Inspector Zhang And The Falling Woman (a short story) Page 2

  “She was having problems at work,” said Mr. Wong. “She works for an import-export business and they were about to downsize. She was worried she might lose her job.”

  “And where do you work, Mr. Wong?”

  “At the airport. I work in the baggage handling department.”

  “And were you and your wife having any problems?”

  “What are you suggesting?” said Mr. Wong. “Are you saying that you think my wife killed herself because of me?”

  Inspector Zhang held up his hands. “Absolutely not, Mr. Wong, but it would be helpful if we knew what her state of mind was when she was on the roof.”

  “Why? She’s dead. That’s the end of it. She killed herself, why do you need to know what she was thinking? Will knowing bring her back?” He sniffed and wiped his eyes.

  Inspector Zhang grimaced. “It’s my job, I’m sorry. It’s just…” He left the sentence unfinished.

  “What?” said Mr. Wong.

  Inspector Zhang shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “The thing is Mr. Wong, people either want to kill themselves, or they don’t. Those that do tend to just do it. They write a note, usually, and then they do what they have to do. But there are others for whom suicide is a cry for help, they want attention, they want to be noticed, they want to talk.”

  “So?”

  “So your wife is unusual in that she did both. She was talking, she was shouting that she wanted to jump, and then she did. That is a rarity. Once they start to talk, they usually continue. That is why we have negotiating teams who are trained to deal with a person in crisis.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I shall not intrude on your grief any longer. Someone from the Forensic Medicine Department will call you to arrange a viewing.”

  “A viewing?”

  “To identify the body. That has to be done by a relative.”

  Mr. Wong didn’t get up and Inspector Zhang and Sergeant Lee saw themselves out.

  “Would you like to know something, Sergeant Lee?” asked the inspector, as they walked out of the building.

  “Of course,” said the sergeant.

  “I never trust a man with a goatee beard,” he said. “I’m not sure why, but there is something inherently deceitful about a man who spends an inordinate amount of time shaping his facial hair, don’t you think?”

  Sergeant Lee frowned. “I’ve never given it much thought,” she said.

  “You should, Sergeant,” said the inspector.

  Sergeant Lee took out her notebook and scribbled in it.

  Inspector Zhang was at his desk at exactly nine o’clock the following day. He sat down and logged on to his terminal and checked his email. There was nothing of any importance. He flicked through his copy of the Straits Times. The story of Celia Wong’s suicide was on page seven, a mere three paragraphs that looked as if they had come straight from the police blotter. His telephone rang and he picked it up. “Inspector Zhang? This is Dr. Choi from the Forensic Medicine Division.”

  “Dr. Choi. How are you?” Inspector Zhang had known Maggie Choi for almost fifteen years but she always used his title when she addressed him and he always returned the courtesy. She was in her late thirties, a slightly overweight lady with a moon face and like Inspector Zhang hampered by poor eyesight.

  “I am fine, Inspector Zhang, thank you for asking. I am calling about the body that you sent to us last night.”

  “Ah yes. Celia Wong.”

  “That’s correct. Twenty-seven year old Chinese female. I’m calling to notify you about the cause of death.”

  “I don’t think there’s much doubt about that, Dr. Choi,” said Inspector Zhang. “I was there when she fell.”

  “Oh, her injuries were catastrophic, there is no question of that,” said the doctor. “But they weren’t the cause of death. They were post-mortem.”

  “That’s interesting,” said the inspector, sitting up straight.

  “Drowning was the cause of death.”

  “Drowning?” repeated Inspector Zhang, unable to believe his ears.

  “Her lungs were full of water.”

  As Inspector Zhang took down the details in his notebook, Sergeant Lee arrived, carrying a cup of Starbucks coffee. Inspector Zhang put down the phone and blinked at his sergeant. “Sergeant Lee, we have ourselves a mystery,” he said.

  “A mystery?” repeated Sergeant Lee.

  “An impossible mystery,” said Inspector Zhang, “and they are the best.” He took off his spectacles and leant back in his chair as he polished the lenses with his handkerchief. “An impossible mystery is just that, a mystery where something impossible has happened. In this case, Mrs. Wong jumped from the building but the fall did not kill her.”

  “It didn’t?”

  “According to the Forensic Medicine Department, Mrs. Wong drowned.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “Exactly,” said Inspector Zhang. “That is why I said we have an impossible mystery.” He put his glasses on and steepled his fingers over his stomach. “The impossible mystery was a feature of the golden age of detective fiction, where an amateur sleuth or professional investigator would be called in to examine a crime which had been committed in an impossible manner. Some of the best were written by Agatha Christie, Ellery Queen and the great John Dickson Carr. And we mustn’t forget Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, of course, and his immortal Sherlock Holmes. And now, Sergeant Lee, you and I have a real life impossible mystery to solve.”

  “So you now suspect foul play?” asked Sergeant Lee.

  “How could it not be?” asked Inspector Zhang.

  “But Mrs. Wong told you that she was going to kill herself, and then she did.”

  “You think that she managed to drown herself as she fell? That is very unlikely. Impossible in fact.” He stood up. “First we must return to the scene of the crime, because that is what I think we have now. A crime.”

  Inspector Zhang drove them to River Valley and parked in a multi-storey car park. This time there was a doorman on duty and he buzzed them in. His name was Mr. Lau and he told the detectives that he worked from eight o’clock in the morning until six o’clock in the evening. He was in his sixties, a small man with a bald head and a mole the size of a small coin on his chin. Inspector Zhang showed him a photocopy of Mrs. Wong’s identity card. “Has this lady ever visited anyone in the building?”

  Mr. Lau licked his lower lip as he studied the photocopy, then he shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “And there’s no CCTV in the building?”

  “The residents didn’t want it,” he said. “People like their privacy.”

  “It would make our job easier if every building had CCTV,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “I suppose you’d like them inside people’s homes, too,” said Mr. Lau.

  “That might be going too far,” said Inspector Zhang, putting the photocopy into his pocket. “Do you have a list of the occupants of the building?”

  Mr. Lau bent down and pulled a clipboard from underneath the counter. The top sheet was a list of all the apartments, the names of the occupants and contact numbers. Inspector Zhang studied the list. “Can I have a copy of this?”

  “It’s the only copy I have,” said Mr. Lau. “But there’s a photocopier in the office, I can make a copy for you.”

  Inspector Zhang smiled. “That would be very helpful, thank you.”

  Mr. Lau went into the office and returned with a photocopied sheet that he handed to the inspector.

  “We’ll be on the roof for a while,” said Inspector Zhang. “Can you tell me, is the door to the roof ever locked?”

  “It’s supposed to be,” said Mr. Lau. “All the residents have keys, but often it gets left open.”

  “So anyone could gain access?”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Do you happen to know if it was locked last night?”

  Mr. Lau shook his head. “I was up three days ago and it was locked then, but I haven’t checked since. It’
s a relaxation area for the residents; they can have barbecues up there if they want. It’s a pleasant place to sit, when it isn’t too hot. There’s a nice breeze up there, from the river.”

  Inspector Zhang thanked him and then went up in the elevator to the tenth floor with Sergeant Lee. They went out onto the roof and over to the section of the railing that Mrs. Wong had fallen from. Inspector Zhang looked down at the street below. “She was here when she was shouting,” he said. “She was standing here, leaning against the railing.” He pointed down to the pavement far below. “I was there with my wife. And four other people, all of us looking up. I tried to talk to her but all I could do was shout. I am not sure if she even heard me. She carried on shouting and more people stopped to look at her.”

  “It was definitely her?”

  “It was the same dress, that I’m sure off. Was it the same woman? How could it not be, Sergeant Lee? I saw her fall. I saw her hit the ground. We found her handbag up here with her ID card.” Inspector Zhang sighed. “So how did she manage to drown between here and the ground?”

  “It’s a mystery,” said Sergeant Lee.

  Inspector Zhang beamed. “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  “Can you solve it, Inspector Zhang?”

  “I hope so,” said the inspector. “I really do.” He turned away from the railing. “We have to ask ourselves why she came here,” he said. “When it appeared to be suicide, where she was didn’t matter because she could have chosen any tall building. But if she didn’t kill herself, there must have been a reason why she came to this particular one.”

  Sergeant Lee nodded. “She came to see someone?”

  “I think so,” said the inspector.

  “Should we speak to the apartment owners?”

  Inspector Zhang scratched his chin. The building was ten stories high with four apartments on each floor. It would only take a few hours to knock on all the doors. But if the killer lived in one of the apartments, visiting them would only tip them off that the police were on the case. “Let’s go and look at her belongings first,” he said. “That might make things clearer.”

  During Inspector Zhang’s time with the Singapore Police Force, the Forensic Medicine Division had evolved from the Centre for Forensic Medicine and before that the Department of Forensic Medicine. It was a case of a rose by any other name, Inspector Zhang knew, because its role hadn’t changed – it provided forensic expertise to the State Coroner and technical support to the police. They drove to Outram Road and parked close to Block 9 of the Health Sciences Authority, which housed the mortuary.

  They showed their warrant cards to a bored security guard and went through to an office where Dr. Choi was waiting. “Good morning, Inspector Zhang,” she said. She smiled showing perfect white teeth.

  “Good morning, Dr. Choi.” He waved a hand at his sergeant. “This is Sergeant Lee. She is assisting me on this case.”

  A white-coated assistant came in carrying a large cardboard box which he placed on a stainless steel table. “These are Mrs. Wong’s personal effects and clothing,” said Dr. Choi. “Do you want to look at the body?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Inspector Zhang. “But you can answer one question for me. The water in Mrs. Wong’s lungs, was it sea water?”

  Dr. Choi shook her head. “It was definitely not salt water,” she said. “There were no traces of salt. It was plain water.” She looked at her watch. “I have an autopsy that has to be done before lunch,” she said. “Please just leave the box here when you’ve finished and I’ll collect it.”

  Sergeant Lee opened the box as Dr. Choi left the room. She took out the Louis Vuitton handbag and placed it on the table, followed by the dead woman’s dress, shoes and underwear. She started to open the handbag, but Inspector Zhang stopped her with a wave of her hand.

  “The clothing first,” he said. “Do you notice anything?”

  “A dress. Shoes. Bra. Pants.” Sergeant Lee shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Inspector Zhang smiled. “The dress is Karen Millen, is it not?”

  Sergeant Lee examined the label. “It is,” she said. “You have a good eye for fashion, inspector.”

  “Karen Millen is one of my wife’s favourite labels. Though she usually only shops there during the sales. It is an expensive brand.”

  “I like Karen Millen myself, but you are right, they are expensive.”

  “And the underwear,” said Inspector Zhang. “I am less of an expert on underwear, but it also looks expensive.”

  Sergeant Lee examined the bra and pants. “Yes, it is of good quality,” she said. “Real silk.”

  Inspector Zhang nodded. “Do you think they are the sort of items that would be purchased by a woman who lived in an HDB block?”

  “Possibly not,” said Sergeant Lee.

  “But the shoes, what about the shoes?”

  Sergeant Lee picked up one of the shoes. “Poor quality,” she said. “Probably made in China.”

  “And the bag. A Louis Vuitton copy. I thought that strange, that she was happy to pay for a Karen Millen dress but then had a fake handbag. And her shoes were not of good quality. The shoes and the bag fitted with the HDB apartment, but not the Karen Millen dress.

  “And the underwear,” said Sergeant Lee.

  “I wasn’t aware of the underwear at the time,” said Inspector Zhang. He gestured at the handbag. “Let’s see what she has in her bag.”

  Sergeant Lee unzipped the bag and took out a Nokia mobile phone, various items of make up, her wallet, some breath mints, a set of keys and a Parker pen.

  Inspector Zhang picked up the keys. “There is no keycard, I see. To get into the main door.”

  “So someone must have buzzed her in,” said Sergeant Lee.

  “Perhaps,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “Inspector Zhang, I am confused. Do you think that Mrs. Wong killed herself? Or do you think she was murdered?”

  “She could not have drowned herself and then thrown herself off the roof,” said Inspector Zhang. “And it would of course be impossible for to her have drowned after she jumped. There is therefore only one possibility remaining. She drowned and then someone else threw her off the roof.”

  “But why would anyone do that?” asked Sergeant Lee.

  “A very good question, Sergeant,” said Inspector Zhang. “For if we know why the crime was committed, we will certainly know who did it. For now, I think we should go and see Mr. Wong.”

  He picked up Mrs. Wong’s mobile phone and scrolled through for her husband’s mobile phone number. He was just about to press the call button when Sergeant Lee put her hand on his. “That might not be a good idea, Inspector,” she said. “He might think that it was his wife calling.”

  Inspector Zhang realised that she was right, and used his own phone to call Mr. Wong. When Mr. Wong answered, Inspector Zhang arranged to go around and see him early that evening.

  “Can’t you tell me what it is over the phone?” Mr. Wong asked.

  “Interviews are always better conducted face to face,” said Inspector Zhang, and he ended the call.

  Inspector Zhang and Sergeant Lee arrived at Mr. Wong’s apartment at six o’clock and he was clearly not happy to see them. “What is it you want?” he asked as they sat down on the sofa. “This is a very upsetting time for me; the last thing I want is to be answering more questions.”

  “We have had some more information regarding the death of your wife,” said Inspector Zhang. “It might be that you are correct when you say that your wife didn’t kill herself.”

  “What are you saying, inspector?”

  “I need to ask you some questions about what you were doing last night.”

  “I was here,” said Wong. “You know I was here. You were in my apartment.”

  “But before that. What time did you come home?”

  “I came home after work. My wife was here and she said she was going out for dinner with a friend. I cooked for myself and I watched some tel
evision. When she didn’t come back by ten o’clock I called her cell phone but she didn’t answer.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  Mr. Wong frowned. “Why do I need anyone to confirm anything?”

  “It’s simply procedure, Mr. Wong.”

  Mr. Wong sighed. “As it so happens, I went to talk to my neighbour at about ten o’clock. His television was on loud and it was disturbing me. I asked him to turn the volume down.”

  “His name?”

  “Mr. Diswani.”

  “Thank you,” said Inspector Zhang. “And one more thing. I noticed yesterday that you have a plaster on your hand.”

  Wong held up his right hand. There was a flesh-coloured sticking plaster on his little finger. “I cut myself.”

  “Do you mind telling me how?”

  “When I was cooking. It’s just a small cut. It’s nothing.”

  Inspector Zhang nodded thoughtfully.

  “Why are you asking me these questions?” said Wong.

  “We’re trying to find out what happened to your wife.”

  “You said she fell from a building.”

  “That’s true,” said Inspector Zhang. “But it now appears that something happened to her before she came off the roof.”

  “What do you mean?” said Wong quickly.

  “I’m afraid I can’t go into details at this stage, but we are now sure that Mrs. Wong didn’t kill herself.” He patted his stomach. “Could I impose on you to use your bathroom,” he said. “My stomach isn’t so good today.”

  Wong pointed down a corridor. “Along there, first door on the right,” he said.

  Inspector Zhang thanked him and walked along to the bathroom. When he got back to the sitting room, Sergeant Lee was sitting on the sofa next to Wong. They were looking through a photograph album. There were tears in Wong’s eyes.

  “We’ll leave you now, Mr. Wong,” said the inspector. “And once again I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Wong sniffed. “What will happen now, inspector?”

  “Our investigation will continue,” said Inspector Zhang.

  Mr. Wong showed them out. Inspector Zhang smiled at Sergeant Lee as the door closed on them. “I never trust a man who cries easily,” he said.