Inspector Zhang And The Falling Woman (2 page)

"Definitely not," said Inspector Zhang. "News like this has to be broken in person, and in a sympathetic manner. Do you have your car?"

"I do, inspector."

"Then you shall drive," said Inspector Zhang. "My wife has taken my car."

It took Sergeant Lee twenty minutes to drive to Yio Chu Kang. Inspector Zhang was pleasantly surprised at her driving skills, she was neither too slow nor two fast and she made good use of her rear view mirror and side mirrors. She parked confidently in a space only a few feet wider than her Honda Civic.

They climbed out and looked up at the building.
 
Inspector Zhang realised that his sergeant was right, it was an HDB block, cheap housing provided by the Government for those on low incomes.

They walked over to the main entrance. The intercom system was old and showing signs of wear with several buttons missing. Sergeant Lee pressed the button for Mr. Wong’s apartment and there was a buzzing noise. A few seconds later a man asked who was there.

Sergeant Lee put her face close to the intercom. "This is Sergeant Lee of the Singapore Police Force," she said. "I am with Inspector Zhang. We are with the CID at New Bridge Road."

"It’s late, what do you want?"

"Are you Mr. Wong?" asked Sergeant Lee.

"Yes."

"And your wife is Celia Wong?"

"Is my wife all right? Has something happened?"

"We’d like to come in and talk to you, Mr. Wong. It would be easier if we could talk to you face to face."

The door buzzed and Sergeant Lee pushed it open. They walked to the elevator and went up to the sixth floor. Wong already had the door to his apartment open. He was wearing a black silk dressing gown and red pyjamas with gold dragons on them. "What’s wrong?" he asked. "Is my wife all right? I’ve been phoning her all night but she isn’t answering her phone."

"Can we come in please?" asked Inspector Zhang.

Mr. Wong opened the door wide and let them into his apartment. He was in his mid-thirties, tall with a neatly-trimmed goatee beard. The inspector and Sergeant Lee walked through to a sitting room that was barely large enough to hold two sofas and a circular dining table.
  
The window was wide open and a soft breeze blew in from outside. There was a small LCD television on a rosewood table showing a football match, the sound muted. "Look, tell me what’s going on," said Wong.

"I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Mr. Wong," said Inspector Zhang. "It might be best if you sat down."

Mr. Wong did as the inspector asked and sat down on an overstuffed sofa. Sergeant Lee sat on a rosewood chair but Inspector Zhang remained standing. "Where is your wife, Mr. Wong?" asked Inspector Zhang. "Where did she go?"

"She said she was going out to see a friend, but that was hours ago."

"Who is the friend?"

"I don’t know. She didn’t say. She just said that she would be back in two hours but that was ages. Look, has something happened? Is she in trouble?"

"Your wife died earlier tonight, Mr. Wong. I am so sorry."

Mr. Wong’s eyes narrowed and then he looked across at Sergeant Lee. "She what?" he asked, but the sergeant said nothing. Sergeant Lee looked at Inspector Zhang. He was the superior officer so it was up to him to do the talking.

"She fell from a building," said Inspector Zhang. "I am so sorry for your loss."

Mr. Wong shook his head. "No, there’s some mistake," he said. "My wife went to a restaurant. She was having dinner." He frowned. "What building?"

"An apartment building in River Valley."

"Then there’s definitely been a mistake, my wife wouldn’t have any reason to go to River Valley."

"Where did your wife say she was going, Mr. Wong?" asked Inspector Zhang.

"I don’t know. She didn’t say which restaurant."

"Then how do you know she wasn’t going to River Valley?"

"Because she doesn’t have any friends there. If she did, I’d know."

"Mr. Wong, we found your wife’s handbag." He took Mrs. Wong’s NRI card from his pocket and gave it to Mr. Wong.
 
Mr. Wong stared at it, his lower lip trembling.

"Mr. Wong, I’m sorry but I have to ask. Was your wife upset about something?"

Mr. Wong continued to stare at the card.

"Mr. Wong, was your wife upset about something?" repeated the inspector.

Mr. Wong looked up, frowning. "Upset?"

"We think she deliberately jumped off the building. But there was no note."

"My wife did not kill herself.
 
Why would you say that?"

"It wasn’t an accident," said Inspector Zhang.

"How can you possibly know that? You said she didn’t leave a note. Suicides always leave notes, don’t they?"

"Not always." Inspector Zhang took a deep breath. "Mr. Wong, I know that your wife killed herself because I was there," he said.

"You were there?”

"In River Valley. I saw her jump."

A tear ran down Mr. Wong’s left cheek.

"I’m sorry, Mr. Wong, there is no doubt. It is your wife."

Another tear trickled down Mr. Wong’s face,
then
he hunched forward and buried his face in his hands. He began to sob quietly.

Sergeant Lee looked over at Inspector Zhang. He forced a smile. Sergeant Lee got up and went to sit on the sofa next to Mr. Wong. She put her arm around him. Inspector Zhang sighed, but didn’t say anything. It was not procedure to offer physical comfort to the recently bereaved, but Sergeant Lee was young and relatively inexperienced and a woman. He made a mental note to mention it to her later.

"We’re very sorry," whispered Sergeant Lee.

Mr. Wong cried for several minutes, then he suddenly got up off the sofa and rushed to the kitchen. He reappeared shortly afterwards, dabbing at his face with a piece of kitchen towel. "Is it okay for me to have a drink?" he asked Inspector Zhang.

"Of course," said Inspector Zhang.

Mr. Wong went over to a cupboard, poured himself a large measure of brandy and sat down again. He took a long drink, his hands trembling. "What happens now?" he asked.

"At some point you will have to go to the Forensic Medicine Department to identify the body, but that is a formality. It is definitely her, I am afraid. Then you need to contact a funeral director to make arrangements."

Mr. Wong nodded at the inspector and dabbed at his eyes again.

"Mr. Wong, I know this is painful for you, but I do have some questions for you," said Inspector Zhang. "Was your wife troubled in any way?"

"She was having problems at work," said Mr. Wong. "She works for an import-export business and they were about to downsize. She was worried she might lose her job."

"And where do you work, Mr. Wong?"

"At the airport. I work in the baggage handling department."

"And were you and your wife having any problems?"

"What are you suggesting?" said Mr. Wong. "Are you saying that you think my wife killed herself because of me?"

Inspector Zhang held up his hands. "Absolutely not, Mr. Wong, but it would be helpful if we knew what her state of mind was when she was on the roof."

"Why? She’s dead. That’s the end of it. She killed herself, why do you need to know what she was thinking? Will knowing bring her back?" He sniffed and wiped his eyes.

Inspector Zhang grimaced. "It’s my job, I’m sorry. It’s just..."
 
He left the sentence unfinished.

"What?" said Mr.
Wong.

Inspector Zhang shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "The thing is Mr. Wong, people either want to kill themselves, or they don’t. Those that do tend to just do it. They write a note, usually, and then they do what they have to do. But there are others for whom suicide is a cry for help, they want attention, they want to be noticed, they want to talk."

"So?"

"So your wife is unusual in that she did both. She was talking, she was shouting that she wanted to jump, and then she did. That is a rarity. Once they start to talk, they usually continue. That is why we have negotiating teams who are trained to deal with a person in crisis." He shrugged. "Anyway, I shall not intrude on your grief any longer.
 
Someone from the Forensic Medicine Department will call you to arrange a viewing."

"A viewing?"

"To identify the body. That has to be done by a relative."

Mr. Wong didn’t get up and Inspector Zhang and Sergeant Lee saw themselves out.

"Would you like to know something, Sergeant Lee?" asked the inspector, as they walked out of the building.

"Of course," said the sergeant.

"I never trust a man with a goatee beard," he said. "I’m not sure why, but there is something inherently deceitful about a man who spends an inordinate amount of time shaping his facial hair, don’t you think?"

Sergeant Lee frowned. "I’ve never given it much thought," she said.

"You should, Sergeant," said the inspector.

Sergeant Lee took out her notebook and scribbled in it.

Inspector Zhang was at his desk at exactly nine o’clock the following day.
 
He sat down and logged on to his terminal and checked his email. There was nothing of any importance.
 
He flicked through his copy of the
Straits Times
. The story of Celia Wong’s suicide was on page seven, a mere three paragraphs that looked as if they had come straight from the police blotter. His telephone rang and he picked it up. "Inspector Zhang? This is Dr. Choi from the Forensic Medicine Division."

"Dr. Choi. How are you?"
 
Inspector Zhang had known Maggie Choi for almost fifteen years but she always used his title when she addressed him and he always returned the courtesy. She was in her late thirties, a slightly overweight lady with a moon face and like Inspector Zhang hampered by poor eyesight.

"I am fine, Inspector Zhang, thank you for asking. I am calling about the body that you sent to us last night."

"Ah yes. Celia Wong."

"That’s correct.
Twenty-seven year old Chinese female.
I’m calling to notify you about the cause of death."

"I don’t think there’s much doubt about that, Dr. Choi," said Inspector Zhang. "I was there when she fell."

"Oh, her injuries were catastrophic, there is no question of that," said the doctor. "But they weren’t the cause of death. They were post-mortem."

"That’s interesting," said the inspector, sitting up straight.

"Drowning was the cause of death."

"Drowning?" repeated Inspector Zhang, unable to believe his ears.

"Her lungs were full of water."

As Inspector Zhang took down the details in his notebook, Sergeant Lee arrived, carrying a cup of Starbucks coffee.
 
Inspector Zhang put down the phone and blinked at his sergeant. "Sergeant Lee, we have ourselves a mystery," he said.

"A mystery?" repeated Sergeant Lee.

"An impossible mystery," said Inspector Zhang, "and they are the best." He took off his spectacles and leant back in his chair as he polished the lenses with his handkerchief.
 
"An impossible mystery is just that, a mystery where something impossible has happened. In this case, Mrs. Wong jumped from the building but the fall did not kill her."