Inspector Singh Investigates (19 page)

Twenty–one

Chelsea was at the hospital when she got the news.

'The civil courts have decided, as a matter of law, that they have no choice but to follow the latest precedents on apostasy. Questions of whether an individual is or is not a Moslem are a matter for the Syariah courts under the Federal Constitution.' Subhas Chandra delivered the news in a sober tone.

She said, 'But they didn't ask to see me!'

'It wasn't necessary. They are not deciding as a matter of fact, but of law. They only needed or wanted submissions on law. And the recent precedents, although dealing with apostasy – the right of an individual to renounce Islam as his or her religion – were found to have great importance.'

'All right, I guess I was not expecting much else. So now we wait for the Syariah court?'

'Yes, but apparently they are convening already ...'

'And they don't want to see me either?'

'They will only hear testimony if they decide that they are going to examine the authenticity of the conversion to Islam. If they decide as a matter of law that they will not ...' He was unable to continue. How was he to explain to this woman that all the courts in the land could achieve such a result in an individual case without even hearing from the mother of the children?

As she sat by Marcus's bed, listening to him and Sharifah chat about trivial things, finding pleasure in conversation for its own sake and the sound of each other's voices, her Syariah lawyer called. The Syariah court had decided. Alan Lee, having gone through the official form of conversion to Islam, had been a Moslem and died a Moslem and the children were Moslem too. 'In the circumstances,' he warned heavily, 'they might send court officers to take the children into care.'

'Is there anything else I can do?'

'Appeal – but they might take the kids while you do that.'

'All right,' she said calmly. 'Thank you for trying.'

Chelsea moved quickly. She told Marcus and Sharifah what she was going to do. They nodded and agreed. Marcus was in hospital, overage and recovering. She would leave him. She did not like it but she had no choice and he understood. Jasper and Sharifah would look after him. She was sure of that.

She picked up the younger boys from school. They were surprised but once reassured that it was not bad news in any way – the last time they were pulled out early was when their father was killed – they treated the whole thing like an unexpected holiday and were excited and cheerful. Chelsea swung by the house and picked up the pre–packed suitcases, passports, cash and travellers' cheques. She had been preparing for this moment for a while.

They got to the airport without mishap. It was at the check–in for the flight to Australia that there was the first sign of trouble. They were early for the next flight to Sydney and queued up in the carpeted First Class aisle. The clerk was well dressed, well made up, polite and then suddenly worried. Chelsea saw the furrows on her brow appear as she stared at the screen in front of her. Chelsea gripped the hand of her youngest son so tight he protested. She loosened her hold and waited, polite, patient and, inside, a wreck. Was she too late?

The check–in girl got up suddenly, said, 'Excuse me,' and scurried away in her high heels, balancing expertly on the baggage conveyor belt, until she got to a counter a few rows down and had a whispered conversation with a man in a suit. Chelsea leaned on the counter and tried to look bored and slightly impatient. The typical reaction of a rich woman held up by officialdom as opposed to the abductor of her own children desperately trying to flee the country.

The man in the suit came over, accompanied by the clerk, looked at her screen and glanced surreptitiously at the woman and children in front of him. Perhaps he recognised them, or their names, although he showed no sign of it. In any event, he spent a bit of time fiddling with the computer while the boys fidgeted and Chelsea asked in an irritated tone, 'Is there a problem?'

He looked up at this and said heavily, 'Yes, ma'am. For some reason, and I'm sure it must be some mistake, your details, and that of your children, appear on a police list. You are not allowed to leave the country.'

'It's a mistake!' said Chelsea firmly.

'Yes, ma'am, but my hands are tied. I cannot check you in until and unless your name is removed from this list.'

Chelsea thought hard. She would have lost her temper there and then and demanded to be checked in if she thought it might work, but she knew it would be useless.

She leaned forward and said in a low tone, 'I'm sure you recognise me and know my story. They're trying to take my children away from me. Can you please help me?'

He dropped the pretence and said, 'I think the situation is very unfair but if I don't stop you here, immigration will stop you in there.' He nodded towards the departure gates. 'And you might be arrested.'

Chelsea bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. What was she going to do?

The Chinese man said softly, 'Your best bet is Johor.'

She didn't understand him. The sound of her heart thumping was muffling his words.

'The border with Singapore – there is so much traffic there, quite often they don't check everything as carefully. That might be your best chance of getting out.'

She looked at him and made up her mind. 'I'll try that,' she said.

Jasper was on the way to the hospital when his phone rang. He picked it up but did not recognise the voice, it was high–pitched and breathless, speaking quickly – not making sense.

Jasper interrupted the caller, 'Who is this? Can you tell me who this is please?'

There was a surprised silence and then Rupert said clearly and slowly, as if Jasper had caused him to climb off some mental treadmill, 'It's me, Rupert

Winfield. I just wanted to tell you ... I've killed your brother.'

'What?' Jasper ejaculated. 'Rupert, are you all right? What are you saying?'

'I'm in Kian Min's office. He's dead. I stabbed him with a Penan blowpipe needle. I dipped the end in one of their poisons.'

'My God, Rupert! Why? What have you done?'

Rupert's voice broke. He had his ending and his revenge and suddenly the terror and pretence of the last few weeks overwhelmed him. He said, 'I told you they killed a pregnant woman?'

Jasper said automatically, 'Yes.' His mind was racing, trying to come to terms with what Rupert had said. Not even sure whether to believe him.

'That woman – she was my wife.'

Inspector Mohammad decided, without telling the others, that he was going to arrest Lee Kian Min for perjury. He doubted he would be charged, not one of the leading businessmen in the country, but he had enough evidence for an arrest. After all, he had heard it from Kian Min himself, as well as Douglas Wee, that Kian Min had lied in court about his brother's good character in exchange for agreement on the bio–fuels expansion.

Inspector Mohammad firmly believed that he needed a breakthrough in the case. He needed to shake some trees and see what fell out. He had been to see Marcus and Sharifah, trying to break their alibi for the Alan Lee murder, which he knew full well to be false. But they had improved their stories in consultation and he had not pressed as hard as he could have. Marcus was still recovering slowly. He would wait a while before applying more pressure.

Chelsea had enough public sympathy without stories about how the brutal Malaysian police force had caused a relapse in the slow recovery of her son. But later, he would turn the screws. Perhaps threaten to charge the boy with attempted suicide. It was still a crime on the statute books, albeit not very often prosecuted.

That left Kian Min and Chelsea. As he was not about to let the other two policemen on the case near Kian Min, he decided to go on his own. It was unlikely that he would resist arrest but Mohammad left a couple of uniformed men downstairs just in case. Probably Kian Min would behave in the customary way of the business elite when confronted with a policeman. He would go quietly and call his expensive lawyers and influential friends
en route.

Shukor and Singh were instructed to question Chelsea again. Mohammad had told them to and they were willing, not because either of them thought there was any chance she was guilty, but because they were tired of sitting around achieving nothing. Singh knew that he would have to get on a plane in the next couple of days. His leave was almost over, he was not getting anywhere with the investigation and Inspector Mohammad's hospitality was wearing thin, as was his sister's. It was time to be on his way. He would not object to seeing Chelsea one last time. Convey his pleasure that her son looked like surviving his attempted suicide. Perhaps give her a heads–up that the police had nothing and, if she kept her cool, she would ride the murder investigation out. That would not be very professional, but professionalism had not been the hallmark of his conduct in the case to date. Perhaps he was getting old.

The two policemen were disappointed to see her limousine pull out of the house with Chelsea and the boys in the back just as they got there. They were not to know it but Chelsea had stopped at the house to repack. If she was going to try Johor, she needed to travel light.

Singh said idly to Shukor, 'Follow them. They must be going to the hospital. We can talk to her there.'

They drove in silence for a few minutes and then Shukor said, 'She's not going to the hospital, sir.'

'What do you mean?' asked Singh.

'We're heading out of town. This is the road to Seremban.'

'Hmmm, well, do you have anything on this afternoon?'

'No, sir.'

'Let's see where she's going then. Maybe she has a rendezvous with Ravi.'

They drove on, each lost in his own thoughts. The highway was busy but flowing smoothly. Three lanes led to the satellite town of Seremban, packed every morning and every evening with commuters heading to and from the big city of Kuala Lumpur. But in the middle of the afternoon, traffic was bearable. Shukor had no difficulty maintaining a discreet distance from their quarry, a silver S–Class Mercedes with a woman and her two children in the back.

'We're passing Seremban, sir. She's going further south.'

Singh was genuinely taken aback. 'I wouldn't have thought she'd leave Marcus to go for a drive in the country,' he said thoughtfully. He continued abruptly,

'Call in. Find out if there's something we don't know.'

*

Rupert's revelations had almost destroyed Jasper's ability to think coherently. But he knew he had to if he was to save his friend.

He said to Rupert authoritatively, 'Stay there, don't move. I'm on my way.'

Rupert had protested incoherently, 'No, no ... stay away. I just called, I'm not sure why I called. I wanted someone to understand why ... '

Jasper just said, 'Don't worry, Rupert. I know what to do. For God's sake, just wait there. Where's the secretary?'

'Gone home. Kian Min sent her home.'

'All right, sit tight. Lock the door if you can. I'll be there in twenty minutes.'

Jasper drove fast but not recklessly. He didn't want to be stopped by the police. He most certainly didn't want to get involved in some minor fender–bender and have to spend ten precious minutes having an altercation on the streets. He made one stop on his way and recovered a carefully wrapped package tied up in string from a locker at the railway station. It was a strange detour for a man in a hurry but Jasper had his reasons.

He parked his car in the Lee building. There was a security desk where visitors had to sign in but Jasper walked past like someone who belonged and no one stopped him. He knew the way, of course, although he hadn't been back there for years. He was heading for his father's office, where he had played in the corner as a small boy – to Alan's office, where he had exchanged so many harsh words over the years. And now it was Kian Min's office except, if Rupert was to be believed, Kian Min was dead.

The layout worked for him. On other floors the worker bees of Lee Timber went about their cubicle business. They visited the pantry for coffee, stopped at the water coolers for a chat, read the newspapers on the toilet and attended interminable meetings in small windowless rooms. But Kian Min had a big office on a separate floor, with an empty boardroom on one side and his secretary, long gone, protecting the entrance.

Jasper walked in and tried the door. It was unlocked. Rupert had not done as he had suggested. That did not surprise him – he had sounded incoherent. He put a hand on the doorknob and hesitated, afraid of what he might find. Taking a deep breath –he felt he was trying to suck actual courage out of the dry, air–conditioned atmosphere – Jasper turned the knob and pushed. The heavy door turned quietly on its hinges.

It was a very peaceful scene. Kian Min was slumped over his desk. He might have been catching forty winks. Rupert was sitting on the sofa in the reception area tucked away in one corner of the office. His hair was tousled, his tie loosened and his suit jacket flung across a chair. But he smiled at Jasper as if he was perfectly comfortable welcoming people to the scene of his crime.

Jasper walked in, went across to his brother and felt for a pulse. Kian Min was quite dead. It was not some sort of elaborate, highly unfunny joke. He came over and sat across from Rupert in an armchair. He looked at his friend. 'She was your wife?' he asked gently.

A single teardrop followed the laugh lines on Rupert's face down to the corner of his mouth. He tasted the salt on the tip of his tongue, astonished that his sorrow had such an intense flavour.

He said in a tired voice, 'I came to Kuala Lumpur to confront Alan, but he was dead. I would have gone back to my jungle and my people, maybe died trying to blockade a logging company – I didn't really care what happened to me.' He looked up accusingly at Jasper. 'But then you told me that he' – he nodded in the direction of the slumped figure –'he was the boss. He would have ordered the clearing of the land – and the killing.'