Free Her Master's Voice by Jacqueline George Page B

could see the policeman fitting an old-fashioned padlock. Then the engine started and the pick-up jerked forward.
    He could see little as they crossed Singapore. The sheet metal covering the cage had small openings, but these were near the roof and showed only treetops and street lamps. The cage was clean but well used. Offenders’ bottoms had polished the wooden benches, and the coach bolt heads shone brightly. Initially the cage must have been painted navy blue, but now it was chipped and scratched, and large areas of paint had peeled from the galvanized sheet. It was a depressing way to travel, lurching backwards and forwards and bouncing on the hard bench. Most of all, Tim felt angry with Hing.
    By the time the pick-up pulled into the Eu Tong Sen station, Tim had resolved to keep calm. He would gain nothing by shouting at Hing, and Hing had nothing against him. Singapore might be insufferably strict and state-controlled, but it was law abiding. He would be safe with the police.
    Two policemen led him into the building, each holding him loosely by the elbow. In spite of his theoretical self-confidence, he felt intimidated. They guided him down a drab corridor and into a bare interview room. He sat at the table. One policeman stood watching him, the other locked the door and left. Tim did not try to talk.
    Hing waited for half an hour before coming. Tim assumed the delay was deliberate. Probably something he had learnt at the training centre, intended to unsettle suspects.
    His smile as he came through the door looked unpleasant. The policeman left, locking the door behind him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Armstrong,” he said, sitting down and opening his folder on the table. “Are you ready to tell me who sent the letter?”
    Tim had already decided what he would do. “Good afternoon, I demand to see your superior officer.”
    “I don’t think you understand, Mr. Armstrong. If you don’t answer me I can make your life very bad for you, and for your wife. Now tell me.” He seemed surprised at Tim’s resistance.
    “I demand to see your superior officer.”
    “You have to talk to me,” Hing was asking for his help now.
    “It won’t work, Hing. I demand to see your superior officer, and if you don’t report my request right now, there’s trouble waiting for you.”
    Hing sat considering, and surrendered. “It will be very bad for you,” he warned. He closed his folder and knocked on the door. Again Tim waited under the eye of a stony-faced policeman.
    Hing returned quickly. “Inspector Hangchi will come, but he is very angry. It is not too late to tell me…” Even Hing could see he was wasting his time. They sat and waited.
    Inspector Hangchi was a slight, upright man with a lined face, graying hair and reading glasses hanging around his neck. He looked important. Hing jumped to attention as the door opened, and Tim climbed to his feet. He spoke to Hing in English, with an accent that betrayed a foreign education. He ignored Tim.
    “Well, what have we got, Hing?”
    “The suspect is refusing to answer questions, Sir, and has asked to see you.”
    “Well, he’d better not be wasting my time. What’s he done?” and he reached for the file and put on his glasses. Hing let him read.
    “So, why’s he here?”
    “Smuggling, we believe, Sir.”
    Tim jumped in. “Excuse me! I was just delivering a letter.”
    The Inspector gave him a cold look and turned to Hing. “Letter?”
    “Yes, Sir. I’ve sent it to the lab.”
    “What did it say?”
    “I don’t know, Sir. The lab hasn’t made a report yet.”
    Inspector Hangchi spoke to him sharply in Chinese. He gave no sign of being satisfied with Hing’s answers. “I think we will just step outside for a moment, Mr. Armstrong. Please bear with us.”
    Again Tim sat through a long wait under the policeman’s eye, but this time with some hope that things had turned in his way. Inspector Hangchi re-appeared alone, holding the folder and the letter—opened .