was so much better on the island than the peninsula. They ranged from law and order to cleanliness, from clean government to good schools, and always ended on the strength of the Singaporean economy. But in the end, the Malaysian would nod, as if to agree to the points made – and then shrug to indicate that they probably wouldn't trade passports, not really. And if pressed for a reason they would fall back on that old chestnut which somehow seemed to capture everything that was wrong about Singapore – but your government bans chewing gum. The nanny state and the police state all rolled into one.
Singh dragged himself back to the issue at hand and said, 'OK, let's start at the top. If Chelsea did not murder her husband, who did?'
'You believe her, sir?'
'Yes, I do,' said Inspector Singh firmly.
Shukor sighed. He could smell trouble. One blundering Singaporean policeman stampeding all over a cut and dried case was not what Inspector Mohammad had wanted when he assigned Shukor to babysit. He liked the policeman from Singapore – he was honest, direct and seemed to care about the people involved in the case. They were not just ciphers to him. But this bee in his bonnet about Chelsea's innocence was unhelpful. They only had her denial to go on. How was it that was enough to convince the senior policeman? He came with a big reputation for success and a bad one for being his own man. He hadn't got either by being gullible.
Singh interrupted his train of thought. 'Well? Who else do we have?'
Shukor said, 'I have no idea, sir.'
'All right. There's work to be done then. Let's go find out who killed Alan Lee.'
----
Six
The lunchtime meal of the Lee family had evolved substantially over time. The staple of the early days, when the Lee patriarch used to preside over the table, was the mega–meal of the food–loving Chinese. In his day, the senior Lee would arrive home for lunch in a chauffeured limousine, the Mercedes Benz so beloved for the status it conferred as well as its robust build. One of his two wives would have cooked. Numerous dishes would be served – all designed for general health and well–being. Judicious use of longevity herbs and a sprinkling of powders purchased from the apothecary – selected after careful consultation from the rows of jars behind the counter – would, when combined correctly, give the body the perfect balance of elements.
Chelsea Liew, product of a different generation, would usually have a sandwich, carefully crafted by the maid – tuna mixed with onions and garlic diced fine, a hint of lime squeezed in – or perhaps a baked vegetable sandwich – aubergine and pumpkin taken out of the oven when softened to perfection, crispy round the edges, sprinkled with sesame seeds and served between two slices of brown bread, a far cry from her childhood meals of congee with fried anchovies.
Alan Lee would usually eat at one of the high–end Kuala Lumpur restaurants – fine dim sum at the Mandarin Oriental Chinese restaurant with a view of the Twin Towers – tallest buildings in the world in the recent past, now superseded by the national equivalent of penis–envy in some other country with big ambitions. Or Alan would eat Western food, a sign of personal success, indicating to the world that he did not merely have wealth, but class as well, as manifested by his cosmopolitan tastes. Even French nouvelle cuisine was available to the new elite of Kuala Lumpur. Gone were the days when the only 'Western' dish available was the chicken chop and chips at the Coliseum cafe on Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman. Despite this, quite a few members of this select, wealthy club would stop at a stall on the way back to the office to purchase a top–up meal of laksa or roti chanai. Alan Lee himself had not been averse to substantiating a meal with a packet of noodles bought on the way back to his gleaming office.
Kian Min, the workaholic, ate little and usually at his desk. His secretary
Singh dragged himself back to the issue at hand and said, 'OK, let's start at the top. If Chelsea did not murder her husband, who did?'
'You believe her, sir?'
'Yes, I do,' said Inspector Singh firmly.
Shukor sighed. He could smell trouble. One blundering Singaporean policeman stampeding all over a cut and dried case was not what Inspector Mohammad had wanted when he assigned Shukor to babysit. He liked the policeman from Singapore – he was honest, direct and seemed to care about the people involved in the case. They were not just ciphers to him. But this bee in his bonnet about Chelsea's innocence was unhelpful. They only had her denial to go on. How was it that was enough to convince the senior policeman? He came with a big reputation for success and a bad one for being his own man. He hadn't got either by being gullible.
Singh interrupted his train of thought. 'Well? Who else do we have?'
Shukor said, 'I have no idea, sir.'
'All right. There's work to be done then. Let's go find out who killed Alan Lee.'
----
Six
The lunchtime meal of the Lee family had evolved substantially over time. The staple of the early days, when the Lee patriarch used to preside over the table, was the mega–meal of the food–loving Chinese. In his day, the senior Lee would arrive home for lunch in a chauffeured limousine, the Mercedes Benz so beloved for the status it conferred as well as its robust build. One of his two wives would have cooked. Numerous dishes would be served – all designed for general health and well–being. Judicious use of longevity herbs and a sprinkling of powders purchased from the apothecary – selected after careful consultation from the rows of jars behind the counter – would, when combined correctly, give the body the perfect balance of elements.
Chelsea Liew, product of a different generation, would usually have a sandwich, carefully crafted by the maid – tuna mixed with onions and garlic diced fine, a hint of lime squeezed in – or perhaps a baked vegetable sandwich – aubergine and pumpkin taken out of the oven when softened to perfection, crispy round the edges, sprinkled with sesame seeds and served between two slices of brown bread, a far cry from her childhood meals of congee with fried anchovies.
Alan Lee would usually eat at one of the high–end Kuala Lumpur restaurants – fine dim sum at the Mandarin Oriental Chinese restaurant with a view of the Twin Towers – tallest buildings in the world in the recent past, now superseded by the national equivalent of penis–envy in some other country with big ambitions. Or Alan would eat Western food, a sign of personal success, indicating to the world that he did not merely have wealth, but class as well, as manifested by his cosmopolitan tastes. Even French nouvelle cuisine was available to the new elite of Kuala Lumpur. Gone were the days when the only 'Western' dish available was the chicken chop and chips at the Coliseum cafe on Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman. Despite this, quite a few members of this select, wealthy club would stop at a stall on the way back to the office to purchase a top–up meal of laksa or roti chanai. Alan Lee himself had not been averse to substantiating a meal with a packet of noodles bought on the way back to his gleaming office.
Kian Min, the workaholic, ate little and usually at his desk. His secretary
Similar Books
