Singapore Girl_An edge of your seat thriller that will have you hooked

by Murray Bailey

“What sort of drugs are you looking for?”

  “Amphetamines?”

  “You aren’t sure?”

  “Shabu or anything stronger?”

  He shook his head. “The only time I came across drugs was in Hong Kong. We were in the Kowloon district. An old Chinese guy sat cross-legged inside an open-fronted shop, puffing away on a hubble-bubble. His eyes were glazed and bloodshot red. I’ve not heard of any opium since being here. The only drugs that the men get are for curing gonorrhoea.”

  I said nothing.

  He said, “And even if there was some kind of dealing going on here, how would you find out?”

  “I’d ask?”

  “Like you were a user rather than a cop?” He took a swig of beer. “You’re not a user and you don’t look like you’re here to have a good time. I’ve experience of these things. My little brother screwed up his head taking drugs. You aren’t the sort. You’re fit, probably a health nut and aren’t even a drinker. You’ve hardly touched your beer. You aren’t going to convince anyone.”

  “So I’m wasting my time?”

  “Are you an MP?”

  “Used to be.”

  “So you were with the MPs that came in just now.”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t have a problem with MPs.” He glanced in the direction of the squaddies. “Not like that bunch. No way would those MPs get a soldier to talk.”

  I said, “That’s what I figured.”

  He said, “You aren’t in uniform.”

  “As I said, I’m not an MP anymore.” He looked intrigued so I added: “Long story, but I’m helping out. What can you tell me about the others?” I nodded towards the squaddies. “Are they from around here?”

  “You’ve got one group from jungle training and I guess the other one is from JB. You get some coming out here because it’s as close as you can get to the kill zone without being in too much risk of meeting a bandit.”

  “Apparently they’re called CTs now.”

  He smiled and seemed to be appraising me again.

  I said, “I visited Tebrau airfield. You based there?”

  “Too long. FTC 656. Wish I could fly Spits down at Changi, but once a flight trainer always a flight trainer.”

  “I met Squadron Leader Kennedy. Nice chap.”

  “Alex’s great, if…”

  “Go on.”

  He shook his head and I guessed he’d decided his comment was inappropriate.

  He switched topic: “Seriously, I would help you if I could but I don’t know any drug suppliers or dealers.” He paused and finished his drink. He was probably ending the conversation.

  I offered to buy another but he refused.

  I said, “I’m more interested in a drugs trade via Singapore. A possible Chinese connection.”

  I had his interest again. He asked, “Then why shabu? Shouldn’t you expect opium or heroin?”

  I had to agree. As far as I knew, Andrew Yipp wasn’t involved with amphetamines, but a job is a job. For now anyway.

  “So what’s the long story?” Turner asked, again switching subject.

  “I was an MP for seven years and then left.”

  “But that’s not the whole story.”

  “The whole story is dull. I was a captain in the Special Investigations Branch.”

  “Serving where?”

  “Middle East.”

  “I hear it’s a mess.”

  “Those would be my words too.”

  He nodded. “So what happened?”

  “I’d had enough. A man can only push a rock up a hill for so long.”

  “Sisyphus,” Turner said, referring to the Greek myth. “He was a sinner, wasn’t he? Seems an appropriate bar for you then.”

  I smiled. “You’re taking my analogy too far. I was frustrated by politics and lack of progress.”

  “So you came to Malaya?”

  “Singapore. I officially work for the government.”

  “More politics.”

  “It’s the way of the world I’m afraid. Although I get more freedom now I’m out of uniform.”

  He studied me again, thinking. “There must be a reason why you chose here, though. Why come to this village?”

  “A lead. When an investigator has nothing else, he follows what he does have. Sometimes we have to backtrack, but so far it’s brought me here. Does two, two, one mean anything to you?”

  “BVD 221,” he said. “But then you knew that already. You’ve been to Tebrau.”

  “You’re right, but I don’t know the connection.”

  He said, “Let’s, for arguments’ sake, say that the military is involved somehow. It could be anyone, and if it’s on a commercial scale then it could involve any transportation base.”

  “Like an airfield.”

  “It’s possible. Though I can’t see how our training unit could be.”

  “Kennedy is convinced it isn’t.”

  “I could check the flight logs.”

  He stood and I walked with him to the door.

  Outside, I said, “Are you aware of anyone who’s gone missing in the last few days?”

  He shook his head. After a moment’s thought, he said, “You know, if I wanted to kill someone it would be in jungle training. Sure, they only get five bullets each, but they are live rounds.”

  “Heard of anyone shot or missing from there?”

  We were walking south on the road now. I guessed he either had a vehicle or a long walk back to the airfield.

  He said, “No, but doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. They’re a funny bunch by all accounts. You should go there. Talk to them.”

  “Where’s the base?”

  When he answered, I blinked in surprise.

  “Here. Well, just outside. It’s a vast area called Camp Kota Tinggi.” He stopped and pointed to a Land Rover painted in sky-blue RAF colours. “I’ll drop you, if you like?”

  I climbed in beside Turner and he drove up the strip and past where Hegarty had parked.

  Less than a mile later we turned left, following a hand-painted sign. There was a guardhouse, the usual boom barrier and a white picket fence either side.

  The boom was raised without question and the road went from smooth to bumpy. Compacted sand had been converted to ridges and made the jeep rattle and jolt.

  At the top of a rise, I got my first sight of the Kota Tinggi camp.

  TEN

  The view opened up to show a vast area with four distinct but spaced out sectors.

  Before us were white buildings. They were the usual for a large base: latrines, First Aid, a NAAFI. All white, all concrete, all ugly. I also saw a cinema called the New Globe. The name was probably an attempt at humour, although I seriously doubted any Shakespearian plays would be shown here.

  Apart from this built-up area, the rest had a temporary feel. We’d passed limited security and there was no perimeter fence. It was as if the army had found a reasonably flat area and decided to set up camp. Then over the years, the facilities had become bricks and mortar and it had become permanent.

  The road ended in a turnabout and Turner stopped the Land Rover. He pointed to a group of attap buildings that could have been a Malay village.

  “They’re the quarters,” he said. “You have all sorts staying here. I think you’ll find they’re the various support units, engineers, ordinance… I don’t know.”

  “The BVD guys?”

  “Definitely.”

  He pointed to the left and a series of large tents that reminded me of a scout camp. “That’s the humanitarian aid unit.” Then he pointed the other way and I saw the glint of curved metal roofs. “That’s the operational part of the Jungle Training Corps. I can drive you over, if you like.”

  Although the Land Rover was built for off-road, I declined the offer. He shook my hand, and again there was something in his eye that I couldn’t judge.

  “What’s your plan after this?”

  “Back to the village when the bars wake up.”<
br />
  He shook his head. “Like I said, good luck with that! If I find anything on the flight logs, I’ll look for you in Sin Sin.” He grinned, gunned the engine and jolted away in the direction of the highway.

  I walked across the fields towards the JTC buildings. They were at the edge of the camp, just before the bushes and long grass started. Not far behind that was a wall of jungle. I could just about hear birds and the occasional whoop of monkeys.

  As I neared, I could see that the curved metal roofs were Nissen huts, like mini aeroplane hangars. Six of them. I guessed they were training rooms and maybe common rooms for the instructors.

  Suddenly there was a shout and a volley of gunfire. Instinctively I crouched and drew my revolver. Then I felt foolish because there was another shout followed by gunshots. I walked to a ridge and spotted the source: a firing range. Fifteen men were lined up, firing at targets.

  A couple of men, I took to be instructors, walked behind the line. One of them turned and looked my way.

  “Oi!” he bellowed, like the best drill sergeant I’d known. “Get the bloody hell down!”

  I stepped back and headed for the training rooms.

  Inside the first I saw a corporal with JTC insignia. He was bent over a map. He had a radio and wore earphones.

  He looked up, smiled initially and then looked concerned.

  “Can I help?” he said uncertainly. “No civilians allowed here.”

  I always carried my old warrant card in case of such challenges and flashed it to him. I didn’t bother saying I was no longer an MP.

  He told me there was one unit here doing weapons training—the guys at the range. There was also one unit out in the jungle north-east of Kota Tinggi village—he pointed to the map before him. Although they had the same name, the camp and village looked about ten miles apart.

  He told me his job was to stay in communication with the unit in the jungle. He said there was a third unit but they weren’t operational today. I figured they were the staff I’d seen in the village earlier.

  I could have waited for the sergeant major to finish at the firing range and talk to him, however this corporal seemed open and knowledgeable enough.

  I asked him whether there had been any trouble.

  “What, like fighting bandits?”

  It seemed the new CT terminology hadn’t reached this far either.

  “Anything over the past few days?”

  “Nothing. In fact, nothing for the past couple of years we’ve been here. The bandits don’t come out into the open down here. They’re in the jungles around here”—he circled a large area north and north-east before the Highlands began—“but we keep the men away from known bandit locations. That’s my job, see.” He tapped the headphones and was clearly proud of the responsibility.

  I nodded. “You’re obviously doing a great job. So no one hurt in the past few days?”

  “No. Definitely no.”

  “Anyone lost?”

  “If they get lost they have the radio but they also carry a flare gun.”

  “I mean an individual. You know, disappeared?”

  “No.”

  The radio crackled and the young man urgently took the message. It was just an update on the unit’s location and he placed a marker on the map as they spoke.

  I mouthed “thank you” and went back outside.

  Maybe Cole was right about this being a wild goose chase. As I walked back towards the white buildings, I thought about Hegarty’s explanation of horses running a complicated race. And then I replayed our conversation with Squadron Leader Kennedy. The humanitarian aid unit used the airfield.

  The humanitarian aid unit—the ones Kennedy had described as sick, lame and lazy—were in the tents at the other end of the camp.

  I reached the rutted, sandy road still deep in thought. If the body had 221 written on the back, did that relate to the RAOC at BVD 221? Could the body be that of Sergeant Bender, the AWOL?

  I wouldn’t try and confront anyone from 221 here. I’d wait until we questioned the clerk with the turban tomorrow. For now, I’d have a chat with the aid unit to kill time before returning to Ulu Tiram.

  I walked past the NAAFI and turned towards the tents. And that’s when I heard him.

  “Hey, College Cop! Is that you?”

  It was a voice I never wanted to hear again. It was a voice I would never forget.

  ELEVEN

  “College Cop!” the voice barked.

  I stopped and stared. There was a group of men coming out of the NAAFI. At the head of them was a large man.

  His name was Stevenson. Slugger Stevenson.

  I couldn’t believe it. The man walking towards me was surely not still in the army? The last time I’d seen him he looked like a pirate with a black eyepatch.

  Now he had no patch, looked like he was in the humanitarian aid unit and wore three stripes on his sleeve. He’d been a corporal the last time I’d seen him.

  He strode quickly and stopped right in front of me. The other men formed up behind him. More than ten, less than twenty. I didn’t count them because I was too focused on the man who was now toe to toe with me. I could smell his coffee breath, he was that close.

  We were the same height, around six two, but where my build was athletic, he was solid with heavy muscles.

  Neither of us said anything. Neither of us moved. It was like a playground staring game. I sensed the crowd gradually moving around me. I don’t know what they knew, but I could feel the tension in the air.

  Finally, Stevenson spoke. “Nervous, College Cop?” There was taunting aggression in his voice.

  I realized my heart was racing. Fight or flight? The body’s natural dilemma in stressful situations. I tried to relax and said nothing. I remained unblinking, my eyes fixed on his good one. Flight wasn’t an option because of my injury. I was running nowhere.

  “This is the man!” Stevenson announced to the crowd. “This is the man who blinded me.”

  “It was an accident,” I said.

  Stevenson was still playing to the crowd. “This is the military pig who poked my eye out. Got promoted to captain as a reward.”

  The other men began to grumble and hiss.

  My mind started to process options. How would I fight this mob? At the same time, I said, “Two things. It was an accident. And I’m no longer an MP.”

  Slugger threw a rude hand gesture that could have been an attempt to make me flinch.

  The crowd “Oo’d”.

  Again the tense silence. I should hit first. An uppercut would deal with Slugger, but then I’d be exposed to the rest. Would they attack or back down?

  Stevenson pointed to his right eye. It looked cold and stared straight ahead, independent of its twin. “Glass,” he said. “Looks almost natural don’t you think?”

  I could pull the Beretta out. But how would that look? They’d know for sure I couldn’t use it. So it wasn’t a threat, just a weak gesture. And I couldn’t show weakness. Instead, I decided to try and talk him down.

  I said, “You may be a sergeant now, but you haven’t changed, have you, Slugger? You know it was an accident. I didn’t mean for you to lose your eye. I’m sorry for what happened. I haven’t fought in the ring since.”

  It had happened more than three and a half years ago. We had boxed in Palestine for the title of services heavyweight champion. Stevenson had a big rep as the Slugger. He was expected to win, but that was before people had seen me fight.

  I was fast whereas he was strong. Most of his fights ended in a knockout, which worked well for him since his opponents entered the ring with a single expectation: that they would end up on the canvas.

  Army fights are short and most pugilists aren’t trained. So the man nicknamed the Slugger pummelled them until they went down—sometimes deliberately.

  In the final round I had caught Stevenson in the eye with a left roundhouse. I still don’t understand what happened. He spun and face-planted one of the ring’s corner posts.
He staggered and then screamed. He dropped to his knees, his face covered by his gloves. I’d never seen aqueous humour before. It was smeared on his face and gloves.

  The medics said there was no way to save the eye. It had just popped.

  It wasn’t the way I wanted to win. When the adrenaline subsides, no boxer really wants to hurt his opponent. The fight was over. And it was the last time I had entered a ring.

  I repeated the message. “I retired after our match.”

  Stevenson scoffed. “You were an idiot then and you are an idiot now, Carter. You won by default. So you were ahead on points, but it was only a matter of time. I’d have had you down.”

  “We’ll never know.” I turned as though the conversation was over, even though there was nowhere to go unless the mob parted.

  Stevenson grabbed hard at my arm, pulling me off balance. Again the crowd excitement increased.

  He said, “I want a rematch, College Cop. We have a ring here.”

  His cronies cheered.

  I pulled my arm out of his grip.

  He said, “I may not be good enough for the regulars anymore, but at least I can box. This humanitarian crap doesn’t take much time in a day, so I train. You know what? I train because I imagined one day I’d get another crack at you. And look what we have here. College Cop has come to visit.”

  And then I became aware of the chant. “Fight, fight, fight.” It was like being back at school.

  The chanting got louder and someone nudged me in the back.

  Stevenson took a step away, gauging his reach probably.

  “Fight, fight, fight!”

  Someone pushed me again and I almost fell towards Stevenson.

  He grinned and raised his fists.

  The adrenaline coursed through my blood. Fight or flight? Block out the other men. I clenched my fists. Slugger Stevenson grinned.

  Fight.

  A horn sounded. And then again.

  “What the hell?” The men scattered as a pale blue Land Rover bumped over the verge and almost him me.

  “Get in!” Turner screamed.

  I looked at Stevenson. Backing down wasn’t an option.

  “Get in!” Turner yelled at me again.

  Stevenson laughed. “Run, College Cop. Or should I call you Chicken?” He dropped his hands. “Run, Chicken, run!”