Inspector Zhang Gets His Wish

by Stephen Leather

  INSPECTOR ZHANG GETS HIS WISH

  Stephen Leather

  ****

  Inspector Zhang’s thick-lensed spectacles misted over as he stepped out of the air-conditioned Toyota and into the cloying Singapore night air. He peered up at the luxury five-star hotel, took out a handkerchief and carefully polished his glasses as he waited for Sergeant Lee to lock the car. They walked into the hotel together and rode up in a mirrored elevator to the sixth floor. The door whispered open and Inspector Zhang stepped out onto a thick scarlet carpet, the colour of fresh blood. “Which way, Sergeant?” he asked. Sergeant Lee was in her mid twenties, with her hair tied up in a bun that made her look older than her twenty-four years. She had only been working with Inspector Zhang for two months and was still anxious to please. She frowned at her notebook, then looked at the two signs on the wall facing them. “Room Six Three Four,” she said, and pointed to the left. “This way, Sir.”

  Inspector Zhang walked slowly down the corridor. He was wearing his second-best grey suit and pale yellow silk tie with light blue squares on it that his wife had given him the previous Christmas and his well-polished shoes glistened under the hallway nights. He had been at home when he had received the call and he had dressed quickly, wanting to be first on the scene. It wasn’t every day that a detective got to deal with a murder case in squeaky-clean Singapore.

  They reached room Six Three Four and Inspector Zhang knocked on the door. It was opened by a blonde woman in her mid-thirties who glared at him as if he was about to try to sell her life insurance. Inspector Zhang flashed his warrant card. “I am Inspector Zhang of the Singapore Police Force,” he said. “I am with the CID at New Bridge Road.” He nodded at his companion. “This is Detective Sergeant Lee.”

  The sergeant took out her warrant card and showed it to the woman who nodded and opened the door wider. “Please come in, we’re trying not to alarm our guests,” she said.

  Inspector Zhang and Sergeant Lee slipped into the room and the woman closed the door. There were four other people in the room – a tall Westerner and a stocky Indian wearing black suits, a pretty young Chinese girl also in a black suit and a white-jacketed waiter. The waiter was standing next to a trolley covered with a white cloth.

  The woman who had opened the door offered her hand to the inspector. “I am Geraldine Berghuis,” she said, “I am the manager.” She was in her thirties with eyebrows plucked so finely that they were just thin lines above her piercing blue eyes. She was wearing an elegant green suit that looked as if it had been made to measure and there was a string of large pearls around her neck. She had several diamond rings on her fingers but her wedding finger was bare. Inspector Zhang shook her hand. Miss Berghuis gestured at a tall, bald man in an expensive suit. “This is Mr. Christopher Mercier, our head of security.” Mr. Mercier did not offer his hand, but nodded curtly.

  The manager waved her hand at the Indian man and the Chinese woman. “Mr. Ramanan and Miss Xue were on the desk tonight,” she said. “They are both assistant managers.”

  They both nodded at Inspector Zhang and smiled nervously. Ramanan was in his early forties and the girl appeared to be half his age. They both wore silver name badges and had matching neatly-folded handkerchiefs in their top pockets. Inspector Zhang nodded back and then looked at the waiter. “And you are?” Inspector Zhang asked.

  “Mr. CK Chau,” answered Miss Berghuis. “He delivered Mr. Wilkinson’s room service order and discovered the body.” The waiter nodded in agreement.

  Inspector Zhang looked around the room. “I see no body,” he said.

  Miss Berghuis pointed at a side door. “Through there,” she said. “This is one of our suites, we have a sitting room and a separate bedroom.”

  “Please be so good as to show me the deceased,” said Inspector Zhang.

  The manager took the two detectives through to a large bedroom. The curtains were drawn and the lights were on. Lying on the king-size bed with his feet hanging over the edge was a naked man. It was a Westerner, Inspector Zhang realised immediately, a big man with a mountainous stomach and a pool of blood that had soaked into the sheet around his head.

  “Peter Wilkinson,” said Miss Berghuis. “He is an American, and one of our VIP guests. He stays at our hotel once a month. He owns a company which distributes plastic products in the United States and stays in Singapore en route to his factories in China.”

  Inspector Zhang leant over the bed and peered at the body, nodding thoughtfully. He could see a puncture wound just under the chin and the chest was covered with blood. “One wound,” he said. “It appears to have ruptured a vein but not the carotid artery or there would have been much more blood spurting.” He looked across at the sergeant. “Carotid blood spray is very distinctive,” he said. “I think in this case we have venous bleeding. He would have taken a minute or so to bleed to death, whereas if the artery had been severed death would have been almost instantaneous.”

  The sergeant nodded and scribbled in her notebook.

  “Note the blood over the chest,” continued the inspector. “That could have only happened if he was upright so we can therefore deduce that he was standing up when he was stabbed and that he then fell or was pushed back onto the bed.” He walked around to look at the bedside table. On it was a wallet and a gold Rolex watch. Inspector Zhang took a ballpoint pen from his inside pocket and used it to flip open the wallet. Inside was a thick wad of notes and half a dozen credit cards, all gold or platinum. “I think we can safely rule out robbery as a motive,” he said.

  Sergeant Lee scribbled in her notebook.

  Inspector Zhang walked back into the sitting room. Miss Berghuis and Sergeant Lee followed him.

  “So, what time did you discover the body?” Inspector Zhang asked the waiter.

  “About ten o’clock,” said the manager, before the waiter could answer. “Mr. Chau called down to reception and we came straight up.”

  “By we, you mean the front desk staff?”

  “Myself, Mr. Mercier, Mr. Ramanan and Miss Xue.”

  Ramanan and Xue nodded at the inspector but said nothing. Miss Xue looked over at the bedroom door fearfully, as if she expected the dead man to appear at any moment.

  Inspector Zhang nodded thoughtfully. “The corridor is covered by CCTV, of course?”

  “Of course,” said the manager.

  “Then I would first like to review the recording,” said the inspector.

  “Mr. Mercier can take you down to our security room,” said Miss Berghuis.

  “Excellent,” said Inspector Zhang. He looked across at his sergeant. “Sergeant Lee, if you would stay here and take the details of everyone in the room, I will be back shortly. Make sure that nobody leaves and that the crime scene is not disturbed.”

  “Shall I call in Forensics, Inspector Zhang?” asked the sergeant.

  “Later, Sergeant Lee. First things first.”

  Inspector Zhang and Mercier left the suite and went down in the elevator to the ground floor. Mercier took the inspector behind the front desk and into a small windowless room where there was a desk with a large computer monitor. On the wall behind the desk were another three large monitors each showing the views from twenty different cameras around the hotel.

  Mercier sat down and his expensively-manicured fingers played over the keyboard. A view of the corridor on the sixth floor filled the main screen. “What time do you want to look at?” asked Mercier.

  “Do we know what time Mr. Wilkinson went to his room?” asked the inspector.

  “About half past eight, I think,” said Mercier.

  “Start at eight twenty and run it on fast forward if that’s possible,” said Inspector Zhang.

>   Mercier tapped on the keyboard. The time code at the bottom of the screen showed 8.20 and then the seconds flicked by quickly. The elevator doors opened and a big man and a small Asian woman came out.

  “That’s him,” said Mercier. He pressed a button and the video slowed to its proper speed.

  Wilkinson was wearing a dark suit with a Mao collar. His companion was a pretty Asian girl in her twenties with waist-length black hair wearing a tight white mini dress cut low to reveal large breasts. She was holding Wilkinson’s hand and laughing at something he had said.

  “Freeze that please,” said Inspector Zhang as Wilkinson and the girl reached the door to the suite.

  Mercier did as he was told and Inspector Zhang peered at the screen. He recognised the woman. “Ah, the lovely Ms. Lulu,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “You know her?”

  “She is an escort for one of the city’s more expensive agencies and when she isn’t escorting she can be found in one of the bars in Orchard Towers looking for customers.” The woman was wearing impossibly high heels but she barely reached Wilkinson’s shoulder.

  “The Four Floors of Whores?” said Mercier. “She’s a prostitute?”

  “Come now, Mr. Mercier, as head of security in a five-star hotel you must surely have your share of nocturnal visitors,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “We have a policy of not allowing visitors in guests’ rooms after midnight,” said Mercier primly.

  “And I’m sure that your guests adhere to that policy,” said Inspector Zhang. He looked at the time code on the video. “Ms. Lulu is from Thailand, though she travels to Singapore using a variety of names. Now, from the time code we can see that Mr. Wilkinson and Ms. Lulu arrived at eight thirty. Can you now please advance the video until the time she left the room?”

  Mercier tapped a key and the video began to fast-forward. Guests moved back and forth up and down the corridor, hotel staff whizzed by, but the door stayed resolutely closed. Then at nine thirty on the dot the door opened and Ms. Lulu slipped out. Mercier slowed the video to real time and they watched as she tottered down the corridor in her stiletto heels.

  “So we can assume that Mr. Wilkinson paid her for one hour,” said Inspector Zhang. “Now, when did Mr. Wilkinson order room service?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Mercier. “We will have to talk to the waiter.”

  “Then please fast-forward until the waiter arrives with the trolley.”

  Mercier did as he was told. At five minutes before ten the waiter appeared in the corridor, pushing a trolley. He knocked on the door, then knocked again.

  “What is the hotel policy if the guest does not open his door?” asked Inspector Zhang.

  “If the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is on then the member of staff will phone through to the room. If it isn’t then it’s acceptable to use their key.”

  The waiter knocked again, then used his key card to open the door. Inspector Zhang made a note of the time. It was nine-fifty eight.

  “And at what time did the waiter call down to reception to say that he had found Mr. Wilkinson dead on the bed?”

  “Just before ten,” said Mercier. “You’ll have to ask Miss Berghuis. She’ll know for sure.”

  They watched the screen. After a minute or so the waiter appeared at the doorway. He stood there, shaking, his arms folded, then he paced back and forth across the corridor. The time code showed 10.03 when Miss Berghuis appeared, followed by her staff. They hurried into the room.

  Mercier pressed a button to freeze the screen and pointed at the time code. “Three minutes past ten,” he said. “No one went in or out of the room except for Mr. Wilkinson and his guest. His guest left at nine-thirty and the next time he was seen, he was dead.”

  Inspector Zhang nodded thoughtfully as he put away his notebook. “So, please, let us go back to the room. I have seen everything that I need to see.”

  They went back to the sixth floor. Two uniformed police officers had arrived and were standing guard at the door to the suite. They nodded and moved aside to allow the inspector and Mercier inside.

  Sergeant Lee was scribbling in her notebook and she looked up as Inspector Zhang walked into the room. “I have everyone’s details, Sir,” she said.

  “Excellent,” said the inspector, striding towards the bedroom. “Come with me please, Sergeant Lee. Everyone else please remain where you are. I shall return shortly.”

  Sergeant Lee followed the inspector into the bedroom and he closed the door behind them and then looked at her, barely able to control his excitement. “Do you know what we have here, Sergeant Lee?”

  The Sergeant looked at the body on the bed. “A murder, sir?”

  Inspector Zhang sighed. “Oh, it’s much more than that, Sergeant. What we have here is a locked room mystery.”

  The Sergeant shrugged, but didn’t say anything.

  “Do you know how long I’ve waited for a locked room mystery, Sergeant Lee?”

  She shrugged again. “No, Sir.”

  “My whole life,” said Inspector Zhang, answering his own question. “We have no unsolved murders in Singapore, and precious few mysteries.” He sighed. “At times like this I wish I had a deerstalker hat and a pipe.”

  “Smoking isn’t permitted in public buildings, Inspector,” said Sergeant Lee.

  “I know that,” said Inspector Zhang. “I’m simply saying that a pipe would add to the effect, as would a faithful bloodhound, tugging at its leash.”

  “And hotels in Singapore do not allow pets, Sir,” said Sergeant Lee.

  Inspector Zhang sighed mournfully. “You’re missing the point,” he said. “The point is that that we have a dead body in a room that was locked from the inside. A room that no one entered during the time that the victim was murdered. Sergeant Lee, we have a mystery that needs to be solved.”

  “Shall I notify the forensics department, inspector?” asked Sergeant Lee.

  “Forensics?” repeated Inspector Zhang. “Have you no soul, Sergeant Lee? This is not a mystery to be solved by science.” He tapped the side of his head. “Zis is a matter for ze little grey cells.” It wasn’t a great Poirot impression, but Inspector Zhang thought it satisfactory. Sergeant Lee just found it confusing and she frowned like a baby about to burst into tears. “Let me look around first, then we’ll decide whether or not we need forensics,” added Inspector Zhang, in his normal voice.

  “Sir, that is not procedure,” said Sergeant Lee.

  “Indeed it is not, but we shall inform them in due course. However, I would first like to examine the crime scene.” He turned to look at the body. “So what do we have?” mused Inspector Zhang. “We have a dead body on a bed. We have a wound, but no weapon. We have a room that was locked from the inside. We have sealed windows and no way in and out other than through a door into a corridor that is constantly monitored by CCTV.” He shivered. “Oh, Sergeant Lee, do you not appreciate the beauty of this situation?”

  “A man is dead, Inspector Zhang.”

  “Yes, exactly. He is dead and somewhere there is a killer and it is up to me to find that killer.” He looked over her and smiled like a benevolent uncle. “For us to solve,” he said, correcting himself. “You will be Watson to my Holmes, Lewis to my Morse.”

  “Robin to your Batman?” suggested Sergeant Lee.

  Inspector Zhang peered at her through his thick-lensed spectacles as he tried to work out if she was mocking him, but she was smiling without guile and so he nodded slowly. “Yes, perhaps,” he said. “But without the masks and capes. You know that Batman made his first appearance in Detective Comics way back in 1939?”

  “I didn’t know that,” said the Sergeant, scribbling in her notebook.

  “And that he is sometimes referred to as the World’s Greatest Detective, which I always considered to be hyperbole.”

  Sergeant Lee continued to scribble in her notebook. “What are you writing, Sergeant Lee?” he asked.

  She blushed. “Nothing,” she said, and put her no
tebook away.

  Inspector Zhang nodded slowly and walked slowly around the room. “I assume you are not familiar with the work of John Dickson Carr?” he said.

  Sergeant Lee shook her head.

  “He was a great American writer who wrote dozens of detective stories and most of them were locked room mysteries. He created a hero called Dr. Gideon Fell, and it was Dr. Fell who solved the crimes.”

  Sergeant Lee tapped the side of her head. “By using ze little grey cells,” she said, in a halfway passable French accent.

  Inspector Zhang smiled. “Exactly,” he said. “Now, in his book ‘The Hollow Man’, itself a locked room mystery, John Dickson Carr used Dr. Fell to expound his seven explanations that lead to a locked room murder.” He nodded at his Sergeant. “You might want to make a note of them, Sergeant Lee,” he said. “Now come with me.” They went back into the sitting room. Miss Berghuis was sitting on the sofa next to Mercier. The waiter was standing close to the door as if he was keen to get out of the suite as quickly as possible. The two assistant managers stood by the desk in the corner of the room, looking at each other nervously.

  Inspector Zhang walked to the window and stood with his back to it. “So, I have now examined the CCTV footage covering the corridor outside this room, and I have examined the crime scene.” Sergeant Lee fumbled for her notebook as Inspector Zhang continued. “The CCTV footage shows that Mr. Wilkinson arrived at his room with a guest at eight-thirty and that his guest, a young woman who is known to the police, left exactly one hour later. What I need to know is when Mr. Wilkinson ordered from room service.”

  “That will be on the bill, inspector,” said Miss Berghuis. She went over to the trolley and picked up a small leather folder and took out a slip of paper. She studied it, and nodded. “The order was placed at nine thirty-six,” she said.

  “Excellent,” said the inspector. “So from that we can assume that Mr. Wilkinson was killed sometime between the placing of the order at nine thirty-six and the arrival of the order at nine fifty-five.” He frowned. “That does seem remarkably quick, Miss Berghuis.”

  The manager smiled. “Inspector, we are a five-star hotel. And Mr. Wilkinson ordered only a club sandwich and a pot of coffee. Hardly a challenge for our chefs.”