Ling follows the officer to the dining room as he puts on a pair of surgical gloves, then sprays substances on furniture, windows and doorknobs, dusting for fingerprints. She watches the other officers check the locks of the doors and windows, looking for signs of forced entry. Her eyes glide to Yang at the bar counter, sipping his wine with his eyes closed. That guy behaves as though he’s in a French vineyard instead of the scene of the crime, she thinks. She goes over and joins her brother.
After a three-hour to-do, the police leave the mansion, taking with them books, notebooks, address books, the whisky glass from the mahogany desk, the Persian rug and crumpled paper from the basket under the desk. They also take down the names and identity card numbers of each of the family members. To check their criminal records and fingerprints, Ling is sure of that.
The DSP apologises once more for any inconvenience his team might have caused, but says that depending on the progress of the coroner’s inquiry, he may have to invite some of the family members to his office for further interviews. “The coroner might also order an autopsy,” he adds.
*
The minister for housing and his four members of staff arrive in their official cars in the afternoon to offer their condolences, though the wake has yet to be arranged. The minister says he will fight tooth and nail for the family to receive the late permanent secretary’s pension, or at least a generous ex gratia payment for his many years of outstanding service to the nation. For a moment, nobody speaks. The five officials sit on the edge of the Italian sofa opposite a pinched-face Mrs Chow and a ramrod-backed Hoong. Ming and Ling stand behind their mother, exchanging glances. Yang has not moved from the bar since the CID search that morning.
Then Ming, with an imperceptible bow, says, “Thank you minister for your kind thoughts. But you seem to imply that you may encounter some resistance in trying to do that?”
“Umm…I do not wish to pre-empt what my colleagues from other departments might do. But as I have said earlier, I will do my utmost to ensure that Sze Teck receives the recognition that is due to him, even in his death.”
“Are you referring to your colleagues at the CPIB?” Ling butts in.
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Ming gives his sister an arctic stare.
“They are conducting the investigation,” the minister replies, in the bald style of Parliamentary Question Time.
“So what has the CPIB found out about Father?” Ling pursues.
“The prime minister said yesterday in Parliament that the CPIB will conclude the investigation in a week’s time and will report to the prime minister’s office. And I don’t know if any of you know about this, but yesterday morning, before the Parliament sitting, your father returned $12 million to the ministry.”
“What?” Ling shouts. “Father wouldn’t have $12 million!”
Ming looks as if he’s been kicked in the liver. “That is what the CPIB must investigate. We—we appreciate your letting us in on this, minister. But is the CPIB equating the return of the money to—an admission of guilt?”
Cutting through the reverence for authority, Yang puts down his glass and speaks from the bar. “Mr Tan, you obviously know more about the whole case than my family does. Are you saying there’s a connection between Father’s death and the corruption case?”
“This is a matter for the CID to decide,” the minister says.
“Father has been poisoned!” Ling says heatedly.
“This is a matter for the CID to decide.”
Ling throws her arms up in surrender. “The CID. CPIB. Soon we’ll have every government department snooping around the house.” She gropes in her jeans pockets, then reaches for her Salem pack on the coffee table.
“Ling, if you must smoke, can you do it outside?” Ming snaps.
She leaves the pack on the table.
Ming, speaking in a deferential tone, sees the minister and his coterie out of the gate.
During the exchange, Mrs Chow and Hoong have remained silent. After the delegation has left, the older woman says she is tired and asks Hoong to accompany her to her room. Yang tops up his glass. Ling stares after her mother and sister as they ascend the stairs. From the landing, her father stares out from his portrait.
FOUR
THE NEXT DAY, a man turns up at the Chow mansion, introducing himself as an inspector from the CID. He flashes his identity tag to Mary-Joan before returning it to his shirt pocket. He appears slightly over 50. His high forehead, deep-set eyes and grizzly hair lend him an aura of wisdom. But it is his huge doorknob nose that draws all the attention. His sky blue short-sleeved shirt and navy blue trousers would have made him look like an aircon repairman if not for his thick bifocal lenses.
Mary-Joan escorts him to the lounge to meet a more composed and relaxed Mrs Chow. Since she found her husband’s body in the study, she realises her behaviour has not befitted the wife of a senior civil servant. In the deeper recesses of her heart, she prays that her delay in calling for the ambulance had not caused the death of her husband. She also feels a vague, unacknowledged sense of liberation. After the initial sense of loss, like an amputation of a part of her body, she is learning to adjust to the new terrain, and finds it not entirely inhospitable. The widow’s brown housecoat belies a lighter Madam Chan, a woman who has been eclipsed by a lifetime of playing the good wife of a trade unionist, politician and permanent secretary.
The inspector apologises for bothering the family. “My name is Lim Siew Kian. I just need to ask a few questions to understand the full circumstances surrounding the death of Mr Chow Sze Teck.” A disturbing calm emanates from the stillness of his gaze.
Mrs Chow offers him Chinese tea with an amiable smile and eases into a couch. “I thought I already told them yesterday everything what.”
He takes out a pocket notebook. “Please bear with me, I need to broaden the parameters of the inquiry. Mrs Chow, how was your relationship with your husband?”
“What do you mean?”
“Can you describe what sort of husband Mr Chow had been to you?”
“Nobody ever ask me that sort of question before. We married for over 40 years. What is there to say? He is like any other men, lor, work hard, bring up the children.”
The inspector smiles again and puts away his notebook. “I understand that you may not want to say anything bad about your late husband. But in order to help us get to the truth of the matter, I hope you will tell me everything you know about Mr Chow. Like…had he been a good husband to you? Had he been cruel to you or anyone you know?”
“Of course he is a good husband. I only study a few years in school, but he still bring me to all his official functions, meet the prime minister, meet VIPs from America, England and many other countries.” She slides the jade bangle on her forearm to her wrist. The translucent emerald-green family heirloom catches the window’s light.
“Did you enjoy those official functions?”
“Okay, lah. Nice food. But frankly speaking ah, I prefer to play mahjong with my friends.” She raises her hand to cover her mouth as she laughs.
“And that caused frequent arguments between you and your husband?”
“Not really. How can an old woman with little education argue with the perm sec? I just do what he say, lor.”
“So you became resentful of your husband?”
“Aiyah, we married so long and now he is dead, what’s the use of talking about all that?”
The inspector’s smile is plastered to his face. “That’s a very beautiful piece of jade.”
“Ya, nowaday you can’t find such precious jade.” Her face beams and she plays with the bangle around her wrist.
“Mrs Chow, you seem a very understanding and supportive wife. Mr Chow must have been very lucky to have you by his side all these years.”
“Ha, I’m not so sure about that. I’m just a yellow-face old wife, embarrass him only. Sometime, he behave like I’m not around, especially after the children all grow
up. He doesn’t like me to call my friends for mahjong. Said not a ‘dignified’ game.” She laughs again.
“And now, you can do as you please. You can invite your mahjong kakis over. You don’t have to attend those stuffy dinner parties. You don’t have to take instructions from anyone any more.” With a genial face, the inspector maps out what had only been the housewife’s hazy sense of newfound freedom.
Touching the jade bangle again, she replies defensively, “All my life, every meal I have depend on other people. I bring up four children and now they all want to have their own life. You don’t think I deserve something also? Excuse me, inspector, are you saying I—”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Chow, this is routine questioning. I need to establish the motive or the lack of it for any crime under investigation.”
“You are saying Sze Teck was murdered?” Her powdered face blanches with the thought of a killer lurking in the house.
“We don’t know. Hopefully, this inquiry will find that out.”
Her composure wearing away, she pursues, “I thought—I thought yesterday the minister said Sze Teck killed himself because—because of—”
“That is just conjecture. Mrs Chow, as far as you know, would you say there is somebody out there who would like to see your husband, er…out of the way?”
“Oh dear. That is terrible. I doncht know.” She shifts in her seat and wrings her hands. She mumbles about the tea and walks to the kitchen to get more despite protests from the inspector that his cup is still full.
She returns with a fresh pot of tea and a cup for herself. She sips slowly but her mind is not on the jasmine fragrance. The inspector resumes. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but did he tell you anything about enemies he might have made in the course of his work? Anything at all?”
Her irritation is clear. “I said already what. He never tell me anything. I’m just one of the maids in the house.”
“Do you know if Mr Chow had made a will and do you know the contents of the will?”
“No. Maybe he told Yang or Ming. They are his favourite.”
“You mean your sons? Chow Ming and Chow Yang would have been told by their father that they would get the lion’s share of his estate?”
“I doncht know. Maybe. But, inspector, you don’t think my sons kill their own father to—?”
“No, no, no. Mrs Chow, I just want to know the facts.”
She looks up the stairs at the painting of her husband at his most magnificent and decorated. A wave of gratitude surges in her chest. She blesses her husband for giving her a big house to loll in the lap of luxury and a maid to do her bidding. She can even forgive him for ignoring her existence, for treating her as one of his accessories, for not asking her opinion on things that mattered. For when she thinks about it, it suited her just fine. She generally does not have very much to say about most things. She only wishes he had also ignored her “undignified habits”, such as mahjong. With the possibility of murder, her heart goes out to her husband for dying such a horrible death. Definitely not very dignified. Not that it would be any better if it had been suicide. Now, whenever she smells something sharp or acidic, she will think of her husband lying on the study desk. If Heaven were kind, it should have let him die of an illness and go quietly, without having the house crawling with policemen.
“Sorry, you were asking me something?”
“Whether your sons know about the will.”
“Oh, I only guess. If my husband wants to tell anyone about the will, he will tell Ming and Yang.”
The inspector sits up, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and appears even more respectful. “Madam Chan, if you don’t mind my addressing you as that, how did your two daughters feel about that sort of favouritism?”
“They all move out, lor. Hoong last time cannot wait to get married. Ling is the rebellious one, haven’t got married but never come home. She live in Australia many years and come back this time only because of her father’s problem.”
“What about yourself, Madam Chan? You’re not angry with your husband for not leaving you with anything?”
“Of course I am angry. But what can I do? He has done worse things. All I can do is pretend I doncht know. That woman in Hong Kong will get more money than me.”
“What woman in Hong Kong?”
Mrs Chow stares blankly at the inspector. “His mistress.”
FIVE
THE EQUANIMITY WITH which Mrs Chow talks about her husband’s mistress is credit to time-honoured feudal thought as much as to her tolerance of the man’s failure. For her generation and many before her, women were brought up to obey their fathers at home, their husbands in marriage and their sons after their husbands had passed on. While Mrs Chow is no foot-bound illiterate, she could not and would not fight the cultural leviathan of the past. After 40 years of acceptance, it has become her nature. Now that the patriarch is not around, she is quite happy to let her sons take over from where their father had left off. Starting with the funeral arrangements. After a rigorous discussion on various rites and customs, pomp versus dignity, her two sons finally settle on a multicultural ceremony at the Palace Casket.
The wreaths lining the walls and their fragrance wafting across the air-conditioned parlour lend a hint of spring freshness to the sombre scene. Relatives, friends, cabinet ministers and other government officials numbering a few hundred who knew or knew of the permanent secretary, stream in to pay their last respects. The closed casket with the autopsied body is placed at the front of the room, behind the altar draped in white velvet. A dark wooden framed photograph of Chow Sze Teck in a regal pose and Malay sultan costume is propped up at the centre of the altar. White candles on silver candlesticks glow beside the frame. Red hibiscus, cut from the Chows’ garden at home, droop in crystal vases. Guests take their turn at the altar, bow and sit in rows of newly upholstered chairs facing the altar.
Dispensing with priests and monks, Ming has arranged for three dignitaries to offer words of praise. With a cassette tape playing Buddhist chants softly in the background, the minister for finance steps up to the lectern by the side of the altar. As he waxes philosophical about the late permanent secretary’s intrepid battle with the communists during the turbulent 1950s, Hoong’s young son squeals and kicks his baby sister in the stomach. Hoong promptly drags her two screaming children out of the room. Her husband, the pot-bellied son of the minister at the lectern, throws an exasperated look at his children but remains seated, nodding sagaciously at every word from the speaker. Next, the chairman of the National Trade Union speaks, without irony, of more legendary tales about how Chow had clobbered the wildcat strikes of the 1960s, and organised the workers into a disciplined, productive workforce. The minister for housing follows by declaring great admiration for Chow for having worked tirelessly to provide every family in the country with a home. The timbre of the three eulogists harmonises with the soporific chanting from the tape.
Except for Hoong, the Chow family sits in the front row, their heads bowed. Each is engaged in their own constructed memories of the patriarch, so that the panegyrics become part of the funeral hum. The smoky aura of the room triggers Ling’s thoughts of their old house, before the family moved to the present severe mansion, before her father became a government top dog.
She had loved the long, dark pre-war terrace shophouse on Neil Road, with the ground-floor shop selling coffins and funeral paraphernalia. Pine, teak and mahogany coffins of various sizes leaned lengthwise against the shop’s walls, looking like tree spirits to her child’s eyes. Paper houses and cars and hell money had spilled onto the five-foot way. To reach their house on the first floor, the Chows had had to climb a steep, windowless rickety staircase between the coffin shop and the beauty parlour next door, which had been used as a “comfort house” for Japanese soldiers in World War II. Every corner oozed secrets and gory tales of tenants during the Japanese Occupation. Ling often scrambled up the stairs in case the tree spirits caught up with her. Across th
e road, a row of workers’ cottages, each small as a stable, stood on a dirt plot, inhabited by Malays whose chickens free-ranged the ground. Ling remembers one time when she and Yang stole eggs from the chicken coop built by their Malay neighbours, their father actually spared the cane. He went across the road, chatted with the chicken owner, patted his shoulder like an old friend and paid for the eggs. That night, her father had fried a minced pork omelette, the taste of which still lingers in her mind as she sits facing her father’s altar. But as their houses got bigger, Pa’s shoulders got narrower and could not carry her any more. As living got more comfortable, life became more complex for Ling.
Several rows from the altar, the inspector with the high forehead and grizzly hair surveys the scene. He has changed from his aircon-repairman blue outfit to black and white. His gaze penetrates the sympathy to study every guest’s face.
After the formal part of the ceremony, Ming invites everybody to light refreshments spread out on two white-skirted tables at the other end of the room. The delicacies on silver trays rival those at a high-tea buffet in a five-star hotel. Liveried waiters serve tea and coffee in white china, orange juice, mineral water and wine in sparkling glasses.
Ming stands throughout, shifting from foot to foot. He nods and offers a sad smile to all who come to hold his arm. A few distraught relatives embrace him, provoking tears from both parties. A doddering second cousin of Chow’s asks Ming about the cortege. Ming mumbles something to the effect that it will be a private thing and no fuss.
“But you are the eldest son of Sze Teck. You have to make sure your father gets a decent burial, otherwise his soul will have no peace.”
“Ya, I know, Uncle Ching. We will cremate the body at Mount Vernon and scatter the ashes in the sea.”
“What? Throw his ashes into the sea and feed the fish?” The uncle’s legs wobble as he utters these words in apparent horror.
Death of a Perm Sec Page 2