Inspector Singh Investigates (17 page)

Nineteen

Rupert Winfield checked into the Mandarin Oriental. It was not his usual sort of hotel. He much preferred backpacker hangouts. On the other hand, this was not his usual sort of visit to the city. His plan required that he reinvent himself, albeit briefly, as the sort of man who stayed at luxury hotels and wore expensive, tailored suits. Rupert pulled back the curtains and gazed at the Twin Towers. They were so close he felt that he could lean out of the window and touch them. The glass pane was reinforced, though, and there was no way of opening it. He knew the proximity was an illusion created by the sheer size of the buildings opposite. He supposed they were beautiful, these immense monuments to man's ability to dominate nature. There was an appeal in feeling separate and powerful, almost God–like in talent and achievement, when compared with the other creatures on earth.

But Rupert had become accustomed to the Penan way. For them, nature was all powerful. Their ability to survive depended on a symbiotic relationship with the jungle around them – not a parasitic one. Rupert wondered why the parasites who lived in cities did not understand the most fundamental tenet of nature – that a parasite eventually kills its host. Did these people not know that if they continued to feed and spread and grow, with the tendrils of their greed wrapping themselves around their host, the day would come when it could no longer sustain them and when it died they would too? How much better was the Penan way that posed no threat to its surroundings? Their practice of
molong –
never taking more than they needed – was in such desperate contrast to the people he could see far below, scurrying about their acquisitive businesses, never content with what they had, always wanting more.

He had never dreamed that the quiet nomadic jungle folk would appeal to some emptiness in his heart and draw him into their culture and traditions. Rupert remembered that they had bestowed on him the honorific title
laki Penan,
which meant 'Penan man'. It was intended as an honour and received by him as such. But these quiet people, in their animal skin clothes with their diet of sago, were not to be left alone to wander through the lush jungles, living off the land, leaving no mark when they moved on, teaching their children the secrets of the forests. The greed of others could not coexist with the selflessness of the Penan with their gentle humour and generous hearts.

Rupert wondered whether it was really necessary for the timber companies to log their way through the Penan's tramping grounds. He suspected they did it not just because of their voracious appetite for hardwoods and the money it brought in, but because of a visceral fear that someday they might have to acknowledge that they were wrong. Everything they had sought and bought had not brought them happiness, let alone contentment. A jungle people dressed in loincloths had known best. It was better to destroy the potential source of such unpalatable truths than have them live to witness the lives of quiet desperation of their tormentors.

He wandered into the luxurious bathroom, almost tripping over the bedding on the floor. He had been forced to sleep on the carpeted floor because the bed was too soft for someone accustomed to hard earth beds or the wooden planks of a native longhouse floor. Not that he was sleeping much anyway. Recent events weighed on him too much. It reminded him of the times he had played with the Penan children and they had wrestled with him and sat on his chest until he was short of breath, laughing and giggling with their
laki Penan
, secretly proud that they were brave enough to take such liberties with someone from the outside world.

Rupert had a long bath and a close shave. He looked at himself in the vast mirror. His body was thin and wiry, without a spare ounce of flesh. There was a random collection of scar tissue of many shapes and sizes. The jungle was dangerous for the uninitiated. Still, he had learnt the tricks of survival and there were fewer recent scars than old marks. His learning curve was etched on his body. He cupped his smooth chin in one hand. It looked peculiar. His jaw was several shades lighter than the rest of his weather–beaten face. It was the best he could do. Rupert shrugged. He had learnt from the Penan not to sweat the things he could not change.

The doorbell rang and he slipped on a dressing gown and went to answer it. It was the hairdresser he had asked to be sent up. He slipped the newspapers out of the cloth bag hanging on the door and sat down to read the latest details on the Lee family scandals while his hair was neatly trimmed for him. It served to keep him abreast of developments but also indicated to the stylist that he was not in the mood for small talk. A second ring was the delivery of the suit he had ordered. He had been fitted for it the previous day and it was ready, as had been promised, within twenty–four hours. Amazing what efficiencies the pursuit of material wealth could engender, thought Rupert while smiling at the man and paying him.

Singh despised himself for his choice of words. 'We have bad news. There's been an accident.'

He had used them before, stood at other doorsteps with information that would crush the recipient and been unable to forewarn or to prepare the ground for what he needed to disclose, except with such triteness.

Watching Chelsea's face drain of blood was like watching the tide go out in fast forward. She at least understood that this was the opening line in a tragedy. She could not speak. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Singh knew he had to break the news to her – but he could not bring himself to do it. This was not one of those instances where knowing was better than not knowing. Ignorance was the last scintilla of protection this woman had.

It was Mohammad who stepped in. He said, reaching out to her and then letting his hand fall to his side, 'It's about Marcus. He's been in an accident ... a car accident.'

'Is ... is he ... dead?'

Singh took hold of Chelsea by her upper arm. She did not seem to notice. Her eyes were fixed on

Mohammad's face, trying to read his answer, to anticipate it in that second before he spoke again.

He said, 'No, he's still alive. But it doesn't look good.'

Mohammad had said enough to spur Chelsea into action. She had only taken in the first part. Marcus was still alive. If he was alive, he needed his mother and she needed to get to him.

She said frantically, 'Where is he?'

Singh said, 'Come, we'll take you.'

Shukor was waiting with the car. Mohammad climbed in the front and Chelsea and Singh slid in the back. Shukor set off immediately, slipping the siren onto the roof and weaving through traffic.

Chelsea asked, unnaturally calm, only the fingernails digging into her palms giving away her anxiety, 'What happened?'

Singh said, 'The details are sketchy. He went off a bridge and ended up in a river. He was rescued by people on the banks, just before the car was submerged entirely, and taken to hospital.'

He did not say, there was no need to add to her pain, that eyewitnesses had insisted that the car had accelerated and swerved towards the barriers intentionally.

But Chelsea Liew was no fool. She asked, 'Did he do it on purpose?'

Mohammad interjected from the front, 'Why would you think that?' He was still the policeman on the trail of a murderer.

She was not in the mood for mind games with the police. 'You must have seen the newspapers,' she said tiredly.

Singh answered her original question quietly. 'There's some evidence that it wasn't an accident.'

Chelsea shielded her eyes with a hand and leaned her head against the window.

In twenty minutes they were at the hospital. Shukor dropped them at the main entrance and the small, ill–assorted group of people hurried in. Mohammad, familiar with the layout of the hospital from previous visits in the line of duty, took them directly to the intensive care unit. Chelsea looked around desperately, trying to distinguish her son amongst the patients lying in the ward, all bristling with tubes and wires and bandages and completely unrecognisable.

Mohammad showed his police ID to the nurse at the reception, a matronly figure with iron–grey hair and an air of hard competence, and asked in a low voice, 'Marcus Lee?'

She looked down at the chart on her desk, running a neatly trimmed, unvarnished nail down the list of patients. Chelsea looked at her in agony.

The nurse said, 'He's not here. He's been taken downstairs for emergency surgery. There's a lot to do. They won't be out for a while yet.' And then she glanced at Chelsea and her face softened. She had children of her own. She said, 'There's a waiting room outside the OT – the operating theatre. You can wait there. I'm sure the doctors will be out to tell you how it is going as soon as possible. I will send word down that the family is here.'

Chelsea nodded, her eyes revealing her gratitude.

They turned to leave and the nurse asked, 'Will there be other family arriving? The father?'

Singh wondered if the nurse was the only person in Kuala Lumpur who did not recognise the woman in front of her nor know who the boy on the operating table was.

Chelsea shook her head – she was not expecting anyone else – and went to look for her son.

Kian Min felt pleased with himself. He had heard that Douglas Wee had been picked up by the police. That should act as a warning to him not to mess with the new boss of Lee Timber. Bloody Alan, though –he had not expected that the bastard would sign a contract with the Chinese conglomerate. It was annoying that even from the grave he could ruin well–laid plans for the expansion of the business. Kian Min preferred the Hong Kong company as a partner in the bio–fuels venture purely on commercial grounds. He suspected that Alan had probably been swayed not by Douglas Wee's business acumen but by the combination of prostitutes and alcohol that he wielded so well. Douglas had offered the same entertainment to Kian Min, but he was not interested. Kian Min did not seek the pleasures of the flesh. His thrills were derived from a deal executed, a rival trampled or an opportunity spotted. Women were trouble and not much else. One only had to look at what had happened to Alan – and see his weaknesses manifest in the next generation, if there was any truth in these newspaper reports about Marcus. Kian Min remembered that Marcus, under the Lee patriarch's trust, would inherit the company when he died and felt a flash of irritation. The boy seemed as feckless as his father.

His secretary walked in quietly. He looked up, inquiring but also impatient.

She said, 'I've just had a call, sir. Your nephew, Marcus Lee, has been in an accident. He might not survive.'

She watched him carefully but he gave no outward sign of having heard. She continued uncertainly, 'I'm so sorry, sir. Is there anything you would like me to do?'

'Do? No, you can go. Unless there's anything else.'

She shook her head and walked out, closing the door with the faintest of clicks behind her. He really was a bastard.

Kian Min looked pleased. It looked like Marcus might not live to inherit after all. Perhaps one of Alan's other sons was made of sterner stuff.

Chelsea was alone. The policemen had left. Singh had been reluctant to leave but unable to think of an excuse to hang around. Chelsea called home and explained to the other two boys that she would be late getting back. She sounded normal, cheerful. It was only after she hung up that she allowed herself the luxury of tears. But she quickly dried them. While Marcus was alive she would continue to be strong, even if the foundations of her strength were crumbling under the weight of events.

A shadow fell across her and she looked up. It was Sharifah. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was tied up under a scarf. She was dressed in a
baju kurung
but the top half and the bottom were from different pairs. Chelsea thought cynically that if she had set out to look as different as possible from the young woman in the morning's papers she could not have succeeded better.

But then she saw the apprehension in the girl's eyes and felt a wave of compassion wash over her. It had a cleansing effect. It soaked away the last of the ill feeling Chelsea had for this foolish girl.

Sharifah asked, 'I heard on the radio. Is there any news?'

Chelsea shook her head. 'He's still in surgery. I haven't spoken to a doctor yet.'

As if on cue, a doctor in green scrubs and a face mask walked out of the swing doors leading to the operating theatre.

He looked at the two women and inquired politely, as if they were acquaintances who had bumped into each other at an airport somewhere, 'Marcus Lee's family?'

Chelsea said, 'I'm his mother. How is he? Tell me please!'

The doctor sighed, his thick glasses reflecting the bright lights and obscuring his eyes. 'Well, he survived the surgery. It was touch and go.'

Again, Chelsea sifted through the words and latched on to those she wanted to hear. 'He survived? He's going to be all right?'

The surgeon shifted uncomfortably. He had been standing for a long time, bending over the broken body of a young man, trying to fix and rearrange, stitch and join. It was exhausting. His lower back ached, and his neck too, from the strain of the surgery. But he would rather have gone through the whole thing again than discuss a critical case with family.

He said, 'It's too early to tell. He has a lot of impact injuries, a ruptured spleen, collapsed lung, dislocated shoulder, a few broken bones, including all the fingers in his right hand.'

'My God,' said Sharifah in a hushed tone, the magnitude of Marcus's injuries overwhelming her for a moment.

The doctor continued, 'The only reason he survived the accident is that all the airbags in the car deployed on contact with the water. It just cushioned him enough – or the impact would have killed him on the spot.'

Chelsea looked at the blood on the green overalls of the surgeon and felt sick to the stomach. That was Marcus's blood, all over this man. She could taste the bile in the back of her throat and it reminded her of the terrible morning sickness she had suffered when pregnant with Marcus. She had been so ill and yet so proud when he was born.