Inspector Zhang And The Falling Woman

by Stephen Leather

  Inspector Zhang considered the question for several seconds, then he nodded slowly. “I would grieve. I would be sadder than I have ever been in my life. But I’m not sure that I would cry. Grief is not about tears; grief is a state of mind.” He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. “But perhaps you are right. Perhaps I am too critical of Mr. Wong.”

  “Perhaps it is the goatee,” said Sergeant Lee.

  Inspector Zhang smiled and walked down the corridor, stopping at the apartment next to Mr. Wong’s. He knocked on the door. It was opened by an elderly Indian man.

  “Mr. Diswani?” said Inspector Zhang. He held out his warrant card. “I am Inspector Zhang from New Bridge Road police station.”

  Mr. Diswani blinked at the warrant card and then nodded. “I am Mr. Diswani,” he said,

  “Did Mr. Wong have occasion to talk to you about the volume of your television set last night?”

  Mr. Diswani’s jaw dropped. “He called the police about that? I told him, it was no louder than usual but he pointed his finger at me and called me terrible names.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “About ten o’clock,” said Mr. Diswani. “And I turned the volume down immediately, but then I could barely hear it. Come in for yourself and listen. I don’t understand why he was so angry.”

  “It isn’t a problem,” said Inspector Zhang, putting away his warrant card. “You enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Mr. Diswani closed the door, muttering to himself. Inspector Zhang and Sergeant Lee walked to the elevator and went down to the ground floor. “So what do you think, Sergeant Lee?” asked the inspector as they headed for their car.

  Sergeant Lee sighed. “It is confusing,” she said.

  “Yes, it is,” agreed the inspector. “Let us suppose that she was murdered, that she was dead before she hit the ground. So the question we have to ask, Sergeant Lee, is why the murderer felt that they had to kill Mrs. Wong twice.”

  “Overkill,” said Sergeant Lee as Inspector Zhang unlocked the front passenger door and climbed in. Sergeant Lee got into the driving seat and closed the door. “Perhaps the killer wanted to make sure that she was dead,” she said.

  “There are easier ways to do that,” said Inspector Zhang, settling back into his seat. “Besides, I think it would be obvious that she was already dead so there would be no need to make sure.” He sighed and took off his spectacles. “I think I am getting a headache,” he said, massaging his temples

  “I have aspirin in my bag,” said the sergeant.

  “We can wait until we’re back in the office,” said Inspector Zhang. “Aspirins are best taken with water.” He put his spectacles back on. “Water,” he said. “I’d forgotten, the water.”

  “Water?” repeated Sergeant Lee.

  Inspector Zhang turned to look at her. “Celia Wong drowned, but her clothes were dry when she went off the building. How could that be if she had only just drowned?”

  Sergeant Lee frowned but said nothing.

  “How does someone drown without their clothes getting wet?” whispered Inspector Zhang to himself. “Now that is a mystery.” He folded his arms. “I think we need to take a closer look at the list that the security guard gave us.”

  They drove back to New Bridge Road police station. Inspector Zhang had left the list in his desk and he took it out while Sergeant Lee fetched him a glass of water so that he could take his aspirin.

  “What are you looking for, Sir?” she asked when she returned with his water.

  Inspector Zhang swallowed a white tablet and washed it down and then tapped the list. “Mrs. Wong must have gone to that particular building for a reason,” he said.

  “You think she went there to see someone? A man?”

  Inspector Zhang smiled. “I certainly think she went to see someone, but I think it much more likely that it was a woman she was calling on.” He passed her the list. “There are only three single women living in the building. We shall go around first thing in the morning.”

  Inspector Zhang and Sergeant Lee arrived at the River Valley apartment block at eight o’clock on the dot. Mr. Lau was already at his desk and he buzzed them in.

  Inspector Zhang showed Mr. Lau the list of tenants. “I see there are three single women living in the block,” he said.

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Lau. “This is mainly a family building; the apartments are all quite spacious.”

  “Would you happen to know if any of these women are Chinese, between twenty-five and thirty-five years old, with shoulder-length hair. A little taller than my sergeant here.”

  “Why yes,” said Mr. Lau. “That describes Miss Yu perfectly. She lives on the ninth floor. Shirley Yu.”

  Inspector Zhang took back the list. “Excellent,” he said. “We shall go up and talk to her. Just one more thing, Mr. Lau. Do you happen to know if she works in the airport.”

  Mr. Lau nodded. “Yes, she does.”

  Inspector Zhang smiled to himself and walked to the elevators. Sergeant Lee followed. They rode up to the tenth floor in silence.

  Inspector Zhang knocked on the door to Miss Yu’s apartment. A pretty Chinese woman in a dark business suit opened the door.

  “Miss Yu?” asked Inspector Zhang.

  “Yes,” she said. “What do you want?”

  Inspector Zhang showed her his warrant card and identified himself, then introduced Sergeant Lee. Miss Yu looked at her watch. “I’m going to work,” she said.

  “The airport?”

  “That’s right. What is this about?”

  “We’re asking residents about the girl who died the other day,” said Inspector Zhang. “Can we come in?”

  “I really am in a hurry,” she said.

  “It is important, and we won’t take up too much of your time.”

  Miss Yu sighed and let them in. The apartment was large with a balcony overlooking the river. The furniture was Italian and there was a huge television dominating one wall. “You have a lovely home, Miss Yu,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “Thank you.”

  “And you live here alone?”

  Miss Yu nodded and looked pointedly at her watch again.

  “What is it you do at the airport?” asked Inspector Zhang. “It must pay well for you to be able to avoid a beautiful apartment such as this.”

  “My parents bought it for me,” said Miss Yu tersely. “You said this was about the girl who killed herself?”

  “Yes, were you in the building when it happened?”

  “What time was that?”

  “Just before ten o’clock.”

  Miss Yu nodded. “I was at home, yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Of course, alone.”

  “And did Mrs. Wong press the buzzer for your flat?”

  “Mrs. Wong? Who is Mrs. Wong?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Inspector Zhang. “She is the lady who died.”

  “Why do you think she pressed my buzzer?”

  “She needed to get access to the roof and she didn’t have a keycard so someone must have admitted her,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “No one pressed my buzzer all night. I got home from work, I cooked myself dinner, I watched television and I was in bed by eleven.”

  Sergeant Lee scribbled in her notebook. “I wonder if I might ask you a favour, Miss Yu?” said Inspector Zhang.

  “A favour?” She looked at her watch impatiently.

  “My wife and I are thinking of moving to this area, would you mind showing me around?”

  “You want me to give you a tour of my apartment?”

  “That’s so kind of you,” said Inspector Zhang, heading for a door at the far end of the sitting room. “Is this the bedroom?”

  “One of the bedrooms,” said Miss Yu, hurrying after him. “Inspector Zhang, I really have to go to work.”

  Inspector Zhang nodded appreciatively at the spacious bedroom. There was a king size bed and a sofa against one wall, and another la
rge balcony. There were sliding mirrored doors at the far end of the room and Inspector Zhang slid them back. “A walk-in closet,” he said. “That’s what my wife really wants, a closet that she can walk into.”

  “Please, Inspector…” said Miss Yu. “Really, I have to go.”

  Inspector Zhang stepped into the closet and ran his hand along a line of dresses. He pulled out a black dress and looked at the label. “Karen Millen,” he said. “I was telling Sergeant Lee that my wife is a big fan of Karen Millen’s designs.” He put the dress back on the rail and pulled out another one. “I see you have a lot of her dresses. And that you like black. My wife prefers red.”

  “Inspector Zhang, I really don’t see what the content of my closet has to do with you.”

  The inspector walked out of the closet and went into the bathroom. The walls and floors were lined with marble and there was a large bath in the centre of the room, big enough for two people. “Is that a Jacuzzi?” asked Inspector Zhang. “My wife has always wanted a Jacuzzi.”

  “Yes, it’s a Jacuzzi. Please, Inspector Zhang, I have to go to work.”

  “I expect it’s a wonderful way to relax, after a hard day at work,” said Inspector Zhang.

  There was a white cabinet to the left of the sink and Inspector Zhang went over and opened it. It was full of medical supplies and he pulled out a pack of sticking plasters.

  “I really must protest at this intrusion into my privacy,” said Miss Yu. “I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Inspector Zhang put the pack of plasters back into the cabinet and closed the door. “I think we’ve seen all that we need, Miss Yu.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Miss Yu, folding her arms. “I really do have to get to work.”

  “There is just one more thing,” said the inspector. He lowered his chin and looked at her over the top of his spectacles. “I am arresting you for the murder of Mrs. Celia Wong.”

  Miss Yu’s jaw dropped, and Sergeant Lee looked equally astonished.

  They drove Miss Yu to CID headquarters at New Bridge Road, processed her, and then drove out to the airport where they met up with two uniformed policemen.

  They found Mr. Wong sitting at a computer in the baggage handling control room, sitting at a computer terminal. He saw them walk into the room and got up from his seat. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “We’re here to arrest you for the murder of your wife,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Wong. “I was at home when she died.”

  “No, you were at home when she fell from the roof,” said Inspector Zhang. “Your mistress Shirley Yu pushed her off the roof after first standing on the edge and pretending to be her. She wore a similar Karen Millen dress and at that distance no one could see her face. Then she pushed your wife’s body off. But you were in Miss Yu’s apartment earlier. And that is where you killed your wife. You drowned her in the bath.”

  “Sheer fantasy,” said Mr. Wong.

  “I’m afraid we have Miss Yu in custody already, and she has told us everything.”

  Mr. Wong’s shoulders slumped. His legs started to shake and he sat down heavily. “It was an accident,” he said. “I didn’t mean to kill her.”

  “Your wife found out that you were having an affair?” said Inspector Zhang.

  “She must have done. She must have found the key and copied it, and then followed me to the apartment.”

  “And she used the key to let herself in?”

  Wong nodded. “Shirley and I were in the bath. Together. Celia burst in with a knife.”

  “She was angry?”

  Wong laughed sharply. “She was like a woman possessed. I’d never seen her so angry. She came at Shirley with the knife, trying to stab her. I tried to take the knife from her and she cut me.” He held up his hand. “The blood just seemed to make her crazier. She kept trying to stab me, saying that I’d ruined her life and that she was going to kill me.”

  “So you pushed her under the water?”

  Wong shook his head. “I didn’t mean to kill her, but it was the only way I could stop her. She fell into the bath and I knelt on her and tried to pull the knife away but she kept struggling. Then suddenly she went still.”

  “And Miss Yu, what was she doing while this was going on?”

  “She was hysterical,” said Wong. She was sitting on the floor, crying and shaking. It wasn’t her fault, inspector. Shirley didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “She covered up a murder, Mr. Wong,” said Inspector Zhang quietly.

  “We had no choice,” said Mr. Wong.

  “And the key? The key that your wife used to let herself into the apartment. You took it?”

  “She must have been planning it for ages because she had made a copy of the key I used. And last night I couldn’t find my keycard to get into the building. Celia had taken it. She followed me to the building and then used the keycard to get in and the key to get into the apartment.”

  “And after she was dead, you took the key and the keycard?”

  “I knew that if you found them you would find the apartment,” said Mr. Wong. “I didn’t mean to kill her, Inspector Zhang.”

  “But you did,” said Sergeant Lee.

  “It was an accident,” said Mr. Wong.

  “But throwing her off the building wasn’t,” said Inspector Zhang. “That was quite deliberate.”

  “I had to give myself an alibi,” said Mr. Wong. He put his head in his hands. “I didn’t want to do it, and neither did Shirley. But we knew that if my wife’s body was found then I’d be the obvious suspect.” He looked up at the inspector. “It’s true, isn’t it? Most murders are committed by family members?”

  “Or work colleagues. Or neighbours. Yes, that is true. It is very rare for someone to be killed by a stranger.”

  “That was what I told Shirley. If you found my wife and I didn’t have an alibi then I would be the obvious suspect. But if she died when I was in my apartment, then I would be in the clear.”

  “Your mistress and your wife are not dissimilar in appearance, which enabled the deception,” said the inspector.

  Mr. Wong nodded. “That was what gave me the idea,” he said. “We removed the clothes she was wearing and then we dried her hair and redressed her in one of Shirley’s dresses. Shirley changed into a similar dress and then we carried my wife to the roof. Then I went home. I made some phone calls and then I knocked on the door of the flat next door and asked Mr. Diswani to turn down the volume of their television set.” Mr. Wong smiled. “I caused quite a scene.”

  “You wanted the neighbour to remember you, so that he would confirm your alibi.”

  Mr. Wong nodded. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “That part of your plan did, yes,” said Inspector Zhang. “Once you had established your alibi, your mistress stood on the edge of the roof to attract the attention of passers-by.”

  “She was so high up, no one would know that it wasn’t my wife. Then she tipped Celia’s body over and went back to her apartment.”

  “It was a very good plan,” said Inspector Zhang. “But not good enough.” He nodded at the two uniformed policemen. “Take him away,” he said.

  One of the policemen handcuffed Mr. Wong and he was led out of the front door.

  “What will happen to them, do you think?” asked the sergeant.

  “That is up to a jury,” said Inspector Zhang. “But I don’t think that any jury will believe that drowning is a valid means of self-defence. Drowning takes time. He must have held her under the water long after his wife had let go off the knife.” He shuddered. “But as I said, that is not our concern.”

  He walked towards the door and they went down together to a waiting police car.

  “When did you first suspect the husband, Inspector Zhang?” asked Sergeant Lee, following Inspector Zhang into the car.

  “The second time we saw him,” said the inspector. “When I asked him about the cut on his hand he had a sticking pl
aster, remember?

  “He said that he had cut himself when he was cooking.”

  “Yes, that’s what he said. But he was right-handed and his cut was on his right hand. I couldn’t help wonder how someone right-handed could cut themselves on the right hand.”

  “He could have done that picking up the knife, or if the knife had slipped.”

  Inspector Zhang nodded and pushed his spectacles further up on his nose. “But it was the plaster, rather than the wound, that was the real clue that something was amiss.”

  “The plaster?” repeated Sergeant Lee. “It was a regular sticking plaster, I thought.”

  “Yes it was,” said the inspector. “It was a small flesh-coloured plaster, nothing out of the ordinary about it. But when I went to the bathroom, I looked in the first aid cupboard and the plasters there were the transparent kind. A different brand completely.”

  “Ah,” said Sergeant Lee.

  “So it seemed obvious to me that if the plaster had come from somewhere else, then there was every possibility that he was lying about the circumstances that had led to him receiving the wound. And lies, I always say, are like cockroaches. For every one that you see, there are ten that are hidden.”

  “And when you checked the first aid cabinet in Miss Yu’s bathroom, you saw the same brand of plaster that Mr. Wong had used.”

  “Exactly. Which meant that he must have been in her apartment when he was injured.”

  Sergeant Lee nodded and scribbled in her notebook.

  “What are you writing?” asked the inspector.

  “I write down everything you tell me, Inspector Zhang. So that I won’t forget.”

  “Perhaps one day you will write about my cases, become my Dr. Watson.”

  Sergeant Lee smiled. “That would be an honour, Inspector Zhang, because you are most certainly my Sherlock Holmes.”

  Inspector Zhang beamed with pride but said nothing.

  THE END

  There are three more Inspector Zhang short stories available on Kindle – Inspector Zhang Gets His Wish, Inspector Zhang And The Dead Thai Gangster and Inspector Zhang And The Disappearing Drugs. And there will be more cases for Inspector Zhang to solve in the near future.