A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder Page 7

  The dew hung like individual teardrops at the tip of each leaf. A fine mist reduced visibility slightly. It was still cool. It would take a while for the sun to penetrate the canopy and warm the jungle at ground level. A nightjar brushed the cheek of one of the men as it rushed home to bed. He flinched slightly. It was an unlucky bird, an ill omen to see on an expedition. They were walking single file along the riverbank. On their left, the muddy brown Rajang moved sluggishly through Borneo towards the South China Sea. A sudden excited chattering broke the stillness of the jungle. The men, acting of one mind, stopped in their tracks. Overhead, a group of macaque monkeys, disturbed by the appearance of their simian cousins, gesticulated excitedly. They soon got tired of this sport and made off as a unit deeper into the jungle. The men started again, keeping their eyes peeled, scanning the horizon for telltale signs of human activity. They kept a close eye on the river, wary of crocodiles masquerading as logs, on the lookout for an easy breakfast.

  Chelsea Liew’s eyes flashed. There were spots of high colour on her cheeks. She was wearing a headscarf, worn by pious Moslem women to indicate modesty and religiosity. It was a common enough sight in Malaysia where growing numbers of Moslem women had adopted the headdress worn around the head, all hair tucked away and invisible, with a full cloak reaching almost to waist level, draping the upper body. Pressure from menfolk, peer pressure, genuine choice – it was difficult to know why so many women had adopted the stricter Islamic code of dress, although the full burqa was still fairly uncommon. Those dressed in the black, shapeless gowns, with black socks, shoes, gloves and an opaque veil, tended to be part of the huge contingent of oil-rich, Arab tourists who came to Malaysia to shop for designer clothes to wear under their black coveralls.

  Chelsea Liew wore a transparent gossamer headscarf lined with beads. Her hair peeped out enticingly. It could hardly have been the intention of the Syariah court, in insisting on a mandatory head covering for women appearing before the court, whether Moslem or not, to enhance the appeal of the wearer. But that was what they had achieved in the case of Chelsea Liew. The difference between observing the letter and the spirit of the law was crystal clear when viewed in the context of Chelsea’s headgear.

  Chelsea’s relief at her release from prison had immediately turned sour. She had gone home to her children. They had asked her no questions, too thankful to have their mother back to question the manner of her return. It was as if the boys had decided that to know too much would tempt fate – they sealed themselves from the past by remaining ignorant of it. Chelsea knew that at least Marcus, the eldest boy, knew that she was out of jail because their uncle had confessed – it was in all the newspapers. But she acquiesced in his withdrawn silence, thankful for the respite from the immediate past.

  And then she had received an official document from the Syariah court requiring her presence at a custody hearing regarding her children. Apparently, the Islamic Council felt it necessary to seek custody of her children, the offspring of a Moslem man, rather than have them brought up by a non-Moslem mother. It was their view that the children would be better off fostered in a Moslem home and they had applied to the Syariah court that the children be placed with Moslem caregivers.

  Chelsea had frantically consulted her lawyers only to discover that they did not have locus standi, the right to appear, before the Syariah court. Their practice was wholly before the parallel civil jurisdiction that held sway in Malaysia over most matters except that of Moslem family law. Her lawyers could advise but they could not appear. Finally, she had found a Moslem lawyer to represent her and they had arrived for the hearing only to be barred at the door. Her clothing, knee-length skirt and jacket over long-sleeved blouse, was not modest enough for the presiding judge. Her lawyer had hastily arranged a twenty-four-hour adjournment. Chelsea was now dressed in the customary Malay dress, the baju kurung, a shapeless long-sleeved knee-length blouse with a closed neck, a long maxi-skirt and the required scarf.

  In the end, in the manner of all courts, religious or secular, the hearing was postponed. The judge, dressed in long black robes and sporting the fist-length beard believed by some Moslems to be required of their religion, was anxious to usher them all out of his courtroom. The law and his personal sympathies were pulling in opposite directions. He would give everyone a few weeks to mull things over.

  Outside, the rain beat down. The sky was an impenetrable dark grey. Crashes of thunder followed hard on the heels of bolts of lightning that lit up the heavens and caused the air around them to tingle with electricity. The weather required a grander denouement than a postponement of a hearing. This was a storm more appropriate to families pulled asunder by the majesty of the law. At least the rain had thinned the ranks of waiting reporters. A few stood huddled together, under voluminous raincoats, next to the main entrance of the beautiful courthouse building. Chelsea deliberately unwound her head covering, shook out her hair and stuffed the scarf into her handbag.

  The inspector had found out about the hearing from the newspapers and decided to attend. He had a curiosity about this woman as well as a concern. Looking at the teeming downpour, Singh did not have much hope of summoning one of the beat-up red and white taxis that plied the streets. There was hardly any traffic on the roads, an unusual occurrence in Kuala Lumpur. Everyone was driven to look for cover – trying to avoid one of the flash floods that regularly beset the city, a foreseeable, but ignored, consequence of the continuous frenzied building without adequate drainage for the monsoons. The inspector glanced at Chelsea and caught her eye. She shouted to be heard above the rain and beckoned imperiously, her summons emphasised by a clap of thunder. ‘Come with me. I want to talk to you!’

  Docilely, he walked over and her chauffeur held a large golf umbrella over his head and ushered him into the Mercedes Benz. This was a different woman from the creature whom he had first met behind bars. That Chelsea had been tired, defeated and regretful at having tilted against her husband’s wealth and influence. But now, free, rested and in a battle to maintain custody of her children, the indomitable woman he had sensed even in her darkest hours was back. And, free from prison and no longer a suspect in her ex-husband’s murder, she had been allowed to resume the trappings of his wealth – the car, the clothes, the chauffeur. He did not begrudge her a cent of it. She had paid for the accoutrements of the rich in blood and tears. Of all the things that Alan Lee had done to thwart her, Shukor had told him, he had not made a will, and her children were now entitled to much of his money, except for the ownership of Lee Timber, which went to Kian Min. She, Chelsea, had her divorce settlement. If it was determined that Alan had died a Moslem, his money would devolve in accordance with Syariah rules and include chunks for his parents and siblings. However, most of it would be reserved for his children. Even if he had left a will, as a Moslem he would not have been permitted to give away all of his property as he wished. No doubt an unforeseen consequence of his conversion, thought Chelsea cynically. Even if a will did turn up and he had left all his money to whichever woman he was sleeping with at the time of making it, his becoming Moslem would protect the children. Not that having access to his money would be of any use to her if her ex-husband managed to extend an arm from beyond the grave and snatch her kids away. Her lips thinned into a straight line. She was not going to lose her children.

  Inspector Singh sat next to her on the cream leather seats in the back of the car but did not say a word. He was happy to let her break the silence when she was ready. There was a reason she had asked him along. She would come to it eventually.

  The inspector’s superiors in Singapore had got wind that Chelsea was a free woman and were insisting that he get back to Singapore. He was booked on an evening flight that day. He was glad that he would have a chance to speak to Chelsea Liew before he left. He needed to get a sense, for his own peace of mind, that she had the tools and courage to fight.

  The electric gates of the Lee residence drew open and the Mercedes purred into the driveway.
The gates immediately closed behind them. He could see the closed-circuit television cameras on every promontory, covering every angle. In the distance he could hear the deep sound of big dogs barking. There was a guard dog contingent on the premises.

  Chelsea must have guessed the direction his thoughts were taking because she said, ‘Didn’t do him much good, did it?’

  She nodded her head in the general direction of the barking dogs to indicate what she meant.

  ‘Where exactly was he killed?’ asked the inspector. ‘I know it was in the vicinity of the house.’

  She nodded coolly. ‘Yes, he was shot about two hundred yards down the road. If the car was needed to go and pick up one of the children from school, the driver sometimes dropped him off at the bottom of the hill. Whoever killed him knew that.’

  They were out of the car now and walking in the main door. Two children ran down the stairs and then pulled up short when they saw their mother had a guest. The inspector tried to smile at them in a friendly manner, but it was more of a nervous grimace. It was a long time since he had interacted with children. They glared at him, indifferent to his overtures.

  Chelsea said, ‘Boys, I have a guest I need to talk with. Will you both go upstairs and play for a while?’

  The younger boy asked, ‘Is he going to take you away?’

  She said calmly, ‘Of course not.’

  Beside her, the inspector shook his head to emphasise her denial.

  The boys turned and went back up the stairs, dragging their heels to indicate a general reluctance. Chelsea watched them go, an indecipherable expression on her face.

  Then she turned to the inspector and said in a sprightly tone, ‘Tea?’

  She was interrupted by the appearance of a surly youth.

  Chelsea said, ‘Inspector Singh, this is my eldest son, Marcus.’

  Singh stood up and held out his hand. Marcus looked at him in disdain and walked out of the room.

  Singh watched him go. He turned to the widow. ‘Kids, eh?’

  Jasper still had the courage of his convictions but his physical courage was flagging. He was photographed, thumb-printed, had his rights read to him and was charged with the murder of his brother. Now he was in a holding pen with various members of the Kuala Lumpur criminal fraternity and they scared him. He sat on the floor in the corner of the cell trying not to catch the eye of any of his cellmates. They ranged from a Chinese gang member, whose dragon tattoo foraged up his arm and curled around his neck, to a large, Indian man with a jet-black moustache and pockmarked face, brooding in a corner. The majority of his cellmates appeared from their accents to be Indonesians, part of the large contingent of illegal immigrants in Malaysia. Some turned to crime to supplement their income from the menial jobs that Malaysians, after fifty years of economic growth, felt were beneath them. Others were merely convenient scapegoats. These wiry, brown men with lined faces worked on construction sites, manned the rubber and oil palm plantations and operated the pumps at petrol kiosks the length and breadth of the country. They were both relied upon and abused at the same time. Those who turned to crime gave the rest a bad name. Jasper was reminded of the line from the movie Casablanca where the police ‘rounded up the usual suspects’. It seemed the practice was still rife. At least, he thought, the government should be proud that their efforts to integrate the various races in Malaysia into a cohesive society were bearing such fruit. It was a very multi-racial group that was penned in together.

  Nine

  Inspector Singh sipped his tea from a delicate bone-china teacup. The fragile thing looked out of place in his large, grubby hand and his forefinger barely fitted through the handle. However, he was a guest and the Indonesian maid who ran the kitchen knew better than to exercise discretion in the choice of crockery.

  Across from him, Chelsea also sipped her tea. He could smell it – it was a fragrant green tea. He hated the stuff, give him a strong black tea any day, but the smell was like a slice of heaven. Singh noticed that Chelsea’s fingernails were trimmed and glossy, but colourless. She had found time for a manicure. Her hair too was trimmed and shining although still coiled in a bun on her head. As he stared at her she pulled off the jewelled clips and her hair cascaded down her shoulders. He was sure that he had seen a TV shampoo advertisement once where she had done the same thing. The hairclips looked like rabbit traps with their long teeth and spring-loaded action.

  Chelsea shook out her hair and said, ‘You have no idea how wonderful it is to be clean! I’ve been scrubbing for days to get prison off my skin.’

  He did not respond. Inspector Singh was not the sort to indulge in small talk. Not when murder was the subtext of the conversation.

  Chelsea changed tactics smoothly. She said, ‘You must be wondering why I asked you back here. Now that you’ve done your job and I’m free.’

  He shrugged to indicate a willingness to hear her out but also to deny anything as crude as curiosity.

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘What can I do?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘I want you to clear Jasper. You know, find out who actually killed Alan.’

  ‘I am a policeman from Singapore, not a private investigator for hire,’ he said crossly. ‘My flight back is booked for tonight.’

  ‘You have to stay.’

  ‘I can’t! And anyway, even if I did, I would be of no use to you. I was sent here to look after your interests. You’re out of jail. My job is done.’ He added as an honest afterthought, ‘Not that your getting out had anything to do with me in the end.’

  She did not say anything. The rigidity of her shoulders was the only sign of her tension.

  The inspector asked, ‘Why me?’

  She looked at him, eyes pleading. ‘I don’t know anyone else with the skills to find a criminal, a murderer. And I trust you to look out for my interests.’

  ‘What makes you think you can trust me?’

  She did not answer. He knew she was right though. She could trust him. Somehow or other she had gotten under his skin.

  He said heavily, ‘I could lose my job!’

  A twig snapped underfoot and the leader turned to glare at his companions. He was distracted from censuring the culprit by the sight that he was looking for – a thin, curling wisp of smoke in the distance. He pointed at it with his thumb, an affectation belonging to a past where he had been punished for pointing because his parents thought it rude. The men made their way until they could smell the cooking fire. With a wave of one hand, the leader indicated that the men were to spread out. They did, splitting into two columns and surrounding the small native encampment. The Penan, a nomadic tribe who wander about the Borneo rainforest in small communal groups, were gathered around a small river turtle being turned on a spit. Except for one or two young men who were wearing T-shirts, the men wore loincloths and the women were bare breasted. All were barefoot. It was a cheerful breakfast get-together. Old women cackled with toothless laughter. A wizened old man was telling a story in a high, quavering voice to a group of young men who were largely ignoring him. A young woman deftly lifted the spit and sliced the turtle onto a large banana leaf.

  The men surrounding them waited for the signal. It came in the form of a sudden yell from their leader. They rushed into the encampment, scattering the gathered crowd. Women fled into the jungle clutching their children. A few men tried to protest. They were thrown to the ground and clubbed with thick wooden staffs. The old Penan man sat cowering, never moving from his spot. One of the men unstrapped the jerry can on his back and began to pour petrol over the area. He set the whole place on fire, stopping for a moment to admire his handiwork.

  The leader grabbed the old man by the arm and yanked him to his feet. He shouted at him in Malay, ‘You understand me?’

  The old man nodded, his terror showing through cataract-filled eyes.

  A young, pregnant woman, with long black hair and a gentle face, rushed over to his aid. She stood in front of the old man and glared at the intru
ders.

  The leader grabbed her by the arm and yanked her towards him. He said, ‘Go! Take your filthy kind and leave this place. If we see a Penan in this jungle, we will kill him. And we will hunt down his tribe and kill them too! Do you understand?’

  The woman managed a nod.

  She was flung back to the ground. She landed awkwardly and yelped with pain. The old man bent over her. The leader kicked him once in the knee for good measure. He fell. The man aimed another kick at him. He rolled over to escape. The pregnant woman took the whole weight of the boot. She curled up silently, trying to protect her stomach and the unborn child within.

  The leader gave a whistle and his men fell in behind him. He led them back into the jungle, well satisfied. That had been quick and easy. But there were other communities to track down.

  The Penan do not have many possessions. They have lived for generations in the Borneo forests in harmony with their environment, taking what they need from the jungle, leaving no footprint but that of bare feet on muddy earth washed away with each rain. It was not difficult for them to regroup and move deeper into the forest. They would not be missed and traces of their ephemeral presence would soon be erased.

  Inspector Singh took a leave of absence. He had accumulated a lot of leave – hardly ever having taken time off in the course of his career. His superiors did not ask him what he intended to do. If they had and if he was honest, they would have ordered him back to Singapore at once. Instead he implied that there was some sort of family crisis involving his sister. And since he was on the spot, he felt he should take a few days off and try and fix the problem.

  Having been sent to try and avert a scandal, Inspector Singh was now well placed to become one himself. For, against his better judgement, he had agreed to Chelsea’s request to stay on and try and help Jasper Lee. It was an absurd assignment. Even more ridiculous than his original remit to keep an eye on Chelsea and make sure she got a modicum of due process. At least she had always protested her innocence. Second time around, he was being asked to look out for a man who had blithely confessed to being a murderer. Singh had heard Jasper with his own ears – unforced, willing even – admit to shooting a man. Not just any man but his brother. Surely a man deserved to hang for holding his own blood so cheap?