The Eight Curious Cases of Inspector Zhang Read online

  “My wife understands,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “Did she jump?” asked the sergeant, leaning over the body and taking out her notebook.

  “She was calling out saying that she was going to jump and I was trying to talk to her but …” He shrugged. “Sometimes there is nothing that can be done to stop them.”

  Sergeant Lee looked up at the building and shuddered.

  “This is your first suicide?” asked the inspector.

  Sergeant Lee nodded solemnly.

  “It is not uncommon in Singapore,” said Inspector Zhang. “We have an average of four hundred a year, more during times of economic crisis.”

  “I don’t understand why anyone would kill themselves,” she said. “Especially a young woman.”

  “It’s usually because of money, or an affair of the heart. But our suicide rate is still well below that of Japan, Hong Kong and South Korea.”

  “I suppose because our lives are better here in Singapore,” said the sergeant.

  “Do you know which country in the world has the highest rate of suicides?” asked the inspector. Sergeant Lee shook her head. “Lithuania, followed by Russia,” said Inspector Zhang. “Their suicide rates are four times ours.” He looked down at the body. “And like you, I can never understand why anyone would want to take their own life.”

  “I don’t see a bag or a wallet,” said Sergeant Lee.

  “That’s not unusual,” said Inspector Zhang. “Suicides generally take off their glasses and leave their belongings behind. A man, for instance, will often take out his wallet, keys and spare change and place it on the ground before jumping.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why, but that’s what they do.”

  An ambulance pulled up in front of the building and two paramedics climbed out. Inspector Zhang went over to speak to them, then returned to Sergeant Lee and told her to accompany him into the building.

  The glass doors were locked and there was no one sitting behind the counter at reception. “They probably only have the desk manned during the day,” said the inspector.

  There was a stainless steel panel set into the wall with forty numbered buttons and a speaker grille. At the top of the panel was a small camera set behind thick glass. Inspector Zhang pressed button number one. After a few seconds a man asked him in Chinese who he was and what he wanted. Inspector Zhang held up his warrant card and replied in Mandarin, telling the man who he was and that he required him to open the door. The lock buzzed and Sergeant Lee pushed the door open. Inspector Zhang thanked the man and put away his warrant card.

  He followed Sergeant Lee into the marbled foyer and looked around. “No CCTV,” he said. “That’s a pity.” There were two elevators and he pressed the button to summon one.

  “Some residents find them intrusive,” said Sergeant Lee. “They wanted to install them inside our building, but too many people objected.”

  “If you do nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear from CCTV,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “Some people prefer to keep their privacy, I suppose,” said the sergeant.

  The elevator arrived and they took it up to the ninth floor. There they found a door that led outside. It opened onto a stone-flagged roof where there was a small white-painted gazebo and several wooden benches. There was a barbecue area and a dozen tall palms in earthenware tubs.

  Sergeant Lee pointed at a Louis Vuitton handbag on one of the benches. “There, sir,” she said.

  Inspector Zhang went over to the railing to look down at the street below while Sergeant Lee examined the bag. She took out a wallet and flipped it open. Inside were half a dozen credit cards and the woman’s NRIC, the identity card carried by every Singaporean and permanent resident. The card was pink, showing that she was a citizen. Cards carried by permanent residents were blue.

  “Celia Wong,” said Sergeant Lee, reading the card. “Married. Twenty-seven years old.”

  “So young,” said Inspector Zhang, staring down at the pavement far below. The crowds had moved on and there was no sign that a woman had died there. There would be blood on the pavement still, thought Inspector Zhang, but he couldn’t see the red stain from the roof.

  “I’m twenty-four,” said Sergeant Lee.

  “I meant so young to kill herself,” said the inspector. “She had her whole life in front of her. Why would she want to end it?”

  Sergeant Lee shrugged, not knowing what to say.

  “Where does she live?” asked the inspector.

  “Yio Chu Kang,” she said. “I know the building. It’s an old apartment building.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the inspector, turning to face her.

  Sergeant Lee nodded. “I was there on a case last year,” she said. “Shall I phone the husband?”

  “Definitely not,” said Inspector Zhang. “News like this has to be broken in person, and in a sympathetic manner. Do you have your car?”

  “I do, inspector.”

  “Then you shall drive,” said Inspector Zhang. “My wife has taken my car.”

  It took Sergeant Lee twenty minutes to drive to Yio Chu Kang. Inspector Zhang was pleasantly surprised at her driving skills; she was neither too slow nor too fast and she made good use of her rear view mirror and side mirrors. She parked confidently in a space only a few feet wider than her Honda Civic.

  They climbed out and looked up at the building. Inspector Zhang realised that his sergeant was right. It was a very old apartment building that had seen better days and most likely housed less affluent Singaporeans clinging to the dream of selling the building en bloc to property developers.

  They walked over to the main entrance. The intercom system was old and showing signs of wear with several buttons missing. Sergeant Lee pressed the button for Mr. Wong’s apartment and there was a buzzing noise. A few seconds later a man asked who was there.

  Sergeant Lee put her face close to the intercom. “This is Sergeant Lee of the Singapore Police Force,” she said. “I am with Inspector Zhang. We are with the CID at New Bridge Road.”

  “It’s late. What do you want?”

  “Are you Mr. Wong?” asked Sergeant Lee.

  “Yes.”

  “And your wife is Celia Wong?”

  “Is my wife all right? Has something happened?”

  “We’d like to come in and talk to you, Mr. Wong. It would be easier if we could talk to you face to face.”

  The door buzzed and Sergeant Lee pushed it open. They walked to the elevator and went up to the sixth floor. Wong already had the door to his apartment open. He was wearing a black silk dressing gown and red pyjamas with gold dragons on them. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is my wife all right? I’ve been phoning her all night but she isn’t answering her phone.”

  “Can we come in, please?” asked Inspector Zhang.

  Mr. Wong opened the door wide and let them into his apartment. He was in his mid-thirties, tall with a neatly trimmed goatee beard. The inspector and Sergeant Lee walked through to a sitting room that was barely large enough to hold two sofas and a circular dining table. The window was wide open and a soft breeze blew in from outside. There was a small LCD television on a rosewood table showing a football match, the sound muted. “Look, tell me what’s going on,” said Wong.

  “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Mr. Wong,” said Inspector Zhang. “It might be best if you sat down.”

  Mr. Wong did as the inspector asked and sat down on an overstuffed sofa. Sergeant Lee sat on a rosewood chair but Inspector Zhang remained standing. “Where is your wife, Mr. Wong?” asked Inspector Zhang. “Where did she go?”

  “She said she was going out to see a friend, but that was hours ago.”

  “Who is the friend?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say. She just said that she would be back in two hours but that was ages ago. Look, has something happened? Is she in trouble?”

  “Your wife died earlier tonight, Mr. Wong. I am so sorry.”

  Mr. Wong’s eyes narrowed and t
hen he looked across at Sergeant Lee. “She what?” he asked, but the sergeant said nothing. Sergeant Lee looked at Inspector Zhang. He was the superior officer so it was up to him to do the talking.

  “She fell from a building,” said Inspector Zhang. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

  Mr. Wong shook his head. “No, there’s some mistake,” he said. “My wife went to a restaurant. She was having dinner.” He frowned. “What building?”

  “An apartment building in River Valley.”

  “Then there’s definitely been a mistake. My wife wouldn’t have any reason to go to River Valley.”

  “Where did your wife say she was going, Mr. Wong?” asked Inspector Zhang.

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say which restaurant.”

  “Then how do you know she wasn’t going to River Valley?”

  “Because she doesn’t have any friends there. If she did, I’d know.”

  “Mr. Wong, we found your wife’s handbag.” He took Mrs. Wong’s identity card from his pocket and gave it to Mr. Wong. Mr. Wong stared at it, his lower lip trembling.

  “Mr. Wong, I’m sorry but I have to ask. Was your wife upset about something?”

  Mr. Wong continued to stare at the card.

  “Mr. Wong, was your wife upset about something?” repeated the inspector.

  Mr. Wong looked up, frowning. “Upset?”

  “We think she deliberately jumped off the building. But there was no note.”

  “My wife did not kill herself. Why would you say that?”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “How can you possibly know that? You said she didn’t leave a note. Suicides always leave notes, don’t they?”

  “Not always.” Inspector Zhang took a deep breath. “Mr. Wong, I know that your wife killed herself because I was there,” he said.

  “You were there?”

  “In River Valley. I saw her jump.”

  A tear ran down Mr. Wong’s left cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wong, there is no doubt. It is your wife.”

  Another tear trickled down Mr. Wong’s face, then he hunched forward and buried his face in his hands. He began to sob quietly.

  Sergeant Lee looked over at Inspector Zhang. He forced a smile. Sergeant Lee got up and went to sit on the sofa next to Mr. Wong. She put her arm around him. Inspector Zhang sighed, but didn’t say anything. It was not procedure to offer physical comfort to the recently bereaved, but Sergeant Lee was young and relatively inexperienced and a woman. He made a mental note to mention it to her later.

  “We’re very sorry,” whispered Sergeant Lee.

  Mr. Wong cried for several minutes, then he suddenly got up off the sofa and rushed to the kitchen. He reappeared shortly afterwards, dabbing at his face with a piece of kitchen towel. “Is it okay for me to have a drink?” he asked Inspector Zhang.

  “Of course,” said Inspector Zhang.

  Mr. Wong went over to a cupboard, poured himself a large measure of brandy and sat down again. He took a long drink, his hands trembling. “What happens now?” he asked.

  “At some point you will have to go to the Forensic Medicine Department to identify the body, but that is a formality. It is definitely her, I am afraid. Then you need to contact a funeral director to make arrangements.”

  Mr. Wong nodded at the inspector and dabbed at his eyes again.

  “Mr. Wong, I know this is painful for you, but I do have some questions for you,” said Inspector Zhang. “Was your wife troubled in any way?”

  “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 hi
s 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 that 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.