Detective Fiction Authors

"“Finger prints?” “Wiped.” Singh sighed. Was there a criminal out there who didn’t know to wipe his prints?"

"“Text messaging?” “That is main way that trouble-makers are getting flash mobs together for riots,” explained Patel. Singh chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully. Technology had a lot to answer for. ... It did beg the question though – how had the more tiresome elements of society begun riots before the era of mobile phones – carrier pigeons?"

"[Inspector] Singh closed his eyes and contemplated the gloom within. Circles within circles. Would a child of one of these dead men – killed in a holy place – grow up with revenge on his mind like Tanvir Singh had done? It didn’t bear thinking about."

"Singh stared down at the empty clear-plastic slots and felt a profound sense of loss. These pages would remain forever empty now. No happy family, no children. Was that a bit sexist? No Nobel Prize for Chemistry, he amended."

"Why do you buy [shoddy goods] if you think the quality is so poor?"

"“Sounds like preparation for war,” remarked Singh, yet again forced to contemplate the difference between Singapore policing’s idea of a tough day at the office, an outbreak of jaywalking perhaps, and the Indian equivalent. “Sometimes it is exactly like war,” said Patel in a quiet voice and Singh had a sudden glimpse into the abyss."

"That's Mao."

"Singh returned to his reading material, a glossy brochure that folded like a particularly annoying map, for the products of Bharat Chemicals. ... A flowchart explained that the employee structure combined the best elements of East and West’ – surly American management and cheap Indian labour, concluded Singh."

"Having accidentally watched ten minutes of a head-waggling, hip-shaking, breast-jiggling extravaganza on television, the inspector wasn’t surprised that thespian qualities were not at a premium. It was disheartening, however, to think that it was skin colour that was of paramount importance instead."

"“Indian police not at all good at keeping secrets.” “The press doesn’t seem to know that it’s murder,” said Singh reassuringly."

"Self-immolation was a peculiarly anticipatory gesture for someone who would eventually be cremated and her ashes scattered in a river. Mrs. Singh wondered whether the family would take the ashes to the Punjab or whether a river closer at hand would suffice. ... She tried to imagine for a moment what [her husband] would do when she died. Probably chuck her ashes into the nearest monsoon drain and head to a coffee shop for a cold beer."

"A shudder ran through the stout frame of the policeman. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen a rat in Singapore. A few scrawny squirrels that looked a lot like rats and the occasional garden shrew – that was the sum of rodent life in his recent past. Inspector Singh, who prided himself on his familiarity with the dark fringes of society, realised that he’d been fooling himself. His Singaporean version was the Disney equivalent of the seedy side of life."

"If they’d been in Singapore, he’d have thrown an army of investigators at the place, established once and for all whether there was a nexus between the factory and the illness at the slum. He didn’t have that option in India."

"The inspector wondered whether ‘those people’ really had immunity or just died at a higher rate than the wealthier denizens of the city. He suspected the latter."

"“Where’re you from?” “I’m a policeman from Singapore and a distant relative by marriage to Ashu’s family,” replied Singh. “I’ve been there – most boring place in the world, I think,” said Sameer. Singh grinned. This was a different opinion from that of the American boss."

"“So your certainty that Ashu was murdered by her family despite the absence of any evidence is based on your certainty that they were behind the assault on you for which you don’t have any evidence either?” Sameer was undaunted by the sarcasm. “It’s your job to find evidence, Singh. I’ve just made it easy for you by identifying the murderers.”"

"“Do you think of yourself as an Indian, Inspector?” “I suppose so. In Singapore, with so many different races living cheek to cheek, it’s hard to forget your roots.” “Outsiders think that all Indians are one big happy family. But within the country we know better.”"

"The American stroked a long grey moustache. “They said this is the other economic powerhouse of Asia.” He snorted his derision. “In China things work.” “But this is the world’s largest democracy,” protested Singh. “You’re not going to get the same kind of order as China.” The fat man closed his eyes for a moment – he couldn’t believe he was getting defensive about India and sounding like his wife to boot. “I don’t think much of the democracy they got over here.""

"He didn’t bother to answer his wife and opened the newspaper instead. There was a cholera outbreak in the slums, more nuclear sabre-rattling from the governments of India and Pakistan and a riot because a Bollywood film had gone too far. Apparently, Indian morals were being compromised. Singh smiled happily. They just didn’t make the newspapers like this in Singapore."

"“It’s impossible to run a business in this town. Corruption, nepotism, cronyism – you name it, it’s here.” “So was Ashu Kaur an example of nepotism?” “Because she was Tara Singh’s granddaughter? Actually, she was a good worker, smart, knew her stuff. And she didn’t mind getting her hands dirty.” “What does that mean?” “You’re not from India, are you?” “Singapore.” The American calmed down immediately. “Now there’s a place I like to do business. Clean, organised, honest, efficient and no slums on the doorstep.”"

"“Washing machines?” Singh was baffled. “Any electrical item. Everyone is wanting one to show off. Even if they still give the clothes to the dhobi wallah. He irons also, you see,” she said, making a vigorous motion with her right hand. Mrs. Singh – the method actor. So technology had not yet mastered all the skills of that wiry man in the dirty lunghi with a pile of clothes on his head. Singh was suddenly glad. To his surprise, he realised that India was getting under his skin. Already, he was feeling defensive about the old way of doing things."

"“I’m telling you that I knew Ashu. She was like a daughter to me. There is no way she would have killed herself – and in such a way.” “The police seem quite sure,” he replied. “The police in India are like a river, Inspector Singh, always taking the path of least resistance.” Singh decided to save the metaphor for an occasion when he could use it on Superintendent Chen."

"His appetite was sharp and the reasons were twofold. One, he’d missed dinner while traipsing around looking at corpses. And two, his wife had elicited the information that breakfast was part of the generous package sponsored by Tara Singh."

"Singh sat in front of a screen glumly, occasionally scrolling down with one grubby finger on a key. He hated computers. He especially hated information presented to him in such an impersonal way. There was no human touch here. Whatever opinions might have been found scribbled in the margins of a hard copy were nowhere to be found online."

"“Sikhs seem to have done quite well in India,” said the inspector provocatively, looking around the gleaming office with its panoramic views of the brown smog hanging over the city. “Don’t be fooled,” said Tara. “This is just window dressing. There are Sikh figureheads everywhere including that Manmohan Singh. But if you look deeper, you will see the truth!” “And what is that?” asked the inspector. “We’re second-class citizens. They deny us our rights in Punjab. What about water rights? What about Chandigarh? What about our language? They attack our places of worship and massacre our citizens ...” Tara Singh was a man who preferred to have the last word. “You foreigners,” he said. “You don’t understand India.”"

"The Penan do not have many possessions. They have lived for generations in the Borneo forests in harmony with their environment, taking what they need from the jungle, leaving no footprint but that of bare feet on muddy earth washed away with each rain. It was not difficult for them to regroup and move deeper into the forest. They would not be missed and traces of their ephemeral presence would soon be erased."

"Now he was in a holding pen with various members of the Kuala Lumpur criminal fraternity and they scared him [...] They ranged from a Chinese gang member, whose dragon tattoo foraged up his arm and curled around his neck, to a large, [sic] Indian man with a jet-black moustache and pocked-marked face, brooding in a corner. The majority of his cellmates appeared from their accents to be Indonesians, part of the large contingent of illegal immigrants in Malaysia. [...] At least, he thought, the government should be proud that their efforts to integrate the various races in Malaysia into a cohesive society were bearing such fruit. It was a very multi-racial group that was penned in together."

"In Singapore, house renovation had only one goal — to convey wealth. He had seen houses that appeared huge, with a vast amount of road frontage, only to pass by another day using another route and discover that the same house was narrower than a long boat."

"Singaporeans were always adding to the list of reasons each one kept to hand, in case they met a Malaysian, of why it was so much better on the island than the peninsula. They ranged from law and order to cleanliness, from clean government to good schools, and always ended on the strength of the Singaporean economy. But in the end, the Malaysian would nod, as if to agree on the points made — and shrug to indicate that they wouldn't trade passports, not really."

"And yet, the inspector thought, Kuala Lumpur had a certain something. It was difficult for him to put his finger on what it was exactly. There was a sense of freedom perhaps, of anarchy even, that Singapore so sorely lacked. Perhaps it was the lack of deference to authority, the physical space, the ability to take a step back and enjoy a moment of quiet that lent Kuala Lumpur its atmosphere."

"Sometimes, if you want to protect something you care about, you have to take extreme steps."

"The act of speaking, the release from silence, invariably meant that the prisoner would say too much, give something away, let slip an honest truth in the midst of the self-justification. Inspector Singh, like a fine piano-tuner, could listen to these verbal outpourings and pick up those hints of expression or emotion that were off-key and those that rang true. And so he waited for Jasper Lee to open his mouth, and a door to the truth, at the same time."

"[S]o many languages were spoken in Malaysia that quite often the wheels of justice ground to a standstill for the lack of an interpreter who could restore the tower of babel to a court of law."

"Chelsea Liew! A ridiculous name - par for the course with the adoption of Western names by Singaporeans aiming to give themselves a cosmopolitan air. Unfortunately, they often picked the most improbable monikers. Inspector Singh had come across young Singaporeans revelling in first names like Mayfair and Rothmans."

"It seemed, pondered the inspector, that no sooner did you give a man a car than he wanted to drive somewhere and do something."

"Rupert did not understand why the parasites in cities did not understand the most fundamental tenet of nature - that a parasite eventually kills its host. Did these people not know that if they continued to feed and spread and grow, with the tendrils of their greed wrapping themselves around their host, the day would come when it could no longer sustain them and when it died they would too?"

"[T]here was absolutely no possibility of a successful resolution to the case he had just been handed. There never was when religion trumped rational behaviour and politics influenced police work."

"No respectable Sikh family would buy art merely for its aesthetic qualities."

"Singh could not help but think that, in a hospital, the proximity of death was best disguised — and the actual dead hidden. It was not conducive to the right frame of mind for recovery to have the morgue signposted for patients. It would be the medical equivalent of 'Abandon hope all ye who enter here'."

"The inspector was suddenly reminded of his English literature classes as a teenager. The teacher dissecting Jane Austen while the boys looked bored and the girls swooned over Darcy. Certainly, there was enough pride and prejudice within this Sikh clan to write a number of sequels. Although Jane Austen had never felt the need to sully her books with premature death, or premature pregnancies for that matter."

"“I thought you didn’t approve of my job.” “Different when it’s family.” “Most murder victims have families.” She nodded once. “So you better hurry up and find this killer instead of hiding here smoking cigarettes.”"

"Without money, terrorists were just angry young men with an axe to grind. With money, the metaphorical axe became real and sharp and terrifying. He knew that very well – had learnt it the hard way – from his murder investigation in Bali after the bombings there."

"“Everyone needs a hobby,” said [Inspector] Singh. “Terrorists also.” “Oh, I see,” said [Inspector] Singh, flippancy erased from his voice. “That’s not good news.”"

"If publicity was the lifeblood of terrorists, the week-long siege of the hotel had been a massive transfusion."

"That was probably the most truthful thing that Tanvir had said to him yet. Wherever one was in the world, it seemed that it was difficult to bring the rich and powerful to book. It was enough to turn anyone into a communist – as long as it didn’t mean he had to share his cigarettes and beer."

"Out of the corner of his eye, Singh noted that the younger brother looked scared. There were secrets within this family. But was there anything odd in that? All families had something to hide, a sin that loomed large in the household although trivial in the greater scheme of things. A quarrel between members, feuding factions, perhaps an affair. It didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the missing woman."

"Buried six feet under, buried facing Mecca, burnt to cinders ... it does not matter. He is rotting in hell this very moment."

"The gods were fighting over her children but she could not seek the help of any of them. And she had so much choice. She had grown up a Buddhist, her ex-husband was alleged a Moslem when he died, her own sister was a Christian - so many options for salvation. [...] Chelsea would have settled for solace through prayer. But she did not believe that there was an invisible hand behind the farce that was her life's play. At the very least she did not believe in a benevolent God. [...] Surely it was better to lay the blame for the machinations of fate at the door of chance?"

"He knew from his own experience in Singapore that the further up the ladder one got, the more the job was about politics and statistics than actually dealing with crime."

"The fact of the matter was that he was spoilt. Singapore was such a pleasant place to hunt down murderers. It was easy to get around, hardly any traffic. The killers had nowhere to run, the island was so small. The air was clean and the trees green so his health didn’t deteriorate as he pursued his vocation. He stared sadly at a dusty spindly tree surrounded by a protective cordon of railings. Here, even the trees were in prison."