face in his hands. He began to sob quietly.
Sergeant Lee looked over at Inspector Zhang. He forced a smile. Sergeant Lee got up and went to sit on the sofa next to Mr. Wong. She put her arm around him. Inspector Zhang sighed, but didn’t say anything. It was not procedure to offer physical comfort to the recently bereaved, but Sergeant Lee was young and relatively inexperienced and a woman. He made a mental note to mention it to her later.
"We’re very sorry," whispered Sergeant Lee.
Mr. Wong cried for several minutes, then he suddenly got up off the sofa and rushed to the kitchen. He reappeared shortly afterwards, dabbing at his face with a piece of kitchen towel. "Is it okay for me to have a drink?" he asked Inspector Zhang.
"Of course," said Inspector Zhang.
Mr. Wong went over to a cupboard, poured himself a large measure of brandy and sat down again. He took a long drink, his hands trembling. "What happens now?" he asked.
"At some point you will have to go to the Forensic Medicine Department to identify the body, but that is a formality. It is definitely her, I am afraid. Then you need to contact a funeral director to make arrangements."
Mr. Wong nodded at the inspector and dabbed at his eyes again.
"Mr. Wong, I know this is painful for you, but I do have some questions for you," said Inspector Zhang. "Was your wife troubled in any way?"
"She was having problems at work," said Mr. Wong. "She works for an import-export business and they were about to downsize. She was worried she might lose her job."
"And where do you work, Mr. Wong?"
"At the airport. I work in the baggage handling department."
"And were you and your wife having any problems?"
"What are you suggesting?" said Mr. Wong. "Are you saying that you think my wife killed herself because of me?"
Inspector Zhang held up his hands. "Absolutely not, Mr. Wong, but it would be helpful if we knew what her state of mind was when she was on the roof."
"Why? She’s dead. That’s the end of it. She killed herself, why do you need to know what she was thinking? Will knowing bring her back?" He sniffed and wiped his eyes.
Inspector Zhang grimaced. "It’s my job, I’m sorry. It’s just..." He left the sentence unfinished.
"What?" said Mr. Wong.
Inspector Zhang shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "The thing is Mr. Wong, people either want to kill themselves, or they don’t. Those that do tend to just do it. They write a note, usually, and then they do what they have to do. But there are others for whom suicide is a cry for help, they want attention, they want to be noticed, they want to talk."
"So?"
"So your wife is unusual in that she did both. She was talking, she was shouting that she wanted to jump, and then she did. That is a rarity. Once they start to talk, they usually continue. That is why we have negotiating teams who are trained to deal with a person in crisis." He shrugged. "Anyway, I shall not intrude on your grief any longer. Someone from the Forensic Medicine Department will call you to arrange a viewing."
"A viewing?"
"To identify the body. That has to be done by a relative."
Mr. Wong didn’t get up and Inspector Zhang and Sergeant Lee saw themselves out.
"Would you like to know something, Sergeant Lee?" asked the inspector, as they walked out of the building.
"Of course," said the sergeant.
"I never trust a man with a goatee beard," he said. "I’m not sure why, but there is something inherently deceitful about a man who spends an inordinate amount of time shaping his facial hair, don’t you think?"
Sergeant Lee frowned. "I’ve never given it much thought," she said.
"You should, Sergeant," said the inspector.
Sergeant Lee took out her notebook and scribbled in it.
Inspector Zhang was at his desk at exactly nine o’clock the following day. He sat down and logged on to his terminal and checked his email. There was nothing of any importance. He flicked through his copy of the Straits Times . The story of
Sergeant Lee looked over at Inspector Zhang. He forced a smile. Sergeant Lee got up and went to sit on the sofa next to Mr. Wong. She put her arm around him. Inspector Zhang sighed, but didn’t say anything. It was not procedure to offer physical comfort to the recently bereaved, but Sergeant Lee was young and relatively inexperienced and a woman. He made a mental note to mention it to her later.
"We’re very sorry," whispered Sergeant Lee.
Mr. Wong cried for several minutes, then he suddenly got up off the sofa and rushed to the kitchen. He reappeared shortly afterwards, dabbing at his face with a piece of kitchen towel. "Is it okay for me to have a drink?" he asked Inspector Zhang.
"Of course," said Inspector Zhang.
Mr. Wong went over to a cupboard, poured himself a large measure of brandy and sat down again. He took a long drink, his hands trembling. "What happens now?" he asked.
"At some point you will have to go to the Forensic Medicine Department to identify the body, but that is a formality. It is definitely her, I am afraid. Then you need to contact a funeral director to make arrangements."
Mr. Wong nodded at the inspector and dabbed at his eyes again.
"Mr. Wong, I know this is painful for you, but I do have some questions for you," said Inspector Zhang. "Was your wife troubled in any way?"
"She was having problems at work," said Mr. Wong. "She works for an import-export business and they were about to downsize. She was worried she might lose her job."
"And where do you work, Mr. Wong?"
"At the airport. I work in the baggage handling department."
"And were you and your wife having any problems?"
"What are you suggesting?" said Mr. Wong. "Are you saying that you think my wife killed herself because of me?"
Inspector Zhang held up his hands. "Absolutely not, Mr. Wong, but it would be helpful if we knew what her state of mind was when she was on the roof."
"Why? She’s dead. That’s the end of it. She killed herself, why do you need to know what she was thinking? Will knowing bring her back?" He sniffed and wiped his eyes.
Inspector Zhang grimaced. "It’s my job, I’m sorry. It’s just..." He left the sentence unfinished.
"What?" said Mr. Wong.
Inspector Zhang shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "The thing is Mr. Wong, people either want to kill themselves, or they don’t. Those that do tend to just do it. They write a note, usually, and then they do what they have to do. But there are others for whom suicide is a cry for help, they want attention, they want to be noticed, they want to talk."
"So?"
"So your wife is unusual in that she did both. She was talking, she was shouting that she wanted to jump, and then she did. That is a rarity. Once they start to talk, they usually continue. That is why we have negotiating teams who are trained to deal with a person in crisis." He shrugged. "Anyway, I shall not intrude on your grief any longer. Someone from the Forensic Medicine Department will call you to arrange a viewing."
"A viewing?"
"To identify the body. That has to be done by a relative."
Mr. Wong didn’t get up and Inspector Zhang and Sergeant Lee saw themselves out.
"Would you like to know something, Sergeant Lee?" asked the inspector, as they walked out of the building.
"Of course," said the sergeant.
"I never trust a man with a goatee beard," he said. "I’m not sure why, but there is something inherently deceitful about a man who spends an inordinate amount of time shaping his facial hair, don’t you think?"
Sergeant Lee frowned. "I’ve never given it much thought," she said.
"You should, Sergeant," said the inspector.
Sergeant Lee took out her notebook and scribbled in it.
Inspector Zhang was at his desk at exactly nine o’clock the following day. He sat down and logged on to his terminal and checked his email. There was nothing of any importance. He flicked through his copy of the Straits Times . The story of
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