Inspector Singh Investigates by Shamini Flint Page A

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