IZ SSC The Inspector Zhang Short Stories Read online

  The pilot followed Inspector Zhang over to the body. It was in seat 11K. Inspector Zhang slowly pulled the pale-blue blanket away. The victim was a Thai man in his thirties, wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and a black tie. The front of the shirt was stained with blood that had pooled and congealed in the man’s lap.

  “This was how he was found?” asked the Inspector. “With the blood?”

  “Nothing has been touched,” said the captain.

  “And who discovered that he was dead?”

  “It was one of the flight attendants.”

  “Could you get her for me, please?” said Inspector Zhang. He leant down over the body, taking a pen and using it to slide the jacket open. There was a small hole in the shirt just below the breastbone and the shirt was peppered with tiny flecks of black. He leant closer and sniffed. Gunshot residue. The man had been shot.

  As he straightened up, the pilot returned with a young flight attendant. “This is Sumin,” said the pilot. “She was the one who discovered that the passenger was dead.”

  Inspector Zhang smiled at the flight attendant. “What time did you realise that there was something wrong?” he asked.

  “I was checking that passengers had their seatbelts fastened so it was just as we were starting our approach. That would have been about fifteen minutes before we landed.”

  “And what made you realise that something was wrong?”

  “I thought he was asleep,” said the flight attendant. “I leaned over to fasten the belt and I moved his jacket. That’s when I saw the blood.” She shuddered. “There was so much blood.”

  “What did you do then?” asked the Inspector.

  “I went to get the chief purser and he checked for a pulse and when he didn’t find one we covered him with a blanket.”

  “Did you inform the pilot right away?”

  “No, Mr Yip said we should wait until we had landed.”

  “And did you hear anything at all unusual during the flight?”

  The flight attendant frowned. “Unusual?”

  “A gunshot? A loud bang?”

  The stewardess laughed nervously and put a hand up over her mouth. “Of course not,” she said. She looked at Captain Kumar. “A gunshot?”

  “There was no gunshot,” said Captain Kumar. “I was sitting in the cockpit with the first officer just ten feet away, we would have heard a shot if there had been one. As would the rest of the passengers. There was no shot.”

  “Well I can assure you that there is a bullet hole in the body and gunshot residue on the shirt,” said Inspector Zhang. “He was shot and at close range.”

  “But that’s impossible!” said the pilot.

  “Yes,” agreed Inspector Zhang. “It is. Quite impossible.” He reached into the dead man’s inside pocket and took out a Thai passport. He opened it and compared the picture to the face of the victim. They matched. “Kwanchai Srisai,” read Inspector Zhang. “Born in Udon Thani. Thirty-seven years old.” He closed the passport, handed it to Sergeant Lee and turned to look at the cabin. “The cabin appears to be almost empty,” he said to the pilot. “Have some passengers moved to the rear of the plane?”

  The pilot shook his head. “At this time of the year the Raffles Section is rarely full,” he said. “The business class fare is quite expensive and the flight from Singapore to Bangkok is short so most of our passengers choose to fly economy.”

  Inspector Zhang did a quick head count. “Eight passengers in all, including the victim.”

  The pilot looked across at the flight attendant. “Is that what the manifest says?”

  “That is correct,” she said. “Eight passengers.”

  “And during the flight, did any passengers from the economy section come forward to this part of the plane?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “I need to know for certain,” said Inspector Zhang.

  The flight attendant nodded. “You will need to ask the other members of the cabin crew,” she said. “I was busy in the galley for some of the flight and twice I had to clean the toilets and I had to go to the cockpit with coffee for Captain Kumar and the first officer.”

  “She did,” said the captain. “I always have a cup of coffee mid-way through a flight.”

  “Then I will need to talk to the rest of the cabin crew at some point,” said Inspector Zhang. “So tell me, Miss Sumin, was everything okay with Mr. Srisai during the flight?”

  “In what way, Inspector?”

  “Did anything out the ordinary happen? Before you discovered that he was dead, obviously.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He ate his meal?”

  She nodded. “Yes, and he drank a lot of champagne. He was always asking for champagne.”

  “And he went to the bathroom?”

  “Just once. About halfway through the flight, just after I had cleared away his meal things.”

  “But nothing unusual?”

  “No Inspector. Nothing.”

  Inspector Zhang turned to Sergeant Lee. “So, Sergeant, run through the passengers for me, please.”

  “As you said, there are seven passengers in addition to the victim,” said Sergeant Lee. She turned and pointed to a young Thai girl who was listening to music through headphones, bobbing her head back and forth in time to the music. “The lady in 14A is a Thai student, Tasanee Boontaisong. She studies in Singapore and is returning to see her parents.”

  Inspector Zhang frowned as he looked at the girl. “I see that there are no rows numbered one to ten and that the front row of the cabin is row 11, he said. “She is in the third row. That would make it row 13, would it not?”

  “There is no row 13,” said Captain Kumar. “In some cultures the number 13 is considered unlucky.”

  Sergeant Lee looked up from her notebook. “Clearly on this flight it was number 11 that was unlucky,” she said.

  Inspector Zhang looked at her sternly but she didn’t appear to have been joking, merely stating a fact.

  “Two rows behind Miss Boontaisong in 16A is Lung Chin-po, the Singaporean businessman who you spoke to,” she continued. “He says he is a friend of the Deputy Commissioner and that he will sue our department if we continue to hold him against his will.”

  Inspector Zhang chuckled softly. “Well I wish him every success with that,” he said.

  “Those are the only two passengers sitting on the right hand side,” said Sergeant Lee. “Mr. Lung and Miss Boontaisong.”

  “Port,” said Captain Kumar. “That’s the port side. Right and left depend on which way you are facing so on planes and boats we say port and starboard. As you face the front, port is on the left and starboard is on the right.” He smiled. “It prevents confusion.”

  “And I am all in favour of preventing confusion,” said Inspector Zhang. “So, Sergeant Lee, who is sitting in the middle of the cabin?”

  The Sergeant nodded at the man in sunglasses sitting in 11F. He was sitting with his arms folded, staring straight ahead at the bulkhead. “The man there is Mr. Lev Gottesman, from Israel. He is Mr. Srisai’s bodyguard. Was, I mean. He was Mr. Srisai’s bodyguard.”

  “And why would Mr. Srisai require the services of a bodyguard?” asked Inspector Zhang.

  “I didn’t ask,” said Sergeant Lee. “I’m sorry. Should I have?”

  “I shall question Mr. Gottesman shortly,” said the Inspector. “Please continue.”

  Sergeant Lee pursed her lips and looked at her notebook. “In the row behind Mr. Gottesman, in seat 14A, is Andrew Yates, a British stockbroker who works for a Thai firm. He was attending a meeting in Singapore.” Inspector Zhang looked over at a man in his early forties wearing a grey suit. His hair was dyed blonde and gel glistened under the cabin lights as he bent down over a Blackberry, texting with both thumbs.

  “Directly behind Mr. Yates are Mr. and Mrs. Woodhouse from Seattle in the United States. They are touring South East Asia. They were in Singapore for three days, they have a week in Th
ailand and then they are due to fly to Vietnam and then on to China.”

  She nodded at the final passenger, a Thai man sitting at the back of the cabin in seat 16H, adjacent to the aisle. “Mr. Nakprakone is a journalist who works for the Thai Rath newspaper in Bangkok. He is a Thai.”

  “I have heard of the paper,” said Inspector Zhang. “It is one of those sensationalist papers that publishes pictures of accidents and murders on their front pages, I believe.”

  “Mr. Nakprakone said that it sells more than a million copies every day.”

  “Sensationalism sells, that is true,” sighed Inspector Zhang. “I am personally happier with more dignified newspapers such as our own Straits Times. Did you ask Mr. Nakprakone why he was flying in the business class section?”

  “I didn’t. Should I have done?”

  “It’s not a problem,” said Inspector Zhang. “So, I assume you asked everyone if they heard or saw anything suspicious during the flight?”

  “No one did, Sir.”

  “And I assume that no one mentioned hearing a gunshot?”

  “Definitely not. Besides, Sir, it would be impossible for anyone to get a gun onto a plane. There are stringent security checks at Changi.”

  The flight attendant who had been talking to the pilot appeared at Inspector Zhang’s shoulder. “Inspector Zhang, would it be all right to serve drinks and snacks to the passengers?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  The flight attendant smiled and walked to the galley.

  “So, first things first,” said Inspector Zhang. “We need to know why our victim was murdered. More often than not, if you know why a murder took place you will know who committed it.”

  “So you want to talk to the bodyguard?”

  Inspector Zhang shook his head. “I believe I will get more information from Mr. Nakprakone,” he said.

  Sergeant Lee scratched her head as Inspector Zhang walked to the rear of the cabin and then cut across seats D and F to get to the Thai man sitting in seat 16H. “Mr. Nakprakone?” he said. The man nodded. Inspector Zhang nodded at the empty seat by the window. “Would you mind if I sat there while I ask you a few questions?”

  “Go ahead,” said Mr. Nakprakone, and moved his feet to allow the Inspector to squeeze by.

  Inspector Zhang sat down and adjusted the creases of his trousers. “I assume that you know that it is Mr. Srisai who has been murdered?”

  Mr. Nakprakone nodded.

  “I was wondering if you could tell me a little about Mr. Srisai.”

  Mr. Nakprakone frowned. “Why would you think that I would know anything about him?”

  “Because you’re a journalist and because newspapers don’t usually fly their staff around in business class.” He smiled and shrugged. “I am in the same position. My boss told me that I had to fly economy. The Singapore Police Force is always trying to reduce costs and I am sure that your newspaper is the same.”

  Mr. Nakprakone grinned. “That is exactly right,” he said, speaking slowly as if he was not entirely comfortable communicating in English.

  “So am I right in assuming that you are here in the business class section so that you could talk to him, perhaps even to interview him?”

  Mr. Nakprakone nodded. He took a small digital camera from his pocket. “And to also get a photograph.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Only for a very short time. I waited for his bodyguard to go to the toilet and then I asked Khun Srisai for an interview. He refused.”

  “And did you by any chance get a photograph?”

  Mr. Nakprakone switched on the camera and held it out to Inspector Zhang. “Just one,” he said.

  Inspector Zhang looked at the screen on the back of the camera. Mr. Srisai was in his seat, holding up his hand, an angry look on his face. Inspector Zhang looked at the time code on the bottom of the picture. It had been taken thirty minutes before the plane had landed. “He obviously didn’t want to be photographed,” he said, handing back the camera.

  “Just after I took it the bodyguard came back so I returned to my seat.” He put the camera away.

  “So tell me, why was Mr. Srisai of such interest to your paper?”

  “He is a well known gangster, but he has political aspirations,” said the journalist. “There was an attempt on his life in Udon Thani two months ago and he fled to Singapore. But last week his uncle died and he was returning for the funeral.”

  “Political aspirations?”

  “He had been setting up a vote-buying campaign in his home province which could well see him becoming an MP in the next election. But someone put a bomb under his car and killed his driver. And shots were fired at his house at night, killing a maid.”

  “So he was forced to flee Thailand?”

  “We think he was just hiding out while he took care of his enemies.”

  “Took care?”

  Mr. Nakprakone made a gun from his hand and pretended to fire it. “There have been half a dozen killings in his province since he left.”

  Inspector Zhang nodded thoughtfully. “You think he was taking revenge?”

  “I am sure of it. And so was my paper.”

  “So it is fair to say that a lot of people would want Mr. Srisai dead?”

  Mr. Nakprakone nodded.

  “You say that his uncle died. What happened?” Two flight attendants began moving down the aisles handing out drinks and snacks.

  “He was driving his motorcycle at night and he crashed. He’d been drinking and the other driver fled the scene.” He shrugged. “A common enough event in Thailand.” He leaned closer to the Inspector. “So he was shot, is that right?”

  “It appears so, yes.”

  “But that is impossible. He was perfectly all right when I spoke to him and there have been no shots. We would have heard or seen something, wouldn’t we?”

  Inspector Zhang looked forward. All he could see was the back of the seat in front of him. He couldn’t see Sergeant Lee or the pilot even though he knew that they were standing at the front of the cabin. “You wouldn’t have seen anything sitting here,” said Inspector Zhang. “But you would of course have heard a shot, had there been one.” He stood up and eased himself into the aisle. “Thank you for your help,” he said.

  “When can we get off the plane?” asked Mr. Nakprakone.

  “As soon as I have ascertained what happened,” said the Inspector. He crossed over to the far side of the cabin and walked up the aisle to where Sergeant Lee was standing with the pilot.

  “I shall be writing to the Police Commissioner in Singapore,” said the American tourist as Inspector Zhang walked by.

  “I am acting on the Commissioner’s personal instructions,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “Then you will be hearing from my lawyer,” snapped the American.

  “I shall look forward to it,” said Inspector Zhang. “But in the meantime I have an investigation that requires my undivided attention.” He walked away, leaving the American fuming.

  Captain Kumar and Sergeant Lee were waiting expectantly by the exit door. “The victim was a Thai gangster,” Inspector Zhang said quietly. “He had a lot of enemies.”

  “That explains the bodyguard,” whispered Sergeant Lee. The bodyguard was sitting only a few feet away, reading an in-flight magazine.

  “According to the journalist, he spoke to Mr. Srisai about half an hour before the plane landed. So he must have been killed in the time between talking to the journalist and the flight attendant checking that his seat belt was fastened.”

  “That couldn’t have been much more than fifteen minutes,” said Captain Kumar, rubbing his chin. He put a hand on Inspector Zhang’s shoulder. “I think I should assist my first officer with the paperwork, if that is okay with you.”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  “And nobody heard anything?” Inspector Zhang asked Sergeant Lee as Captain Kumar went into the cockpit and closed the door behind him.

  “Nothin
g,” she said.

  Inspector Zhang frowned. “So how can this be, Sergeant Lee? How can a man die of a gunshot wound in an aeroplane cabin without anyone hearing anything?”

  “A silencer, sir?”

  Inspector Zhang nodded thoughtfully. “Actually the technical term is suppressor, rather than silencer. And while they do deaden the sound of a gun it would certainly still be loud enough to hear in a confined space such as this.”

  “Not if everyone was listening through headphones,” said the Sergeant.

  “A good point, Sergeant.” He turned to nod at the passenger in 17D. “But Mr. Yates did not use his headphones; they are still in their sealed plastic bag, so I assume that he was working throughout the flight. Other than the bodyguard, he would have been the closest passenger to the victim. And even if a suppressor was used, we have to ask ourselves how it and the gun were smuggled on board. As you said, there are stringent security screenings at the airport.”

  “Maybe it was a member of the crew,” said the Sergeant. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What about the captain, Sir? He could have a gun in the cockpit. Or the first officer? Or a member of the cabin crew? Mr. Yip perhaps.”

  “I had considered the cabin crew, but again it comes down to the fact that the bodyguard did not see Mr. Srisai being attacked.”

  “Perhaps the bodyguard was not as alert as he claims. He could have been asleep.” Sergeant Lee’s eyes widened. “The gun,” she said. “The gun must still be on the plane.”

  “One would assume so,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “We could ask the Thai police to help us find it. They must have dogs that can sniff out guns and explosives at the airport, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure they have, but my instructions are to bring the investigation to a conclusion without the involvement of the Royal Thai police.”

  Sergeant Lee looked crestfallen and Inspector Zhang felt a twinge of guilt at having to dampen her enthusiasm.

  “But your idea is a good one, Sergeant Lee,” he said. “If there was a gun on the plane, such a dog would be able to find it. But do you know what, Sergeant? I do not believe that the gun is on the plane.”