Singapore 52

by Bailey, Murray

  That made sense. The forty was just part of the date. But that didn’t equate to proof of an attack of some kind. Su Ling was clearly thinking along the same lines.

  She said, “It could be something to do with the carnival or parade. There will be a lot of lion dancers. So the flyer may just be something innocent.

  “You may be right,” I said with a smile. “There’s something else I want your help with.”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “A soldier went AWOL a couple of nights ago. Today we found his things. They were in the water up near Woodlands Crossing.”

  “And I can help you how?”

  “I’d like you to translate something.” I picked up the pack of documents that I had by my feet.

  Su Ling stared in fascination as I separated a heavy parchment with Chinese style writing on it and a seal.

  “This is a Chinese trading document,” she said. “And these…” she took the remaining sheets from his hand and glanced over them, “these are travel documents, rites of passage, for someone called Wan Song Lei.”

  Wan Song Lei was also the name on the passport. I had a strong suspicion that it was Cooke’s new identity.

  She continued after studying them closely: “They are all official although I suspect they are forged. I can have them checked if it’s of help.”

  “Not for now, but I’ll bear it in mind if I need to.”

  “And this was in your AWOL soldier’s things?”

  “In his kitbag.”

  “What did the soldier say about them?”

  “We haven’t found him yet.”

  “Oh, I suppose that doesn’t look good then… I mean if you found his things but not the man.”

  I shook my head and handed Su Ling some more papers.

  While she read through, I studied her face. Eventually she looked up and commented: “Various correspondence in Chinese addressed to the same person specified in the travel documents: Wan Song Lei. One of these is about passage to Hong Kong from Singapore. It’s for a Filipino cargo boat that is due to leave tomorrow night.”

  That made me suspect Cooke had planned to leave tomorrow but, for some reason, brought it forward by three days. I wondered why. Did he leave earlier than planned because of my appearance at Tanglin? Why was he going to Hong Kong?

  I handed her the letter written on lilac paper.

  “This isn’t Chinese is it?”

  Su Ling took a quick glance to confirm that the language was Japanese. She read through a page then flicked through and read a later one. She smiled. “It’s a love letter. Or at least part of one.”

  “Part?”

  “It just seems to start, as though the first page or pages are missing.”

  “Our soldier is called William or Billy Cooke.”

  She shook her head then put the paper to her nose before handing it to me to do the same. It smelled faintly of flowers.

  “I am certain this is a letter from a young Japanese woman to her lover. She talks of wanting to be with him and the difficulty of their situation. She says she understands how hard it must be for him and that she can only tell her best friend. But they will one day be together and the trade will help.”

  “What trade?” I said, thinking out loud.

  “Wait, I’ll read it more thoroughly.”

  I gave her time and ate my lunch. When she finished, she put the letter down and took a drink.

  “It’s all quite lovely,” she said. “There is no detail about the trade or their jobs or anything personal like that. But there is reference to friends in Hong Kong who can help. I think they planned to travel there and then on to Japan. They were planning to elope. Your AWOL soldier was leaving to be with the love of his life. It’s very romantic.”

  I wondered whether they had been together that night at Woodlands. Had a boat been waiting for them at the jungle’s edge. That didn’t explain why Cooke’s bag was in the water. Unless he’d lost it in the dark. I supposed it could have gone overboard.

  “Is there a name? Did she sign it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said. “I wonder whether they were together the night he was at the causeway.”

  Su Ling asked how my investigation was going.

  “I’ve found no evidence of the security risk or smuggled guns,” I said.

  “I meant, about your friend. You said he was forced off the road by another car. Have you found out any more?”

  I told her about what Hegarty and I had seen at the crash site; how it looked like the other car had crashed on the opposite side.

  “There’s a chance it’s one of the navy’s staff cars.”

  “Really?” she said. “Can you find out who was driving?”

  “I have a list of potential names.” Having shared the other documents, it felt natural to show her the list I’d been sent by Colonel Atkinson.

  It had names, ranks and Atkinson had helpfully split it by location. Seven of the permanent officers were based at the Keppel HQ. The rest were at the naval base in the north. I reckoned I was down to seven suspects.

  She said, “I don’t recognize any of these names.”

  I didn’t expect her to. I could see Commander Alldritt at the top of the seven. The name at the bottom seemed familiar. When Su Ling passed the list back to me I read the name the right way up. Lieutenant John Pantelis. I’d seen that name before: on the shipping documentation. Goods In at Keppel Harbour. Signed for and distributed to Tanglin. Signed for as delivered by Sinclair or Cooke.

  “What are you thinking?” Su Ling said.

  “Just wondering.” I hadn’t told Su Ling about the pocket ledger we’d found hidden in the bottom of the kitbag. The pages I could open looked like an order book or sales record.

  “I’m probably just focused on one name because of the AWOL guy, Sergeant Cooke. He worked in the stores and so does this chap on the list. I’ve seen his initials on everything. It all comes through Keppel.”

  “You think he’s connected in some way to your friend’s death?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s just gone to the top of my list of people I’d like to talk to. Only…”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to find a way to talk to him because I’ve been banned from Keppel—the navy controlled part anyway.”

  That gave me an idea. I could try an alternative approach. Dress differently so I didn’t look like an MP. Providing the guy at the gate was someone else, maybe I’d get through.

  Su Ling said, “I could find out about him, if you like?”

  After thanking her for the suggestion I asked if I could see her tonight. “Perhaps we could go dancing at one of the Worlds?”

  She smiled and I guessed my suggestion didn’t enthral her. “Not this evening,” she said. “I have other business tonight. Maybe tomorrow night if you are free.”

  As we left, I noticed the German watching me out of the corner of his eye.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Risk is about playing the odds and understanding the consequences. In civilian clothes and with a fedora pulled low over my brow, I walked past the guard at Keppel. I flashed my government ID and hoped he wouldn’t look too closely. I was sure my name would be on his exclusion list. Worst case, he would realize who I was and stop me.

  He didn’t, the gate came up and I was through.

  I walked smartly past the Stores Depot and kept going just in case the guard was watching.

  Outside the engineers’ shed I stopped and looked in. Everyone seemed busy. The gaffer came over and explained they had a problem so couldn’t spare any time.

  “Not a problem,” I said. After all I was just filling in time. “I just wanted to let you know I was still investigating Tom’s death.”

  “Any progress?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Just a quick question: did Tom know a sergeant from Tanglin Barracks?”

  He shrugged.

  “William Cooke,” I said. “Probably better known as Billy Co
oke.”

  “Not a name I’ve heard.”

  He apologized for the brevity and I watched as he went back to supervising his team.

  I delayed a few minutes more and then headed out into the bright sunshine again. I walked back towards the gate, but this time kept close to the buildings, keeping a low profile.

  When I came to the Stores Depot, I slipped sideways and entered. The room was a long thin warehouse, crammed with shelves, boxes and crates. Before I could take a step further, a naval officer confronted me.

  “Can I help?”

  “Lieutenant Pantelis?” I asked.

  He considered me with calculating eyes. I guessed him to be in his early thirties, good looking with a thin moustache, and could have probably got a job on the silver screen as a younger version of Errol Flynn. The only thing letting down his appearance was a grubby wedge of a plaster above his right eye.

  I reached out and offered my hand.

  “Ash Carter,” I said.

  “How can I help you?”

  Rather that shake my hand, he assumed a pose with arms across his chest.

  I ignored the rudeness, smiled and said, “Pantelis, that’s a Turkish name isn’t it?”

  I knew about the long-running tension between the Greeks and Turks and thought my deliberate mistake would definitely prompt a response. It did.

  He bristled and said, “It’s a Greek name. I was born in Brentford but my family is from Piraeus.” Then he appraised my appearance and said, “What can I do for you?”

  I looked around him. There were four rows of shelves that ran floor to ceiling—about twenty-five feet up. At the far end there seemed to be a filing section and to the left were rooms, possibly offices.

  I side stepped him and headed for the offices.

  “Hey… you can’t just come in here!”

  There were three rooms. The doors were half glass, half metal and each room had a large window. No problem seeing out. No problem seeing in.

  In the first office I saw a desk, chairs, cabinets and shelves. The cabinets and shelves were crammed with files. The second office also had cabinets, but in the centre of the room was a wide table with maps. There were eight foldable chairs and pinned to the wall was a giant map showing the East Asian Seas.

  Pantelis bustled after me, continuing to complain. I ignored him.

  The third room had his name on the door. I stepped inside. There was a large desk with an in and out-tray, a blotter and a telephone. Behind the desk were shelves with rows and rows of box files, and against the wall was a metal filing cabinet.

  He stepped between me and the desk.

  I said, “Where do you keep your most sensitive records?”

  His eyes flicked right. An involuntary reflex.

  Then his eyes narrowed then he said, “What?”

  “Where do you keep the record of your little trades? You know, the black market stuff?”

  “Get out!” he barked. He moved around his desk and picked up the telephone. I guessed it was connected directly to the HQ since there was no to and fro with an operator.

  Into the phone he said there was a man bothering him. He listened and then said, “He said his name is Carter.”

  “Ash Carter,” I said.

  He listened again and then replaced the handset. He had a smug smile on his face when he said, “I would leave now if I were you.”

  “I know.”

  “You know what?” He sat in his chair and tried to look important, maybe immune.

  “I know what you’re up to.”

  Momentarily I saw real fear in his eyes and knew I was right.

  “Billy Cooke,” I said.

  He glared at me and for a second and I thought he was going to say something. Maybe explain or justify himself, but then he looked over my shoulder and grinned.

  Two men ran into the stores, their boots echoing in the warehouse like rapid fire. The office door opened.

  “Sir?”

  It was the Master-at-Arms from the gate with another guard behind him.

  He said, “Let’s have no trouble, sir. We are going to escort you off the dock.”

  I leaned on Pantelis’s desk and glared at him. The man’s chair was on wheels and he pushed back a few inches.

  “I’ll find out,” I said. “Trust me, I will.”

  At my shoulder, I sensed the guard preparing to grab me and probably try a come-along hold. I raised my hands and turned. I nodded to him, one military cop to another.

  “Don’t worry I’m going,” I said and stepped away from the desk. The guard in the office stepped aside as did the one on the other side of the door as I exited.

  They followed me to the gate and watched me walk up Anson Road in the direction of the centre.

  On the face of it I could have been disappointed that I’d had so little time with the Navy Stores lieutenant. However I now knew what he looked like. And secondly, I’d confirmed a connection with Cooke.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Trishaws were everywhere and I hailed one and asked to be taken to Hill Street police station.

  Inspector Rahman wasn’t immediately available so I stood on Coleman Bridge and enjoyed the afternoon sun watching the boats ferrying goods up and down the river.

  A strong smell of rubber wafted up as a row of tongkangs, heavily laden with dark grey bales, passed under the bridge heading out to a waiting ship. Today there was also spice in the air: cinnamon, cloves, maybe nutmeg.

  I was lost in my thoughts when a voice said, “Wonderful!”

  I turned to see the inspector approaching.

  He said, “This, for me, is Singapore. Enterprise, enthusiasm, colours and smells to fill your senses to bursting.”

  “You’re a poet, Inspector.”

  “I really wish you would just call me Anand. And perhaps one day I will write poetry,” he said wistfully, “but for now there is a job to be done. You have some news perhaps?”

  I told him that we had found Cooke’s kitbag in the water. But that he was still AWOL.

  “Oh dear, I hope that doesn’t mean he has drowned. The Straits aren’t wide but I for one wouldn’t like to swim across.”

  “There is a possibility he wasn’t alone.”

  “Oh?”

  “He may have been with a girl. A Japanese girl.”

  “You seem to be coming across the Japanese a great deal,” he said, “but I am certain it is just a coincidence.”

  I was less convinced and asked, “Any news of Tai Tai or tracing who hit her yet?”

  “I am afraid she has still not woken up and no, we continue to check through the list of members. Of course her assailant may not be a member, but I am hopeful.”

  “I mentioned the possible date on the flyer to Su Ling.”

  “And?”

  “She said forty means something. It’s been forty years since the Chinese revolution so it could be a date. The tenth of February is the end of the Chinese New Year—Lantern’s Day.”

  “Oh goodness, that’s the day of the parade! Do you think…?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t know what it meant. Was it about an attack? Was it something less sinister?

  We stood with our hands on the railing looking at the river. I watched a grey inflatable dinghy pull up at the steps and pushed the problem to the back of my brain for processing.

  Two policemen tied up the dinghy and headed for the station. The front of my brain was thinking about something else.

  “You have a boat?”

  “We’ve got a few. It’s not just Customs who need to get out onto the water.”

  “In that case,” I said, “I have a favour to ask.”

  It was a long way but I decided to walk back to Gillman so that I could think. On the way, I found a shop selling working men’s clothes and bought a black top and trousers.

  The clouds swept quickly across the sky until the sun was blanketed out. What had started as a stroll became a brisk walk as I watched the sky darken.

 
; I was almost half way back when it began to rain. My hat did little to keep the rain off me and I was soon soaked. A troop carrier went past and, because of my civvies, I didn’t get a second glance. However, minutes later, I was lucky to flag down a trishaw.

  The poor cyclist pounded away through the sheeting rain as though it weren’t there.

  It was still raining when I was dropped at the barracks and gave him a big tip for his efforts. He seemed embarrassed by the money and for a split second I thought he was going to give it back.

  I climbed the hill to the officers’ quarters and something made me glance back. I don’t know why. Maybe it was sixth sense because he was still there. Watching me.

  I was still wondering whether I had done something odd to warrant the trishaw driver’s attention when I spotted a bedraggled soldier marching around the parade ground. What was the idiot doing, in full kit, square bashing in the rain?

  I diverted towards him and, rounding the main accommodation block, found two soldiers sheltering under the arches, watching the man on the parade ground.

  “It’s not right,” one said loud enough so that I could hear.

  “What’s not right?” I asked.

  “Making Franks do that.”

  I learned that Franks—the young man on the parade ground—had been in the sun this morning and burnt his back. Major Vernon had spotted him and put him on jankers. As an example. But not just any punishment. This was deliberate. Franks was supposed to suffer and he was because the heavy straps dug into his burns.

  I walked over and told him to stop. He stood to attention and tried to pretend he hadn’t been crying.

  “At ease,” I said and he almost collapsed.

  I helped him off with his pack.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, “but I’ve only done sixty- four.” He wiped rain water and tears from his eyes before continuing: “I’m supposed to keep going for a hundred and fifty.”

  I told him he’d done the full distance and to report to M.I. room and get his sunburn checked out. I also said I’d make sure it was all signed off.