Mystified

Posted on | Thursday, December 29, 2011 | No Comments

"I need perfection
Some twisted selection
That tangles me
To keep me alive"

I'd love to claim the above as mine, but they're actually from "Mystify" by INXS, which I'm listening to right now. I'm gearing up to start writing for the day after cranking out an entire page yesterday. Music is my twisted selection, I think. It actually makes me feel alive, even on the days I don't feel like writing. Today I feel...I don't know how I feel, but I do want to write irrespective of what actually spews from my keyboard. Today, that's good enough for me. The rest I'll deal with as it comes.

Oh wait, before I sign off I must share a poem a friend quoted to me yesterday (you know who you are!) when I was in my depths of despair. May it give you the comfort and solidarity of thought it has blessed me with today: 

"A little learning is a dangerous thing;
drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
there shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
and drinking largely sobers us again."
Alexander Pope, An essay on Criticism


Category:

Where To Start With Scandinavian Crime Fiction

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There's more to Scandinavian crime fiction than Stieg Larsson, so say the "experts". This link (via the UK's Shots magazine blog) seems like a good starting point.

Category:

How Do You Handle Doubt?

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To a writer, there's nothing worse than doubt. That cold, self-cannibalizing feeling that no matter how often and how doggedly you do it, you can't really write. I've been struggling with this shroud for the whole of this week, and remain tangled amongst its threads.


The problem is of course, there are more "what ifs" than I care to have in my life right now. What if I fail at becoming a crime writer? What if my new teaching job doesn't bring me the satisfaction I am looking for? What if my future students are nightmarish kiasus hell-bent on making my life miserable? What if I become hell-bent on making their lives miserable?


Where is all this coming from, you say? A dinner conversation with my landlord, who until recently was a struggling cinematographer, may have something to do with my doubt. He's 50 and has been in his field all his adult life. Making it at FIFTY after struggling for years. That is a scary thought, considering I was hoping to publish my first work by the time I turn 35. What if I too, made it only in my fifties? What if I never make it? (Yikes!)

The result is that I haven't written a word since that conversation. I know I should, because I enjoy it. But my self-doubt stubbornly clings to me, pulling me away from what comes naturally to me. So much so that I almost believe now that I don't want to write. And that is making me miserable.


But wait, hang on a sec. Doesn't doubt have a shelf life? Does it not disappear when it's out in the open? Wiser writers continue to write although it's hard work. And why do I keep thinking of "Bee Movie" while I'm writing this? I've just remembered some dialogue from the movie which described how humans say that bees are not supposed to fly because they have bigger bodies than they do wings, but bees fly anyway.


What does that mean to a struggling writer, that I should write anyway while my brain continues toying with itself? Improbable, at this point, but not impossible I think. I'm going to sit on this for a bit and let it sink in. And stay away from career-related conversations with my landlord.


Category:

FAMILY TIES (PART THREE)

Posted on | Sunday, December 25, 2011 | No Comments

Part Three

Seth arrived at his uncle's just after eight. Ruben's car was parked on the front porch, but the gate was open. As he got out of his car he could hear loud voices coming from inside the house. It sounded like a heated argument going on between Ruben and his mother.

The front door was open wide, but he was too far away to hear what they were saying. As he reached the door, Ruben came rushing out and they nearly collided. He glared at Seth and brushed roughly past him to his car.

Inside, Seth's aunt was seated on the sofa, her face in her hands. She looked up when Seth walked in. her face was drawn and tired, but her eyes were dry. In fact, she looked surprisingly calm for someone who had just had a shouting match with her son.

“He'll come back after he's cooled off. He's just angry over money,” she said.

“What happened, aunty?” Seth asked gently, sitting down next to her on the sofa.

“Oh Seth, Ruben gambled away all his savings and wanted me to give him money to pay his loans, but I refused. I wish your uncle were here, he would know what to do,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.

“Don't worry, Aunty. Everything will be all right,” Seth said, patting her hand comfortingly. He felt a little prick of guilt at visiting her under false pretenses. “I'll make you some tea,” he said quickly, before he lost his nerve.

“Thank you dear,” she said, smiling kindly at him.

The coffee jar was half full when he opened it. It wasn't surprising as his uncle had been the only one in the house who drank coffee. Ruben and his mother hated the stuff. Seth spooned some of the powder into the plastic bottle. He replaced the lid and tucked the bottle back in his jacket pocket. He then put the kettle to boil on the stove and grabbed a mug from the cabinet.



“Sorry I took so long, Aunty,” he said easily as he handed his aunt the mug of steaming hot tea.

“Thank you dear,” she said, giving him a tired smile. After a few sips of the hot tea, she leaned back against the sofa and closed her eyes.

He let her relax for a few more moments before speaking. “Aunty, there is something I need to ask you,” he said, looking intently at her.

“What is it, my dear?”

“It’s about Nathan, your gardener. Mrs. Veloo said he visits you often when you are alone in the house. She seems to think…” he hesitated.

“…that I am having an affair with him?” She looked at him with some amusement.

Seth raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“My dear, that lady may be my oldest friend, but I am used to her tricks. If you really want to know, the boy is studying at the university. He is only doing gardening to finance his studies. I help him with his English on his off days. I didn’t tell Ruben or your uncle because I knew they wouldn’t approve,” she explained.

Seth felt slightly abashed, but he wasn’t convinced of gardener’s innocence just yet. He tried a different tack.

“Aunty, of course I believe you. But that’s not all Mrs. Veloo said. She saw Uncle arguing with Nathan the evening before his death. She said that he gave Uncle an envelope before leaving. Did Uncle mention anything about it?”

His aunt shook her head, looking bewildered. “Did she hear what they were arguing about?” she asked.

“No, they were too far away but she said that Uncle looked furious after reading something from the envelope. Aunty, I noticed an empty envelope fitting her description on Uncle’s desk. I’m not sure that he died from a heart attack,” Seth said.

“What do you mean? You don’t think that Nathan killed him?” His aunt looked shocked.

“I don’t know that for sure, Aunty. But I did find mud on the window sill of the study and footprints outside just under the window. They were made by men’s worker boots and I noticed your gardener wears similar size boots.”

“You’ve met Nathan?” His aunt looked at him in surprise.

“Not exactly. I stopped by to visit you and saw him coming out of the garden shed wearing worker boots,” he explained. “It doesn’t look good for him right now,” he added.

She shook her head incredulously. “I still cannot believe he had anything to do with your uncle’s death. Why they barely even spoke to each other! Ruben was in charge of the help as your uncle was too busy running the business. What could Nathan and your uncle possibly have to argue about?”

Category:

When Authors Turn Fans

Posted on | Thursday, December 15, 2011 | No Comments

What would happen to Elizabeth and Darcy's world without Wickham in it? And what happens when Sherlock Holmes and Watson get mixed up in an international scandal?

The above is not wishful thinking, but two separate novels by famous authors who are fans of Jane Austen and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle respectively. P.D.James' latest novel is called "Death Comes To Pemberley", which investigates the murder of Wickham. Antony Horowitz (famous for writing "Midsomer Murders") has written "The House of Silk", a new Sherlock Holmes novel that has received the nod of approval from the Arthur Conan Doyle estate.

Read the rest of the story here.

Category:

Off Topic: 10 Satirical Novels that Could Teach You To Survive the Future

Posted on | Wednesday, December 14, 2011 | No Comments

I'm not one to over-ruminate the future; living in the present is more my thing. But I love a funny read and despite this list not containing any works of crime fiction, I thought I'd share it anyways. Enjoy!

Category:

An End To The Hiatus

Posted on | Monday, December 12, 2011 | No Comments

Starting a new career and moving back to the city has taken up more of my time than I'd like. As a result, this blog and my writing have taken a backseat to the humdrum of daily life. I was chatting to a friend about it today (who said rather pointedly) that work is taking precedence over some aspects of my life.


I realised then that it is not what I do for a living that alone defines me. There are other sides to me that need nurturing, namely my writing self. It reminded me of a post I read recently in Writing on Wednesday about "using the moment". I won't go into details, but if you want to read the post visit the link via my blogroll.


On another note, The Seattle Times has published their list of best mystery novels for 2011 (yay!) It'll give me an excuse to shop come January. (Never mind that I have a pile of Rebus novels that remain untouched). Read the Seattle Times' list here.



Category:

Family Ties (Part Two)

Posted on | Friday, September 2, 2011 | No Comments

Part Two 

Kim faxed him all the information he needed that very evening. It was just as he had suspected; Ruben was behind on his car loan payments by three months. He had also taken a RM50,000 personal loan from I---- Bank and was behind on those payments too. Seth was willing to bet Ruben’s gambling habit had spiraled out of control.
Later that evening, Seth called Timothy Chan, his uncle’s lawyer. According to Chan, Vikram Damodar had confided in him his plan to change his will after finding out that his son was up to his neck in gambling debts. He had help pay some of his son’s gambling debts but refused to help him after he couldn’t make his loan payments.
“They had a huge argument two days before your uncle died. Your uncle called me in a state of fury; he wanted to change his will as Ruben was currently the sole benefactor of his estate. Vikram wanted to choose a new successor to the business,” Chan explained.

“What changes did he want made?”

“He wanted to leave the estate to his wife and the business to you, Seth.”
“Me? But we hadn’t spoken in twelve years!”

“Your uncle was still fond of you, Seth. He had kept tabs on your career throughout the years and was proud that you had followed your own path in life. But he secretly hoped that you would take over his place in the family business someday,” Chan said. “In fact, he was supposed to meet me at 11.00am the day he died to sign the new will.”

“So Ruben is still his heir.”

“Your uncle left the business to him, as well as a large sum of money for your aunt to see her through her old age.”
Seth arrived at his uncle's place at a quarter to seven the following evening. Ruben's car was not in its usual spot on the front porch.
He'd just locked his car when a cheerful female voice called his name. It was Mrs. Veloo, the Damodars' long-time neighbour and his aunt's closest friend. She was wearing a wide straw hat and a pink batik dress that fell to her ankles. One hand was curled around a pair of gardening scissors while the other was on the small of her back.

He smiled a little reluctantly at her. She had been kind to him when he was a little boy, however she was notoriously long winded and a bit of a gossip.

“Hello, Aunty. How are you?” he said, squeezing out a friendly smile.

“Same as always, my dear,” she sighed. “My hands hurt badly in the morning; Dr. Krishnan said it may be arthritis.” She shook her head sadly.
“Sorry to hear that, aunty. Is my aunt in?” he asked, his smile turning sympathetic.
“They're not home. Ruben has taken Janagi for her medical checkup. They'll only be back around noon,” she said.

He heard the creak of a door opening and saw a tall man dressed in a grey t-shirt and faded jeans walk out of his uncle's garden shed. He was deeply tanned and looked a few years older than Seth. There was something oddly familiar about the man, although Seth was certain they hadn't met before. He startled a little when he saw Seth but recovered quickly and smiled briefly at him.
Seth's heart started to pound as he observed the man's shoes. They were mud-encrusted worker boots which looked to be a size ten. They could have easily made the prints Seth had found outside his uncle's study. The man walked around to the back of the house and out of sight.

“Aunty, who was that man who just came out of the garden shed?” Seth asked Mrs.Veloo.
The old lady looked up from her roses. “That's Nathan, the new gardener,” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “You know, I think there is something going on between your aunt and the gardener. Every time your uncle and Ruben were out of the house, she'd invite him into the house.”

Seth eyed her incredulously. “You can't be serious, why he's young enough to be her son!” Still, it was odd that his aunt was so friendly with the hired help.
The old lady lifted her chin defensively. “I asked her about it when she came over to tea last Saturday, but she went very red and told me to mind my own business. I dare not say anything to her after that.”

“I see. Maybe Aunty Janagi has her own reasons,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing. Because he sure didn't feel it.
The older woman shrugged. “He had an argument with your uncle the evening before he died. Janagi had gone to the temple with Ruben.”

“What were they arguing about?” Seth asked, frowning.

“I couldn't hear what they were saying, but their voices were raised. The gardener handed you uncle a large envelope. Your uncle seemed to read something from it and then he grew furious, threw the gardener out. He took the envelope with him and stormed back into the house.”

“I see. Did they get along before the argument?”

“I never saw them speak more than two words to each other until that evening. Maybe your uncle found out he was seeing your aunt,” the older woman wiggled her eyebrows conspiratorially.

“If he was seeing my aunt,” Seth replied. His suspicions about the gardener were stronger than ever, and he was disturbed by Mrs.Veloo's insinuations. The thought that his aunt had been unfaithful to his uncle was bewildering. On the other hand, it could be something very innocent. Then there was his cousin Ruben who was no angel, either.

“Seth, what you're suggesting is highly improbable,” Dr. Krishnan said as he poured tea into a ceramic coffee mug and handed it to Seth.

“I know it sounds far-fetched. But what if someone poisoned my uncle to make it look like he had had a heart attack?”
“And you think your aunt and the gardener had something to do with it?” Dr. Krishnan raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“Maybe. I don't know. It could have just as easily been Ruben; he was the only one in the house when it happened and being a doctor, he has access to dozens of possible poisons,” Seth said.
“You think he killed Vikram so he wouldn't be cut out of the will?”

“If he did, he didn't leave any evidence behind. My uncle's body was cremated yesterday so there's no way an autopsy can be done either. I'm sure the gardener is involved, but I don't know how yet.” Seth related all that Mrs.Veloo had told him that morning.
“I wouldn't trust that old bag's words if she were the last human on earth, but she may be right about the argument between your uncle and the gardener. I called him the night before he died to discuss our next golf meet and he told me he was firing the gardener,” Dr. Krishnan said.

“Did he say why?”

“No, he refused to say anything more. He was quite angry about something.”

“I wonder what was in the envelope he gave my uncle. I'm positive that the killer took whatever was inside of it.”

“Seth, I think you may be on to something, but you are going to need solid proof that your uncle didn't die of natural causes. Poisoning is difficult to prove, more so when there is no body to speak of,” the older man cautioned.
Seth nodded. “Convenient for whoever is behind this. For now.”
The old doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “First we'll need to find out what poison your uncle came into contact with and how. The easiest way would be through food or drink. When are you going to his house next?”

“Tonight, after I get off work,” Seth said.

“When you're there, get a sample of the coffee your uncle drank. I have a friend who works in the police lab. Put the coffee powder in here,” he said, pushing a small plastic bottle across the table to Seth, who put it in his jacket.



Category:

Family Ties (Part One)

Posted on | Wednesday, August 31, 2011 | No Comments


Part One 


The phone started ringing as Seth opened his car door. He answered the phone on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Seth, this is Dr. Krishnan. Are you at work?”

“Not yet, I was just leaving the house. What can I do for you, Doc?”

There was a short pause before the doctor answered. “I'm afraid I have some bad news, Seth. Your uncle passed away this morning. You'd better come over right away,” he said.
“I'll be there in half an hour.” Seth hung up and sat back against the car seat for a minute, trying to process what he had just heard. His uncle. Dead. He was surprised how calm he was, considering his uncle had been his last living relative.
A portly, bespectacled man with greying hair greeted Seth at the front door. He shook Seth's hand and gave it a comforting squeeze before releasing it. “I'm so sorry for your loss, son.”

“Thank you, doctor. Frankly, I still can't believe it.”

The older man nodded. “Neither can I. He came in for a thorough check up last week and his ECG was normal. No sign of a heart condition, same as every year,” he said.

“How did it happen?”
“Your cousin arrived home early from his shift at the hospital and found your uncle slumped over his desk in the study. He tried to revive him, but it was too late.”

“And my aunt?”
“She was visiting her sister for a few days. She blames herself greatly for not being here.”

“Where is she now?” Seth asked.
“Upstairs, sleeping. I gave her a sedative. Ruben is in the living room,” the doctor said carefully.

Seth smiled thinly. There was no love lost between Ruben and him. The former had resented Seth being chosen to head the family business by his own father.
A tall, broad shouldered man in his early thirties was helping himself to a glass of whiskey from a bottle on an oak cabinet next to the television when Seth walked in. His face was drawn and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Seth wondered if the redness of his eyes was due to grief or too much alcohol.
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” Ruben sneered as he slumped onto the sofa. He waved carelessly to the chair opposite.
“Good to see you too, Ruben,” Seth said smoothly as he sat down. “I'm sorry about your father,” he said more kindly.
“I found him at 7.30, dead as a doornail. He was still warm,” he said flatly. Ruben downed the remaining contents of his glass. He rose to refill it. “Want some?” he offered Seth.

“No, thanks. Do you need help with the funeral arrangements?”


“No,” replied Ruben shortly. “I'll make the calls after my drink.”
“Ok, I'll come by later to see Auntie,” Seth said.

“Suit yourself.”
Only a handful of people attended the funeral the next day, namely Mrs. Damodar, Seth, the Damodars' neighbour Mrs. Veloo and the family lawyer, Timothy Chan. Dressed in a white sari, Mrs. Damodar sobbed quietly as her son mechanically performed the funeral rites. Seth stood by silently, feeling a mixture of regret and resentment as he gazed upon his late uncle's corpse. Regret that anger and self-preservation had kept him from contacting his uncle all these years and resentment that by dying, Vikram Damodar had robbed him of any chance of reconciliation.
Afterwards, Seth drove his aunt and cousin back home. The house felt empty and desolate without the presence of his formidable uncle, almost as if it had died with him. Ruben put a comforting arm about his mother and guided her to the sofa in the living room, while Seth made her a cup of tea.

His aunt had stopped crying when he returned to the living room. She was lying on the sofa, propped up by two pillows. She smiled sadly at him.
“Thank you, dear. How you have grown! Your uncle would have been so proud of you,” she said with a heavy sigh, taking the cup from his hands. Seth didn't reply, but squeezed her hand gently. Ruben mumbled something and left the room. A door slammed somewhere upstairs.

“Perhaps I better leave, Auntie. Ruben seems upset that I'm here,” Seth said, rising to his feet.

She sighed again, shaking her head. “He is taking this very hard, that's just his way of expressing his sadness.”
For the next hour, Seth filled in his aunt about his life since leaving the house at eighteen. She listened quietly and even smiled at the funny parts, although he knew she wasn't really listening. Soon she was sleeping soundly on the sofa and didn't even stir when he took the empty cup from her hands.

As he passed the study on his way to the kitchen, a wave of nostalgia overcame Seth. The door was slightly ajar, he pushed it open and turned on the light. The air in the room was still, almost as if time itself had stopped with the demise of his uncle. This was where his uncle had spent most of his waking hours. Seth remembered how, as a child of eight, he'd wandered into the study and began playing with his toy trucks on the floor. His uncle had walked in suddenly and Seth had froze, terrified that he would get a lashing for being there. But his uncle had simply patted him on the head and gone to his desk to work.
Seth sighed as he recalled his last conversation with his uncle. The older man had seethed with rage when Seth expressed his intent to accept a prestigious law scholarship in England instead of helping his uncle run the family business. His late father had wanted Seth to take over his place as vice president of the company; Seth hadn't the courage to to tell his father that his real dream was to become a human rights' lawyer. And then his father died. Seth had hoped that his uncle would be more understanding. The next thing he knew, his uncle was shouting at him to leave and never set foot in his house again. That was the last time he saw his uncle alive.

Everything in the room appeared to be just as Vikram Damodar had left it. One window was slightly ajar, he would leave it open to let fresh air in instead of wasting the air conditioning. The desk was empty, save a few scattered papers and an envelope. A letter opener lay across the left side of the envelope, a coffee mug and pen on the right. The coffee mug had been washed clean; his aunt must have cleaned it after the body was taken to the hospital, Seth thought.

Seth was about to leave when he spotted a small dark stain under the handle of the open window. It appeared to be a spot of dried mud. For reasons unknown to himself, he took out his cell phone and snapped a few photos of the stain. He took another look at the desk. The envelope on it was A3-sized, whereas the papers were standard A4-size. He removed the pen from his shirt pocket and flipped through the papers. They were the business accounts and from what he saw, the family business was clearly thriving. The envelope however, was empty.
He opened the desk drawers. One had two files in it full of account statements and invoices. The other drawer held stationery and a stack of empty envelopes. So where were the contents of the envelope on the desk? Something was amiss; Seth felt it in his very bones.

There were a few pieces of crumpled paper in the waste paper basket. Seth picked them up and smoothed them out on the desk surface. His eyebrows rose when he saw that there were horse race betting tickets. His late uncle had been a deeply religious man who abhorred gambling. Ruben, on the other hand, had been known to sneak off to the horse races since he was sixteen. Seth took pictures of the tickets and replaced them.
“What are you doing here?” Ruben’s cross voice interrupted his musings.
“Just reminiscing. I remembered how we used to play hide and seek in here when Uncle wasn’t at home,” Seth said easily.

Ruben’s expression softened. “That was a long time ago. I’m surprised you still remember, especially after all that’s happened.”

Seth shrugged. “That’s life. Right, I’d better go then I have a couple of things to work on for tomorrow. I’ll drop by to see Auntie after work tomorrow.”

The frown returned to Ruben’s face and he started to say something, but the phone in the study rang suddenly, interrupting him. He gave Seth a slight nod, giving him a chance to make his exit.

Outside, Seth went around to the side of the house until he reached the spot beneath the study’s open window. He crouched down as low as he could among the flower bushes, eyes keenly scanning the earth. A pair of large footprints was imprinted in the earth just beneath the window sill. Seth bent down to have a closer look. The footprints were fresh, likely made by men’s worker boots. They were deep set, indicating that the wearer of the boots was above average height and build. Ruben was barely five feet seven and he wore a size nine. These prints were at least a size 10, Seth guessed.

He mulled over the day’s events during the drive home. The horse betting ticket stubs bothered him. Ruben and his father could have had an argument over his gambling habit. Ruben lost his temper and killed the old man, making it look like a heart attack. It wasn’t impossible, Seth mused. Ruben did have a temper, and who knew what his financial state was? There was no doubt that he would inherit his father’s estate, including the family business. Maybe Ruben had gotten tired of waiting.
There were a few hours yet before the work day ended. Seth voice dialed Kim, his paralegal. “Hello, Kim? It’s Seth. Listen, I need you to run a full credit check on a Ruben Kumar Damodar. Find out if he has any outstanding debts and how much,” he said. “And Kim, I have a lot to do tomorrow so cancel my morning appointments,” he added.

Category:

Why We're Addicted To Crime

Posted on | Monday, August 29, 2011 | 1 Comment

May I add also that by "we" I refer to the not-so-average human being who can't go a day without watching a crime drama or reading about crime in the newspapers or crime novels (one of them being me, of course!)

Yesterday, Indian newspaper The Hindu interviewed a psychiatrist (how apt!) who had this to say about why people are fascinated by all things crime:

Dr. V.R. Madhukar, Senior Consultant Psychiatrist, St. Marthas Hospital puts any fears we might have about the fixation for this murky world, to rest, “For starters people have become numb to the whole idea of crime, and so the idea of watching crime shows do not frighten them. Also anything that arouses, be it sex, crime or sensationalism will always have an audience, and ensures ratings. It is a natural curiosity and everyone is interested in the plot, planning and exhibition of the incident. There is something about these shows and films which are gripping and also the element of suspense, and curiosity about how criminal minds work. This does not mean that everyone takes to crime; it is only people who are already vulnerable and have an inclination to crime already who might succumb.” 


So how about it? What's your reason for loving crime dramas and books?

Category:

Book review: “Inspector Singh Investigates: A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder”

Posted on | Saturday, August 20, 2011 | No Comments

Book review: “Inspector Singh Investigates: A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder”

Tall, dark and handsome. An IQ of a genius. A hit among the ladies. Shamini Flint's Inspector Singh is none of these. In fact, he is a portly, sweaty, middle-aged Singaporean who's never without his grubby white sneakers. Such is Flint's hero of her debut crime novel “Inspector Singh Investigates: A Most Peculiar Malaysian Murder”.
Life is no bed of roses for the maverick Inspector, who is sent to Kuala Lumpur by his superiors to investigate the murder of Alan Lee, a high-profile Malaysian businessman with a Singaporean ex-wife. Chelsea Liew, the wife and ex-model, is on death row for the murder and swears she didn't kill her ex-husband although the evidence is stacked against her. Juxtaposed against this theme are two sub-plots involving environmental degradation by the timber business run by the Lee family, as well as one involving Liew's possibly losing her kids due to her ex-husband's secret conversion to Islam.

Fortunately, Flint's writing style is engaging and humourous in parts, which neither detracts from or obscures the main plot, namely the solving of Alan Lee's murder. Inspector Singh grows on you, you can't help but root for him throughout the book as both time and the Malaysian police work against his efforts to solve the crime. Flint's novel is by no means a heart-stopping page-turner, but it's a fun and interesting read nevertheless.
On to the brickbats. As a Malaysian, I caught myself more than once raising an eyebrow at Flint's paltry attempts at injecting local colour in the novel. There are hints of white elephants and corruption in the Malaysian police force, but very little mention of the positives about the Malaysian cultural landscape, or the Singaporean one, for the matter. It's as if Flint got so caught up in telling the story she forgot to focus on the charming little quirks of Malaysian people and life. This is something I've always admired about female crime writers such as P.D. James and Ruth Rendell, so I was a little dissappointed at Flint's negative and often unnecessary criticisms of Malaysian ways. The result is that Flint's otherwise interesting novel ends up being a slightly superficial attempt at the Asian mystery genre.
That aside, there's no denying that Flint's novel is a very good attempt at giving the global reading public a glimpse into the Malaysian and Singaporean, albeit a few flaws. The book is worth a second read and has piqued my interest enough to read the rest of her Inspector Singh books.

Category:

Red Ribbons (Chapter Seven part 3)

Posted on | Wednesday, August 17, 2011 | No Comments

Chapter Seven (Part 3)

Venkath was anticipating the move and stepped aside, sending Nicholas crashing into the wall. The younger man was on his feet in two seconds, ready to attack Venkath again. However, Venkath had already run out of the examining room and towards the front door. As soon as he reached the door, Nicholas pounced on him again, this time knocking them both to the floor. He managed to get on top of Venkath and put his bare hands around his neck, his face twisted with rage.


“You're finished,” he sputtered, tightening his hold on Venkath's neck. Venkath pushed at Nicholas with all his strength, but the younger man was too strong. It was getting harder to breathe by the second, even harder to struggle.

“Get off him, or I'll shoot!” Lawrence stood in the doorway, his gun aimed directly at Nicholas.

Nicholas ignored him and continued to strangle Venkath, whose eyes had rolled back into his head. His whole body had gone limp. A shot rang out and Nicholas screamed in pain, clutching at his right leg. He rolled to the side, groaning, while Lawrence handcuffed him. Against his better judgement, Lawrence kicked Nicholas' leg. The latter cursed him, screaming louder this time.

Lawrence rushed to Venkath's side and felt his pulse. He heaved a huge sigh of relief when he felt the weak, erratic rhythm of his cousin's pulse. He was alive, he had arrived just in time. “Hang in there, cousin, help is on the way,” he said to his unconscious cousin. He radioed the police car outside and asked them to call an ambulance. There was still one more call to make.

“Mr. Ling? It's Inspector Lawrence. We've caught the man who killed your daughter.”

There was a pause on the other end and then Mr. Ling heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you, thank you so much, Inspector. God bless you and your team,” he said.

Lawrence hung up the phone and looked down at Venkath, who was regaining consciousness. He groaned a few times before opening his eyes. Lawrence was looking down at him, shaking his head reprovingly at his cousin.

Venkath tried to get up off the floor but his strength failed him. His neck hurt and his head felt heavy, but he'd live, he thought to himself. He took the hand that Lawrence extended him and with the latter's help, managed to get to his feet. He leaned against Lawrence, still a little unsteady on his feet.

“You had me really scared there, you twit,” Lawrence said, helping Venkath towards the door. Nicholas was still lying on the floor, groaning in pain. Venkath shot him an angry glare.

“Leave the scumbag alone, he's not worth it,” Lawrence said. “Besides, I'm not letting you risk your neck trying to play hero again,” he said, only half joking.

“Yes, boss,” Venkath joked back feebly, his voice a hoarse whisper. It was over. It was really over. He had helped catch Shoba and Alicia's killer. No more sleepless nights, all the pent up anger had dissappeared.

“If you ever decide to quit medicine, the police force could use someone like you,” Lawrence said more seriously this time.

Venkath laughed. “Don't tempt me, I might just take you up on that and then we'll have some real adventures.”

“Let's get out of here, dear cousin. I could use a break from your sleuthing and all the paperwork that goes with it. Let's get you to the hospital,” Lawrence said, laughing.
























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John Cusack To Play Poe

Posted on | Sunday, August 14, 2011 | No Comments

According to The Rap Sheet, actor John Cusack is set to play Edgar Allan Poe in a movie called "The Raven" scheduled for March 2012. Quoting an Associated Press article, the blog said that in the movie Poe forms an alliance with a police detective to catch a murderer who kills his victims by following elements of Poe's stories. Being somewhat of a John Cusack fan, I'm intrigued, especially since the actor hasn't been in a watch-worthy thriller since "Identity". It'll be fun to see if he pulls it off, more importantly, if the movie makers keep the film authentic, instead of white-washing it in Hollywood-esque superficiality, like what happened with "Sherlock Holmes".

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Red Ribbons (Chapter Seven part 2)

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Chapter Seven (Part 2)

It was dark when they arrived at the state veterinary clinic. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted, breaking the silence of the warm night. Lawrence's was the only car in the car park.

“How do you know he'll show up?” Lawrence asked.
“He will. He knows I have evidence now. Trust me, he'll be here,” Venkath said.

“I still don't like the idea of leaving you here with him. The kid's a psychopath.”

“It's the only way. I can't get a confession out of him unless he knows I'm alone. I'll be fine,” Venkath assured Lawrence. The trouble was, he wasn't sure either this was going to work. This wasn't the movies; Nicholas Lim was a very intelligent and meticulous killer. Things could go badly for Venkath very quickly even if he was careful.
Lawrence sighed. He knew there was no arguing with his cousin once his mind was set on something. “All right, here's how it's going to go down; you get in there and get a confession and the moment something feels off, get the hell out of there. I can't afford to take any chances.”

“I hear you, I'll be all right. Don't worry, cuz,” Venkath smiled weakly at him.

Lawrence didn't smile back. “You know this is a bad idea.”

“Yes, but it's the only way to stop Nicholas from killing again,” Venkath said. He watched Lawrence drive away. As soon as the car was out of sight, he began walking towards the clinic.

The clinic front door was open. Venkath stepped inside; it was dark and unwelcoming. In the air lingered a faint odor of antiseptic, along with the smell of dogs.

“Hello? Is anyone in here?” he called out. His voice echoed throughout the corridor, fading away into silence.

It was then he noticed a light at the far end of the clinic. Someone was in one of the examining rooms. He walked up to the door.

Inside, he saw Nicholas Lim seated in a chair next to a grey medicine cabinet. He manufactured a thin stretch of the lips, more a snarl than a smile when he saw Venkath.

“Where's your police sidekick, doc?” he asked.
“I'm here alone,” Venkath replied.

“What can I do for you on this fine evening?” Nicholas' smile grew wider, but there was nothing friendly about it. Just hatred that contorted his features, making him look far older than his years.

“You know why I'm here. I want answers.”

Nicholas laughed, a thin, ugly sound that turned Venkath's blood cold. But Venkath ignored it. “I know you killed Shoba and the other women. It's over, Nicholas.”

The younger man laughed again, then face took on a nasty, twisted look. “You've got nothing on me and you know it.”

Venkath smiled at him. “You messed up when you killed Shoba, you left some evidence without knowing it,” he said.

“You're lying.”

“For a while there, you had us on a wild goose chase by framing Paul. You covered your tracks so well, but what you didn't count on was Shoba stealing a roll of red ribbon from your little flower shop in Seremban. When it comes back from the lab, they're going to find your prints and sweat on it. There's no escape this time, Nicholas.”

“That doesn't prove anything and you know it. I work there, it's part of my job to use ribbons for flower baskets and bouquets. It doesn't mean squat,” Nicholas snarled, rising from his chair.

It was then that Venkath noticed Nicholas holding a long strip of red ribbon in his right hand. The latter took a step towards him.
“What I want to know is why you did it, even sociopaths like you have their reasons,” Venkath said, not moving despite Nicholas taking another step towards him. The latter's eyes were like little glass beadsm cold and empty as they glared at Venkath.
Nicholas threw back his head and laughed again. “You're wearing a wire and you expect me to confess to something I didn't do?”

Venkath reached inside his shirt and removed the wire taped to his chest. He laid it carefully on the examining table. He turned the tape recorder off. “There, no wires, no tapes. Now, tell me what you've been dying to say all along.”

Nicholas still stared at him suspiciously but his ego got the better of him. “That's better. Now, ask me anything.”

“Why did you do it? Why kill Shoba after all these years?” Venkath asked.

“Because she bloody started it! She fired me just because I was in love with her. She broke my heart and ruined my medical career. She should have just stayed in Penang and moved on, given us both another chance. Instead she laughed at me. No one laughs at Nicholas Lim,” he said menacingly.

“And the others?” Venkath asked, taking a step back. A bead of sweat started rolling down his back from the effort of keeping his emotions in check. For anger was slowly bubbling in him.
“Collateral damage,” Nicholas said, shrugging his shoulders. He took another step towards Venkath. “How did you know it was me?”

“The first time I suspected you was when you said you had two jobs. Seven years ago, one of Shoba's medical interns fell in love with her. He would send her flowers with a signature red ribbon. She got sick of it and had the person fired. When I saw the roll of red ribbon Shoba left me, I realised it was you. Your second job was at Simply Floral, the florist that Shoba had bought flowers from for the charity dinner.”

“Very good, Dr. Venkath. You should have been a police officer, like your cousin,” Nicholas sneered.

“You didn't have to murder Shoba, if it was me you were after. We were both separated. You could have tried wooing her again, why did you have to kill her?”

“Because she was back here looking for you!” Nicholas slammed his fist on the examining table. “I left her a note pretending to be you to meet me in the park at eleven. She told me she was back here to get back with you. I killed for her and she broke my heart all over again. The next thing I knew, she was lying dead in my arms.” A tear rolled down Nicholas' left cheek, but his eyes were cold.
“Why my mother-in-law and Sruthi, the student you killed in KL? You didn't even know them,” Venkath prodded further.

Nicholas took another step towards Venkath. He began winding the ribbon tautly around his wrists. He's trying to intimidate me, Venkath thought to himself. Best if I play along.

“That skinny bitch was having an affair with you, which upset Shoba. So I got rid of her. But then your stupid mother-in-law tried to get you and Shoba back together, she was an easy kill,” he said, smiling coldly at Venkath. “Just like you're going to be.” He lunged towards Venkath.









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