Inspector Singh Investigates (9 page)

Rupert walked down the street. He did not notice the noise or the crowds. He did not flinch from the buses thundering down the roads and brushing the pavements. He was too shocked at what he had just heard. He could not believe for a second that the gentle man he had known, with his overwhelming compassion for every living thing, could have taken a life. He of all people knew the time and effort that

Jasper had put in to protect those who were weaker than him in society. What could have led him to kill his brother? Possibly it was some sort of trumped–up charge by the police to get Jasper Lee out of the way. That would not have surprised the Englishman, who had spent the last twenty–four hours escaping from corrupt policemen. He knew that Jasper's research was getting closer and closer to proving the extent of the illegal logging going on in Borneo. Someone might have seen fit to frame him for a murder he had not committed.

How was he to find out more? Rupert Winfield set out for the library newspaper archives. Sitting there half an hour later, scrolling down the history of Jasper's internment, he was not a happy man. It seemed that the person he had hoped to turn to in his predicament was in a lot of trouble. So much for his theory, formulated on his walk through town, that Jasper had been framed because he was causing trouble for the logging industry. The man had confessed to killing his brother. Alan Lee, the man he held responsible for the events in Borneo, was dead. He, Rupert, would never have the opportunity now to confront him with the consequences of his actions. But he still found it hard to believe that Jasper had killed him.

He stretched and sneezed. Even when the old newspapers were on screen they seemed to exude mustiness. It reminded him of his time researching dusty books when he was studying the indigenous tribes of Borneo. He had never anticipated that his academic interest would be so bound up in his own fate. But his life among the simplest of folk, first as a researcher, then as a defender, had completely changed his career path. Not for him, he had decided, the ivory towers of academe. He had traded it for a cause. And it had left him with a strong sense of fulfilment over the years.

He looked around him. An empty, soulless room with a bank of computer screens and a network of wires running across the floor, along the walls, taped down to the carpet with strips of brown packing tape. It reminded him of the squirming mass of black baby cobras he had once found under a rock. He sat lost in the past, forgetting his immediate troubles in memories of the jungle.

It would not have been Inspector Singh's choice to move in to his sister's house. But now that he was no longer in Kuala Lumpur in his official capacity as a Singaporean policeman seconded to a Malaysian case, his budget did not stretch to a hotel. He had called his sister and told her he would be coming to stay for a few days. She seemed indifferent rather than enthusiastic. But there had never been any danger of refusal. The right of family to come and stay indefinitely, whatever the inconvenience and expense, was hardwired into her brain. It was the Asian way. Hospitality was paramount – especially to relatives. They might bitch about each other, nag, complain and occasionally quarrel. But the door was still open if you wanted to stay.

He was at her door now with his small suitcase. She let him in and he sat silently in the gloomy living room waiting for her to make him a drink. It did not take her long to return with the cup of tea, tepid from the addition of cold milk.

She asked, 'How come you are not staying at the hotel?'

He debated telling her that he was freelancing and decided against it. It would give her too much ammunition with which to nag at him for the duration of his stay. She would go on and on about the importance of staying on the good side of one's employers – with her usual sprinkling of judicious anecdotes about her late husband's talent in this field. Singh, who remembered her husband as a gruff, choleric man whose temper had led to an early heart attack, wondered what his sister would have done if he had still been alive to give the lie to all the numerous stories she made up about him to make a conversational point.

He said instead, 'If I stay here they will still pay me the hotel allowance.'

She nodded approvingly, sipping her tea from a mug with Avis emblazoned on both sides. 'That is good!'

Singh did not know if she was referring to his cunning in getting some spare cash or the generosity of the government of Singapore in letting him get away with such an old–fashioned expense fiddle – but it was apparent from the mug that she did not disdain a freebie.

'What would you like for dinner?' she asked.

He shrugged indifferently. He was a fat man with a fat man's lack of fussiness over his diet.

She continued, 'I am making
chapattis.'

'Why did you ask me what I wanted then?'

She did not answer but wandered back into the kitchen and he could hear the preparatory clanging of pots and pans. He dragged himself with some difficulty out of the too–soft sofa seat and wandered in after her. She was placing a heavy flat iron skillet on the stove. She lit the fire under it and wiped the surface with a brush of coconut fibre which she had first dipped into a bright green tin of ghee. She picked up a
chapatti,
prepared earlier in the day, with a thumb and forefinger and flipped it onto the flat pan. Immediately, it started to heat up, bubbles of air forming beneath the surface and then sinking back down. She flipped it over like a pancake and the surface was browned with scattered darker spots. She spread some ghee. The rich smell of toasting ghee and baked bread filled the air and Inspector Singh realised that he really fancied
chapattis
for dinner after all.

'Smells good!' he remarked.

She did not acknowledge his comment but flicked the
chapatti
onto a plate and set another one on the skillet. The rolls of fat hanging off her arms wobbled with effort and the kitchen was growing hot. Beads of sweat gathered on her forehead and his. Singh was cast back fifty years. He remembered his own mother, doing much the same thing with a similar skillet and identical rolls of fat. He had wondered at the time how his mother could perspire so much and still be so overweight. Now he knew. A rich diet, little exercise and a genetic disposition to fat. No doubt his sister's weight was the product of similar flaws in habit and design. He remembered the last time the family had got together for the wedding of a niece. The whole clan was overweight, with the exception of his own stringy wife. There was much amusement when the women confessed that they had all taken to waving goodbye like royalty, with minimum movement. Otherwise, the swaying of fat under the raised arm was just too pronounced. Singh watched his sister flipping
chapattis
and felt a rush of fondness for her. She had done so much more than him to preserve family traditions and pass them on to the next generation. But he would not have expressed those thoughts in words for anything in the world.

Instead he said again, 'Smells good!'

She nodded to the plate where the
chapattis
were piling up.

'You can eat.'

'Did you do it?' asked Rupert without preamble.

Jasper looked amused. 'I confessed,' he pointed out.

Rupert nodded. 'I know that. I read the newspapers. I just can't believe you would kill anyone.'

'Not even Alan?'

Rupert smiled suddenly at his friend. It was true that they had shared many a cup of
arak,
fermented coconut wine, over a campfire while Jasper had complained bitterly about his brother.

Jasper said now, 'What are you doing here anyway? Last I heard you had vanished into the jungle with a beautiful Penan girl!'

Rupert shook his head. 'It's called research into a disappearing people.' His face became serious. 'I barely got out. Thugs attacked the camp. Just after daybreak.'

'Thugs?'

'A group of armed men. I was away having a piss. I heard the commotion. I dashed back. Armed men were attacking the Penan. They were just leaving as I got there.'

'Did they kill anyone?'

Rupert's voice cracked. 'A young woman. She went into early labour and mother and baby died.'

'What did you do?'

'I hid. There was no point letting them see me. I

was afraid they would kill everyone if there was a non–Penan witness. You know they don't really fear that the authorities will take the Penan seriously if they complain. But they might not be so sanguine about a foreigner. I didn't know what had happened to the girl at that point – or I would have confronted them whatever the consequences.'

Jasper nodded thoughtfully. 'What was it about?' he asked but he knew the answer. He wanted to see if Rupert had come to the same conclusion separately.

'I would guess – in fact, I know – it's the timber companies. They want to log the area. It's off limits, in a nature reserve. Difficult to log illegally with a nomadic tribe in your midst.'

Jasper was struck by something that Rupert had said earlier. 'I agree with you – that must be the reason for the attack – but why do you say you know, rather than guess?'

'You're not going to like this, but I recognised one of the toughs.'

'Who was it?'

'That big chap with the tattoos – the one who used to work as foreman of the Borneo operations of Lee Timber.'

Jasper nodded slowly. 'You're sure it was him?'

'Positive! I remember him from that time we went to the site to protest something or other – do you remember? – and he had us thrown out.'

'Well,' said Jasper, 'it looks like my brother's ghost still walks!'

'Is he employed by Lee Timber still?'

'I think so,' replied Jasper.

Rupert sighed. 'I cannot be upset that Alan Lee is dead – but I would have liked to have forced him to acknowledge what he did.'

'I know what you mean,' said Jasper. 'The fact is, though, Kian Min – my other brother – has been running the show at Lee Timber for a long time.'

'Really?' asked Rupert, staring at Jasper fixedly.

'Oh, yes. So if you want to confront someone, the right person is still alive and well.'

Chelsea could not pray. The gods were fighting over her children but she could not seek the help of any of them. And she had so much choice. She had grown up a Buddhist, her ex–husband was allegedly a Moslem when he died, her own sister was a Christian – so many options for salvation. Her sister, Ruth, had said that prayer was a weapon and a shield. Chelsea would have settled for solace through prayer. But she did not believe that there was an invisible hand behind the farce that was her life's play. At the very least she did not believe in a benevolent God. She could be convinced, she thought, of divine caprice. She shook her head. Surely it was better to lay the blame for the machinations of fate at the door of chance? She did not think she would have the strength to fight back if she thought that there were all–powerful, omniscient beings ranged against her. To those to whom much is given, more is taken away, she thought grimly. Alan was reaping what he sowed – writhing in the literal flames of hell if her sister was to be believed or soon to be devoured by worms. Either was a fitting end.

Each episode began with a certain rhythm. A quiet, repetitive grunting that she would have got used to and then, no doubt, slept through. But that was not the end. The noise grew louder and louder and, as it did, the rhythm started to break down. Snorts and snuffles added variety to the theme. Eventually, the snoring would reach a crescendo of coughs and grunts, followed by a sudden abrupt cessation of sound. She would slowly relax into her pillow, her neck muscles would ease and then it would begin again. Baljit did not know what to do. She could wake him but, from the persistence of the sound, she suspected that he would begin again the minute she was back in bed. Presumably he was waking up intermittently as well. No one could sleep through the ghastly noise. She had never liked her brother's wife – a feeling, she suspected, that she shared with her brother – but she felt a pang of sympathy for her now. No wonder she was so bitter and twisted if she had to listen to this cacophony every night.

Baljit thought of her dead husband for the first time in months. She invoked him regularly in conversation – whether with her neighbours or her children. Many sentences began with 'If your father were here ...' But that was habit. It did not require an independent memory of the dead man. Now she remembered vaguely but fondly that he had never snored. She got to her feet, rolled up a towel and placed it along the bottom of her door. That would muffle the sound slightly. She crawled back into bed and covered her head with a pillow. She really, really hoped that he would catch his murderer soon.

Subhas Chandra placed another pencil in the sharpener on his desk and turned the little handle furiously. He tested the nib, honed to a fine point, on his finger. The slight sting convinced him it was sharp enough. He picked another one out of its case. Sharpening pencils was what he did repetitively when things were not going well. And things were not going well. He, who was not in the habit of losing, was being defeated at every turn.

He remembered that he had been pleased to be asked to represent Chelsea Liew during her divorce and custody battle. He would have preferred Alan Lee as a client – it was always better to represent the half of the couple that had the majority of assets. Still, he had been confident of winning, which meant that Chelsea would have got a substantial part of the family wealth in a settlement. Either way, his name and picture were in every newspaper in the country for weeks. His was one of the inevitable photos accompanying each salacious detail of the Lee marriage and subsequent breakdown. Allegations and counter–allegations were revealed first in court and then through the press to a wider audience. Publicity like that was hard to come by. He could have waived his fee for the amount of indirect value he was getting from the case, but of course he hadn't. That was not the sort of precedent that any self–respecting lawyer would set. He had played his cards well –allowing Alan Lee to wash all his dirty linen in public. He had kept Chelsea above the fray, a mother fighting for her children – not a wife looking for revenge. Public opinion was on Chelsea's side –battered, long–suffering wife against violent timber tycoon. And then the rug was pulled from under his feet.