by Ning Cai
I motion for Michael and the boys to let us have some space.
“That’s his ex-partner. They didn’t exactly part on very good terms,” Ashraf says as Uncle Glen catches his breath. “Anyway, thanks for the licence plate number of CK’s taxi; that was very helpful in getting us leads. The taxi company just got back to me. They’ve gone through their records and confirmed that the driver dropped Chun Kiat off at this address at 7.37pm. Payment was made by NETS, so there’s the electronic time stamp too.”
Uncle Glen kicks at a stray pebble on the ground and it bounces away. “So Chun Kiat did come here right after leaving the Lyes’ house. But for some reason he never made it to Rodrigues’ flat. Where the hell is he?”
I exhale, an awful feeling brewing in the pit of my stomach. “Is it possible that Lenny Lye has kidnapped him? That the ‘four of a kind’ doesn’t mean it’s the end of his killing spree?”
We hear the sound of feet pounding pavement and turn around.
It’s Amberlyn, her ponytail swishing behind her as she runs up to us, her face concerned. “Guys, we just found this by one of the recycling bins near the block’s central refuse chute. Glen, do you recognise it? Could it belong to your son?”
The police sergeant holds up a badly smashed iPhone X encased in an all-too-familiar green phone cover featuring the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
“I-I’m not sure,” Uncle Glen admits, looking angry at himself.
All three turn to look at me.
Feeling an incredible heaviness in my heart, I nod.
ELEVEN
“GOD DAMNED FALSE preacher!” Uncle Glen seethes, kicking a chair in the small office. It slams hard against the wall, rattling the hanging clock that shows it is now two in the morning. “Why did the Spectre take my son? Why?”
We are pulling an all-nighter in the meeting room at Headquarters reviewing hours of CCTV footage from various security cameras in the vicinity of the block in Yishun, and the process has been surprisingly far more difficult than I thought it would be. It does not help that CK’s father is now pacing the room and making it hard to concentrate on the monitors.
My phone beeps, and I fumble to check who’s trying to contact me.
“Is it Chun Kiat?” Uncle Glen asks hopefully.
I glance at the screen and sigh. I shake my head and promptly shove my phone back into my jeans as he swears and furiously knocks down another chair. I catch Amberlyn slide a wary sideways glance at Ashraf, who is sitting next to her and brooding; it looks like she’s silently urging the burly inspector to do something so we can all work in peace.
“We need to do a nationwide search for that Lenny Lye,” Uncle Glen rants as he fishes out a small silver hip flask from his pocket and unscrews the cap. “Before he kills my son—”
Ashraf slams his palms down on the table and stands swiftly, swiping the flask clean out of his partner’s hands before slamming the stunned man hard against the wall. Amberlyn and I freeze, unsure how to help.
“Pull yourself together! More than ever, your son needs you to be strong now. If we’re going to find Chun Kiat, you need to help us track down the Spectre, or whoever’s behind the kidnapping. You’re better than this, bro. No more drinking. No more lies. No more excuses. If Madam comes in now and sees you like this, it’s game over, and how will you help Chun Kiat then?”
Uncle Glen stares down at the spilt whisky on the floor, and manages a weak nod as Ashraf releases his firm grip on his shirt collar.
“Hey,” Amberlyn calls out, “check this out.”
We crowd around as she starts the playback of the CCTV recording in front of her. “Here, that’s Chun Kiat getting out of the taxi.”
We watch as CK then tucks his wallet into the deep pocket of his cargo jeans, and makes his way towards the lift lobby on the ground floor of the block. Just as he pushes the button to call for the lift, an inquisitive little kitten crawls out from an abandoned cardboard box by the rubbish bin. It pads up to CK and my animal-loving best friend squats down to play with it. Laughing as the friendly stray responds to his tickles, he is completely oblivious to someone in a hoodie creeping in from behind. We watch as the stranger splashes a generous amount of liquid from a dark chemical bottle into the rag in his gloved hand, then swiftly presses the damp cloth over CK’s mouth and nose.
“Chloroform,” Uncle Glen says between gritted teeth.
The frightened cat quickly scurries away and there is a brief scuffle as my friend thrashes on the ground, doing his best to fight off his attacker. But soon CK is rendered unconscious and his limp body is dragged out of frame.
“Using the time stamp to locate the getaway vehicle,” Amberlyn mutters as she makes a number of quick keystrokes. She locates and brings up the CCTV footage recorded from another vantage point. “Okay, there we go.”
CK’s hooded assailant is looking around to make sure the coast is clear. Once it is, he slides open the side panel of his dirty van and unceremoniously dumps the unconscious boy in the vehicle, then slams the sliding door shut. The kidnapper opens the dented door on the driver’s side, climbs into the front seat and drives away. His wrecked side view mirror, which seems to be attached by black tape, falls off and clatters to the road as the vehicle speeds away. A fast silver car leaving the car park right after the van immediately blocks the view of its licence plate.
“Oh my god. Charlie,” I whisper, feeling clammy hands squeeze my gut.
“Damn. Faulty cam at the car park gantry didn’t record anything,” Amberlyn says as she toggles between clips from different CCTV cameras. “Let me see if I can find us a good close-up of the van’s licence plate number from another angle.”
Uncle Glen narrows his eyes at me. “Charlie?”
“Yeah.” I chew on my lower lip, recalling the strange mess of ropes and tape that the beaten-up van carries within, and the distinct damages on its outside. “That van. I think it belongs to the magician from that magic shop we went to.”
“Schooling,” Ashraf says. “Are you saying that’s Charlie in the van?”
My eyes shut and just like sitting in a cinema patiently waiting for the movie to start, the images of memories come to me. Rolling my eyes and laughing at a lame joke Charlie cracks; turning into the old HDB estate and finding a parking spot in the outdoor public car park; manually rolling up the windows before getting out of the vehicle; turning to look back at Charlie as he quickly double-checks that he locked the doors; glimpsing at the front of the van, which lies half in shadow since we are parked under the generous shade of a large pong pong tree.
And seeing its dirty, mud-splattered licence plate.
I see it now in my mind’s eye, as clear as a photograph.
“GBA8153K,” I say. I hear a gasp and open my eyes.
Both inspectors wear sombre expressions on their faces. Amberlyn is tapping a fingernail on the monitor, which is zoomed in tight on the vehicle’s blurry licence plate, the figures and shapes still clear enough to make out.
GBA8153K.
TWELVE
THERE IS NOW an official nationwide manhunt for both the pastor and the goth magician. They were playing us the whole time, and we didn’t even know it. Amberlyn’s walkie-talkie crackles loudly just as the police sergeant walks back into the room at Headquarters. She shakes her head grimly. “Both Pastor Lye and Charles Jiang have proven elusive. We’ve not been able to find them at their places of work or residences.”
Hunched behind a laptop, Uncle Glen furiously scrubs his tired face with his large hands. He looks like he practically aged overnight. “This kid, Charlie, is a delinquent. Just look at his outstanding juvie record: shoplifting, vandalism, public nuisance, burglary, stealing motorcycles, driving without a licence, selling bootleg cigarettes… And his father’s a professional criminal too! He’s that dodgy accountant in Changi Prison for siphoning almost twenty-six million dollars over a period of thirteen years.”
I frown. “But that still doesn’t make Charlie a killer.”
Ashraf drops on the table the small stack of grainy pictures of Charlie behind the wheel of the van, which highway speed cameras captured over the last few months. “I remember his father. Christopher Jiang was working for Crossfront Church as an accountant. Talk is that he’s actually the Lye family’s fall guy, paid to shoulder all the blame so they could get CPIB off their backs.”
Looking out of the window, I slowly sip the small cup of hot Milo I bought from the vending machine along the corridor, and suddenly remember the patched-up newspaper article pasted on Charlie’s wall. I’ve tried calling his mobile number, but he’s not picking up, so the police can’t triangulate his location. But why would he want to hurt my best friend? What beef did he have against CK? How did he even know where CK was?
Amberlyn perches on the corner of the large table, and takes a slow chug from her tall can of cold coffee. She nods at the spill of photographs on the table with a thoughtful expression.
“That company vehicle Charlie Jiang is driving was purchased by Edgar Lam and registered to his shop,” she says. “Everything’s connected somehow. But my instincts tell me that this troubled teenager is not a killer. Angry at the world, sure, and I don’t know why he’d kidnap CK. But we should refocus on trying to find their whereabouts.”
“Just a thought,” I say, swirling the murky brown residue in my Styrofoam cup, which accurately reflects my mixed feelings about this entire thing. “Did you guys try Pulau Ubin? Charlie’s got a close connection to the island. His grandmother owns a house there, in one of the old kampongs.”
Uncle Glen bolts up. “They must be keeping Chun Kiat there!”
“You’re staying here, bro.” Ashraf sits him back down. “You’re too emotional right now, and it’s too easy to make this personal.”
Amberlyn nods. “I’ll go with the others and I’ll update you guys if we find anything.”
Uncle Glen clearly wrestles with his demons before finally nodding his head sullenly.
Starting for the door, she unclips her crackling walkie-talkie. “This is Sergeant Amberlyn Ng of CID requesting immediate assistance from ICA for a manhunt. Suspect’s name is Charles Jiang and may be hiding out on Pulau Ubin. I repeat. Pulau Ubin.”
*
We continue to pore over all our collated information about the Spectre. I study the faces of his five victims: a beer promoter from a completely different social class, who seemingly triumphed over her drug-addicted past; a young man who was a stellar example of what being a big brother is all about; a volunteer gay youth counsellor vocal about the plight of the minority; a passionate citizen journalist with a popular blog; and Lenny Lye’s own wife and business partner. What triggers a wealthy pastor, someone with everything, to kill these people?
Wait. Lam? Did Amberlyn say Lam? “Why did Amberlyn say Edgar’s surname is Lam?”
“I’m sure she misspoke,” Uncle Glen says, not looking up from his laptop.
“No, I’m quite sure she didn’t.”
“I’m sure it’s Lye, like his twin brother,” Ashraf says with a shrug. “Why does it matter?”
I close my eyes and see it all again, that old picture in the dusty glass display cabinet of The Little Magic Shop featuring the brothers in their smart tuxedos. The charming Lennard with his dramatically arched brow and piercing gaze with perfect double eyelids. The grinning Edgar with an open-mouthed Tanuki puppet in hand. If not for Uncle Eddie’s single eyelid on one side, the twins would have been perfect identical copies of each other. My eyes open.
“That old photo of them at the store. Their last name was credited as Lam, not Lye. I thought it was a misprint at first, until Amberlyn brought it up just now.”
“Hmm.” Uncle Glen pokes at his keyboard and then looks up. “You’re right.”
“Twins with two different surnames?” Ashraf moves over to look at the laptop screen.
“The pastor apparently took on his wife’s surname, instead of the other way round.” Uncle Glen squints as he hunches closer to the screen, his fingers working faster this time as he runs another search. “The brothers grew up in an orphanage and were later sent to different families for adoption when they were nine years old. Edgar was adopted by a middle-class merchant family where the childless couple, Mr and Mrs Lam, ran an import/export business from their warehouse on Old Tampines Road. Lenny was adopted by a wealthy elderly couple, Dr and Mrs Lye, eventually marrying their only child, a girl older than him by six years—”
“Mrs Nancy Lye!” I pace the room. “So that’s what the pastor’s wife meant that day in the church office. She said, ‘The cruel man abandoned us, even after everything my parents gave him’, because Lenny married into her family and inherited everything from her parents!”
Ashraf scratches his head. “So the elder Lyes adopted Lenny and fixed him up in an arranged marriage with their daughter, and he took on Nancy’s surname. You Chinese people so complex lah. It’s always about losing face and saving face and what have you. Is having a boy in the family so important? Just to continue the family name?”
“Abang, that’s the olden days, okay?” Uncle Glen says. “No one really does this kind of thing any more. But this goes to show how close the twin brothers are, to have been in close contact after all this time despite being separated at such a young age.”
Both Ashraf’s and Uncle Glen’s walkie-talkies suddenly crackle and pop. It sounds a lot like Amberlyn’s muffled voice.
“Go ahead,” Ashraf says, as Uncle Glen gets up from his chair.
Biting my lower lip, I cross my fingers for good news. While I don’t want Charlie to be the felon that everyone says he is, I really do want CK back.
“Records from ICA confirm that Charles Jiang is on Pulau Ubin. And he is not alone. They’ve found him. He apparently tried to resist arrest and even hit a few of our CID colleagues, but they have apprehended him. I’m on my way there now on a ferry, but I’ve been informed that they found a dead body with him. Identity is still unconfirmed. Reception on the island is sketchy because of the approaching storm, so I will update you guys when I have a visual confirmation. Over.”
A body on Pulau Ubin? What does that mean? Is she saying that CK is dead? That Charlie really killed him? He’s the real Spectre? I turn to look at the inspectors, but both policemen are expressionless.
“Roger that. Over,” Ashraf says quietly.
Free from the static of the walkie-talkie, the room is silent except for the soft hum of the central air-conditioning from the vents.
Uncle Glen is still. Too still.
Suddenly he yells and punches a hole through the drywall in front of us, sending bits of plywood and plaster flying everywhere. Ashraf grabs his partner and tackles him to the floor, holding him down on the carpet, yelling at him to calm down and breathe, but it is all in vain. Uncle Glen’s eyes are crazed, showing too much of the whites. I step away, looking at both grown-ups struggle, not knowing what to do or how to help. Or even how to feel about it all.
My phone beeps, a most welcome distraction. It is a reminder for my unread WhatsApp message from an unfamiliar number. I open the app and see that it is just a text from Jon’s girlfriend saying we should really meet up soon. I roll my eyes at all the cheesy smiley faces and heart emojis in Gigi’s message. Who texts such things at this time of the night, to people they barely know? And my completely besotted cousin actually passed her my number, despite Aunt Theresa’s strong objections. What an idiot. “Seriously?”
Before I can put the phone away, it buzzes again. This time, it’s a notification from the security cam app that CK installed for me. I tap it open and see a clear view of my darkened living room from the vantage point of the hidden wireless camera.
A small willowy figure slips through the open bay window, the one I stupidly forgot to close in my hurry last night after getting Michael’s call about CK’s disappearance. The cautious burglar tiptoes in and starts milling around the house, eventually coming across my open journal on the coffee table.
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“What the effing hell?” I squint, feeling an uneasiness creep over me.
The intruder takes out a mobile phone and begins snapping pictures of all my written entries, only stopping on the very last page when a suspicious Albatross approaches. Growling fiercely as he limps forward, my brave dog starts barking loudly and baring his teeth aggressively. This immediately scares the housebreaker into action, and Gigi looks directly into the camera as she makes her escape, leaving the same way she entered, with apparently exactly what she came for.
THIRTEEN
CHARLIE IS IN handcuffs, rain dripping from the curly dark mess that is his hair. Two sombre constables, one sporting an obvious black eye, are marching him in by the elbow. He does not see me, but I witness them dragging him along like a prisoner doing the long walk of shame, towards a room at the end of the corridor where Ashraf says the young man will be interrogated. I feel a lurch in my chest and turn away, feeling torn between my illogical infatuation for this handsome Ah Beng and the undying loyalty I have for my missing best friend.
“Hey, guys.” Amberlyn walks up to us, a wet motorcycle helmet tucked securely under her arm. “Where’s Glen? I need to speak with him right now.”
“He’s in the toilet,” Ashraf says, nodding his chin in the direction of the long corridor. “He had an…episode, so I told him to go wash his face and cool down before—”
A sudden shout followed by the commotion of a fight comes from the interrogation room. In a flash, both Ashraf and Amberlyn sprint towards the racket and I follow quickly behind them. It sounds a lot like Uncle Glen screaming.
“You murdering bastard! Give me back my son! What the hell did Chun Kiat ever do to you? Why did you kill my poor sweet boy like you murdered those other people? Answer me!” Uncle Glen roars, kicking his legs in violent protest as his two colleagues pull him off Charlie, who is lying crumpled on the corridor floor. The teenager is sporting a new welt on his cheek and is bleeding from a split lip. My best friend’s father spits at him. “You’ll hang for this, you bastard! And when you go to prison, I’ll make sure you wish you were never born. Do you hear me? You’ll wish you were never born!”