The Eight Curious Cases of Inspector Zhang (8 page)

“So you pushed her under the water?”

Wong shook his head. “I didn't mean to kill her, but it was the only way I could stop her. She fell into the bath and I knelt on her and tried to pull the knife away but she kept struggling. Then suddenly she went still.”

“And Miss Yu, what was she doing while this was going on?”

“She was hysterical,” said Wong. She was sitting on the floor, crying and shaking. It wasn't her fault, Inspector. Shirley didn't do anything wrong.”

“She covered up a murder, Mr. Wong,” said Inspector Zhang quietly.

“We had no choice,” said Mr. Wong.

“And the key? The key that your wife used to let herself into the apartment. You took it?”

“She must have been planning it for ages because she had made a copy of the key I used. And last night I couldn't find my keycard to get into the building. Celia had taken it. She followed me to the building and then used the keycard to get in and the key to get into the apartment.”

“And after she was dead, you took the key and the keycard?”

“I knew that if you found them you would find the apartment,” said Mr. Wong. “I didn't mean to kill her, Inspector Zhang.”

“But you did,” said Sergeant Lee.

“It was an accident,” said Mr. Wong.

“But throwing her off the building wasn't,” said Inspector Zhang. “That was quite deliberate.”

“I had to give myself an alibi,” said Mr. Wong. He put his head in his hands. “I didn't want to do it, and neither did Shirley. But we knew that if my wife's body was found then I'd be the obvious suspect.” He looked up at the inspector. “It's true, isn't it? Most murders are committed by family members?”

“Or work colleagues. Or neighbours. Yes, that is true. It is very rare for someone to be killed by a stranger.”

“That was what I told Shirley. If you found my wife and I didn't have an alibi then I would be the obvious suspect. But if she died when I was in my apartment, then I would be in the clear.”

“Your mistress and your wife are not dissimilar in appearance, which enabled the deception,” said the inspector.

Mr. Wong nodded. “That was what gave me the idea,” he said. “We removed the clothes she was wearing and then we dried her hair and redressed her in one of Shirley's dresses. Shirley changed into a similar dress and then we carried my wife to the roof. Then I went home. I made some phone calls and then I knocked on the door of the flat next door and asked Mr. Diswani to turn down the volume of their television set.” Mr. Wong smiled. “I caused quite a scene.”

“You wanted the neighbour to remember you, so that he would confirm your alibi.”

Mr. Wong nodded. “It worked, didn't it?”

“That part of your plan did, yes,” said Inspector Zhang. “Once you had established your alibi, your mistress stood on the edge of the roof to attract the attention of passers-by.”

“She was so high up, no one would know that it wasn't my wife. Then she tipped Celia's body over and went back to her apartment.”

“It was a very good plan,” said Inspector Zhang. “But not good enough.” He nodded at the two uniformed policemen. “Take him away,” he said.

One of the policemen handcuffed Mr. Wong and he was led out of the front door.

“What will happen to them, do you think?” asked the sergeant.

“That is up to a judge,” said Inspector Zhang. “But I don't think that any court will believe that drowning is a valid means of self-defence. Drowning takes time. He must have held her under the water long after his wife had let go off the knife.” He shuddered. “But as I said, that is not our concern.”

He walked towards the door and they went down together to a waiting police car.

“When did you first suspect the husband, Inspector Zhang?” asked Sergeant Lee, following Inspector Zhang into the car.

“The second time we saw him,” said the inspector. “When I asked him about the cut on his hand he had a sticking plaster, remember?

“He said that he had cut himself when he was cooking.”

“Yes, that's what he said. But he was right-handed, and the cut was on his right hand. I couldn't help wonder how someone right-handed could cut themselves on the right hand.”

“He could have done that picking up the knife, or if the knife had slipped.”

Inspector Zhang nodded and pushed his spectacles further up on his nose. “But it was the plaster, rather than the wound, that was the real clue that something was amiss.”

“The plaster?” repeated Sergeant Lee. “It was a regular sticking plaster, I thought.”

“Yes it was,” said the inspector. “It was a small flesh-coloured plaster, nothing out of the ordinary about it. But when I went to the bathroom, I looked in the first aid cupboard and the plasters there were the transparent kind. A different brand completely.”

“Ah,” said Sergeant Lee.

“So it seemed obvious to me that if the plaster had come from somewhere else, then there was every possibility that he was lying about the circumstances that had led to him receiving the wound. And lies, I always say, are like cockroaches. For every one that you see, there are ten that are hidden.”

“And when you checked the first aid cabinet in Miss Yu's bathroom, you saw the same brand of plaster that Mr. Wong had used.”

“Exactly. Which meant that he must have been in her apartment when he was injured.”

Sergeant Lee nodded and scribbled in her notebook.

“What are you writing?” asked the inspector.

“I write down everything you tell me, Inspector Zhang. So that I won't forget.”

“Perhaps one day you will write about my cases, become my Dr. Watson.”

Sergeant Lee smiled. “That would be an honour, Inspector Zhang, because you are most certainly my Sherlock Holmes.”

Inspector Zhang beamed with pride but said nothing.

INSPECTOR ZHANG AND THE DEAD THAI GANGSTER

Inspector Zhang looked out through the window at the fields far below. There was so much land, he thought, compared with his own Singapore. The near four million population of the island state was crowded into just 253 square miles and there was little in the way of green space. But Thailand had green in abundance, criss-crossed with roads and dotted with small farms, and in the distance, mountains shrouded in mist. He closed his book with a sigh. It would soon be time to land.

“Are you okay, Inspector?” asked Sergeant Lee, removing her headphones. She was twenty-four years old, and was wearing her hair long for a change, probably because while they were on the plane they weren't strictly speaking on duty even though they had been sent to Bangkok by the Singapore Police Force.

“Of course,” said Inspector Zhang. “Why would I be otherwise?”

“I don't think you like flying,” she said. “You did not eat the meal, you have not availed yourself of the in-flight entertainment system, and you seem – distracted.”

Inspector Zhang shook his head. “I am fine with flying,” he said. “In fact I have a Singapore Airlines frequent flyer card. Two years ago I flew to London with my wife, and the year before that we went to visit relatives of hers in Hong Kong.”

“London?” she said. “You went to London?”

“Just for a week,” he said. “It was always my dream to visit 221B Baker Street, and to follow the trail of Jack the Ripper.”

“Who lives at 221B Baker Street?” asked the Sergeant.

“Why Sherlock Holmes, of course,” said Inspector Zhang. “Though I have to say that it was something of a disappointment to discover that in fact there is no 221B and that the only building that comes close is the home of a bank.” He shrugged. “But it was fascinating to see where the evil Ripper plied his trade and to follow in his footsteps.”

“He was a serial killer in Victorian London, wasn't he?”

“And never caught,” said Inspector Zhang. He sighed. “What I would give to be on a case like that, to pit my wits against an adversary of such evil. Can you imagine the thrill of the chase, Sergeant?”

“I'm just glad that I live in Singapore, where we have one of the lowest crime rates in the world.”

“For which we are all thankful, of course,” said Inspector Zhang. “But it does tend to make a detective's life somewhat dull.” He sighed again. “Still, I have my books.”

“What have you been reading, sir?” asked Sergeant Lee.

Inspector Zhang held up the book so that she could see the cover.
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
by Agatha Christie. “It is one of my favourites,” he said. “It is the book that introduces the greatest of all detectives, Hercule Poirot. I never tire of reading it.”

“But if you've already read it then you know how it ends,” said Sergeant Lee. “There is no mystery.”

“The solution is only part of the enjoyment of reading mystery stories,” said Inspector Zhang, putting the book into his briefcase. “Agatha Christie wrote thirty novels featuring Poirot, and I have read them all several times.”

She frowned. “I thought that Sherlock Holmes was the greatest detective, not Poirot.”

“There are those who say that, of course,” said Inspector Zhang. “But I would say that Sherlock Holmes relied more on physical evidence whereas Hercule Poirot more often than not reached his conclusions by astute questioning.” He tapped the side of his head. “By using ze little grey cells,” he said, in his best Hercule Poirot impression.

The plane shuddered as the landing gear went down.

“Have you ever travelled abroad for work before, Inspector?” asked Sergeant Lee.

“This is the first time,” said Inspector Zhang. He had been asked to fly to Thailand to collect a Singaporean businessman who was being extradited on fraud charges. At first the fraudster had fought his extradition but he had been denied bail and after two weeks in a crowded Thai prison he had practically begged to go home. He was facing seven years in Changi Prison and as bad as Changi was it was a hotel compared with a Thai prison where thirty men to a cell and an open hole in the floor as a toilet were the norm. Inspector Zhang had been told to take an assistant with him and he had experienced no hesitation in choosing Sergeant Lee, though he had felt himself blush a little when he had explained to his wife that the pretty young officer would be accompanying him. Not that there had been any need to blush, Inspector Zhang had been married for thirty years and in all that time he had never even considered being unfaithful. It simply wasn't in his nature. He had fallen in love with his wife on the day that he'd met her and if anything he loved her even more now. He had chosen Sergeant Lee because she was one of the most able detectives on the force, albeit one of the youngest.

The plane kissed the runway and the air brakes kicked in and Inspector Zhang felt his seat belt cutting into his stomach. The jet turned off the runway and began to taxi towards the terminal, a jagged line of wave-like peaks in the distance.

“And this is your first time in Thailand?” asked Sergeant Lee.

“I've been to Thailand with my wife, but we flew straight to Phuket,” he said. “I have never been to Bangkok before.”

“It is an amazing city,” said Sergeant Lee. “And so big. I read on the internet that more than eight million people live there.”

“Twice the population of Singapore,” said Inspector Zhang. “But the crime rate here is much, much higher than ours. Every year the city has five thousand murders and at least twenty thousand assaults. In Singapore we are lucky if we have two murders in a month.”

Sergeant Lee raised a single eyebrow, a trick that the Inspector had never managed to master. “Lucky, Inspector Zhang?”

“Perhaps lucky is not the right word,” admitted Inspector Zhang, though if he was completely honest the inspector would have had to admit that he would have welcomed the opportunity to make more use of his detective skills. In Singapore unsolved murders were a rarity, but he knew that in Bangkok hundreds went unsolved every year.

The plane came to a halt on the taxiway and the captain's voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry but there will be a slight delay before we commence disembarkation,” he said. “And in the meantime, would Inspector Zhang of the Singapore Police Force please make himself known to a member of the cabin staff.”

“That's you,” said Sergeant Lee excitedly.

“Yes, it is,” said Inspector Zhang.

Sergeant Lee waved at a stewardess and pointed at Inspector Zhang. “This is him.” She said. “Inspector Zhang of the Singapore Police Force. And I am his colleague, Sergeant Lee.”

The stewardess bent down to put her lips close to his ear and Inspector Zhang caught a whiff of jasmine. “Inspector Zhang, the captain would like a word with you,” she said.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“The captain can explain,” she said, and flashed him a professional smile.

Inspector Zhang looked across at Sergeant Lee. “I think you had better come with me,” he said. “It can only be a police matter.” He pulled his briefcase out from under the seat in front of him, put his book away and then followed the stewardess down the aisle with Sergeant Lee at his heels. There was a male steward wearing a dark grey suit standing at the curtain and he held it back for them to go through the galley to the business class section. Three stewardesses were gathered in the galley, whispering to each other. Inspector Zhang could see from their worried faces that something was very wrong.

“What has happened?” Inspector Zhang asked the steward. He was wearing a badge that identified him as the Chief Purser, Stanley Yip.

“The captain would like to talk to you,” said the steward. “He is by the cockpit.” He moved aside a second curtain and motioned for the inspector to go through.

There were thirty seats in the business class section, two seats at each window and a row of two in the middle. A large Indian man wearing a crisp white shirt with black and yellow epaulettes was standing by the toilet at the head of the cabin, talking to a stewardess. He looked up and saw Inspector Zhang and waved for him to join him. “I am Captain Kumar,” said the pilot, holding out his hand. He was at least six inches taller than Inspector Zhang with muscular forearms and a thick moustache and jet black hair.