The Eight Curious Cases of Inspector Zhang Read online

  Miss Yu nodded. “I was at home, yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Of course, alone.”

  “And did Mrs. Wong press the buzzer for your flat?”

  “Mrs. Wong? Who is Mrs. Wong?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Inspector Zhang. “She is the lady who died.”

  “Why do you think she pressed my buzzer?”

  “She needed to get access to the roof and she didn’t have a keycard so someone must have admitted her,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “No one pressed my buzzer all night. I got home from work, I cooked myself dinner, I watched television and I was in bed by eleven.”

  Sergeant Lee scribbled in her notebook. “I wonder if I might ask you a favour, Miss Yu?” said Inspector Zhang.

  “A favour?” She looked at her watch impatiently.

  “My wife and I are thinking of moving to this area. Would you mind showing me around?”

  “You want me to give you a tour of my apartment?”

  “That’s so kind of you,” said Inspector Zhang, heading for a door at the far end of the sitting room. “Is this the bedroom?”

  “One of the bedrooms,” said Miss Yu, hurrying after him. “Inspector Zhang, I really have to go to work.”

  Inspector Zhang nodded appreciatively at the spacious bedroom. There was a king-size bed and a sofa against one wall, and another large balcony. There were sliding mirrored doors at the far end of the room and Inspector Zhang slid them back. “A walk-in closet,” he said. “That’s what my wife really wants, a closet that she can walk into.”

  “Please, Inspector …” said Miss Yu. “Really, I have to go.”

  Inspector Zhang stepped into the closet and ran his hand along a line of dresses. He pulled out a black dress and looked at the label. “Karen Millen,” he said. “I was telling Sergeant Lee that my wife is a big fan of Karen Millen’s designs.” He put the dress back on the rail and pulled out another one. “I see you have a lot of her dresses. And that you like black. My wife prefers red.”

  “Inspector Zhang, I really don’t see what the content of my closet has to do with you.”

  The inspector walked out of the closet and went into the bathroom. The walls and floors were lined with marble and there was a large bath in the centre of the room, big enough for two people. “Is that a Jacuzzi?” asked Inspector Zhang. “My wife has always wanted a Jacuzzi.”

  “Yes, it’s a Jacuzzi. Please, Inspector Zhang, I have to go to work.”

  “I expect it’s a wonderful way to relax, after a hard day at work,” said Inspector Zhang.

  There was a white cabinet to the left of the sink and Inspector Zhang went over and opened it. It was full of medical supplies and he pulled out a pack of sticking plasters.

  “I really must protest at this intrusion into my privacy,” said Miss Yu. “I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Inspector Zhang put the pack of plasters back into the cabinet and closed the door. “I think we’ve seen all that we need, Miss Yu.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Miss Yu, folding her arms. “I really do have to get to work.”

  “There is just one more thing,” said the inspector. He lowered his chin and looked at her over the top of his spectacles. “I am arresting you for the murder of Mrs. Celia Wong.”

  Miss Yu’s jaw dropped, and Sergeant Lee looked equally astonished.

  They drove Miss Yu to CID headquarters at New Bridge Road, processed her, and then drove out to the airport where they met up with two uniformed policemen.

  They found Mr. Wong sitting at a computer in the baggage handling control room. He saw them walk into the room and got up from his seat. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “We’re here to arrest you for the murder of your wife,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Wong. “I was at home when she died.”

  “No, you were at home when she fell from the roof,” said Inspector Zhang. “Your mistress Shirley Yu pushed her off the roof after first standing on the edge and pretending to be her. She wore a similar Karen Millen dress and at that distance no one could see her face. Then she pushed your wife’s body off. But you were in Miss Yu’s apartment earlier. And that is where you killed your wife. You drowned her in the bath.”

  “Sheer fantasy,” said Mr. Wong.

  “I’m afraid we have Miss Yu in custody already, and she has told us everything.”

  Mr. Wong’s shoulders slumped. His legs started to shake and he sat down heavily. “It was an accident,” he said. “I didn’t mean to kill her.”

  “Your wife found out that you were having an affair?” said Inspector Zhang.

  “She must have done. She must have found the key and copied it, and then followed me to the apartment.”

  “And she used the key to let herself in?”

  Wong nodded. “Shirley and I were in the bath. Together. Celia burst in with a knife.”

  “She was angry?”

  Wong laughed sharply. “She was like a woman possessed. I’d never seen her so angry. She came at Shirley with the knife, trying to stab her. I tried to take the knife from her and she cut me.” He held up his hand. “The blood just seemed to make her crazier. She kept trying to stab me, saying that I’d ruined her life and that she was going to kill me.”

  “So you pushed her under the water?”

  Wong shook his head. “I didn’t mean to kill her, but it was the only way I could stop her. She fell into the bath and I knelt on her and tried to pull the knife away but she kept struggling. Then suddenly she went still.”

  “And Miss Yu, what was she doing while this was going on?”

  “She was hysterical,” said Wong. She was sitting on the floor, crying and shaking. It wasn’t her fault, Inspector. Shirley didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “She covered up a murder, Mr. Wong,” said Inspector Zhang quietly.

  “We had no choice,” said Mr. Wong.

  “And the key? The key that your wife used to let herself into the apartment. You took it?”

  “She must have been planning it for ages because she had made a copy of the key I used. And last night I couldn’t find my keycard to get into the building. Celia had taken it. She followed me to the building and then used the keycard to get in and the key to get into the apartment.”

  “And after she was dead, you took the key and the keycard?”

  “I knew that if you found them you would find the apartment,” said Mr. Wong. “I didn’t mean to kill her, Inspector Zhang.”

  “But you did,” said Sergeant Lee.

  “It was an accident,” said Mr. Wong.

  “But throwing her off the building wasn’t,” said Inspector Zhang. “That was quite deliberate.”

  “I had to give myself an alibi,” said Mr. Wong. He put his head in his hands. “I didn’t want to do it, and neither did Shirley. But we knew that if my wife’s body was found then I’d be the obvious suspect.” He looked up at the inspector. “It’s true, isn’t it? Most murders are committed by family members?”

  “Or work colleagues. Or neighbours. Yes, that is true. It is very rare for someone to be killed by a stranger.”

  “That was what I told Shirley. If you found my wife and I didn’t have an alibi then I would be the obvious suspect. But if she died when I was in my apartment, then I would be in the clear.”

  “Your mistress and your wife are not dissimilar in appearance, which enabled the deception,” said the inspector.

  Mr. Wong nodded. “That was what gave me the idea,” he said. “We removed the clothes she was wearing and then we dried her hair and redressed her in one of Shirley’s dresses. Shirley changed into a similar dress and then we carried my wife to the roof. Then I went home. I made some phone calls and then I knocked on the door of the flat next door and asked Mr. Diswani to turn down the volume of their television set.” Mr. Wong smiled. “I caused quite a scene.”

  “You wanted the neighbour to remember you, so that he wou
ld confirm your alibi.”

  Mr. Wong nodded. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “That part of your plan did, yes,” said Inspector Zhang. “Once you had established your alibi, your mistress stood on the edge of the roof to attract the attention of passers-by.”

  “She was so high up, no one would know that it wasn’t my wife. Then she tipped Celia’s body over and went back to her apartment.”

  “It was a very good plan,” said Inspector Zhang. “But not good enough.” He nodded at the two uniformed policemen. “Take him away,” he said.

  One of the policemen handcuffed Mr. Wong and he was led out of the front door.

  “What will happen to them, do you think?” asked the sergeant.

  “That is up to a judge,” said Inspector Zhang. “But I don’t think that any court will believe that drowning is a valid means of self-defence. Drowning takes time. He must have held her under the water long after his wife had let go off the knife.” He shuddered. “But as I said, that is not our concern.”

  He walked towards the door and they went down together to a waiting police car.

  “When did you first suspect the husband, Inspector Zhang?” asked Sergeant Lee, following Inspector Zhang into the car.

  “The second time we saw him,” said the inspector. “When I asked him about the cut on his hand he had a sticking plaster, remember?

  “He said that he had cut himself when he was cooking.”

  “Yes, that’s what he said. But he was right-handed, and the cut was on his right hand. I couldn’t help wonder how someone right-handed could cut themselves on the right hand.”

  “He could have done that picking up the knife, or if the knife had slipped.”

  Inspector Zhang nodded and pushed his spectacles further up on his nose. “But it was the plaster, rather than the wound, that was the real clue that something was amiss.”

  “The plaster?” repeated Sergeant Lee. “It was a regular sticking plaster, I thought.”

  “Yes it was,” said the inspector. “It was a small flesh-coloured plaster, nothing out of the ordinary about it. But when I went to the bathroom, I looked in the first aid cupboard and the plasters there were the transparent kind. A different brand completely.”

  “Ah,” said Sergeant Lee.

  “So it seemed obvious to me that if the plaster had come from somewhere else, then there was every possibility that he was lying about the circumstances that had led to him receiving the wound. And lies, I always say, are like cockroaches. For every one that you see, there are ten that are hidden.”

  “And when you checked the first aid cabinet in Miss Yu’s bathroom, you saw the same brand of plaster that Mr. Wong had used.”

  “Exactly. Which meant that he must have been in her apartment when he was injured.”

  Sergeant Lee nodded and scribbled in her notebook.

  “What are you writing?” asked the inspector.

  “I write down everything you tell me, Inspector Zhang. So that I won’t forget.”

  “Perhaps one day you will write about my cases, become my Dr. Watson.”

  Sergeant Lee smiled. “That would be an honour, Inspector Zhang, because you are most certainly my Sherlock Holmes.”

  Inspector Zhang beamed with pride but said nothing.

  INSPECTOR ZHANG AND THE DEAD THAI GANGSTER

  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 the fraudster had fought his extradition but he had been denied bail and after two weeks in a crowded Thai prison he had practically begged to go home. He was facing seven years in Changi Prison and as bad as Changi was it was a hotel compared with a Thai prison where thirty men to a cell and an open hole in the floor as a toilet were the norm. Inspector Zhang had been told to take an assistant with him and he had experienced no hesitation in choosing Sergeant Lee, though he had felt himself blush a little when he had explained to his wife that the pretty young officer would be accompanying him. Not that there had been any need to blush, Inspector Zhang had been married for thirty years and in all that time he had never even considered being unfaithful. It simply wasn’t in his nature. He had fallen in love with his wife on the day that he’d met her and if anything he loved her even more now. He had chosen Sergeant
Lee because she was one of the most able detectives on the force, albeit one of the youngest.

  The plane kissed the runway and the air brakes kicked in and Inspector Zhang felt his seat belt cutting into his stomach. The jet turned off the runway and began to taxi towards the terminal, a jagged line of wave-like peaks in the distance.

  “And this is your first time in Thailand?” asked Sergeant Lee.

  “I’ve been to Thailand with my wife, but we flew straight to Phuket,” he said. “I have never been to Bangkok before.”

  “It is an amazing city,” said Sergeant Lee. “And so big. I read on the internet that more than eight million people live there.”

  “Twice the population of Singapore,” said Inspector Zhang. “But the crime rate here is much, much higher than ours. Every year the city has five thousand murders and at least twenty thousand assaults. In Singapore we are lucky if we have two murders in a month.”

  Sergeant Lee raised a single eyebrow, a trick that the Inspector had never managed to master. “Lucky, Inspector Zhang?”

  “Perhaps lucky is not the right word,” admitted Inspector Zhang, though if he was completely honest the inspector would have had to admit that he would have welcomed the opportunity to make more use of his detective skills. In Singapore unsolved murders were a rarity, but he knew that in Bangkok hundreds went unsolved every year.

  The plane came to a halt on the taxiway and the captain’s voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry but there will be a slight delay before we commence disembarkation,” he said. “And in the meantime, would Inspector Zhang of the Singapore Police Force please make himself known to a member of the cabin staff.”

  “That’s you,” said Sergeant Lee excitedly.

  “Yes, it is,” said Inspector Zhang.

  Sergeant Lee waved at a stewardess and pointed at Inspector Zhang. “This is him.” She said. “Inspector Zhang of the Singapore Police Force. And I am his colleague, Sergeant Lee.”

  The stewardess bent down to put her lips close to his ear and Inspector Zhang caught a whiff of jasmine. “Inspector Zhang, the captain would like a word with you,” she said.