Aunty Lee's Delights (15 page)

He was not sorry about this. SSS Salim knew he was a responsible, hardworking man who had risen through the ranks through his own efforts. He could do a good routine job. But when it came to crimes like this, he felt unskilled compared to officers with more qualifications—for example Commissioner Raja, who not only had a law degree from a Singapore university but further degrees in criminology and criminal psychology from Cambridge and Harvard . . . and who had already left two messages asking SSS Salim to call him in his office and then on his private cell phone when Salim arrived at work at 7:15 a.m.

SSS Salim’s first thought was that he was being considered for transfer. This was swiftly discarded. He had only recently received his current appointment and had done nothing so far to justify further recognition. His second thought was that he was being reprimanded. One dead woman had been last seen alive in his neighborhood jurisdiction and the other had lived there. Or HQ had found someone more senior and experienced to put in charge of this suddenly hot district. A transfer would be unfair and unjust, but Salim felt it not unlikely. He also realized that he did not want to give up his posting even though he had not wanted it to begin with. But he could hardly tell his superiors that he wanted to stay on because the recent deaths had suddenly made the job interesting.

He put the call through to the commissioner, feeling a mixture of dread and determination. But what the police commissioner said took him completely by surprise. Even now he was not sure what to do about it. He had not mentioned it to the rest of the staff, who were no doubt also wondering whether he was being fired or demoted. He had not joined them in placing breakfast “orders,” but they had brought him a packet of Kopi-O (black coffee with sugar) and a packet of noodles nonetheless. He had not paid anyone for them and both remained untouched on the side table in his office when he heard the knock on his door.

“Sir?” Officer Pang opened the door without waiting to be invited in. The younger man had spent as little time asleep as Salim had, but seemed very little the worse for wear. Salim suddenly felt old. He was in his thirties, his mother was always reminding him no woman would marry a policeman (high danger, low pay), and now the hours were starting to get him down. Perhaps it was time to start looking around for another line of work. But what? When Officer Pang did not continue, SSS Salim looked up from his papers to see what was wrong.

Aunty Lee was standing right behind Officer Pang. The only reason she was still outside his office was that Officer Pang had physically blocked the doorway with his uniformed bulk—for the time being at least. Even though the top of Aunty Lee’s head barely reached above the officer’s shoulder, she was already making inroads into the office, looking around him and even under his arm.

“Senior Staff Sergeant Salim? Can we just have a moment of your time?”

“Madam, please,” Officer Pang told her patiently, “will you wait outside. I will inform you if he is free to see you—”

“It’s still so early. I’m sure you haven’t had time for breakfast. You are allowed to eat here, right? You have to keep your strength up on the job.”

SSS Salim gestured to his assistant to let his visitors in. He might as well make one old lady happy that morning. Of course he had work waiting for him, but then he always had work waiting, that was nothing new.

Aunty Lee had brought him breakfast. Nina followed him through the door that Officer Pang held open, looking both amused and confused. Terrorists should dress up as old ladies, SSS Salim reflected. Regardless of their training, most Singapore officers were conditioned to show respect to their elders, however eccentric. He gave Officer Pang an excusing nod.

“Yes, Mrs. Lee? How can I help you?”

“Hello, Salim. Actually I was hoping we could help each other. Such terrible news, right? That poor, poor girl. I watched her grow up, you know. And it must be so terrible for her parents also. Such a shock. They thought she was on holiday, you know?”

It so happened that SSS Salim did know this. He was pleased to be able to say, “We have already spoken to them. Of course, we welcome any information that you can give us, but you know you can always make a report even if you don’t see me—”

Aunty Lee had settled herself down in one of the two chairs facing him. Nina laid out the breakfast they had brought for him: homemade
nasi lemak
, a coconut-cream-coated rice dish that was already fragrant through the waxy banana leaf that enclosed it. Nina unwrapped the steaming package to reveal fried egg, deep-fried
ikan kuning
, cucumber slices, and a generous dollop of sambal over a mix of
ikan bilis
and peanuts.

“Don’t worry,” Aunty Lee said. “We also brought for your people outside. Also some
epok-epok
for later. My special recipe—we made both sardine and potato.”

“This could be considered bribery.” SSS Salim was only partly joking.

“Nonsense. We citizens want to show our appreciation to you nice young men for keeping us safe . . . what’s so wrong with that? Anyway, you have to eat, right? If this is your breakfast time, then I am not taking up so much of your work time. Anyway, I spoke to your Commissioner Raja—”

“What?” Startled, SSS Salim half stood up in his seat.

“Careful you don’t spill your tea. I made masala tea. It is a new recipe, I’m still experimenting. You tell me what you think of it? Where was I? Oh yes. I met your commissioner, that nice Inspector Raja, at the Peterses’ place yesterday. I told him I had spoken with you about this—even before the poor girl was found.”

SSS Salim wondered whether Aunty Lee had just managed to sabotage his whole career.

“I told him when we spoke you were concerned about poor Marianne and tried to investigate her whereabouts, but her family insisted she was away on holiday. And I thought that if given the opportunity, you could probably pick up a lot more because you are here at grassroots level.”

“I see,” SSS Salim said, though he did not see. He suspected that the commissioner had been caught by surprise by Aunty Lee and mouthed polite responses till someone came to rescue him.

“So I told him what I thought he should do and he said I could speak to you, to see if you are okay with it.”

“I see,” SSS Salim said again. The
nasi lemak
smelled temptingly of coconut, reminding him of how his late grandmother’s
nasi lemak
used to taste. Recently he had only tasted the dish out of the takeaway packets sold along the walk from the MRT station. He could have afforded a car, but reasoned that he had the official car for official duties, and if the minister for transport could take the train to work, he felt he ought to too. Besides, there was always the matter of saving up for the future . . .

Looking across to Nina, Salim saw she was watching him as though following his thoughts, and he quickly looked away. He was being absurd.

“So what do you have to tell me?” he asked Aunty Lee.

“I got these for you.” Aunty Lee put a file on the table. “The contacts for the friends that Marianne Peters was supposed to be on holiday with. And what they said she told them. It’s all there. I think they were afraid of being blamed by the family or accused of lying by the police, so they didn’t say much at your official interview, but I think you’ll find it quite interesting. There was definitely someone else involved. You’ll see, they say she mentioned someone trying to lend her his chalet to show what a nice guy he is? And after this, I’m going to talk to Carla Saito—you’ve already interviewed her, right?—about exactly what Marianne was hoping to do. Why don’t you try your
epok-epok
before it gets cold? I made it this morning. Straight from the kitchen. Your commissioner likes it very much also. By the way, he thinks very highly of you, you know.”

Salim took a tentative bite of the fried batter puff. If it was good enough for Commissioner Raja, it was good enough for him. Then he forgot all about the commissioner as the hot savory mix of chili, onion, sardine, and—was it lime?—burst out of its crisp casing in his mouth. This was possibly the most sensational
epok-epok
he had tasted since his late grandmother’s death. Unlike the usual Chinese version, the pastry was thick and rich, and the savory mix of seasoned fish, potato, and hard-boiled egg inside almost made him swoon. He looked across at Aunty Lee with something like devotion in his eyes.

“And I was wondering whether you had time to look at the Sentosa Landmark Villas yet.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“If you take a look at this chart and follow the current patterns, doesn’t it look as though a body found here”—a short but very red fingernail jabbed at the map—“would most likely have come from somewhere around here . . . especially if it was put into the water at high tide?”

SSS Salim had a feeling that Aunty Lee was reminding him of something he should have known. “My grandfather used to take me fishing around there,” he said. “I should have thought of that. It’s actually very true—very good. If anything comes of it, I will make sure to give you the credit . . .”

“Don’t be silly, boy,” Aunty Lee said fondly. “You just go and find out what you can.”

“I still don’t understand . . .” SSS Salim could not think of a way to finish his question without sounding rude. “I mean Commissioner Raja . . . he has never . . . I only met him once before this, when he attended our graduation . . . I don’t think he even remembered me. How come—”

“He and I had met before,” Aunty Lee said lightly. “Long ago, when there were fewer people in Singapore, everybody knew everybody else. Now, when people in our age group are starting to die out, those of us left are in the same situation. And we know who we can trust. So when the commissioner and I met again by chance at a friend’s home, we both agreed that you are a nice, responsible young man. Of course he remembers you!”

“But why?” SSS Salim had to ask. Why did an upper-middle-class Tai-Tai worry about such sordid things? “Why are you so interested?”

“Because the two girls who died both came to eat in my restaurant. For me that makes it personal. If they ate my cooking, they are my guests and they are my family. Why don’t you eat your
nasi lemak
? You don’t like it, is it?”

Salim ate his
nasi lemak
.

Aunty Lee’s next stop was Carla Saito’s small room in the Frangipani Inn on Pasir Panjang Road. It was not a place Aunty Lee was familiar with and she took it all in with interest.

The Frangipani Inn could have been a stack of shoebox apartments except for the check-in counter that stood in the overdecorated foyer. There were plastic flowers everywhere. Though two girls, recent arrivals from the People’s Republic of China by their accents, were wiping down the front window side by side as they talked. Nina noted there were smudges on the walls and dust on the corner of the counter where Aunty Lee put down her bag.

“Hourly rate or daily rate?” the concierge asked in a Filipino accent without looking up from his paper.

Aunty Lee waited. When the man finally looked at them, she said, “We are looking for Miss Carla Saito.”

“Is she . . . is this person here with a man? Are you looking for your husband? We cannot give out such information. It is all confidential. Hotel policy.”

“I am looking for Carla Saito,” Aunty Lee said sweetly. “Of course, the room may be booked under the name Marianne Peters.”

“This is an interesting area.”

The front desk finally agreed to call Carla Saito. Between her refusing to come down to the lobby and Aunty Lee refusing to leave it, the beleaguered concierge eventually gave them her room number.

“It’s not bad,” Carla was saying. “There’s a twenty-four-hour prata place, a Chinese food place, a 7-Eleven, and a laundry all in the next block. Which is useful, given there’s no café and no room service in the hotel. And that Ying-Yang place looks like some kind of motorcycle rental. Nice guy runs it. He feeds the stray cats. If we ended up staying, I thought I might get a bike for transport.

“Marianne chose this place because she knew it from her university days. She told me about the twenty-four-hour cheese prata.” Suddenly she fell silent. “I don’t know why I’m talking like this. What do you want?”

Aunty Lee knew how the young woman felt. What had happened was not yet real to her. But somewhere inside, she must have known for some time. And she was no doubt feeling that nothing mattered anymore and would never matter again. In the days following her husband’s death, Aunty Lee would have killed herself if there hadn’t been visitors constantly around her needing to be fed and looked after.

“Tell me,” Aunty Lee said. She motioned to Nina to put the
tingkat
of hot soup on the small coffee table. Nina could not help wrinkling her nose at the griminess of the room and the thought of cheese prata. Nina liked cheese and she liked pratas—fried flatbreads usually served with mutton or vegetable curry—but she could not stomach the idea of a cheese prata combination made at the twenty-four-hour-stall around the corner on Clementi Road. She had never tried it, but to Nina things as different as Western cheese and Indian prata should not be combined.

Though unwashed and probably suffering from insomnia, Nina thought, but without the black-rimmed eyes she’d had the last time she and Aunty Lee had seen her, Carla Saito looked much younger and almost pretty.

“No, I don’t want to talk to you,” she suddenly declared. She stood up and marched toward them. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you!”

Nina had not realized till now how tall Carla was. Instinctively she took a step backward, pulling on Aunty Lee’s arm to make her move too, but Aunty Lee simply swung both her arm and Nina behind her, staying put.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Carla Saito’s voice was low and harsh from tears and dehydration. “You’re just an old busybody and you’ve got nothing better to do, so you’re meddling here. Get out of my room or I’m going to smash your stupid soup into your face!”