Inspector Singh Investigates by Shamini Flint Read Free Book Online Page A

frame of mind for recovery to have the morgue signposted for patients. It would be the medical equivalent of 'Abandon hope all ye who enter here'.
    Inspector Singh was dragged to the present by a wiry hospital orderly dressed in baggy green hospital garb. He was struggling to pull out the steel drawer that contained Alan Lee. With the suddenness of a champagne cork, the drawer popped open. The orderly grinned at them in sweaty triumph, his teeth black and rotting. A packet of cigarettes poked from his top pocket and the faint smell of tobacco in the air suggested that a job tending to the dead was not sufficient to dissuade him from a habit that would only hasten his visit to the drawers. The graphic picture of a pair of diseased lungs on the cigarette packet, the latest in a long line of health warnings imposed by the government, seemed superfluous in the circumstances. Singapore had imposed the same health warning and Inspector Singh, repulsed by the pictures of diseased organs, now carefully transferred the cigarettes from each new packet he bought to a grubby old one with only a verbal warning. He had changed his behaviour, but only to take steps to avoid being graphically forewarned. The orderly was made of sterner stuff.
    The policeman turned his attention to the body. It was a bloodless corpse, yellow and dry skinned with puckered lips and closed eyes. Between a few sparse, dark chest hairs, the black hole of the bullet's entry wound was clearly visible, as were the gunpowder burns around the edges.
    'He must have been shot at almost point–blank range by someone standing directly in front of him,' remarked the inspector.
    'How do you know that, sir?' asked the young sergeant.
    'There wouldn't have been powder burns if the bullet had travelled any distance. Also, the burns around the wound are even. That means the bullet went in straight. Otherwise, the burns would be lopsided, more towards one side or the other.'
    'What else can you tell, Inspector?' asked the sergeant, trying to distract himself from a growing sense of queasiness. Alan Lee did not look good.
    The inspector grinned at him, not unkindly. 'First body, eh? I remember my first – it must be thirty–five years ago now. A woman killed by her jealous boyfriend. Blue, puffy face. The butterfly–shaped strangulation marks. You never forget the first.'
    Attention back to the body, he continued, 'I would say that the person who killed him knew him. The killer must have stood in front of him, spoken to him and then shot him. They were face to face when it happened. Alan Lee was not expecting violence. Otherwise, he would have been on his guard and unlikely to have been shot so cleanly.'
    Sergeant Shukor nodded his agreement, getting caught up in the analysis.
    'Also, I think it was an amateur ... rather than a professional hit.'
    This surprised Shukor.
    'Only an amateur would have chosen to shoot him in the chest. He might have survived. The bullet might have missed the heart outright or been deflected by the sternum. A punctured lung is a lot less likely to be fatal if there is quick medical intervention. No, a professional always goes for the headshot. Unless, of course, it was a professional pretending to be an amateur.' His belly laugh reverberated through the cold room. 'That's what makes this job so challenging.'
    Shukor grinned and said, 'Where to now, sir?'
    'Back to the beautiful widow.'
     
    'There is a possibility that the Syariah court will place the boys in a home,' the inspector said brutally.
    For a moment it seemed that he had not penetrated the thick haze of her isolation. Then Chelsea Liew looked up, sunken eyes staring at him unblinkingly.
    'What are you saying?'
    'The Syariah court might take them into care.'
    'But my mother has them.'
    'She is not Moslem.'
    'Neither are they.'
    The inspector shrugged. 'They are the under–age offspring of a Moslem man who declared them Moslem before he died.'
    Through dry lips, the accused spat. The