The check-in girl got up suddenly, said, ‘Excuse me,’ and scurried away in her high heels, balancing expertly on the baggage conveyor belt, until she got to a counter a few rows down and had a whispered conversation with a man in a suit. Chelsea leaned on the counter and tried to look bored and slightly impatient. The typical reaction of a rich woman held up by officialdom as opposed to the abductor of her own children desperately trying to flee the country.
The man in the suit came over, accompanied by the clerk, looked at her screen and glanced surreptitiously at the woman and children in front of him. Perhaps he recognised them, or their names, although he showed no sign of it. In any event, he spent a bit of time fiddling with the computer while the boys fidgeted and Chelsea asked in an irritated tone, ‘Is there a problem?’
He looked up at this and said heavily, ‘Yes, ma’am. For some reason, and I’m sure it must be some mistake, your details, and that of your children, appear on a police list. You are not allowed to leave the country.’
‘It’s a mistake!’ said Chelsea firmly.
‘Yes, ma’am, but my hands are tied. I cannot check you in until and unless your name is removed from this list.’
Chelsea thought hard. She would have lost her temper there and then and demanded to be checked in if she thought it might work, but she knew it would be useless.
She leaned forward and said in a low tone, ‘I’m sure you recognise me and know my story. They’re trying to take my children away from me. Can you please help me?’
He dropped the pretence and said, ‘I think the situation is very unfair but if I don’t stop you here, immigration will stop you in there.’ He nodded towards the departure gates. ‘And you might be arrested.’
Chelsea bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. What was she going to do?
The Chinese man said softly, ‘Your best bet is Johor.’
She didn’t understand him. The sound of her heart thumping was muffling his words.
‘The border with Singapore – there is so much traffic there, quite often they don’t check everything as carefully. That might be your best chance of getting out.’
She looked at him and made up her mind. ‘I’ll try that,’ she said.
Jasper was on the way to the hospital when his phone rang. He picked it up but did not recognise the voice, it was high-pitched and breathless, speaking quickly – not making sense.
Jasper interrupted the caller, ‘Who is this? Can you tell me who this is please?’
There was a surprised silence and then Rupert said clearly and slowly, as if Jasper had caused him to climb off some mental treadmill, ‘It’s me, Rupert Winfield. I just wanted to tell you . . . I’ve killed your brother.’
‘What?’ Jasper ejaculated. ‘Rupert, are you all right? What are you saying?’
‘I’m in Kian Min’s office. He’s dead. I stabbed him with a Penan blowpipe needle. I dipped the end in one of their poisons.’
‘My God, Rupert! Why? What have you done?’
Rupert’s voice broke. He had his ending and his revenge and suddenly the terror and pretence of the last few weeks overwhelmed him. He said, ‘I told you they killed a pregnant woman?’
Jasper said automatically, ‘Yes.’ His mind was racing, trying to come to terms with what Rupert had said. Not even sure whether to believe him.
‘That woman – she was my wife.’
Inspector Mohammad decided, without telling the others, that he was going to arrest Lee Kian Min for perjury. He doubted he would be charged, not one of the leading businessmen in the country, but he had enough evidence for an arrest. After all, he had heard it from Kian Min himself, as well as Douglas Wee, that Kian Min had lied in court about his brother’s good character in exchange for agreement on the bio-fuels expansion.
Inspector Mohammad firmly believed that he needed a breakthrough in the case. He needed to shake some trees and see what fell out. He had been to see Marcus and Sharifah, trying to break their alibi for the Alan Lee murder, which he knew full well to be false. But they had improved their stories in consultation and he had not pressed as hard as he could have. Marcus was still recovering slowly. He would wait a while before applying more pressure. Chelsea had enough public sympathy without stories about how the brutal Malaysian police force had caused a relapse in the slow recovery of her son. But later, he would turn the screws. Perhaps threaten to charge the boy with attempted suicide. It was still a crime on the statute books, albeit not very often prosecuted.
That left Kian Min and Chelsea. As he was not about to let the other two policemen on the case near Kian Min, he decided to go on his own. It was unlikely that he would resist arrest but Mohammad left a couple of uniformed men downstairs just in case. Probably Kian Min would behave in the customary way of the business élite when confronted with a policeman. He would go quietly and call his expensive lawyers and influential friends en route.
Shukor and Singh were instructed to question Chelsea again. Mohammad had told them to and they were willing, not because either of them thought there was any chance she was guilty, but because they were tired of sitting around achieving nothing. Singh knew that he would have to get on a plane in the next couple of days. His leave was almost over, he was not getting anywhere with the investigation and Inspector Mohammad’s hospitality was wearing thin, as was his sister’s. It was time to be on his way. He would not object to seeing Chelsea one last time. Convey his pleasure that her son looked like surviving his attempted suicide. Perhaps give her a heads-up that the police had nothing and, if she kept her cool, she would ride the murder investigation out. That would not be very professional, but professionalism had not been the hallmark of his conduct in the case to date. Perhaps he was getting old.
The two policemen were disappointed to see her limousine pull out of the house with Chelsea and the boys in the back just as they got there. They were not to know it but Chelsea had stopped at the house to repack. If she was going to try Johor, she needed to travel light.
Singh said idly to Shukor, ‘Follow them. They must be going to the hospital. We can talk to her there.’
They drove in silence for a few minutes and then Shukor said, ‘She’s not going to the hospital, sir.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Singh.
‘We’re heading out of town. This is the road to Seremban.’
‘Hmmm, well, do you have anything on this afternoon?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Let’s see where she’s going then. Maybe she has a rendezvous with Ravi.’
They drove on, each lost in his own thoughts. The highway was busy but flowing smoothly. Three lanes led to the satellite town of Seremban, packed every morning and every evening with commuters heading to and from the big city of Kuala Lumpur. But in the middle of the afternoon, traffic was bearable. Shukor had no difficulty maintaining a discreet distance from their quarry, a silver S-Class Mercedes with a woman and her two children in the back.
‘We’re passing Seremban, sir. She’s going further south.’
Singh was genuinely taken aback. ‘I wouldn’t have thought she’d leave Marcus to go for a drive in the country,’ he said thoughtfully. He continued abruptly, ‘Call in. Find out if there’s something we don’t know.’
Rupert’s revelations had almost destroyed Jasper’s ability to think coherently. But he knew he had to if he was to save his friend.
He said to Rupert authoritatively, ‘Stay there, don’t move. I’m on my way.’
Rupert had protested incoherently, ‘No, no . . . stay away. I just called, I’m not sure why I called. I wanted someone to understand why . . . ’
Jasper just said, ‘Don’t worry, Rupert. I know what to do. For God’s sake, just wait there. Where’s the secretary?’
‘Gone home. Kian Min sent her home.’
‘All right, sit tight. Lock the door if you can. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Jasper drove fast but not recklessly. He didn’t want to be stopped by the police
. He most certainly didn’t want to get involved in some minor fender-bender and have to spend ten precious minutes having an altercation on the streets. He made one stop on his way and recovered a carefully wrapped package tied up in string from a locker at the railway station. It was a strange detour for a man in a hurry but Jasper had his reasons.
He parked his car in the Lee building. There was a security desk where visitors had to sign in but Jasper walked past like someone who belonged and no one stopped him. He knew the way, of course, although he hadn’t been back there for years. He was heading for his father’s office, where he had played in the corner as a small boy – to Alan’s office, where he had exchanged so many harsh words over the years. And now it was Kian Min’s office except, if Rupert was to be believed, Kian Min was dead.
The layout worked for him. On other floors the worker bees of Lee Timber went about their cubicle business. They visited the pantry for coffee, stopped at the water coolers for a chat, read the newspapers on the toilet and attended interminable meetings in small windowless rooms. But Kian Min had a big office on a separate floor, with an empty boardroom on one side and his secretary, long gone, protecting the entrance.
Jasper walked in and tried the door. It was unlocked. Rupert had not done as he had suggested. That did not surprise him – he had sounded incoherent. He put a hand on the doorknob and hesitated, afraid of what he might find. Taking a deep breath – he felt he was trying to suck actual courage out of the dry, air-conditioned atmosphere – Jasper turned the knob and pushed. The heavy door turned quietly on its hinges.
It was a very peaceful scene. Kian Min was slumped over his desk. He might have been catching forty winks. Rupert was sitting on the sofa in the reception area tucked away in one corner of the office. His hair was tousled, his tie loosened and his suit jacket flung across a chair. But he smiled at Jasper as if he was perfectly comfortable welcoming people to the scene of his crime.
Jasper walked in, went across to his brother and felt for a pulse. Kian Min was quite dead. It was not some sort of elaborate, highly unfunny joke. He came over and sat across from Rupert in an armchair. He looked at his friend. ‘She was your wife?’ he asked gently.
A single teardrop followed the laugh lines on Rupert’s face down to the corner of his mouth. He tasted the salt on the tip of his tongue, astonished that his sorrow had such an intense flavour.
He said in a tired voice, ‘I came to Kuala Lumpur to confront Alan, but he was dead. I would have gone back to my jungle and my people, maybe died trying to blockade a logging company – I didn’t really care what happened to me.’ He looked up accusingly at Jasper. ‘But then you told me that he’ – he nodded in the direction of the slumped figure – ‘he was the boss. He would have ordered the clearing of the land – and the killing.’
Jasper nodded but said, ‘I had no idea what you had in mind.’
His friend shrugged off the regret. ‘How could you?’
Jasper asked, ‘How did he die?’
Rupert leaned down over the arm of his chair and picked up a slim, wooden blowpipe. ‘I wanted to kill him with a weapon of the Penan. They would never consider taking a life but it seemed fitting somehow. I stabbed him with the poisoned needle.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘I didn’t quite trust myself to use the blowpipe, I’m not that good a shot!’
‘What did you use?’
‘Tajem latex.’
Jasper nodded. He was familiar with the poison the Penan put on the end of their blowpipe needles to hunt wild boar and mouse deer in the forest. It affected the heart and would kill a small animal instantly and a large animal in minutes. He looked doubtfully at Rupert. ‘It was strong enough to kill a grown man?’
‘I distilled it a few times. He died almost immediately.’
Jasper nodded. An ancient knowledge with a modern touch – it was a pity Kian Min had no sense of humour.
Rupert continued conversationally, ‘He admitted it, you know. He thought it would be what a buyer of his new bio-fuels might want to hear.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jasper.
He unwrapped the bundle he had brought with him.
Rupert looked at the revealed contents in astonishment. He said, ‘Why did you bring a gun?’ And then, a trace of resignation in his voice, he said, ‘Are you going to kill me?’
‘It’s not good,’ said Shukor, eyeing his superior warily.
‘Just tell me – don’t try and drip-feed me bad news,’ grumbled Singh. He was in a bad mood. He needed a piss but he didn’t dare tell Shukor to pull over at a petrol station in case they lost their quarry. What was the matter with the people in the car in front? They must have cast-iron bladders, he thought tetchily.
‘I spoke to HQ,’ said Shukor. ‘The Syariah court has issued a custody order in favour of a Moslem children’s home.’
‘What? They are taking the kids away from Chelsea and putting them in a home?’
‘It’s the law, sir. There are no family members entitled to custody. None of them are Moslem.’
‘But what about Marcus? I can’t believe she left him.’
‘He’s eighteen. The court order did not include him.’
Singh nodded in understanding. He said, ‘She’s trying to get to Singapore. I’d bet my pension on it.’
‘But she’s bound to be stopped at the border,’ protested Shukor.
‘Yes, but she probably thinks she has a better chance there than at the airport.’
‘Will Singapore keep her?’
‘Probably not, but I’m sure she’s just passing through on the way to Australia or somewhere like that.’
Shukor said, ‘Well, she’s not going to get through immigration in the first place.’
‘Let’s go and watch,’ was Singh’s only response.
‘If you’re not planning to kill me and he is dead, why have you brought a gun to this party? Celebratory gunfire?’
In the midst of their truly bizarre encounter in an empty office with a dead man nearby, Rupert was showing resilience. It convinced Jasper that he was doing the right thing.
He said, ‘Kian Min is dead. I don’t want you to hang for it.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Rupert. ‘You might notice that I don’t have a careful escape route planned? I have no reason to live.’
It was a dramatic sentence delivered calmly. Jasper had no doubt Rupert meant it. But he said, ‘I know you feel that way, but there is important work still to be done amongst the Penan. You should honour her memory by trying to preserve her way of life.’
‘It’s a nice idea,’ said Rupert. ‘But I just killed a man.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Jasper, picking up the gun carefully with his handkerchief.
‘Where did you get that gun anyway?’
‘I bought it from some bent copper in Sarawak once. Not sure what I had in mind – defending myself if the cops or the loggers turned nasty, I suppose. It has been very useful.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I used it to kill my brother Alan.’
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 naïve 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.
A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder Page 23