Inspector Singh Investigates (20 page)

Twenty–two

On reaching the Lee building, Inspector Mohammad nosed around looking for parking. He could have just abandoned the car by the side of the road and left his police ID in the window for any passing traffic warden but he didn't like to do that. He was a conscientious man who preferred to save police privileges for when they were needed, not when they were convenient. He finally found a spot and reversed in carefully. He uncurled his long legs, swung them out of the car and walked towards the building with a spring in his long stride. He was pleased to be doing something. Making Kian Min's life miserable was an added attraction. He was such a slimy bastard. It would be fun to make him squirm in that big office of his. He had tried to be too cunning, sending them after Douglas Wee, another desperately unattractive character – but hardly a murderer. He, Mohammad, had enough evidence to arrest Kian Min for perjury. It was a crime Mohammad took seriously. As a man who did not even tell half–truths, let alone lies, he knew the importance of honest dealings in everyday life. How much more so in the administration of justice? He smiled, self–deprecatory, attractive. A gaggle of secretaries stole a second look. How naive was he, Mohammad thought, that even after thirty years in the force he was still muttering platitudes about justice to himself?

Inspector Mohammad stopped at the security desk and showed the overweight Indian guard who was dressed in a uniform with an excessive amount of braid and gold bars – private security guards were largely for show – his police ID. It merited a quick glance but that was all. He was waved on without any further curiosity or inquiry.

There were two crossing points into Singapore. The Causeway in Johor Bahru was crowded, old and narrow. It had a parallel train crossing and pedestrian lanes for the thousands of day labourers who worked in Singapore but lived in Johor. Tourist buses lined up in fleets, dropping off passengers and picking them up on the other side. Goods vehicles were stopped and searched and hundreds of cars; shoppers, visitors, business people and relatives – all crossing international borders in their everyday business – clogged the Causeway up further. It was a mess. The Second Link, the other way of getting across, was new, ultra–modern, efficient and attractive. But the tolls to cross over to the other side were also too expensive for most of the flood of travellers to and from the two countries. And it was out of town, not as convenient for residents. Singh saw with approval that Chelsea intended to make for the Causeway. She was thinking – betting her chances were higher with tired officials and a crowded crossing.

As they got closer to the border, Chelsea surprised him. The limousine pulled over. She got out with the kids, tied up her hair and slipped on a pair of sunglasses. The chauffeur opened the boot. He seemed to be remonstrating with her but she was not paying him any attention. She took out a wheelie bag and passed the boys a rucksack each. She shook hands with the driver, slipped him something in an envelope and set off at a brisk, determined pace, the boys trailing in her wake.

Singh watched from the car in admiration. He said, 'She's going in on foot. It's the most crowded bit.'

He gestured for Shukor to pull over. The two men got out of the car and followed the escaping Lee family.

'You killed Alan? Why?'

'For Chelsea ... his wife. I've always loved her. I thought I was just going to waylay him, talk to him, threaten him to let her keep the kids – that's why I took the gun. But maybe I always knew I wanted him dead.'

'But you changed your mind about the confession.'

'Yes, I found out Chelsea had a boyfriend on the side. I was just destroyed by that. I decided that, even though I had killed for her, I didn't need to die for her as well.'

Rupert was stunned by the revelations. For a short while, he had almost forgotten his own despair. He was sitting up, looking intently at Jasper, his sapphire eyes flashing with interest.

Jasper continued, 'It turned out the boyfriend was nothing serious. The cops just lied to me about it. But I was out. And they didn't seem to be keen on rearresting Chelsea or anyone else. Too embarrassed by the cock–ups, I suppose, so I thought maybe I was going to get away with it.'

'But why did you keep the gun? It might have been found!'

'In case I ever had to prove I did it ... I never planned to let anyone else hang for my crime.'

'Does Chelsea know?'

'Of course not!'

Rupert asked gently, 'Are you hoping for a happy ending?'

Jasper looked at him and for the first time there was stark, exposed emotion in his voice and eyes. 'I don't know. She depends on me now. That might have to be enough.'

Rupert dragged him back to the present. 'So what do you plan to do now?'

'Where did you stab him?'

'In the neck ...'

'Well then, that's precisely where I plan to put a bullet. With luck the police will assume that Kian Min killed Alan and then himself in a fit of uncharacteristic remorse.'

'Do you really think we can get away with it?' asked Rupert sceptically.

Jasper sighed. He said at last, 'Look, I don't know. But I do know I don't want you to hang. He' – he nodded in the direction of Kian Min's body –'deserved what he got. I don't have any better ideas. But you need to get back to Borneo and your people.'

Rupert asked, 'And what about you?'

'I? I would like, more than anything, to have a second chance – to be there for Chelsea if she needs me. This is my best hope too.'

Inspector Singh was growing steadily more irritable. He was a short, fat man in a sweaty turban. The stench of petrol fumes from the cars, buses and lorries, all with their engines running as they waited to cross over into Singapore, was making him lightheaded. He slipped on a black patch of oil and would have fallen if Shukor had not grabbed his arm. There was not a dry patch on his shirt, he was perspiring so heavily in the heat. His trousers chafed his thighs and groin. He glared at Shukor, who was still managing to look fresh and neat.

The queue they were in wound back and forth, along the temporary aisles created by bollards. Chelsea and the children were about ten people ahead. He was dreading her turning around and spotting them. But he need not have worried. All her attention was focused on the distant booth with its tired female officer sitting in a small air–conditioned box behind tinted sliding windows, stamping passports with a cursory glance at their owners.

Mohammad heard the gunshot in the lift, muffled but distinct. The elevator doors opened with their loud 'ping'. He stepped out into the corridor and looked up and down. Had it been a shot? How could it be? Was it on this floor or had it echoed through the elevator shaft from some other part of the building? He drew his own gun from the holster tucked into the back of his trousers. He was not taking any chances. He walked along slowly, whirling around from time to time. He turned corners abruptly and kept low. He was behaving like a television cop. On the other hand, he had heard a shot, he was sure of that. What was the use of experience if he did not recognise the sharp report of a gun? And television cops, or at least their producers, read the same manuals on how to behave in a potentially hostile situation as did real policemen.

There was no sign of anyone. Not a sound could be heard except for his own heavy breathing. Mohammad straightened up. He had reached Kian Min's office. There was no orte at his secretary's desk. The tycoon was probably inside dictating his unpleasant business plans to her, he thought. Nevertheless, he approached cautiously. When he got to the door, he readied his gun, turned the knob slowly, pushed it in and whirled in low, his eyes and his gun following a two hundred and seventy degree trajectory around the room. The only soundtrack accompanying his action film sequence was the thumping of his heart.

There were just two people ahead of her – an old, stooped Chinese man dragging his bag along with difficulty and a young Malay man with a wispy beard and brawny shoulders. And then they were at the counter.

Chelsea slipped the three passports through the slot in the Perspex window and told the boys, for whom the adventure had long since turned into a chore, not to fidget. The immigration official, a woman with bad skin from sitting in traffic fumes and grime all day, a dark blue head scarf pinned neatly under her chin with an official Immigration Department pin, and the most tired, blank eyes Chelsea had ever seen, picked up the passports, typed in the numbers quickly, did not bother to glance back at the screen, picked up her big stamp, opened Chelsea's passport to a blank page, raised her hand to stamp it – and her attention was caught by her screen. Chelsea could see the lights reflected in the woman's name badge. Her heart sank. The official retyped the numbers to check that there was no mistake.

She turned to Chelsea, looking at her for the first time. 'You are not allowed to pass.'

Jasper Lee stood there, gun in hand. Inspector Mohammad's finger tightened a fraction on the trigger of his weapon. Jasper dropped the gun he was holding at his feet and put his hands in the air. He said conversationally, 'Just in time, Inspector Mohammad.'

There was a man slumped over his desk. Inspector Mohammad went closer. He raised a limp wrist, there was no pulse, not even the briefest flutter of life. There was a gaping artery–severing wound on his neck but not a lot of blood. Much less than Mohammad would have expected. The man was well and truly dead. The body seemed cold for someone who had presumably died within the last few minutes, when Mohammad had heard the gunshot. On the other hand, the policeman thought, the room was cold too. It felt like the air–conditioning was turned up high. He raised the dead man slightly, he needed to confirm his identity. He saw that Jasper Lee was now an only child – both his brothers were dead.

Inspector Mohammad called for back–up.

'They've stopped her,' said Singh urgently. He hurried forward, ignoring the angry commuters who thought he was trying to cut the queue. Shukor hurried in his wake, saying apologetically, 'Sorry, police.
Lalu. Lalu!
Make way.'

They got to the counter just as Chelsea was turning away. She looked at them in surprise and then said ruefully, 'You had to hound me to the border? Don't worry. Your minions here are up to the job of separating me from my children.'

She had forgotten the boys in that bitter comment. The younger one looked at her, panic in his eyes, tears springing forth. 'Mum, what do you mean? Are you going to leave us again?'

The older child grabbed her arm with both his hands and hung on as if she was a piece of wood on a stormy sea. Their tears came in noisy, angry sobs.

Chelsea looked at the two policemen; her disgust was palpable. She asked, and each word was flung at them like a knife, 'How can this be right?'

Singh made up his mind. He had been sent to protect this woman and he would do it. He leaned towards the immigration official and said, 'Let them go–'

She said, 'I cannot.'

'I'm with the police. She's wanted in Singapore. This is a joint operation. Let them through!'

'ID?'

Singh pulled out his wallet and slid his police ID through. She looked at it and said, 'Singapore police. No authority here. I cannot let them pass.'

Singh was desperate. The crowd behind them was getting impatient, muttering with annoyance at being held up. They formed a phalanx at the counter, preventing people going about their business. They were beginning to attract attention. A moustachioed officer, standing some distance away, was looking at the rumpus, trying to decide whether he should intervene. Singh knew that once someone senior arrived, the game was up.

Shukor stepped in. He held up his ID to the window. He said authoritatively, 'I'm Malaysian police. This is a joint operation. Let them go.'

She visibly wavered and Shukor smiled at her charmingly. 'Don't worry, lah. If there is a problem you can blame me.'

She made up her mind. The young policeman's shoulders were broad enough for her to hide behind if there was trouble.

She picked up her stamp and quickly did all three passports. She passed them to Chelsea, who picked them up with numb, cold fingers. She did not say anything to the policemen. She did not dare – in case it made the immigration official suspicious again. Chelsea looked at them with gratitude in her eyes and hoped they understood. Then she grabbed the boys and hurried towards Singapore.

It took them four hours to drive back to the police headquarters in Kuala Lumpur. Neither man said much. They were not sure what they had done or why they had done it – but it felt right.

Mohammad was waiting for them impatiently. He snapped when they came in looking tired and dishevelled, 'Where have you been?'

'Following Chelsea Liew and the two younger kids,' said Singh wearily. 'But she got away, across the Johor border into Singapore.'

Mohammad looked at them suspiciously. 'You couldn't stop her?'

'No, we just missed her ...'

Mohammad said, 'Well, she's probably on her way to Australia by now. Still, it might be for the best.'

Shukor asked, 'You don't suspect her of the murder any more?'

Mohammad said with elaborate casualness, 'Oh, did I not mention? It's case closed on the Alan Lee murder.'

'What? How?' It was Singh who exclaimed.

'Jasper Lee killed his brother.'

'Jasper? How do you know? Did he confess again?'

'Yes, but that's not all,' said Mohammad and proceeded to tell them about his day. About hearing a shot and finding Jasper Lee standing over the body of Kian Min with a gun in his hand.

'You're sure it was the gun that killed Alan?' asked Singh, still trying to take the whole thing in.

'Yes, the ballistics report is back. There's no doubt.'

'And it was that same gun he used on Kian Min?'

'Something a bit odd about that,' confessed Inspector Mohammad. 'Kian Min had a load of poison in his system as well. And the forensics team almost suggests that he was dead
before
the bullet, although it's close. There just wasn't enough blood. In any event, there was a hole in Kian Min's neck that matched the gun in his brother's hand.'