Inspector Singh Investigates by Shamini Flint

women walk out? I used to read all the women's magazines – full of good advice to women trapped in abusive relationships. I didn't even really believe I was one of them. I remember thinking to myself, he might hit me once in a while but at least I'm not one of those battered wives. Of course, in reality, I was a textbook case. In denial, for my own sake, for my self–respect. For the sake of the children. I don't really know. Alan' – it was the first time since meeting the inspector that she had used her husband's name and he duly noted it – 'would always have some excuse – he was stressed with work and just snapped, I had spent too much time talking to some man at a party ... He was always apologetic afterwards. He would bring me gifts, take me out, he would even cry with remorse. I doubted myself. Perhaps it was somehow my fault. He had seemed a good man when I married him. Perhaps I was a really lousy wife, a lousy person to have changed him into something so awful. Maybe I was a slut – talking to men at parties.'
    She tossed her head, a glint of pride. 'It's hard to believe now, but there was a time when men would seek my company.'
    He looked at her. Hair drawn back. Pale. Hollow cheeked. Defiant. Meeting his eyes – challenging him to disbelieve that the wreck she was had been a new model once.
    'I imagine men would seek your company if you walked out of this prison today,' he remarked.
    She was embarrassed. A hint of pink, the first colour he had seen, flushed through the translucent skin.
    She said, 'Oh! Those would just be the reporters.'
    He felt the first stirrings of genuine engagement with the welfare of this woman.
    A loud knock on the door put an end to the conversation. It was time for her to go back to her cell.
     
    They both stood outside the prison, young policeman and old. The inspector squinted against the sun. Sergeant Shukor pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and slipped them on. His wrap–around, ski–style, black shades added to his air of danger and competence. The inspector tried to recall if he had ever looked the part of a professional policeman in the way that the younger man did. He doubted it. He looked down at his sneakers, having to crane to see past his ample stomach. They were extremely grubby after a few days in the dust and grime of Kuala Lumpur. He looked around. The entire city had the feel of a place where contracts for upkeep and beau–tification were handed out to companies with connections rather than competence. The pavement on which he stood had been relaid with shaped tiles intended to create floral patterns. Most were cracked, some were missing – tiles were unevenly laid or had popped up under the intense sun. It was impossible to walk along and think – every moment had to be spent avoiding twisting an ankle. Instead of leafy trees to provide some shade, palms were planted at regular intervals. These were a recent addition, propped up with lengths of wood. Fairy lights were decoratively coiled around each trunk. The wires made the tree look like it was set up for death by electrocution.
    The inspector sighed and kicked at a protruding piece of pavement. 'Whose bright idea was this anyway?'
    Sergeant Shukor shrugged, a gesture of resignation made powerful by the breadth of his shoulders. He was not going to defend the uneven pavements from criticism. No sense of misplaced national pride was called for – especially as he himself had just stubbed his toe.
    And yet, the inspector thought, Kuala Lumpur had a certain something. It was difficult to put his finger on what it was exactly. There was a sense of freedom perhaps, of anarchy even, that Singapore so sorely lacked. Perhaps it was the lack of deference to authority, the physical space, the ability to take a step back and enjoy a moment of quiet that lent Kuala Lumpur its atmosphere. Singaporeans were always adding to the list of reasons each one kept to hand, in case they met a Malaysian, of why it