Inspector Zhang And The Falling Woman (5 page)

The inspector walked out of the closet and went into the bathroom. The walls and floors were lined with marble and there was a large bath in the centre of the room, big enough for two people. "Is that a Jacuzzi?" asked Inspector Zhang. "My wife has always wanted a Jacuzzi."

"Yes, it’s a Jacuzzi. Please, Inspector Zhang, I have to go to work."

"I expect it’s a wonderful way to relax, after a hard day at work," said Inspector Zhang.

There was a white cabinet to the left of the sink and Inspector Zhang went over and opened it. It was full of medical supplies and he pulled out a pack of sticking plasters.

"I really must protest at this intrusion into my privacy," said Miss Yu. "I am going to have to ask you to leave."

Inspector Zhang put the pack of plasters back into the cabinet and closed the door.
 
"I think we’ve seen all that we need, Miss Yu."

"I’m glad to hear that," said Miss Yu, folding her arms.
 
"I really do have to get to work."

"There is just one more thing," said the inspector. He lowered his chin and looked at her over the top of his spectacles. "I am arresting you for the murder of Mrs. Celia Wong."

Miss Yu’s jaw dropped, and Sergeant Lee looked equally astonished.

They drove Miss Yu to CID headquarters at New Bridge Road, processed her, and then drove out to the airport where they met up with two uniformed policemen.

They found Mr. Wong sitting at a computer in the baggage handling control room, sitting at a computer terminal. He saw them walk into the room and got up from his seat. "What’s wrong?" he asked.

"We’re here to arrest you for the murder of your wife," said Inspector Zhang.

"Nonsense," said Mr. Wong. "I was at home when she died."

"No, you were at home when she fell from the roof," said Inspector Zhang. "Your mistress Shirley Yu pushed her off the roof after first standing on the edge and pretending to be her. She wore a similar Karen Millen dress and at that distance no one could see her face. Then she pushed your wife’s body off. But you were in Miss Yu’s apartment earlier. And that is where you killed your wife. You drowned her in the bath."

"Sheer fantasy," said Mr. Wong.

"I’m afraid we have Miss Yu in custody already, and she has told us everything."

Mr. Wong’s shoulders slumped. His legs started to shake and he sat down heavily. "It was an accident," he said. "I didn’t mean to kill her."

"Your wife found out that you were having an affair?" said Inspector Zhang.

"She must have done. She must have found the key and copied it, and then followed me to the apartment."

"And she used the key to let herself in?"

Wong nodded. "Shirley and I were in the bath. Together. Celia burst in with a knife."

"She was angry?"

Wong laughed sharply. "She was like a woman possessed. I’d never seen her so angry. She came at Shirley with the knife, trying to stab her. I tried to take the knife from her and she cut me." He held up his hand. "The blood just seemed to make her crazier. She kept trying to stab me, saying that I’d ruined her life and that she was going to kill me."

"So you pushed her under the water?"

Wong shook his head. "I didn’t mean to kill her, but it was the only way I could stop her. She fell into the bath and I knelt on her and tried to pull the knife away but she kept struggling. Then suddenly she went still."

"And Miss Yu, what was she doing while this was going on?"

"She was hysterical," said Wong. She was sitting on the floor, crying and shaking. It wasn’t her fault, inspector. Shirley didn’t do anything wrong."

"She covered up a murder, Mr. Wong," said Inspector Zhang quietly.

"We had no choice," said Mr. Wong.

"And the key?
The key that your wife used to let herself into the apartment.
You took it?"

"She must have been planning it for ages because she had made a copy of the key I used. And last night I couldn’t find my keycard to get into the building. Celia had taken it. She followed me to the building and then used the keycard to get in and the key to get into the apartment."

"And after she was dead, you took the key and the keycard?"

"I knew that if you found them you would find the apartment," said Mr. Wong. "I didn’t mean to kill her, Inspector Zhang."

"But you did," said Sergeant Lee.

"It was an accident," said Mr. Wong.

"But throwing her off the building wasn’t," said Inspector Zhang. "That was quite deliberate."

"I had to give myself an alibi," said Mr. Wong. He put his head in his hands. "I didn’t want to do it, and neither did Shirley. But we knew that if my wife’s body was found then I’d be the obvious suspect." He looked up at the inspector. "It’s true, isn’t it? Most murders are committed by family members?"

"Or work colleagues. Or neighbours. Yes, that is true. It is very rare for someone to be killed by a stranger."

"That was what I told Shirley.
If you found my wife and I didn’t have an alibi then I would be the obvious suspect.
But if she died when I was in my apartment, then I would be in the clear."

"Your mistress and your wife are not dissimilar in appearance, which enabled the deception," said the inspector.

Mr. Wong nodded. "That was what gave me the idea," he said. "We removed the clothes she was wearing and then we dried her hair and redressed her in one of Shirley’s dresses. Shirley changed into a similar dress and then we carried my wife to the roof. Then I went home. I made some phone calls and then I knocked on the door of the flat next door and asked Mr. Diswani to turn down the volume of their television set." Mr. Wong smiled. "I caused quite a scene."

"You wanted the neighbour to remember you, so that he would confirm your alibi."

Mr. Wong nodded. "It worked, didn’t it?"

"That part of your plan did, yes," said Inspector Zhang. "Once you had established your alibi, your mistress stood on the edge of the roof to attract the attention of passers-by."

"She was so high up, no one would know that it wasn’t my wife. Then she tipped Celia’s body over and went back to her apartment."

"It was a very good plan," said Inspector Zhang. "But not good enough." He nodded at the two uniformed policemen.
 
"Take him away," he said.

One of the policemen handcuffed Mr. Wong and he was led out of the front door.

"What will happen to them, do you think?" asked the sergeant.

"That is up to a jury," said Inspector Zhang. "But I don’t think that any jury will believe that drowning is a valid means of self-defence. Drowning takes time. He must have held her under the water long after his wife had let go off the knife." He shuddered. "But as I said, that is not our concern."

He walked towards the door and they went down together to a waiting police car.

"When did you first suspect the husband, Inspector Zhang?" asked Sergeant Lee, following Inspector Zhang into the car.

"The second time we saw him," said the inspector. "When I asked him about the cut on his hand he had a sticking plaster, remember?

"He said that he had cut himself when he was cooking."

"Yes, that’s what he said. But he was right-handed and his cut was on his right hand. I couldn’t help wonder how someone right-handed could cut themselves on the right hand."

"He could have done that picking up the knife, or if the knife had slipped."

Inspector Zhang nodded and pushed his spectacles further up on his nose.
 
"But it was the plaster, rather than the wound, that was the real clue that something was amiss."

"The plaster?" repeated Sergeant Lee. "It was a regular sticking plaster, I thought."

"Yes it was," said the inspector. "It was a small flesh-coloured plaster, nothing out of the ordinary about it. But when I went to the bathroom, I looked in the first aid cupboard and the plasters there were the transparent kind. A different brand completely."

"Ah," said Sergeant Lee.

"So it seemed obvious to me that if the plaster had come from somewhere else, then there was every possibility that he was lying about the circumstances that had led to him receiving the wound. And lies, I always say, are like cockroaches. For every one that you see, there are ten that are hidden."

"And when you checked the first aid cabinet in Miss Yu’s bathroom, you saw the same brand of plaster that Mr. Wong had used."

"Exactly. Which meant that he must have been in her apartment when he was injured."

Sergeant Lee nodded and scribbled in her notebook.

"What are you writing?" asked the inspector.

"I write down everything you tell me, Inspector Zhang. So that I won’t forget."

"Perhaps one day you will write about my cases, become my Dr. Watson."

Sergeant Lee smiled. "That would be an honour, Inspector Zhang, because you are most certainly my Sherlock Holmes."

Inspector Zhang beamed with pride but said nothing.

THE END

There are three more Inspector Zhang short stories available on Kindle – Inspector Zhang Gets His Wish, Inspector Zhang And The Dead Thai Gangster and Inspector Zhang And The Disappearing Drugs. And there will be more cases for Inspector Zhang to solve in the near future.
 

In the meantime, if you would like to meet another detective based in Asia, why not try
Bangkok Bob and the Missing Mormon
?

Long-term Bangkok resident and former New Orleans cop Bob Turtledove has the knack of getting people out of difficult situations. So when a young man from Utah goes missing in Bangkok, his parents are soon knocking on Bob's door asking for help.

But what starts out as a simple missing person case takes a deadly turn as Bangkok Bob's search for the missing Mormon brings him up against Russian gangsters, hired killers, corrupt cops and kickboxing thugs. And he learns that even in the
Land of Smiles
, people can have murder on their minds.

Here are the first few chapters:

* * * * *

CHAPTER 1

She was wearing a lurid Versace silk shirt, had a diamond-studded Rolex watch on her wrist, diamante Gucci sunglasses perched on top of her head and a Louis Vuitton handbag on her lap. She pretty much had all brand name bases covered but she still looked like a sixty-year-old woman with more money than taste. She had brought her large Mercedes to a stop next to a fruit stall and she wound down the passenger side window and waved a ring-encrusted hand at the fruit vendor. I was sitting behind her in a taxi that had only just managed to avoid slamming into her trunk.

The fruit vendor was also in her sixties but had clearly had a much harder life than the woman in the Mercedes. Her face was pockmarked with old acne scars and her stomach bulged against her stained apron as she weighed out mangoes for a young housewife.
 
The fruit vendor pocketed the housewife's money and waddled over to the car and bent down to listen to the woman, then nodded and hurried back to her stall. The driver tapped out a number on her cell phone and began an animated conversation.