The White Pearl Read online

  ‘Do remember to pop in on Teddy,’ she said brightly. ‘He’s been building a new aeroplane.’

  Just the mention of his son’s name softened her husband’s long features, and he glanced fondly towards the door. ‘As soon as I’ve finished my drink, I’ll go and say goodnight to the little blighter.’ He lifted his glass to his lips, but before he took a sip he said in clipped tones, ‘By the way, old thing, next time make sure you take the syce into town with you. That’s what chauffeurs are for, you know. If you’d done as I asked and let our syce drive you into town, maybe this accident would never have happened and that woman wouldn’t be dead.’

  Connie left the room.

  After her shower, Connie headed along the landing towards the master bedroom. Hadley House was a large, rambling building dating back to 1875, built by Nigel’s grandfather, the one who created the family fortune out of rich red Malayan soil. But the original construction had been extended haphazardly by Nigel’s father, so that it branched off in unexpected directions. The result, surprisingly, was a comfortable home, not as grand and imposing as some of the more elaborate estate mansions, but Connie was fond of it. She especially appreciated the verandas and wrought-iron balconies that surrounded it on all sides, where she could sit with a book in the evening to catch the faintest breeze from whichever direction it was blowing.

  Her only criticism was that the house was overly masculine, with an excess of sombre teak panelling and dark polished floors. A heavily carved central staircase swept down into the wide entrance hall, and set the mood of masculine dominance that she had come to learn epitomised life in colonial Malaya. She had tried to lighten the tone with bright curtains and had replaced the gloomy overbearing furniture with paler modern pieces, but there was nothing she could do about the blasted staircase.

  As she passed her son’s bedroom she heard the steady murmur of Nigel’s voice, reading a bedtime story to Teddy. He had a good voice, clear and even-toned, that was unfailingly gentle with his son. He never raised it, not even with his field coolies when he was angry about something, and its calm control inspired confidence. Just occasionally she found herself wishing that the calmness would slip, that the control would crack and lay bare whatever it was that was hidden underneath.

  The door to the bedroom stood half open and she paused. Nigel and Teddy were sitting on the edge of the bed alongside each other, with her son’s bristle-haired terrier, Pippin, curled up on his knee. The sight of them gave her a sense of touching her feet on solid ground after the shipwreck that had been her day. She loved their closeness, the way Teddy’s slight frame in his striped pyjamas leaned against his father, unconscious of how he nodded his head whenever his father did, and drew his eyebrows down in imitation of Nigel when the words grew serious. On a chair beside the bed sat Teddy’s amah, Chala, his nurse. She was a tiny little Malay woman, dressed in a patterned tunic over a long straight skirt, her hands clasped under her chin as she listened, entranced by the story.

  ‘Teddy shouted to the house,’ Nigel read with animation, ‘“Oh, look here! Our mongoose is killing a snake.”’

  The words made Connie smile. This was Teddy’s favourite story, Rudyard Kipling’s tale about the boy called Teddy and Rikki-tikki-tavi, a mongoose in India. She lingered in the corridor outside till the end.

  ‘He kept that garden as a mongoose should keep it, with tooth and jump and spring and bite, till never a cobra dared show its head inside the walls,’ Nigel finished with a flourish.

  On silent feet, she made her way to the heavy door of Burmese teak at the end of the corridor.

  Hold my hand.

  Connie’s unspoken words fell into the gap that cut a chasm along the centre of the white sheet of finest Egyptian cotton, between her side of the bed and her husband’s side.

  Hold my hand. I’m here and I need you. Can’t you hear me?

  The night was sultry, the weight of air pressing down on her skin, her scalp tight and aching as she lay stretched out naked under the muslin tent of the mosquito net. She couldn’t make out its milky shape above her in the darkness but she knew it was there, hanging like a shroud around her marriage. Beside her, Nigel was lying on his back, snoring gently, a polite and controlled sound, as though even in his sleep he made a point of not disturbing her.

  Connie’s hand crept closer to his on the sheet. She held her breath until the space between them was less than the width of her little finger, and she could feel the springy hairs on the back of his wrist tickling her skin. It was a faint, feathery touch that she allowed herself once each night while he slept, stealing it in the darkness. Like a thief. Outside, beyond the extensive lawns and the scented hibiscus, the jungle was stamping its feet, making itself heard as it took possession of the night. The endless chirruping and croaking, the humming and the cackling, the echoing sobs and booming barks, all seeped into the room, soaking into her sweat and into the clammy folds of the sheet that twined around her legs.

  Tonight she didn’t resent the sounds because tonight she didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to retrace, second by second, those vital moments in Palur when her car and her life slid out of control.

  If she had not taken the corner so fast …

  If the black car had not been so greedy …

  If she had fought harder, braked quicker …

  If she hadn’t broken her sunglasses or arranged to meet Harriet for a swim …

  Was this a punishment? Was that it?

  She shook her head on the damp pillow, strands of her restless blond hair grasping at her throat like tentacles. Her mind replayed each image relentlessly again and again; the slippery feel of the steering wheel under her palms, the roadside stall on the corner selling hot roasted corn husks, the stallholder open-mouthed and toothless as she skidded past him, tyres fighting for grip. A tan-coloured dog scampering out of her path, its tail rigid between its legs. All things she didn’t even know she had seen. But worse, far worse, was the look on the faces of the daughter and the son while their mother’s eyes drowned in blood.

  Hold my hand.

  Connie rolled onto her side so that she was facing towards the black shape that was her husband, and let her arm brush his as she did so. He snatched it away as though she had burned him, and murmured something in his sleep. Her chest hurt, ached with a sharp physical pain, and she realised she had not breathed. So she drew in air, and with it came a rush of vivid memories of another masculine arm, cool and smooth, hairless as a mirror. A strong arm that belonged to Sho Takehashi.

  For one startling moment she could hear Sho’s breath, alive in the room. She lay still, listening hard. Frightened he would touch her face.

  3

  Connie had never set foot inside a police station before. The one in Palur was situated in Swettenham Road at the back of the public library, with a clock tower that chimed every quarter of an hour. It was built of a sombre grey brick and had a blue lamp above its main entrance, smeared with the remains of mosquito carcasses. Connie removed her new sunglasses and walked up the front steps.

  Inside, it was much smarter than she had expected. This morning as she’d sat stiffly in the back of the car, being driven into town by Ho Bah, their Chinese syce, she had conjured up an image in her head of a cramped waiting room with stained linoleum and a wooden hatch through which she would have to speak to a burly uniform. She was prepared for a hard and sceptical gaze that could spot a murderer at ten paces. But she was pleasantly surprised. The room was large and airy with cream-painted walls and windows that looked out towards the tall areca palm trees in the park opposite. A ceiling fan stirred the sluggish air, and a row of chairs was arranged neatly along a wall facing a central counter of polished mahogany, smooth and shiny from years of elbows. The moment Connie approached the counter, the duty officer shifted his attention from the notepad in front of him and focused on her.

  ‘Mrs Hadley, good morning to you.’

  That took her by surprise. He knew her.

  ‘I’
m Constable Forester. I took down your statement yesterday,’ he explained. ‘In the bank.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking clearly.’

  ‘Of course not. It’s understandable, you’d had a nasty shock.’

  Was that what caused the sense of disconnection? She studied the young officer with care, and this time made a mental note of his freckles, his helpful smile and his bony features. Dimly she recalled them. It was as if she’d seen them before but underwater, so that their exact outlines were blurred.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he asked courteously.

  ‘Constable Forester,’ she smiled at him and saw him relax. ‘I’ve come because I need to know the name of the woman I …’ I killed. Say it, go on, say it, say it out loud for everyone to hear. The woman I killed.‘ … the woman who died in the accident yesterday.’

  He frowned. With a sudden change of manner he was ushering her into a small office at the back of the room, and she was shaking hands with a heavily built older man in uniform whose gaze on her was much more what she had expected; keen and questioning. He had a small moustache that straggled over his upper lip and made her wonder what he wanted to hide. The handshake left her in no doubt of his authority, and it was reinforced by the silver braid on his uniform.

  ‘Mrs Hadley, I am Inspector Stoner.’

  He gestured to a chair, but she remained standing. She wasn’t staying here a moment longer than she had to. The office was airless, the walls bare except for a framed photograph of King George VI in an ermine robe, and there was a filing cabinet of battleship grey. A table stood in the centre with a chair on either side of it. It felt far too much like an interrogation room. It made Connie nervous. She smiled her thanks and remained near the door.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector. I don’t mean to disturb you. I’ve only come to ask for the name of the woman who died in the car accident yesterday.’

  He nodded. Not in a good way. ‘I offer my condolences, Mrs Hadley. I’m glad you were not hurt. But I do not think the deceased woman’s name need concern you.’

  Connie said nothing. She wasn’t the one who deserved condolences.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he added, ‘the black sports car that caused the incident vanished from the scene, so we have not been able to detain the driver responsible. Is there anything you would like to add to your earlier statement?’

  ‘No.’

  He studied her carefully, eyes razor-sharp, but she asked again, ‘The name of the woman, please?’

  There was a pause, long enough to be awkward, while she kept her eyes firmly on his and he worked out how far he could upset a member of the powerful Hadley family.

  ‘Sai-Ru Jumat,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘Do you know how old she was?’

  ‘Thirty-five, I believe.’

  ‘With two children?’

  He looked away, determined to hide his irritation.

  ‘What was her address?’ Connie persisted.

  ‘I think it best,’ he said, ‘if we leave it there, Mrs Hadley.’ His sigh was as sticky as honey in the room.

  She felt an urge to rip off his moustache and yank the words she wanted out of his mouth. Instead, she smiled and tossed her hair at him. ‘Come now, Inspector, I only want to make certain that her poor children are all right. It must have been a terrible experience for them to witness their mother …’ The final words stuck like pebbles in her throat.

  ‘You mustn’t concern yourself. Your husband’s solicitor, Mr Macintyre, is dealing with it.’ He reached towards her and for one sickening moment Connie believed he was going to seize her, take her wrist in his broad fist and clamp handcuffs on her. But he patted her arm consolingly. ‘Don’t fret over it, my dear. These things are best left to us professionals, you know. My advice to you is to forget about it.’

  She removed her arm. ‘Inspector Stoner, I would appreciate it if you would take my request seriously. Just because they are Malays it doesn’t mean …’

  ‘Mrs Hadley, we have to deal with situations like this with delicacy.’

  ‘I realise that.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your husband about this?’

  ‘Of course. He was the one who suggested I come to you for her address.’

  The lie was blatant. Not for one second did he believe her. Stiffly he opened the door and summoned the duty officer. ‘Forester, give what assistance you can to Mrs Hadley.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said in a polite voice, and left the room.

  Palur was a town built by Englishmen for Englishmen. It made them feel that they were walking down Piccadilly in London. In this strange country of Malaya that was so alien in every way to European sensibilities, the early colonials had brought their buildings with them to demonstrate to the natives how civilised people lived. Not in flimsy attap houses with fronds for roofs that blew off in the monsoon, or built up on bamboo stilts looking for all the world like a child’s treehouse. These were solid and permanent, with elegant porticos and Corinthian columns. Good, respectable, English homes. It meant that if Connie blocked out all her other senses except sight, she could imagine she was at home in England.

  She could look up at the brick-built trading hall where the prices of rubber, copra and spices were argued over, at the British banks with their brass plaques or the church steeple, and be transported to England. Only the window boxes spoiled the illusion. Too vivid, too ebullient, altogether too promiscuous. Too damn full of the life force of Malaya, that produced ferns that drilled through paving stones and creeper that dismantled buildings if you turned your back on it for even a moment.

  Nine years ago when Nigel had dropped on one knee, his face as red as one of his favourite hibiscus flowers, clasped her hands in his and invited her to be his wife and join him in Malaya, Connie’s heart had leaped. A streak of pure joy had ripped through her. She couldn’t say yes fast enough. She closed her eyes now and tried to recapture that urgent desire, but it was as elusive as the mist that slunk out of the jungle at dawn and crept across the lawns of Hadley House. She had scoured maps and atlases to learn more about this wild and wonderful place that was to become her home, and relished the exotic sounds of it in her mouth – Malacca, Kuala Lumpur and Penang.

  Oh yes, she’d learned the facts and the names of the towns. She’d discovered that Malaya consisted of a long shapely finger of land that stretched for over four hundred miles from Siam in the north right down to the steamy island of Singapore in the south. It was one of the principal rubber and tin exporters in the world, crowded by dense jungle with a backbone of mountains running down the centre.

  She had found out that its population of Malays, Chinese and Indians possessed hereditary rulers called sultans who elected from their number a Yang di-Pertuan Agong, the glorious title – it made her laugh – of the Kings of Malaya. On the map she explored with excitement regions with exotic names like Selangor, Terengganu and Johore, and in the history books she discovered that the Dutch had colonised the country before surrendering it to the British under the Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1824. Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles had run up the flag for England and turned Singapore into the greatest trading port in the Far East.

  ‘It’s almost on the equator,’ Nigel warned her. ‘That means it’s hot.’

  She’d laughed. She recalled that careless, girlish, ignorant laugh when she had said, ‘How exotic! I shall love it. There will be parrots.’

  There were parrots, she’d been right about that. Gaudy clouds of them. Parrots and weird hornbills and the screeching pekaka, all flashing their strident colours in her face. Worst was the brainfever bird, the burong mati anak, which uttered its tuneless dirge hour after hour. Teddy told her that burong mati anak meant dead child bird, which made her want to cry each time she heard its call.

  But no one had warned her that it was a country of sweltering nights and fierce smells – of the stink of bad drains and of fish frying in coconut oil in the streets, of sandalwood and hair oils. A country of ferocious insects
that would devour you alive, and of jungle sounds that haunted your dreams. A country where towns boasted wide avenues and monolithic government buildings set back to back with tawdry dance halls and wretched slums.

  When Connie emerged from the police station, she squinted at the sun and turned left, adjusting the wide brim of her sunhat to shield her eyes. She set off in the direction of the town’s busy harbour. It was not somewhere she normally cared to venture. As the familiar streets with their shops and restaurants slid away behind her, she felt her certainty slide away with them.

  Was she making a mistake? Inspector Stoner was convinced she was. But she couldn’t leave it there.

  She couldn’t.

  Underfoot was unpleasant, slippery and slimy. Connie picked her way carefully over the remains of rotting fruit and vegetables, and God knows what else. The air down here by the quays tasted of fish and clung to her hair and her skirts, as hawkers shouted to her, pushing slabs of meaty-looking raw fish, lobster claws and live octopus under her nose.

  ‘Tidak. No, thank you.’

  She kept moving, but among the crowds of coolies carrying loads on their bare backs it wasn’t easy. On her left rose the rows of godowns, the huge warehouses where trade goods were stored before being loaded onto ships bound first for Singapore and then on to Europe. Her eyes automatically sought out her husband’s godowns. They looked bigger and better cared for than the rest, the name Hadley emblazoned above their doors in huge black letters. Inside, she knew, lay the large rectangular sheets of finished rubber that the Hadley Estate produced, the eventual result of the strange latex milk tapped from hundreds of thousands of trees on the plantation.

  Rubber was the lifeblood of Malaya, but oddly not native to the country. Nigel had told Connie in detail about how rubber-tree seeds from Brazil in South America had been germinated in London’s Kew Gardens at the end of the nineteenth century, and sent out as fourteen-foot saplings with Frank Swettenham to Malaya where a patch of jungle was cleared for them. It was a match made in heaven, Malaya and rubber, in the same way that the British had brought poppy seeds to China and started the opium trade. Europeans had a lot to answer for, it seemed to her.