seat as the driver weaved his way through traffic, missing each motorbike by inches and every car by less.
He stopped some way from the scene of the murder. Singh told himself this was in order to understand the general environment of the crime better but it was actually because he was starting to feel carsick. He got out, gave the driver a few ringgit and looked around him.
In every direction, rows of terraced houses stretched. Each one had started identical but the owners had used the many years since their homes were built to express their individuality. In Singapore, house renovation had only one goal – to convey wealth. He had seen houses that appeared huge, with a vast amount of road frontage, only to pass by another day using another route and discover that the same house was narrower than a long boat.
In Kuala Lumpur, thought the inspector, the personalities expressing themselves in architecture were unique.
In many of the homes, charming well–tended gardens were the owners' innocuous way of stamping personality on their abodes. Rows of heliconia, pots of hibiscus and hedges of bougainvillea adorned many houses. Large mango or guava trees, sometimes outgrowing their small gardens, loomed large and dark over the road. Other householders had decided bricks and mortar were the best way to assert themselves and had built a puzzling array of additions to their tiny houses. Roof tiles had been swapped from the traditional rust to blue or green. Balconies with balustrades protruded. Ponds with carp and complex water features took up all the available garden space. Gates were wrought iron and picked out in gold. One house had stone elephants on the roof. Another had ceramic peacocks. An otherwise normal home had chickens pecking about in the garden. Bird flu was apparently less of a concern in Kuala Lumpur than back in Singapore.
Despite the poor architectural judgement, the streets had a certain charm. Singh supposed it was because, however peculiar, each addition was designed to reflect the owner's taste, rather than his wealth. Besides, many of the houses were rundown and needed a coat of paint. The brightest colours on the street were still the flowers, not paint jobs that looked like cake icing, as would have been the case in Singapore.
Inspector Singh got his bearings in consultation with a road map and set off towards the murder scene. It was a quiet part of the morning. There was not much traffic on the road. The school and work rush was over and the lunch rush had not started. He would have to come back in the evening and gauge the traffic. Was it likely that nobody had seen anything or were witnesses reluctant to come forward and be associated with this notorious case?
It took him five minutes to reach the spot where Alan had been shot. Here it was easier to imagine that the murderer had gone unnoticed. It was a quiet cul de sac. The crowded terraced houses had given way to individual bungalows hidden behind high walls and security cameras. The blue from swimming pools could be seen through front gates. Balinese–style villas complete with stone gargoyles and frangipani trees stood next door to mansions that had evidently used the White House as their design inspiration.
Inspector Singh dragged himself away from an awed perusal of the houses to contemplate the crime that had taken the life of one of its residents. According to his chauffeur's testimony, Alan Lee had alighted from his car, waved his driver away and turned to walk up the hill along the broad, quiet road leading to his unhappy home. He had not gone further than fifty yards when he met the person who had shot him. The murder weapon had not been recovered although the police had scoured the drains and the rubbish tips over a five–hundred–yard radius. Alan Lee's valuables, from his watch to his gold cufflinks, were left untouched. The murderer had wanted the only thing that a man of his wealth could not replace – his life.
The inspector
He stopped some way from the scene of the murder. Singh told himself this was in order to understand the general environment of the crime better but it was actually because he was starting to feel carsick. He got out, gave the driver a few ringgit and looked around him.
In every direction, rows of terraced houses stretched. Each one had started identical but the owners had used the many years since their homes were built to express their individuality. In Singapore, house renovation had only one goal – to convey wealth. He had seen houses that appeared huge, with a vast amount of road frontage, only to pass by another day using another route and discover that the same house was narrower than a long boat.
In Kuala Lumpur, thought the inspector, the personalities expressing themselves in architecture were unique.
In many of the homes, charming well–tended gardens were the owners' innocuous way of stamping personality on their abodes. Rows of heliconia, pots of hibiscus and hedges of bougainvillea adorned many houses. Large mango or guava trees, sometimes outgrowing their small gardens, loomed large and dark over the road. Other householders had decided bricks and mortar were the best way to assert themselves and had built a puzzling array of additions to their tiny houses. Roof tiles had been swapped from the traditional rust to blue or green. Balconies with balustrades protruded. Ponds with carp and complex water features took up all the available garden space. Gates were wrought iron and picked out in gold. One house had stone elephants on the roof. Another had ceramic peacocks. An otherwise normal home had chickens pecking about in the garden. Bird flu was apparently less of a concern in Kuala Lumpur than back in Singapore.
Despite the poor architectural judgement, the streets had a certain charm. Singh supposed it was because, however peculiar, each addition was designed to reflect the owner's taste, rather than his wealth. Besides, many of the houses were rundown and needed a coat of paint. The brightest colours on the street were still the flowers, not paint jobs that looked like cake icing, as would have been the case in Singapore.
Inspector Singh got his bearings in consultation with a road map and set off towards the murder scene. It was a quiet part of the morning. There was not much traffic on the road. The school and work rush was over and the lunch rush had not started. He would have to come back in the evening and gauge the traffic. Was it likely that nobody had seen anything or were witnesses reluctant to come forward and be associated with this notorious case?
It took him five minutes to reach the spot where Alan had been shot. Here it was easier to imagine that the murderer had gone unnoticed. It was a quiet cul de sac. The crowded terraced houses had given way to individual bungalows hidden behind high walls and security cameras. The blue from swimming pools could be seen through front gates. Balinese–style villas complete with stone gargoyles and frangipani trees stood next door to mansions that had evidently used the White House as their design inspiration.
Inspector Singh dragged himself away from an awed perusal of the houses to contemplate the crime that had taken the life of one of its residents. According to his chauffeur's testimony, Alan Lee had alighted from his car, waved his driver away and turned to walk up the hill along the broad, quiet road leading to his unhappy home. He had not gone further than fifty yards when he met the person who had shot him. The murder weapon had not been recovered although the police had scoured the drains and the rubbish tips over a five–hundred–yard radius. Alan Lee's valuables, from his watch to his gold cufflinks, were left untouched. The murderer had wanted the only thing that a man of his wealth could not replace – his life.
The inspector
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