Rich Kill. Poor Kill Read online

  RICH KILL, POOR KILL

  An Inspector Low Novel

  Neil Humphreys

  Contents

  Title Page

  Glossary of popular Singapore terms and Singlish phrases

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Copyright

  Glossary of popular Singapore

  terms and Singlish phrases

  (in order of appearance)

  Lah: Common Singlish expression. Often used for emphasis at the end of words and sentences.

  Talk cock: To speak nonsense.

  Prata: A fried pancake usually served with a fish- or meat-based curry.

  Aiyoh: To express frustration, impatience or disgust.

  Cheem: A Hokkien expression used when someone or something is deep, profound or particularly clever.

  Ang moh: A Caucasian (literal Chinese translation is “red hair”).

  Wah lau: A mostly benign expression that can mean “damn” or “dear me” in Hokkien. (See wah lan eh for a more vulgar variation.)

  Kakis: Buddies or mates.

  Catch no ball: From the Hokkien “liak boh kiew”, the expression means to not understand at all.

  Sarong Party Girl: A derogatory term used to describe Asian women who go out with Caucasians and adopt western affectations.

  FT: Foreign talent.

  Tekan: A Malay term to hit or whack someone, but not always in the literal sense. Tekan means to abuse or bully. An abusive workplace might be accused of having a “tekan culture”.

  Kelong: A colloquialism for cheating, corruption or fixed, often used in a sporting context. (In Malay, kelong is a wooden sea structure used for fishing.)

  Xiao mei mei: In Mandarin, it means little sister. On seedier websites and blogs, it can also refer to attractive women and prostitutes.

  Longkang: The Malay word for “drain”. But longkang is commonly used to describe man-made water passages.

  Basket: A local, more benign euphemism for “bastard”, often used to express one’s frustration.

  Owe money, pay money: A popular expression scrawled on the walls and doors of debtors’ homes by loan sharks.

  Ikan bilis: The Malay term for anchovies, but often used to describe something small or a skinny person.

  Kan ni na: Perhaps the most abusive phrase in Singlish. It can mean “fuck you” or “fucking” (e.g. Kan ni na ang moh).

  Jia lat: A Hokkien adjective meaning to sap energy and used to describe something that is exhausting, troublesome or time-consuming (also written as jialat and chia lat).

  Chao chee bye: In Hokkien, chao means smelly and chee bye is the rudest term for vagina.

  Gahmen: A colloquial term for the Singapore Government.

  CPF: It stands for Central Provident Fund, a social security savings plan for Singaporean citizens and permanent residents.

  Tahan: Malay expression meaning to take or endure. (e.g. cannot tahan roughly means cannot take it.)

  Hao lian: Arrogant.

  Siu mai: Pork dumplings.

  Ah beng: A popular stereotype, an ah beng is often depicted as a scruffy, skinny Chinese guy who favours Singlish and Hokkien vulgarities.

  Teh tarik: A popular tea in Singapore, particularly at roti prata stalls. Literally translated as “pulled tea”, the hot, milky drink is poured into a cup from a considerable height, giving it a frothy, bubbly appearance.

  Lelong: In Malay, lelong means “auction”, but it is also a common Singaporean term for selling something cheaply.

  Teh-c: Tea with evaporated milk and sugar.

  Sotong: A popular seafood dish. Sotong is Malay for squid. But it is commonly used to describe an idiot, often by saying, “Blur like sotong”.

  Ah long: Loan shark (in Hokkien).

  Kiasi: In Hokkien, kiasi means “scared of death”, a criticism directed towards someone for being cowardly.

  Kiasu: Singaporean adjective that means “scared to fail” in Hokkien.

  Wah lan eh: A naughty relative of wah lau. In Hokkien, it means “oh penis” or even “my penis”.

  Mat salleh: In Malay, a pejorative term for a Caucasian.

  Shiok: A fantastic, wonderfully pleasurable feeling.

  Towkay: The big boss or leader (in Hokkien, towkay means head of the family).

  Laksa: A rice noodles dish served in a curry sauce or hot soup.

  Ice kachang: A dessert of shaved ice covered in colourful fruit cocktails, toppings and dressings.

  Chapter 1

  Talek Maxwell closed his laptop. The reflection in the screen was annoying him. He knew he had aged, but at 3am he looked dreadful. The dark puffs beneath his blood-streaked eyes hardened his already coarse complexion. Some of the old handsomeness remained, but he had stopped posting Facebook photos. The broad-shouldered, muscular swagger of Chatham Boys’ rugby captain had gone, replaced by a fat, balding, angry stockbroker. The English private schoolgirls once called his name from the touchline. In Asia, they shouted “white man” over their loud mini-skirts. He once had the prefects. Now he had prostitutes. He paid them to take him back. For a night, he was the captain of the team again. In the morning, he at least had the memories.

  Aini wandered past the dining table. Pencil-thin with small breasts, her nakedness usually aroused Maxwell. But it was late. And he had seen himself in the reflection. She leaned over the breakfast bar, her chest brushing against the kettle, and grabbed the percolator.

  “You want coffee?” she asked.

  “No.” Maxwell didn’t bother looking at her.

  “I want coffee,” she said.

  “I gathered that. Any chance of you putting some clothes on? I do have neighbours.”

  “You say you like it.”

  “I like it on Saturday night, not when I’ve got to be up for work in three hours.”

  Aini turned on the tap and filled the percolator.

  “I’ve got to be at work in three hours too.”

  Maxwell snarled a little. “You’re already at work.”

  Aini hit the percolator against the marble breakfast bar.

  “I am not a hooker OK.”

&n
bsp; “So what are you doing now? An impression?”

  “I am a cleaner. I clean apartments. That’s how you meet me, OK.”

  Maxwell peered down at his stomach and flicked the waistband on his boxer shorts.

  “Met me. It’s ‘how you met me.’ Past tense. You can’t even speak properly.”

  Aini muttered something under her breath.

  “Don’t start your Bahasa shit. I know you’re criticising me when you start waffling on in your own language.”

  Aini was suddenly embarrassed by her nakedness.

  “Why you treat me like this? Why you so mean to me?”

  Maxwell stood up and violently pushed his chair under the dining table. The timber chair legs screeched along the tiled floor.

  “Mean to you? What is this, primary school? Grow up.”

  “Me grow up? You are the child. You are the one who so nasty.”

  “Is. For god’s sake, it’s ‘is so nasty.’ I live in a first-world country where no one can string a proper sentence together.”

  Aini felt the shame. She hated this man, hated him. But she needed him and so did her family. She pointed towards the bedroom.

  “You never make fun of me in there. In there, you don’t complain what I say.”

  “Maybe in there I’m too distracted thinking about the meter.”

  “What meter?”

  Maxwell was lunging forward fast enough to alarm Aini, joining her behind the breakfast bar. He jabbed a chunky finger towards her groin.

  “That meter there, the one between your legs, charging me by the hour.”

  “I am not a prostitute OK.”

  “No, of course you’re not. I just buy your clothes, and your shoes, and give you extra for remittance, and give you money to buy your boy something for his birthday, or for his first day at school, or for another birthday. He has more birthdays than the bloody Queen and he’s probably not even your son.”

  Aini suppressed the anger, considering her response. She appeared to rise slightly. She looked at Maxwell. Sweat pulled clumps of his chest hair together. He disgusted her.

  “He is my son,” she whispered.

  She pushed the percolator plug into the socket and flicked the switch. The unexpected bang made her scream. She ducked as sparks danced in the air.

  “It’s only a blown fuse, you silly cow.” Maxwell brushed past her and pulled the plug out. He yelped as he dropped the plug.

  “Ah, you bastard, it’s hot,” he shouted. “You see? Are you happy now? You can’t even make a cup of coffee without blowing up my apartment.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “You’re an accident.”

  Maxwell pulled open a drawer near the sink and rummaged around. He took out a long, slender Phillips screwdriver with a yellow handle and bent over the blackened plug socket. He tapped it with the screwdriver handle.

  “Look at this. I’m gonna have to replace this now. That’s more money, isn’t it? Plus the coffee pot might be blown. Put all that in with the remittance money I gave you, and it would’ve been cheaper to pick one up at Orchard Towers.”

  Aini moved the percolator away from Maxwell’s hefty frame as he leaned on the breakfast bar. He began to unscrew the plug socket plate.

  “But no, I’ve got to pay for one with the world’s smallest tits who can’t even make the coffee.” He sighed. “In some ways, it’s not even your fault. It’s my fault. Asia has done this. Too much money, too much cheap food and too many cheap women like you. You should’ve seen me before I came out here, at university. I was unstoppable. I had them all, on their knees, rugby firsts, cricket firsts and Kelly Stewart. Best-looking woman in the college, daughter of an old Tory boy and I had her first. And now look at me.”

  He stopped to face Aini.

  “I’m in a sweaty apartment at 3am with you. It’s like swapping champagne for a pint of warm piss.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “No, please stay. I paid for the full night, didn’t I?”

  Maxwell leered at her. The tears in the Indonesian girl’s eyes pleased him. He returned to the plug socket.

  “Does your son know what you do? Surely he doesn’t think you make all your money from cleaning expats’ condos. When he opens his birthday presents, does he know they were paid for by a fat white man you fuck at weekends?”

  Maxwell heard breaking glass behind him. He reached around to feel the water already trickling down his back. The percolator hit him again, smashing against his fingers. Glass splinters pinched all over his back. He turned towards Aini and smiled. She swung again. He threw up his left arm and watched as the flesh opened up beside his elbow. Aini was screaming. He couldn’t really hear her. But he was sure she was screaming. His neighbours wouldn’t like that.

  Using his good right hand, he picked up the screwdriver and stopped her screaming.

  Chapter 2

  Slumped in his office chair, Detective Inspector Stanley Low picked up his obituary. It was written on his new name cards. There they were. The words on his death warrant: Technology Crime Division. The Singapore Government had a sense of humour after all. He couldn’t be fired. He had too many notches on his truncheon. The Tiger Syndicate and the Marina Bay Sands murders made him a recurring character on true crime TV dramas. But cybercrimes was worse than a sacking. It was a living death. The desk job came with rigor mortis. Low had lived his investigative career outside of an office. Now he was dying in one.

  His stained T-shirt was not as messy as his desk. In open defiance of his anal, geeky, computer-obsessed director, Low ran a loose ship. His workspace collected pizza boxes. His spreadsheets were dotted with coffee stains and he could never find his files because he never kept files. He was tasked with finding online hackers, invisible seditionists and confused, loud-mouthed teenagers. He had effectively been spayed like a whiny stray. His tool was always his tongue, but it had been ripped out.

  Low opened the boxes and tipped out the name cards across his desk. Using them as Frisbees, he flicked them one at a time at the heads of colleagues peeking above their cubicles.

  “Come on lah, Stanley,” a voice shouted.

  “Trying to work over here,” cried another.

  He childishly sniggered. “It’s 3am, go home already.”

  “You go home. Learn how to use a computer.”

  Low craned his head to locate the heckler.

  “Eh, balls to you. No need. I got you to wipe my arse for me.”

  Low found the silence crushing. No one really bantered with him at Technology Crime Division. They were boring and he pulled rank. Singaporeans didn’t make fun of their superiors, even in a jocular environment, even if their superior happened to be a government pariah and an alcoholic mess. Just in case.

  Low swigged from a plastic water bottle on his desk and shuddered. He smelled the vodka. His own breath left him nauseous. The phone made him jump, but he was eager for the distraction.

  “Hello … Ah, yeah, working on it now. You know it’s 3am, right? No, I appreciate that, but do we have to shit ourselves every time there’s a negative story? I know the Minister shouldn’t have commented on low-paid workers, but she’s always talking cock. Election coming is it? I’ll check the websites again. Couldn’t get interns for that? No, I’ll do it. It’s 3am on a Monday morning, what else would I be doing, right? But can I ask one thing, ah. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just fired me?”

  The sudden dial tone made Low smile. His cheeks burned as he savoured his childish victory. They hated him, but they couldn’t quite get rid of him, not yet. He tapped his keyboard and the blog reappeared on his screen. Low refreshed the page for updates. The homepage had the Singapore flag as a background with an index on the right listing the latest insalubrious stories involving beer sellers from Mainland China sleeping with their coffee shop customers, Filipino nurses criticising Singaporean “dogs” and teenage anarchists mocking religious leaders; same shit, different names. Even the website’s name irritated Low
. The Singapore Truth. True news for true Singaporeans.

  He picked up the phone and waited for the answering machine.

  “Hello, I know you’re not there, I know it’s 3am and I know this isn’t an emergency,” Low muttered. “But if I have to read one more racist blog, I will kill everyone in this office. Let me know when I can see you.”

  Low returned to his screen. Fuck you, The Singapore Truth and fuck your racist followers.

  Low manically scooped up as many name cards as he could. He stood up and started throwing handfuls around the room, flicking them towards office cubicles.

  “Hey, got a new name card, must take ah. Singapore style, everyone must take my shiny new name card.”

  He spotted a colleague with oily hair peeping at him from above his terminal.

  “Hey, computer genius, you want my new name card? There you go.”

  Low was hurling bundles of name cards at the nameless guy.

  “Got enough or not? Hey, Alan Turing, you want more or not? You know who Alan Turing is? No, of course not, you’re a first-year computer grad. You are sitting here at 3am because you can’t get laid out there. All networking? Eh, you want to network, take my new name card.”

  The guy ducked as the name cards sailed over his head.

  “No, don’t duck, Alan. Take my name card, will be very good for your career. Everybody knows me. The Minister is my good friend.”

  Low swigged from his bottle again. He flinched before picking up the last of his name cards.

  “Come on, no one wants my name cards? They will get you out of here. You don’t want to get out of Technology? You don’t want to get a girlfriend, is it?”

  As the last of the name cards fell, everyone else at the Technology Crime Division returned to work. No one criticised or comforted the inspector. They left him alone. They all hated him that much.

  Chapter 3

  Maxwell held Aini in his arms. He pressed her head against his bare chest. Her eyes had saddened him. They were confused, pathetic even. She lifted her hands to his chest and gently pushed away. Her blood covered them both. It had stuck to Maxwell’s chest hair, which peeled away from Aini’s neck. She tried to scream, but couldn’t find the sound.