A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder

by Shamini Flint

  He did not see Chelsea much. Quite often when he arrived at the hospital it was time for her to go home to the boys. They would exchange a few brief words about Marcus’s condition, whether the doctors had made any cryptic remarks about his state, whether his eyelids had quivered, had he seemed in pain, had the nurses topped up his sedation efficiently. She would tell him if she had spoken to the lawyers, if there were any developments in their efforts to convince the civil courts to rule that Alan was a fraud or the Syariah courts to determine that he was the least convincing Moslem they had ever come across. Sometimes Jasper would drop in and play with the boys. He always told Chelsea when he was going to do that – he did not want her to doubt his motives or to imagine that he was trying to ingratiate himself with the children to find a spot in her family.

  Once, he came in and found her sobbing quietly, but with such intensity that her shoulders, wrapped in a pashmina to keep her warm in the freezing temperatures of the ICU, were visibly shaking. He put a hand on her shoulder and looked at Marcus, numb with fear. But the boy was still alive, his condition unchanged. He knelt down by the chair and wrapped his arms around her and she whispered through her heartbreak that it was Marcus’s eighteenth birthday. He had come of age in a medically induced coma. But then she wiped her eyes on the corner of her wrap and squared her shoulders. Jasper got to his feet and gave her arm a quick squeeze of comfort and fellowship and she smiled at him, her eyes distant, lost in other thoughts.

  It was the closest he got to providing her with emotional support instead of practical help – but Jasper was happy.

  The police were at a loose end. Singh was running out of leave. They each had a different preference for the murderer. Mohammad was convinced it was Marcus. Singh was sure it was Kian Min. Shukor thought that Ravi had tried to ensure his meal ticket by murdering the wealthy husband of his lover. But despite his best efforts, Shukor had not been able to find any evidence linking Ravi to the crime. And a motive, however persuasive, was not enough for an arrest, especially when the two senior policemen were both convinced that Ravi was too protective of his own skin to risk committing a murder.

  Nobody was pointing a finger at Chelsea. Singh, because he acknowledged to himself he was prejudiced in her favour, Shukor because he took his lead from the inspector from Singapore and Mohammad because he could not face arresting the same woman twice. But they all acknowledged that having favourites was utterly irrelevant because they did not have any compelling evidence against any of them. The only suspect against whom they previously had a cut and dried case on the evidence of his confession – Jasper – was a free man. Motives abounded, but evidence was thin on the ground.

  Mohammad even wondered out loud if the murderer could have been the proverbial stranger – perhaps scared off before he had robbed the body. Singh was dismissive of the possibility. For a man with as many enemies as Alan Lee to be finally bumped off by a stranger would require a divine providence with a sense of irony and that was not a possibility that Singh was prepared to give credence to – not even if it got Chelsea off the hook for good.

  The police were not being idle. They had launched an appeal for witnesses again. The foot soldiers were sent to comb a wider area for the murder weapon. The Lee family home was searched once more as well as Marcus’s locker at school and the library. Sharifah’s flat was ransacked – although no one really thought she had anything to do with it. Their friends and acquaintances were questioned. Mohammad especially was convinced that Marcus, the wealthy son of a timber magnate, might be able to buy himself a gun but would lack the experience to cover his tracks adequately and they might be able to track down his supplier. But so far he had not been able to find even a whiff of evidence, perhaps, as Singh had suggested snidely, because there was none to find. Even Kian Min’s offices and bachelor flat in Ampang were searched. Shukor had reported back that the apartment was modern, stylish and soulless, a perfect habitat for the man. But there was no physical evidence tying him to the murder.

  ‘The thing is, the only really useful evidence would be the gun,’ said Mohammad impatiently.

  ‘And with a bit of time and a cool head it could be almost anywhere.’

  Singh rubbed his eyes with his knuckles like a child. ‘And hardly anyone with a television would throw the gun away within the vicinity of the crime scene – let alone with something useful on it like fingerprints.’

  ‘Not even Marcus . . .’

  ‘No, he probably watches all the CSIs,’ said Singh with disgust.

  ‘None of the possibilities – Chelsea, Marcus, Kian Min – would be stupid enough to be caught with the weapon. It was an audacious murder but, having got away with it, I don’t think they’re going to screw up now.’ Mohammad sounded thoroughly fed up. It was the highest profile case of his career and he was clean out of clues. He brightened up. ‘Unless Marcus wakes up and confesses, of course.’

  Singh grimaced. ‘If he recovers full use of his mental facilities. I don’t think the doctors are that optimistic. Anyway, I still don’t think he did it.’

  Mohammad snapped at Shukor, ‘Have they got the car up?’

  ‘Just, sir – and they’re going through it – but so far there’s been nothing in it. No gun, no farewell note, no confession – nothing!’

  ‘Why should I suddenly get lucky?’ asked the Malaysian inspector rhetorically, running his thin fingers through his grey hair until he looked like an Asian Einstein.

  Jasper asked her hesitantly, ‘Would it be so awful to convert to Islam and keep the children?’

  ‘Jasper, I don’t believe in God. My husband became a Moslem in name only to spite me. Can the solution really be for me to fake a religious awakening in order to mislead a court of law into giving me custody over the children I have brought up, loved and who are mine by any sensible measure of parenthood?’

  ‘When you put it like that . . .’ said Jasper humorously and Chelsea smiled – a thin, tired but genuinely amused curve of her pale lips.

  ‘Besides, if I convert to Islam it means that Alan is still dictating the way I live my life. But don’t worry, I’m not going to allow anyone to separate me from my kids – and that’s final.’

  ‘What about that?’ Jasper nodded in the direction of Sharifah, who had fallen asleep in a chair with her head resting against the side of Marcus’s hospital bed.

  ‘If Marcus comes out of this all right and that girl can give him a reason to live, do you think I would stand in their way?’

  ‘If he wanted to marry her, he’d have to become a Moslem,’ Jasper pointed out diffidently.

  ‘That would be his decision and I would support it. It is just not going to be mine. Not if I can help it, anyway.’

  ‘You need to have an escape plan.’

  She looked at him and decided after a careful scrutiny of his honest, open, ugly face that she could trust him, really trust him. ‘I have made plans,’ she said cryptically. She looked around the ward. ‘If it wasn’t for this . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence and Jasper did not inquire further. He was not sure he wanted to hear what she was going to do.

  Chelsea stood up. ‘I’ve got to get back to the boys.’

  Jasper stood to walk her out and they both turned to look at Marcus. Chelsea always told Marcus when she was leaving and explained that she would be back as soon as she could, she just needed to make sure his brothers were all right. The doctors had told her bluntly that he would not be able to hear her but she was determined not to risk his waking up and wondering where she was.

  Chelsea walked around the bed, leaned over, whispered her farewell to Marcus and saw his eyelids flutter. It was not the first time there had been some movement. The doctors had warned her that they were very, very gradually reducing the anaesthetic. But this time, his eyes flickered open, closed again and then opened once more.

  Chelsea gasped and said, ‘Marcus?’

  Sharifah woke up and looked around bleary eyed, remembered where she was with diffic
ulty and then saw Chelsea leaning over Marcus and leapt to her feet. Jasper stayed at the foot of the bed, ready to go to Chelsea’s assistance but knowing it was not his place to take the three steps to the bedside.

  Marcus’s eyes were unfocused, his pupils dilated, his corneas intricately patterned in red lines. One of his hands was in splints and bandaged, his right, where he had shattered all his fingers against the steering wheel on impact with the water. But his other hand, swollen, with the intravenous needle attached, jerked convulsively and then closed into a fist. His lids closed once more, like the measured descent of theatre curtains. When they opened again, his eyes were wide. His pupils narrowed to a black pin-point in the bright, cold room. He looked at his mother and she willed him, with the entire physical and mental energy that she had at her disposal, to be all right.

  Marcus said, ‘Mum?’

  Chelsea did not cry or fall down on her knees. Bubbles of hysteria floated around and popped against her insides – it felt like champagne in a flute. But she smiled at her son calmly, reassuringly and said, ‘I’m here, son. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  Marcus turned his head slightly and saw Sharifah standing diffidently by his bed, nervous of her reception, and a tiny, pained, stiff smile creased his dry lips.

  Sharifah said quietly, taking her cue from Chelsea, ‘Your mum’s right, everything is going to be fine.’

  His smile widened slightly and he nodded, the tiniest of movements, almost imperceptible – but enough.

  Chelsea felt a pang that her son should find reassurance not from her, but from Sharifah. But she put the thought aside gamely and let the tears of joy, quivering in her eyes like morning dew on grass, roll silently down her cheeks.

  His appointment was at two and he arrived ten minutes late. As a representative of powerful government interests, he did not want to appear needy or anxious. He needed Kian Min on the defensive. Rupert walked in unhurriedly and shook hands with his host. He was dressed well with that hint of extra style that comes with wearing good clothes with confidence. His shades, for the bright Malaysian sun, were resting on his hair and his briefcase was leather, new and discreetly embossed with an expensive designer logo. He wore an old school tie, diagonal stripes in cheery colours. Kian Min recognised it for what it was, an indication that his guest had pedigree.

  Rupert said in his plummiest tones, ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’

  Kian Min was not to be outdone in a battle for politeness awards. ‘It is my pleasure. We at Lee Timber are always happy to welcome people to our business.’

  Rupert said solemnly, ‘But I understand that I should offer you my condolences . . . ’

  Kian Min looked puzzled.

  ‘Didn’t your brother, the previous head of the company, die recently?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes. Thank you. We are all very shocked and miss Alan very much,’ said Kian Min, recovering quickly.

  Rupert allowed himself to look mildly sceptical but said, ‘I am sure we are all glad that Lee Timber is in good hands. But perhaps we could get down to business?’

  ‘Can also! What do you want from Lee Timber?’

  ‘Bio-fuel,’ said Rupert bluntly. ‘Lots of bio-fuel.’

  ‘Well, you come to the right place. We are shifting from logging to oil palm to enter bio-fuels business.’

  Rupert said, ‘Your brother was a visionary to spot this opportunity so early.’

  Lines appeared around Kian Min’s mouth, the expression of someone who had bitten into something very sour, but he said, ‘Yes, we are proud of him.’

  ‘The European Union would be interested in your crops as soon as they become available. Have you contracted with anyone else?’

  ‘No,’ said Kian Min solidly, ignoring the claims of Douglas Wee as well as the expectations of his Hong Kong clients.

  ‘That is good news,’ said Rupert, showing off shiny, white teeth in his darkly tanned face. ‘But there is a problem,’ he continued.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘The European Union has strict rules about bio-fuels. We cannot have any sourced from protected virgin rainforest or at the expense of indigenous cultures.’

  ‘We only clear secondary forest and farm land,’ said Kian Min with an air of great frankness.

  ‘That is not your reputation,’ said Rupert, his tone lightly accusing.

  ‘We cannot help all these tree-huggers who always accuse us of doing the wrong thing. But the police never find anything wrong with Lee Timber.’

  ‘Isn’t that because you bribe them?’

  Kian Min looked irritated. Only his desire to land a really big long-term contract kept him from evicting his visitor. He said stiffly, ‘We no do that.’

  Rupert patted his briefcase suggestively. ‘I have testimony here from the Penan group that you are clearing them off their land. It was passed to me by wildlife activists . . . ’

  ‘They are all liars, the Penan,’ interrupted Kian Min angrily. ‘You should not believe what they tell you. Lee Timber never does anything illegal.’

  ‘It is not a pretty story. A woman was killed. She was pregnant. You can see why my bosses might be worried.’

  ‘Why they not go to the police?’

  ‘They are a nomadic tribe scattered around Borneo. They may not feel they can trust the police!’

  The two men looked at each other.

  Rupert changed tactics. He leaned forward in his chair, put both hands on the table, and said, ‘Look, Kian Min, we both know you can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs. I need bio-fuels. I have targets to meet, quotas to fill. There isn’t any source in the world which would meet our policy guidelines. That’s what you get when the rules are written by bureaucrats sitting in small offices in Brussels. I just need to know – can you keep this stuff under wraps?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Kian Min cautiously.

  ‘I know you have the officials and police in your pocket. What about the Penan? Can you stop stories like this getting out?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kian Min, growing in confidence. ‘A few Penan in loincloths cannot stop Lee Timber!’

  ‘What about this story about the pregnant woman. Is it true?’

  Kian Min nodded. ‘It was an accident. But a good thing. They will know we mean business. It will be easier next time to chase them out.’

  ‘There will be a next time?’

  ‘Yes – until your bio-fuels are safe.’

  ‘Good, then we only have one more thing to discuss. Is it possible to send your secretary away? This is private.’

  ‘She will not listen.’

  ‘Please, I would feel more comfortable.’

  Kian Min recognised the drill. This was the bit where the upstanding representative of a major governmental organisation asked for a kickback.

  He pressed the buzzer on his desk and said, ‘Mrs Lim, you can go home now.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lee. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rupert waited for a few moments and then went to the main door, slightly ajar, and peeked out. She was gone.

  He came back in and Kian Min said jovially, ‘So, how much?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want money,’ said Rupert. ‘I just wanted to tell you that my real name is Rupert Winfield and the pregnant Penan woman who died was my wife. Her unborn child was my son.’

  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?