A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder

by Shamini Flint

  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. T 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.

  Fourteen

  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.

  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.’