Inspector Kwok had been staring at Mr. Yin with her mouth wide open and she jumped when Inspector Zhang spoke. She took out her handcuffs, fastened them to Mr. Yin’s wrists, and took him out.
Sergeant Lee was scribbling in her notebook.
“What are you writing, Sergeant Lee?” asked Inspector Zhang.
“Everything,” she said. She looked up from the notebook. “You knew he was guilty before you even brought him here, didn’t you? Before you even found the boxes.”
Inspector Zhang smiled. “Yes, that’s true. I did.”
“How?” asked Sergeant Lee.
Inspector Zhang tapped the side of his head. “By using ze little grey cells.”
“Something he said at the warehouse?”
“Before then,” said Inspector Zhang. “When I watched the surveillance video footage at New Phoenix Park, I knew he was our man.”
“But all we saw was him delivering the boxes and leaving,” said Sergeant Lee. “Nothing else happened.”
“He unlocked the door,” said Inspector Zhang.
Sergeant Lee’s frown deepened.
“It was his first time at the apartment,” said Inspector Zhang. “But he knew that the key had to be turned twice to open the door. He unlocked the door without any hesitation, but how could he have known that it was a security lock and required two turns of the key?”
“He couldn’t,” said Sergeant Lee. “Unless he had already been to the apartment.”
“Exactly,” said Inspector Zhang. “You saw the problems that Inspector Kwok had when she tried to unlock the door the first time. But Mr. Yin had no such problems. Because he had already been to the apartment.”
“You solved the case, so why didn’t you arrest Mr. Yin? Why did you let Inspector Kwok arrest him?”
“It is her case,” said Inspector Zhang. “I was only brought in to assist.”
“You have saved her career,” said Sergeant Lee. “She will take the credit.”
“I solved the mystery, that is all that matters to me,” said Inspector Zhang.
“You are a wonderful detective, Inspector Zhang.”
Inspector Zhang smiled but said nothing.
Later that night, Inspector Zhang’s wife served him fish head bee hoon, a creamy vermicelli noodle soup with chunks of fried fish head, one of his favourite dishes. They were sitting at the dining table and the television was on, with the sound down low. Mrs. Zhang poured red wine into her husband’s glass and he smiled his thanks. On the television, a beaming Senior Assistant Commissioner was standing next to Inspector Kwok who was being interviewed by a reporter from Channel News Asia. Behind them were the ten cardboard boxes that had been opened to reveal the drugs inside. Mr. Yin had obviously given the drugs to the police, probably hoping to escape the death penalty.
“Isn’t that the case you were working on?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Inspector Zhang, watching as Inspector Kwok flashed the reporter a beaming smile. “Yes it is.”
“So why aren’t they interviewing you?”
Inspector Zhang took a sip of his wine. “I suppose I’m not handsome enough for television,” he said.
“You’re much more handsome than the Senior Assistant Commissioner,” said Mrs. Zhang.
“The eye of the beholder,” said Inspector Zhang.
Mrs. Zhang watched as the reporter continued to interview Inspector Kwok. “She’s very pretty,” she said.
“Yes, she is.”
“Is she a good detective?”
Inspector Zhang looked a little pained. “She will do very well in the Singapore Police Force,” he said. “She is destined for great things.”
“But she is not a good detective?”
“My own Sergeant Lee is better,” said Inspector Zhang.
“But not as pretty.”
Inspector Zhang raised his wine glass to her. “No, my dear. Not as pretty. And neither of them hold a candle to you.”
“Is there something going on between the Senior Assistant Commissioner and the pretty inspector?” asked Mrs. Zhang quietly.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just they way they stand together, the way that he keeps looking at her and once I saw him rub his wedding ring as if it was troubling him.”
Inspector Zhang chuckled softly. “My dear, you would make a great detective,” he said, reaching for his chopsticks and spoon.
INSPECTOR ZHANG GOES TO HARROGATE
Inspector Zhang climbed out of the taxi and held the door open for his wife. “It’s lovely,” said Mrs. Zhang. “As pretty as the picture in the brochure.” They were standing outside The Mallard Hotel in Harrogate. They had taken the train up from London and caught the taxi at the station. The driver was a man in his sixties with a flat cap and an accent that Inspector Zhang had great trouble understanding. The driver went to the boot and took out their suitcases, pocketed Inspector Zhang’s ten-pound note and drove off.
“I can’t believe we’re really here,” said Inspector Zhang. The hotel was built of local Yorkshire stone and covered with ivy, with two three-storey wings either side of a columned entrance.
“It’s like a dream, isn’t it?” said his wife. Inspector Zhang nodded in agreement. The hotel was truly beautiful and unlike anything in their native Singapore.
“It is the best birthday present ever,” said Inspector Zhang. “I can’t believe you arranged it all without me knowing. I didn’t realise what a secretive wife I have.”
“I wanted to do something special for you,” said Mrs. Zhang, “something you would never forget.”
Inspector Zhang smiled at her. “Well you’ve achieved your objective,” he said.
“Oh my goodness, what’s that?” said Mrs. Zhang, pointing to the driveway.
Inspector Zhang turned to look. There was a white painted outline of a body on the Tarmac. He chuckled. “It’s a mystery writers’ convention,” he said. “It’s a joke.”
“I’m not sure the outline of a dead body is a laughing matter,” said Mrs. Zhang.
“I doubt that there are many real murders here in Harrogate,” said Inspector Zhang, picking up their cases. They walked up the stairs to the reception where an efficient young woman in a black suit checked them in. On the opposite side of the room three tables had been lined up and several young women were standing behind them wearing black t-shirts with the words “Harrogate Mystery Writers’ Convention”.
On the walls were posters of best-selling mystery writers, and Inspector Zhang recognised many of the names including Val McDermid, Peter Robinson and Jo Nesbo. The convention was a coming together of some of the best mystery writers in the world and Inspector Zhang had always dreamed of one day attending. His wife had booked Business Class tickets on Singapore Airlines, hotels in London and Harrogate, and gotten him tickets to the convention without once letting slip what she had done. She had presented the tickets to him on his birthday a week earlier and he had almost fallen off his chair at the breakfast table. He looked over at his wife and for the thousandth time felt the urge to hug her and tell her how much he loved her. She caught him smiling at her. “What?” she said.
“I just want to thank you for the best birthday present I have ever been given,” he said.
She blushed and averted her eyes. He was about to take her in his arms when the receptionist handed him his room key and pointed at the staircase. Inspector Zhang thanked her, slid the key into his pocket and picked up the suitcases. “I should register now, before we go up,” he said, and he carried the cases over to a table above which was a large poster that read “Welcome to the Harrogate Mystery Writers’ Convention”. A blonde woman with lipstick Inspector Zhang thought was a little too red took the tickets from him, asked them to sign their names on a list on a clipboard, and handed over two nametags and two large black carrier bags. “The nametags allow you admittance to all our events,” she said. “Except for the murder mystery lunch tomorrow.”
“Oh that’s all right, we have ti
ckets for that,” said Mrs. Zhang.
Inspector Zhang gave the nametags and the bags to his wife, picked up the cases and together they went upstairs. Their room was in the left wing of the hotel, overlooking the lawns at the front. Inspector Zhang put down the cases and looked around the room thoughtfully. “It is quaint,” he said. “Just as I imagined.”
“It’s lovely,” said Mrs. Zhang. She put the two carrier bags on the bed and went through to the bathroom. “Oh my goodness, come and look at this,” she said. Inspector Zhang joined her in the large, airy bathroom. Against the wall was a massive cast iron bath with clawed legs and above it, hanging from the ceiling, was a large showerhead the size of a dinner plate. A shower curtain hung from a stainless steel rail. It could be drawn all the way around the bath to stop water spraying over the tiled floor. “Have you ever seen a bath like that?” said Mrs. Zhang. “It must be a hundred years old.”
“It is a copy, I’m sure,” said Inspector Zhang. “But it is impressive.”
Mrs. Zhang went back into the bedroom and emptied one of the carrier bags. There were half a dozen books, a brochure for the convention, a map of Harrogate, a bar of chocolate and a pair of black handcuffs.” She laughed and held up the handcuffs. “What on earth are these for?”
“They’re handcuffs.”
“I can see that,” she said. “Why are they giving us handcuffs?”
Inspector Zhang took them from her and examined a small label on one of the cuffs. “It’s a promotional device,” he said, “publicising a book.” He raised his eyebrows. “Held To Ransom by Sean Hyde. I didn’t realise he had a new book out.”
“It’s here,” said Mrs. Zhang, holding up one of the hardbacks.
Inspector Zhang took it from her and flicked through it. “Excellent,” he said. “This can be my bedtime reading.”
“Well I hope we haven’t come all this way just so you can read in bed,” said Mrs. Zhang coyly.
Inspector Zhang chuckled and looked at her over the top of his spectacles. Mrs. Zhang looked away, a little flustered, and picked up the convention brochure. “Oh, he’s talking on the next panel,” she said.
“Mr. Hyde?”
Mrs. Zhang nodded and gave him the brochure. “You should go,” she said. She nodded at the book he was holding. “You should get him to sign it for you.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I’m tired,” she said. “I think the jet-lag is catching up on me. I’ll have a bath and a nap and then I’ll be ready for the evening events.”
Inspector Zhang kissed his wife on the cheek and headed downstairs. Most of the convention events took place in the ballroom of the hotel. Two girls in convention t-shirts were closing the doors as he arrived but they smiled and allowed him to slip inside. There were more than a thousand people sitting in rows facing a stage on which there were already five people seated in armchairs.
Inspector Zhang spotted an empty chair about ten rows from the front and he made his way to it. Just as he sat down, the man sitting in the middle chair on the stage began his introduction. He was a well known local TV presenter and the panel was to discuss the changing face of publishing, especially the way in which eBooks had taken a larger share of the market. Sean Hyde was on the panel, along with a horror writer Inspector Zhang had never heard of. His name was Sebastian Battersby and he had a purple-and-green mohawk haircut that gave him the look of a peacock.
There was an agent on the panel, a jovial man in his fifties and a middle-aged woman who represented a major publishing firm.
Inspector Zhang wasn’t a fan of eBooks. He had toyed with the idea of buying a Kindle but had decided against it. He loved the feel of books, and their smell. He liked to be able to sit and look at his overflowing bookshelves though he appreciated the convenience of a device that allowed him to have hundreds of books available at the press of a button.
Inspector Zhang was a big fan of Sean Hyde’s mysteries, but he hadn’t realised he was also a very successful eBook publisher. He had sold almost a million eBooks that year, a fact that the rest of the panel clearly resented. The key to his success, according to the TV presenter, was that he sold his eBooks cheaply – much cheaper than a regular paperback – and marketed and promoted them aggressively.
The discussion very quickly turned into a spirited argument, with the three other panellists arguing that Mr. Hyde was devaluing books by selling them so cheaply. Mr. Hyde argued his case well, suggesting that agents and publishers needed to adapt to the new technologies that were revolutionising publishing and that writers like Mr. Battersby had to understand that publishing was now all about the readers and that writers had to supply well-written books at the right price. Badly written over-priced books were doomed to fail, said Mr. Hyde, at which Mr. Battersby sat back, folded his arms and glared at Mr. Hyde with undisguised hostility.
“You’re killing publishing for everyone, you bastard!”
Everyone turned to see who had shouted the abuse. A middle-aged man in green cargo pants and a blue polo-shirt was walking towards the stage, his arm outstretched as he pointed at Mr. Hyde.
“You’re a liar, you’re a cheat, and you sell crap to people who are too stupid to know what they’re buying.” The man whirled around and shouted at the audience. “Can’t you see what he’s doing? He wants everyone to get their books for free. He’s killing publishing, killing it for everyone.”
Mr. Hyde stood up and held up his hands. “I have to apologise for the interruption, ladies and gentleman. Mr. Dumbleton here is my resident stalker. When he isn’t screaming abuse at me in public he’s hounding me on Twitter and various blogs.”
“Your books are shit!” shouted the man. “People only buy them because they’re cheap!” Two young men in convention t-shirts walked up behind him. One of them reached for Dumbleton’s arm but he shook him away, his face contorted into a savage snarl.
“People have a choice,” said Mr. Hyde. “They can get my eBooks for less than the price of a cup of coffee, or they can pay seven quid for one of your awful paperbacks. The fact that you sell so few shows that they are choosing not to buy yours. That’s not my fault. You need to write better books.”
“I’m a better writer than you’ll ever be!” shouted Mr. Dumbleton.
“If that’s true, why did you sell fewer than a thousand books last year?” said Mr. Hyde calmly. “For every paperback you sell, I sell a thousand eBooks.”
Mr. Dumbleton jabbed his finger at Mr. Hyde. “I’ll kill you, Hyde! I swear to God I’ll kill you!”
The two convention workers put their hands on Dumbleton’s shoulders. “Don’t touch me!” he yelled, then turned and stormed out of the hall.
Mr. Hyde sat down and smiled at the TV presenter. “Now where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?” he said. The audience burst into applause.
The rest of the session went smoothly, though it was clear that the rest of the panel resented Mr. Hyde’s views on the future of publishing. When the session came to a close, the TV presenter thanked everyone and announced that Mr. Hyde and Mr. Battersby would be signing copies in the temporary bookshop that had been set up in a room outside along the corridor.
There was a long queue of people waiting to get their books signed and Inspector Zhang joined it. Most people seemed to want Mr. Hyde’s signature and Sebastian Battersby was sitting back in his chair, toying with his unused pen.
It took Inspector Zhang fifteen minutes to reach the front of the queue. He held out his book and Mr. Hyde smiled up at him. “Who shall I make it out to?” asked Mr. Hyde.
“To Inspector Zhang. I am a huge fan. I have been for years.”
“That’s good to hear, Inspector Zhang. So you are a policeman? From Hong Kong?”
“From Singapore. I am a Detective Inspector with the Singapore Police Force.”
Mr. Hyde signed the book with a flourish and handed it back. “And you came all the way to Harrogate for the conference?”
“I am a huge fan of
mysteries, I have been ever since I was a child,” said Inspector Zhang.
“Well you’re certainly in the right job,” said Mr. Hyde.
“Sadly not,” said Inspector Zhang. “There are very few mysteries in Singapore. That’s not to say low crime means no crime, but generally there are few surprises.” He took the book from Mr. Hyde and thanked him. “I have to ask, what happened at the panel, does that sort of thing happen a lot?”
“Archibald Dumbleton, the idiot who screamed at me? He’s a bit of a stalker, I’m afraid. It’s not the first time he’s threatened me,” said Mr. Hyde.
“Why is he so angry at you?”
Mr. Hyde shrugged. “He’s a spectacularly unsuccessful writer,” he said. “The advent of eBooks has changed the business of publishing. Some writers are adapting and some are struggling. Dumbleton is struggling. I sold a million eBooks last year. Dumbleton sold fewer than three thousand paperbacks. With sales that low it’s only a matter of time before his publisher drops him. He knows that so he’s taking his resentment out on me.”
“And he’s said he wants to kill you before?’
“That’s the first time he’s made a death threat, but he’s made all sorts of allegations online. He’s called me a paedophile, a cyber-bully, a fraud. He tweets about me several dozen times a day, he’s written to my publisher, my agent, my accountant. He’s published personal details about my home and my family on-line.” Mr. Hyde shrugged. “I think he’s got mental problems.”
“What about talking to the police?”
Mr. Hyde chuckled. “I don’t know what the police are like in Singapore, but here in the UK bullied best-selling authors are a low priority.”
“Bullshit!” hissed Sebastian Battersby. “You’re killing publishing and you’re taking us all down with you.” Mr. Battersby’s face was contorted with anger and his hands had bunched into fists.
The Eight Curious Cases of Inspector Zhang Page 17