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

by Murray Bailey

  I stood and shook her hand. Leave her guessing, I thought.

  NINETEEN

  Much of the road to Pasir Gudang was really a well-worn track through a heavily wooded region. The smell of the straits rose up and I knew the water was beyond the trees to my right.

  I’d told Hegarty about my fight with Stevenson of the humanitarian aid unit. I also told him that I’d found nothing in the village but returned to the airfield where I’d been shown the flight log of the aid unit’s plane.

  “Is it coincidence?” he asked me.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “And what about the pilot. Why haven’t you confronted him?”

  I said, “And how did Cole get on at Majidi?”

  He looked at me askance and then got my point. He said, “No point in just asking him, right?”

  “No, there isn’t. If I just confront him he could clam up.”

  “What are you going to do then?”

  I was going to wait. See what happened next. But before I could respond, we suddenly came out of the trees. There was scrub and then there was a golf course. One second semi-jungle and the next an affluent enclave with British colonial properties and manicured lawns.

  “Wow!” Hedge said, looking from side to side, taking it all in.

  I gave him the address of the orphanage and he soon saw a sign for it and we travelled up a long drive. At the end was an istana. I learned this was the term for a house built for royalty. Not a palace but something pretty special. Only, this istana was well beyond its glory days. All the woodwork needed painting and I could see cracks in the render.

  Huts in the grounds gave the impression of a refugee camp. We saw kids playing, and others sitting on benches receiving instruction—maybe lessons, although the teachers looked barely older than children themselves.

  A lady came out onto the veranda and watched us approach and park.

  She introduced herself as Lady Eden Hage-Dando. She had a ramrod straight back, was six feet tall and looked about sixty, in my estimation. She had long grey hair in beautiful condition and wore small half-moon glasses. Her face was craggy with age, but she presented herself well and spoke with the lilt of the British upper class.

  Hegarty waited in the Land Rover but she suggested I invite him in to join us for sandwiches.

  Five minutes later we were in a sumptuous lounge with a servant pouring tea. He also brought thin white cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

  “Now, young man, enough of pleasantries. You are here for a reason.” Her voice was a little prim, but it wasn’t unfriendly.

  I told her about Laura. As soon as I mentioned the blonde hair, she shook her head. “There is no one like that here, nor has there ever been. I set up the orphanage after the war, damned terrible time then. Not so bad now, you know, but there are so many children without families.”

  “How many children are here?” Hegarty asked.

  “In my orphanage there are seventy-two. But there are orphanages all over. Some of the children find new families, but it is getting more and more rare.”

  She peered at me over the straight edge of her glasses and for the first time I suspected that her eyesight was poor even with the spectacles. In a conspiratorial voice she said, “I think there is something going on at the hospital.”

  I leaned forward.

  “Parents prefer young children. Ideally babies, but we rarely get any babies for adoption and lately the number of adoptions has fallen and fallen. Our biggest opportunity is either with family members or Singaporeans.” Her voice dropped a level. “Babies are being sold from the hospital to childless parents in Singapore. I’m certain of it. I’ve been here long enough to know how things work. More babies are being adopted straight from the maternity ward. My contacts tell me that mothers are paid for their baby and it is then sold for ten times the amount in the name of adoption.”

  “Do you have proof?”

  She sat upright once more. Her demeanour switched back to one of military camp commander. Her voice was no longer conspiratorial. “No, but I will get my proof. Mark my words.”

  I nodded, certain that Lady Hage-Dando would do as she said. Then she twitched her head and I wondered if she wasn’t a little batty. Living under these conditions would be enough to turn anyone slightly mad. I wondered then whether she had been interned here during the Japanese occupation. Life during and after the war must have been a world away from what it was now.

  “What can you tell me about the adoption centre in Johor Bahru.”

  “A shambles.”

  “I met Miss Liang.”

  Lady Hage-Dando frowned. “Really? She’s there? I thought she was at the Sultana Aminah Hospital. She runs—perhaps I should say was running—the baby adoption department. It’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “Her name is Yiqing Liang”—she pronounced the first name as Yee-Ching—“It means: she is sunny. She’s anything but sunny, in my opinion. And I don’t trust her.”

  “Because they’re selling babies?” Hegarty asked, as though just catching up between mouthfuls of sandwich.

  “That’s right!”

  The way the elderly lady said it was like a revelation. Now I really did suspect her mind was going.

  I said, “If an adoption has been prearranged for a child and the documentation was completed somewhere else, not Johor Bahru, but the child comes to Johor Bahru, where else could the child go?”

  “Directly to the parents of course.” She shook her head. “That really would be unusual. Alternatively, the child could go to a boarding school. Petersen would know.”

  “Petersen?”

  “The young man at the adoption centre.”

  Hedge gave me a look: she’s nuts.

  I said, “The adoption centre in Johor Bahru?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was Petersen the one in charge there? We met Miss Liang.”

  Lady Hage-Dando seemed confused and then understood. “Petersen isn’t there anymore?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then you should find him!”

  Hedge pulled a face again. I could see he’d had enough but I persevered.

  “Where might he have gone?”

  She thought for a moment before brightening. “Yes, now I remember. Major Rix will know. Major Rix was his friend. I think they were in the army together.”

  She paused, and I was about to ask where I would find Major Rix when she spoke again.

  “You asked about schools, didn’t you? Well there’s a coincidence: Major Rix runs the boarding school at Bukit Zarah. Perhaps you’ll find young Petersen there.”

  TWENTY

  Back in the Land Rover, Hegarty said, “Mad as a hatter. Did you see the way she kept twitching?”

  “And you’re about to tell me the origin of that phrase, I guess.”

  “Yes, but after you tell me where next. Ready to pack up and go back home?”

  “Not at all.”

  “So it’s another runaround.”

  I looked at the darkening sky. We hadn’t reached the forest yet. The golf course was on either side of the road and I saw men on a green also looking up.

  “Shall we put the cover on?”

  “Cripes, yes!” Hedge said, stopping.

  We clipped on the canvas roof and set off again.

  “Mad as a hatter,” Hegarty said. “Hat makers used mercury to remove animal skins and of course mercury is poisonous.”

  “It was mercury nitrate, but you’re probably right.”

  The first raindrops began to fall, thudding on the canvas roof. The wipers smeared insects across the windscreen.

  Hegarty said, “So, back to Singapore?”

  “You’re forgetting something.”

  “I am?” The sergeant swivelled in his seat. “To do with the missing girl?”

  “No, to do with the body and the drugs. We had a lead that we didn’t follow up.”

  Hegarty nodde
d. “The Indian chap at BVD 221. But didn’t we agree that questioning the men wasn’t going to get us anywhere.”

  “That was elsewhere. This man slipped us the note. He wants to tell us something.”

  “All right. Back to BVD 221.”

  It was still early afternoon and I figured we were in no rush. “Not yet,” I said. “We’ve got time to kill.”

  Hegarty drove through the forest, the windscreen clear now the pounding water had cleaned off the muck.

  I said, “Let’s pay Major Rix a visit.”

  The deluge continued. We left Johor Bahru and then travelled north-west a short distance to a place called Pulai Perdana. A local man, sheltering under a giant Cola tree, haltingly gave us directions that took us west and then right, up a hill.

  The school at Bukit Zarah was another istana, though from this distance it looked bigger and in better shape than Lady Hage-Dando’s orphanage.

  Stone eagles, mounted on top of the brick gateposts, glared down at us. The closed gates were over ten feet high and very grand and I could see an equally tall wall running around the perimeter.

  Hegarty offered to get out into the rain. The gates dwarfed him as he pulled a handle that hung to the right-hand side. After giving it a tug, he ran back to the shelter of the jeep.

  A man appeared on the other side of the gates. He was bent over by the force of the rain. He had a huge raincoat, like those that Australian farmers wear. Fumbling with the lock, he opened the gate a crack and came to meet us.

  He looked in through the window and seemed oblivious to the rain cascading off his nose.

  Hegarty wound the window down.

  The man said, “Can I help you?”

  I leaned across and smiled. “Just visiting.” I could see him better now. White, and from his accent probably British.

  “We don’t take visitors,” the man responded.

  I held up my government ID. “I’d like to see Major Rix.”

  His eyebrows went up. He hesitated and then turned. “Follow me.”

  Just inside the gates I saw a guard hut and a dog kennel. Both were empty.

  The man in the coat walked along the drive towards the grand schoolhouse. We trundled along behind him in the Land Rover.

  The gardens on either side of the drive were immaculate: mowed grass with box hedging. As the drive swept around, there were impressive stone steps leading to an entrance. The gateman opened the door and we left the car and ran inside. He stayed on the doorstep but pointed to a side room and said, “Please wait there.”

  The room was plush, with rosewood furniture and two burgundy chesterfields opposite one another, a rosewood coffee table between them. We took one sofa each. Hegarty leaned back and relaxed. There was a pile of brochures on the coffee table. I picked one up. It was about the school, describing it as an exclusive boarding school. So exclusive they boasted only twenty places. There was no mention of fees, but then I’d been at a private school myself and I was pretty sure they were all discreet about the cost. Based on the description, I figured the number of places was also a reflection of the price.

  “You are here to see Major Rix.”

  A tall young woman stood in the doorway. She appeared mixed-race Chinese, Eurasian maybe, late twenties, good-looking, although not in Su Ling’s league. Her voice was soft and charming.

  I stood up.

  “Please follow me.” She gave a slight bow and we followed her down the hall, past a broad panelled staircase, to the rear of the school.

  Watching her turn and walk, I reassessed her as a lady rather than a woman.

  There was a door on the left and one on the right. The one on the right had a sign that said “Head”.

  She stopped outside the door on the right and smoothly turned to face me.

  “The major will see you for a minute, but just a minute, you understand. He is a very busy man.”

  I nodded.

  She knocked on the door and opened it for us to enter. Major Rix stood behind a desk and walked around it to meet us. The first thing I noticed was his black hair, which was clearly dyed. He had a couple of inches advantage over me but was thin, and when I shook his hand I thought of piano fingers.

  “How can I help you gentlemen?” he said. His voice was clipped, almost British upper class, and yet I heard a slight Australian accent underneath.

  Whereas my boss, Coates, reminded me of a headmaster, Rix was more like a thespian. I imagined him saying: “I’m an actor, darling”, although his title suggested otherwise.

  I smiled. “Were you here in the war?”

  “Certainly. The Australian Twenty-Second,” Rix responded with pride. “I was billeted around these parts before the Japanese came.”

  I noticed the decor. He had some ancient-looking oriental artefacts. Based on the kimono on a dummy, a black fan with a red dot on the wall and a mounted samurai sword, I figured they were all Japanese. I’d met many people who hated the Japanese for what they had done during the occupation, but I’d met an equal number of collectors, not least of whom was Arthur Pope—my contact who’d sold me the Beretta.

  I nodded at a brass paperweight. It looked like a stubby pagoda.

  “Also Japanese?”

  He inclined his head. “An antique.”

  “You’re a collector then?”

  He looked at me quizzically.

  “It’s just that I have a friend…”

  Rix said, “You didn’t come to talk about Japanese artefacts. And I don’t believe you are interested in—”

  “No. Another friend asked me to look for a twelve-year-old girl.”

  Rix glanced from me to Hegarty and back, clearly not understanding our roles. But he smiled and said, “You have a lot of friends it would appear.”

  “I’ve been led to believe that a chap called Petersen might know her.”

  “What’s the girl’s name?”

  “Laura van Loon. Half Dutch, half Malay.”

  He shook his head and his lips pulled tight. “Not a name I’ve heard, I’m afraid.”

  “Do you know how I can get in touch with Mr Petersen? I understand he’s a friend of yours.”

  “He served under me in the war.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Rix looked quizzical again. “Isn’t he at the adoption centre? But then I suppose you’ve already checked there.”

  “We have and he isn’t.”

  “Then I’m sorry.” Rix gave a heavy shrug. “I don’t know. Although he was always terribly unreliable. Probably just buggered off someplace—if you’ll excuse the expression.”

  I said, “It makes you sound more Australian.”

  “Something I try to avoid, you understand?”

  I said, “May I ask what age you take your pupils from, Major? I didn’t notice it in the school brochure.”

  “From fourteen to eighteen. It’s a finishing school, you understand. Very exclusive.”

  I nodded. “Is it possible that Laura was adopted and sent straight to a school like this?”

  “If she had wealthy adoptive parents then it could have happened. However, I find it highly improbable and I can assure you it wasn’t this one.” He paused. “Look, I suggest you try in Singapore. Half Dutch, half Malay, you say. Yes, I recommend you inquire at the boarding schools and adoption centres in Singapore.”

  I nodded. “I may do just that. Anywhere in particular you would suggest?”

  “I’m afraid not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a busy schedule.” Rix stepped back behind his desk and picked up the telephone. He nodded goodbye to us and asked for the operator.

  The elegant lady, whom I tagged as his personal assistant, walked us through the hall. From upstairs I could hear music—an opera.

  She said, “We teach our young ladies the finer things in life.” She opened the door for us and we left her standing in the doorway.

  It had stopped raining. Our Land Rover was no longer alone. A big black car was parked on the oth
er side of the steps. Beyond them I could see a garage and workshop.

  I stood by the jeep for a moment. Where was everyone? Admittedly this was a school rather than an orphanage, but the atmosphere couldn’t have been more different. Maybe that was down to exclusivity. We’d seen lots of children at Lady Hage-Dando’s place. Here, at the Bukit Zarah school, we’d seen just three adults. Then we saw a fourth. As we drove to the gate, I spotted a man clearly on patrol with a German shepherd dog by his side.

  Although he had an actor’s temperament, I was left with the impression that Rix ran his school like a military operation.

  I wanted to arrive at BVD 221 at the end of the day. Most men would finish by six so they could get back to their digs for the evening.

  I asked Hegarty to drop me outside the compound and sent him in to have the Land Rover looked at. Meanwhile, I chatted with the two guards at the gate and wanted to make my presence obvious.

  Civilians employed in the depot left first at five o’clock. I watched as the initial batch was searched at the gates, and then walked slowly up the track towards the airfield.

  I stood and waited.

  The army men began to leave soon after, and most left in Bedford trucks. I hoped the Indian clerk wasn’t on board.

  Inside the compound, I could see a mechanic under the bonnet of the Land Rover. Hegarty stood over him, no doubt encouraging him to finish before he left for the day. We needed that Land Rover.

  And then I saw the clerk with the turban. He came out of the little office and walked towards the Land Rover. Hegarty gave a nod towards the gates and the young man seemed to understand. He took out a cigarette, lit it, took a long pull and used the time to look around as he walked. When he glanced in my direction he hesitated and then continued. But instead of walking up the hill towards me, he turned away, down to the main drag.

  I gave him a head start and then followed, only I had my stick and was limping. The corporal was getting further ahead.

  Around a bend I lost sight of him and was relieved to find him sitting by the track as I caught up.