm afraid the court has released the body of your husband for burial in accordance with Moslem funeral rites.'

'So?'

'They've released the body to the Council to bury.'

She said, 'I could not possibly care less.'

The lawyer wiped a moist hand on his trouser leg and reached for another pencil. This was not easy. 'I realise that you are not particularly concerned about what happens to the body and I understand that. But the court's decision does have legal consequences.'

'What do you mean?' Her voice was hard and suspicious.

'The civil courts did not choose to hear us on the matter. They decided, based on the affidavits, that the matter was out of their hands.'

Chelsea said firmly, 'I have no idea what you are talking about!'

Her lawyer swallowed a sigh and started again, reminding himself that, despite the amount of time she had recently spent within the judicial system, she was a layperson. 'If you will recall, we asked the judge in the civil custody hearing to examine the conversion to Islam of your ex–husband. The idea was that if his new religion was not genuine, then his children were not Moslem – and therefore you should keep them.'

'Yes, I understand that.'

'Well, the judge, when releasing the body, ruled that he had no authority under the Constitution to look behind a conversion to Islam to determine whether it was genuine.'

'So?'

'It will affect the decision about the children.'

'What do you mean?' Chelsea was getting angry. It was all so damn complicated and appeared to be designed only to separate her from her children.

'The civil courts have set a precedent saying they will not question the genuineness of a conversion to decide whether Alan Lee should be buried with Moslem rites. In other words, if he claims to be Moslem, that's enough for them. They could use the same logic about your custody claim. And the Syariah courts will be predisposed to accepting any conversion to Islam as genuine.'

'I see,' said Chelsea, slowly. 'What do you suggest I do?'

'Appeal!'

'Can I win?'

'It is difficult to say. These are uncharted constitutional waters ...'

Chelsea rolled her eyes. She would dearly love a lawyer who gave her a straight answer but suspected that this restraint was endemic in the profession. She said, 'What's your best bet?'

'There is a certain safety in numbers. The Court of Appeal might be more willing to make a controversial decision than a judge sitting alone. It is not impossible that we will get a favourable result.'

Chelsea said, 'All right, go ahead and appeal,' and terminated the call.

Her lawyer carefully filed the newspaper clipping away and put another pencil into the desktop sharpener. He turned the little handle mechanically, watching the fine shavings fall into the clear plastic receptacle.

Sergeant Shukor was the point man. He had to be. These tycoons were far too well–funded and well–advised to subject themselves to questioning by a Singapore policeman freelancing in Malaysia. They had agreed between them that Singh would come along and remain in the background – unintroduced unless it became necessary. His Singapore origins were not to be revealed under any circumstances.

They had made an appointment and were shown in to see Lee Kian Min. Kian Min was running Lee Timber, just as he had done for his father willingly, and his brother unwillingly. His appointment as managing director of Lee Timber had not been formalised. The company thought it would be better to wait until Alan Lee had at least been buried before the official handover. There was no difficulty with the present arrangement anyway. Kian Min did not require official titles – power and wealth were sufficient.

Kian Min did not know why the police wanted to see him but he had nevertheless choreographed the encounter to ensure that his questioners were made to feel at a disadvantage. He sat behind the huge desk. On the other side there were two much smaller chairs.

Kian Min stood up as they came in and ushered them into the two chairs facing the desk. His slightly nasal voice suggested roots that were not quite as polished as his dress and surroundings implied. Unlike Alan, who had ironed the Chinese
towkay
out of his voice during the course of an expensive education, Kian Min had stayed close to home and sounded it. He said, 'So why the police want to see me?'

'We just have a few questions,' said Sergeant Shukor reassuringly. Singh sensed he was intimidated by the tone of wealth and felt like an intruder rather than a policeman on righteous business. He wished he could take part in the interview. He would soon have the little bastard by the balls. He ground his teeth in frustration and the two other men turned to look at him in surprise. In the quiet room, it was audible. Singh patted his stomach apologetically and succeeded in their pre–arranged plan that he act the buffoon.

Kian Min, his confidence increased by the embarrassment of the two policemen, said, 'What questions you want to ask me? Is it about my brother? If so, I can tell you straight that I have no idea why Jasper killed Alan.'

Shukor said quietly, 'We have received reports that Lee Timber is logging illegally in East Malaysia.'

'There are always reports. People don't like our business. But they like what we provide.' He ran a hand lovingly over the polished surface of his desk. A man whose uncultured background rang in every cadence of speech took a spontaneous pleasure in beautiful things.

'We have evidence that Lee Timber is logging illegally.'

He looked up at this. 'What evidence? Cannot be!'

'We have maps and aerial photos showing that you have been logging on areas gazetted as national park land in Borneo.'

'Let me see it then if you say you got evidence.'

Shukor shook his head firmly. 'We will look into it further first.'

'You cannot simply come here and make accusations. The Sarawak police have investigated and found nothing.'

'So you deny that Lee Timber is involved in anything illegal?'

'Of course I deny it.'

'Well, this is the thing,' said Inspector Singh, unable to obey his own rules about keeping out of trouble, 'Jasper claims he killed your brother to stop his illegal activity in Borneo. If what you say is true – there is no illegal activity – Jasper Lee has no motive ... unlike another brother of Alan who did rather well out of his untimely demise.' As he said this Singh looked around at Kian Min's office trappings contemptuously and then turned back to look at the man he had just implicitly accused of murder.

To his surprise, Kian Min looked unperturbed, amused even. He ignored the allegation and concentrated on Jasper's story.

'So Jasper say he kill Alan to stop him cutting down trees?' He laughed, a derisory sound. 'You know, he's so screwed up he maybe believes it. But that's not the real reason.'

Shukor jumped in. The inspector would have preferred to let Kian Min keep talking off his own bat. 'Why then? Why did he kill Alan?'

Kian Min eyed them. The interruption had given him pause for thought. At last, he said, 'Well, it's obvious, right?'

This time both policemen kept silent.

'He did it for Chelsea.'

It was the first time she had gone to see him. She had stayed away for as long as possible but then guilt had driven her to prison. She could not abandon her brother–in–law without at least a visit. He was the reason she was free. Remembering her own experience she was pleasantly surprised when she saw him. He looked thinner and tired but there was a bounce in his step when he came into the room. Jasper had an inner resilience which she had not suspected. They sat in silence for a while. He looked at her with a mildly amused expression on his face, guessing her conflicting emotions – relief not to be incarcerated herself, guilt that he was there. Chelsea looked around, not saying a word, struggling to believe that a few short weeks ago she had been sitting in this room as the accused, not a visitor.

She screwed up the courage to ask, 'How are you managing?'

He shrugged. 'Well, it's not the Mandarin Oriental – but I'm fine!'

She said, 'Why did you confess?'

He looked at her, meeting her eyes fearlessly. 'Because I killed Alan.'

'I don't believe you.'

'I know. You even have that fat policeman trying to persuade me that I'm not guilty. But really, I killed Alan and I don't regret it.'

This last was said with a stubborn look, defying her to contradict him.

She shook her head gently. 'I won't pretend that I have any sorrow at Alan's death. The man I thought I married died for me a long time ago.'

In the silence, they were both remembering a wedding day from many years ago – where the radiance of a young bride had transcended the kitschy white wedding and turned it into something truly beautiful. Jasper had not been asked by his brother to be the best man. The relationship between them had soured by then. Jasper would have refused anyway. Instead, he had sat in the front pew of the big church and watched his brother marry the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He looked at the woman across from him, seeking in her features something of that young woman, girl almost, he had watched that day. She had grown older, of course, and developed an air of sophistication as the wife of one of Malaysia's leading businessmen. There were a few faint lines on her face, erased to some extent by make–up. He thought to himself that Chelsea had aged in the manner of expensive wine – her face had developed in character what it had lost in beauty. The fine bones were still there and the iridescent, almond eyes. He thought her more attractive now than he had done on that wedding day when his envy of his brother had formed a physical constriction in his throat.

He was lost in the past and did not hear Chelsea speak.

She said again, 'Jasper!'

He looked up at her, taken aback by her changed appearance, so immersed had he been in his memories.

She looked worried and he smiled reassuringly. 'I'm fine.'

This made her angry. 'How can you say that?' she snapped. 'I was sitting in that chair not long ago –looking forward to a dawn walk to a hangman's noose. There is nothing fine about this situation!'

He did not know what to say. Her anger was palpable. He understood that it was concern for him. But he did not know how to deal with this fiery–eyed, assertive woman. All the years he had known her she had been retreating further into a shell until he had become accustomed to the quiet, polite but basically secretive woman. Her release from prison into a world where there was no dominating husband had removed emotional shackles too.

He changed the subject. 'What's happening with the custody thing?'

She said, 'It doesn't look good. The civil courts released Alan's body to the Council for burial in accordance with Moslem rites.'

Jasper was no fool. He said thoughtfully, 'I see –and that might be a precedent they use for the custody issues?'

Chelsea nodded. 'Which leaves me entirely at the mercy of the Syariah court. They must surely be even less inclined to examine whether Alan was actually a Moslem or just faking it.'

Jasper said, 'It's possible, I suppose, that they will be more willing to preserve the sanctity of the religion – by not allowing a conversion of convenience to carry any weight.'

'That's my last hope!' said Chelsea, an edge of desperation in her voice. 'The worst part is that, if Alan was alive, I might have stood a better chance. The judges would have seen with their own eyes that he could not possibly be a genuine convert. We both know Alan. It's not an act he could have sustained for very long. Can you imagine it – going to the mosque every Friday, fasting during Ramadan? But now, with Alan dead, it has become a matter of principle – not of people ...'

Jasper asked, 'Are you sorry he's dead then?'

Chelsea did not answer for an interminable moment. Then she said quietly, 'No, I'm not.'

Jasper reached out and took one of her hands in his. She noticed abstractedly that his nails were not clean – residue from his first week in prison.

He said, 'You need not worry about me. Really, I'm OK. If they hang me, so be it. I did what I did knowing the consequences.'

When she did not respond, he continued, 'I just wish there was something more I could do to help you.'

'You need to concentrate on helping yourself!' said Chelsea, squeezing his hand to rob her words of the harshness. She rose to her feet, picked up her small clutch purse, put out a hand and touched his cheek fleetingly – a small, sad farewell gesture – and knocked on the door to be let out.