Inspector Zhang And The Dead Thai Gangster by Stephen Leather

INSPECTOR ZHANG AND THE DEAD THAI GANGSTER
    Stephen Leather
    ****
     
    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