Rich kill poor kill, p.18
Rich Kill. Poor Kill, page 18
The barman peeled off the receipt and waved the small, white piece of paper in the air. His shock was giving way to triumphalism. The woman at the bar had been pretty. He wanted the monster caught too.
Low took the receipt slowly, savouring the sensation, allowing the euphoria to take over. These rare moments gave him reasons to live. He needed these moments not for their highs, but to hang on to them during the lows.
He turned it over.
“Talek Maxwell. That’s his name? Talek Maxwell.”
Low was already on his way towards the raised, carpeted area. The receipt drove the mania, but it wouldn’t last. He had to sustain the high with another hit, to hold off the descent. He was so close now. Another hit might be enough, another high to keep him tuned in.
Low leaned in to the subdued party spread across the Persian carpet. He faced Birthday Guy, the man of the hour, the previous hour, before the screaming had started. Now he was an empty shell in an expensive shirt, like everyone else in the bar.
“Hey, it’s your birthday, right,” Low said, talking quickly, almost incoherently.
“Er, yeah, why? Who are you?”
Birthday Guy shifted his weight to the other side of the cushion. The chilled, seated area with low tables and oversized pillows created a Zen vibe and sore arses.
“I’m Detective Inspector Low. Some of you saw me outside already, but you never come outside, right?”
“No, it’s my birthday.”
“Happy birthday. What’s your name?”
“Mark.”
“How long you been here, Mark?”
“Most of the night. We came here straight from work.”
“Great. And there’s how many in your group, five, six?”
“I think there’s eight of us.”
Low took in the party: four white male faces and four brown female faces, all drunk, all sheepish.
“Take out your phones, all of you.”
The drooping faces around the table hesitated.
“Now.”
Reluctantly, they complied. Low went for Mark’s phone. “Show me your photos.”
“Why?”
“Say ‘why’ again and I’ll arrest you for being a public nuisance.”
“Excuse me, officer. I’m not being a public nuisance.”
“You will be when I drag you down the street by your balls, now show me your photo gallery.”
Mark unlocked the phone and handed it over. Low scanned the gallery before throwing the phone on the table.
“Bullshit.”
“What?”
“Where’s the other one?”
“What?”
“The phone, bastard, the phone. That one got photos of your family. Your family is not here. This is your other family, right? That’s fine. I don’t give a shit. Two families, two phones. Give me the other one.”
Mark pulled a second phone from the other pocket in his trousers and handed it over.
“You guys think you’re so clever, so original, but I see you guys every day. I see you women every day. Normally you entertain me. Give me target practice, but today I don’t care. Today, I just want photos. I bet it’s not even your birthday today right?”
Mark fiddled with his other phone.
“Right?”
Mark shook his head.
“Nope, of course not. You’ll have the nice family meal next week, maybe Raffles, maybe Marina Bay, put up the photos for your friends back home, show them your all-year tans, show them how successful you are in your hot, sunny country and then they can look at you from their freezing country and hate you a little bit more, right? Ah, look at this. Lots of party photos. Look at that one.”
Low held up the phone for Mark and his friends.
“Got your shirt off in that one. And that one got tequila shots, and that one got this one kissing that one. Ooh and that got you molesting that one. And there you are, behind your secret birthday cake ready to blow out your secret candles at your secret party.”
Low froze.
He had found them.
They were over the right shoulder of the idiotic ang moh blowing out the candles. She was closer, sitting on that stool, turning away from the camera, her long black hair flowing down her back. But he was facing her, facing the camera, standing in that spot. His face was blurred, but still recognisable. He had his hand on hers, smiling at her, reassuring her, telling her that everything was going to be all right. Low checked the time above the photo. She would be dead in less than an hour.
Low ignored Mark’s whining about his private property and returned to the bar, shoving the phone in the barman’s face.
“That him?”
Shock stole the barman’s voice, pulling it deep into his stomach. He felt nauseous. He had served them minutes ago, a lifetime ago.
“Is that him?”
The barman managed a slight nod but nothing more. He had seen the poor woman alive and dead. Being told to look at her for a third time was torturous. And he couldn’t look at him. He didn’t need to. Both men had exchanged smiles when he’d accepted a $50 tip. He would never forgive his obsequious gratitude. Their brief encounter had forever sullied the barman’s soul.
Chapter 46
Professor Chong waited for the uniformed officer to stop being bored long enough to lift the crime scene tape. It was unbecoming of Singapore’s leading pathologist to duck under a tape like an overweight limbo dancer, particularly with all those onlookers with Instagram accounts. Chong’s most famous cases had already been serialised for local television. The last thing he needed was a TikTok video of his belly sticking out.
“Thank you, officer,” he said regally, strolling beneath the raised tape, his shoulders pinned back, marching towards his latest kingdom.
Aside from being called to another murder in the small hours, Chong was in surprisingly good spirits. His self-imposed celibacy had ended and fewer people cared. The thought of a planned trip across Europe, as a belated honeymoon, made him desperately happy. His private life had always been a lie. Now it only needed to be discreet and mostly overseas.
Despite his girth, Chong was soon passing the sweaty uniforms and the sleepy investigators. To his surprise, the CID deputy director was already there, talking to Chan and Low. The older inspector was jittery, gesticulating wildly, his eyes flickering in the darkness. Chong recognised the symptoms. Stanley Low was a rather textbook bipolar patient—and everyone knew what had happened to him after the Tiger case. Professionally, it was quite something to behold. Chong had never seen a mind so malleable, so willing to bend itself out of shape and morph into something else entirely. But Low just couldn’t put himself back together again. Chong wasn’t sure if he ever would.
Low had his hand out, grabbing Chong’s and shaking it vigorously. The pathologist couldn’t recall the inspector being quite so frantic before.
“We got him, professor. We got the bastard,” Low said.
Chong was taken aback.
“You’ve arrested a suspect?”
“No lah, wah lau, she’s still on the pavement. But I got a name and a photo. Know who he is and what he looks like.”
Low held up the confiscated phone to show the photo.
“That’s him? The birthday boy? But his hair seems too dark, surely.”
“No, behind, look behind, over his shoulder.”
Chong lifted his glasses and squinted. “My god. Is that him?”
“That’s why. Right there. Just an hour ago. Hour plus maybe. Next door in the bar.”
“And that’s the victim?”
“Yeah.”
“The poor, poor girl.”
Chong shivered in the heat. The proximity, the hair’s breadth between life and death unnerved even him.
“Sometimes we forget they were living and breathing shortly before we found them.”
“And we were already on our way here. Missed him by 10 or 15 minutes, got police stopping cars and taxis all over Orchard, roadblocks on both sides,” Chan said. “But he’s gone already.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Chua interrupted, joining the conversation. The deputy director extended his hand. “Hey, professor. Thanks for coming so fast.”
“No choice, dear boy. What’s the name?”
“Li Jing, 41 years old, Chinese Singaporean, married to Harold Zhang, the blogger.”
“No, no, I meant him.”
“Well, if he was using his own credit card,” Low said. “Talek Maxwell. I don’t know what Talek is, sounds like an Indian name.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s British,” Chong said.
“Never heard of it.”
“I think it’s a rather posh name, a public school name, like a Tarquin or a Benedict. Talek Maxwell. It’s rather catchy, isn’t it?”
Chua coughed.
“Yes, well, time is pressing. Let’s see.” Chong dropped his kit beside the body. He ripped open a cellophane bag and pulled on his gloves, avoiding the risk of contamination until he was beside the body. Fresh corpses promised a real treasure trove. He switched on a small pocket torch. The glare revealed Li Jing’s fragility. A pulpy, sad face stared back at him.
“These red marks around the mouth, some swelling and bruising coming through.”
“Yah, saw that, more brutal this time, ah?”
Chong shook his head.
“Not quite. Maybe even the opposite. His biggest enemy on this occasion, my dear boy, was not his victim, but the clock and the location.”
“Had to be fast,” Low muttered.
“Precisely. His screwdriver must work quickly. He’s not using his apartment, nor is he using the reservoir to clean them up. He is exposed this time. Look at the cheeks and chin. That’s a pressed hand mark, held for a long time.”
Chong stood up to act out the execution. “The facial swelling indicates a more brutal killing, but this was actually cleaner and quicker than the previous killings. One hand, a strong hand, covers her mouth and pins her to the wall, looking at the wider red mark across her chin, a probable left hand. We already know he’s right-handed from the previous incisions. The left hand covers the mouth and holds her still, the right hand, a really forceful, powerful hand, pushes the screwdriver through her heart. And he removes neither, easing her down the wall. You will find hair and fibre on the wall, I’m sure. Then he drops beside her in this position, still crouching over here, waiting for the fight to dissipate. And it’s done in less time than it’s taken me to tell you. Did you find her like this?”
“Yah, pretty much,” Chan said. “On her side, with her back almost against the wall.”
“Did anyone touch her hair?” Chong asked.
“No.”
Low nodded. “He straightened it, right?”
“It certainly looks very neat and parted considering how she died.”
Low crouched beside the professor. “This wasn’t really about her. It was about her husband. He was hurting the husband. She was a means to an end, a quick killing to make a bigger point. His problem was not her, so doesn’t want her to look violated. It was quick not just out of necessity, but also respect for her. He had to do it, had no choice, had to, but he didn’t have to particularly enjoy it. He didn’t want to enjoy it and didn’t want to prolong her suffering. He stayed with her until the end, right?”
“That’s hard to tell.”
“No, no, he did. It also works for him. Anyone passes in those few seconds, he’s just a white knight helping a drunk local. An ang moh crouched over a passed out pretty girl? Can see that every night in Orchard Road. Stayed with her, sat beside her, listened to her and when he was sure, checked the street and he was gone.”
Chua wasn’t convinced. “But it’s such a risk, Orchard Road at that time, got people everywhere?”
“Doesn’t care anymore,” Low said, rising slowly to his feet. “He’s already made his point. He could’ve paid with cash, but he paid with a credit card. He’s ready to be famous now.”
“That’s not happening,” Chua insisted. “Not making a hero out of this guy, not now, got a foreigner killing famous locals’ wives, no way. We know what he looks like. We know his name. No way we go public.”
“You have to, no choice.”
“Why?”
“Because he won’t stop this until you do. It’s not about the bodies anymore. It’s about making a statement.”
“You think we’re gonna promote his crusade? Are you mad or what? I am not giving this man the oxygen of publicity. We take his oxygen away, on the end of a bloody rope. That’s it.”
“Just give him what he wants. Make him famous and we’ll catch the fucker.”
“We’ll catch him anyway. He’ll be in an interrogation room by midnight.”
“Really ah? You wanted me to go after Zhang, when I knew it wasn’t about him. It was about his wife. You only think literally. And I’m telling you to take your literal, dunce cap off and realise he’s making a statement with each killing. That’s all he wants to do now.”
“So you wanna put him on TV and make him a star?”
“No, basket, I want him to stop killing people.”
“Then catch him. Now.”
“I nearly did. I missed him by 10 minutes because instead of thinking like you, I thought like him. It’s called deduction. You should try it, instead of sharpening pencils.”
“It’s called insanity.”
Low was in the deputy director’s face, peering into the blood-streaked corners of tired eyes. “What did you say?”
Chan stepped between them, edging them apart, his back against his superior officer, his hands pushing his friend away.
“Don’t do this. Not here. There are too many people watching.”
“And Miss Li Jing is still here.”
It was Chong, still crouching beside the forgotten victim.
“I realise that our profession thrives on ego and self-respect. But maybe, right now, hers is worth a little more.”
Chapter 47
At 6.15am, the Minister of Home Improvement was already in his spartan office. He yawned loudly, but that was to be expected after his Bukit Timah run to the hill’s summit and back. His pre-dawn runs sustained him through the stressful periods. He focused only on keeping pace with his security, reminding them daily that age was no barrier. The TV on the wall in front of his desk was already on, with an attractive reporter speaking at the Emerald Hill crime scene. The volume was off. The Minister already knew what the talking prop was saying. She said whatever his Ministry told her to say. Life was so much simpler with calm exteriors.
The Minister picked up the coffee cup that was placed carefully on a coaster near his daughter’s framed photograph. She was so photogenic in the black and white portrait, inheriting her father’s genes. It was always in the genes in the end. They couldn’t be taught or bought, only passed down, the most priceless of family heirlooms.
“Send him in.”
The Minister sipped his black coffee. He needed the caffeine. So did the deputy director. He looked terrible: unwashed and unshaved.
“Thanks for seeing me, sir,” Chua said, taking a chair. “I came straight here.”
“I can see that. Maybe shower here before you leave. For the media later.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, how?”
“Professor Chong says it’s the same guy.”
“I know that, Chua.”
The Minister struggled with Chua’s generation of department heads. They made him question the government’s education policies and he abhorred questioning his own policies. But Anthony Chua was not only a very literal man. He was neither here nor there. It was a given that scholars came with the academic tools and not the street smarts, but the latest batch fell between two stools. They grew up in affluence, depriving them both of the resilience required to get by and the resourcefulness needed to solve problems. Everything was a click away on a computer. They proved to be marvellous project managers, but less intuitive. It was hard to think on one’s feet when one was always sitting down. There were few rotten apples left in the Minister’s orchard. They were all homogenised and sterilised, palatable and safe. But their guts had gone, or mostly gone.
“What is Inspector Low doing?”
The Minister’s mention of the man’s name stung Chua like an angry hornet.
“He’s working on the leads, sir.”
“And?”
Chua knew there was no point in lying. The Minister had informers everywhere.
“He’s got a name and a photo of the suspect, sir.”
The Minister almost suppressed the smile. He gripped the arms on his executive chair. The man he loathed more than any other had at least vindicated his decision to include him in the investigation.
“So you’re going to arrest him?”
“Yes, sir, hopefully today.”
“Outstanding news and perfect timing. The election is coming.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. Excellent news. I want to know as soon as an arrest is made.”
The Minister sipped his coffee and straightened the photo frame on his desk.
“Yes sir, it’ll be a joint operation between Major Crime and Low’s Tech team. We’ll get all the information we need online; home and office details and then we go.”
“What’s his name? The suspect?”
“Er, Talek Maxwell, sir.”
The Minister put down his coffee cup. “Aiyoh, is he Indian? I thought he was an ang moh.”
“No, he is sir. They say it’s an old British name.”
“Didn’t Low say he was British? Something about the graffiti on the rocket tower?”
The deputy director squirmed in his seat. “Yes, sir.”
The Minister shook his head, swallowing his begrudging admiration for the unhinged policeman. “That guy, ah?”
“Yes, sir. Exactly. That’s why I contact you first, sir. Want to ask your authority for something.”
“It’s your case.”
Chua understood the low, flat tones. It was his case until an arrest was made. Then the case belonged to the Minister. But if the case went unsolved, well, it was the deputy director’s case.
