Inspector Singh Investigates by Shamini Flint Page B

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.

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    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