Murder In School (11 page)

‘Guv – I don’t know if I can carry
this off – what if he spotted us at the airport?’

‘Jones – he didn’t.  And you
can’t get cold feet now – we’ve just flown the best part of seven
thousand miles.’

‘What if he checks my story?’

‘He won’t – he’ll be flattered by
the attention.’

‘But it’s paper thin, Guv. 
Literally.  You made it up on the way here.’

‘No it’s not.’  Skelgill brandishes
the in-flight business magazine he has removed from the aircraft.  ‘Look
– British education – there’s an article on it to coincide with the
convention.  He probably read it.  Just waggle your notebook and tell
him you’re the ace reporter.’

‘But, Guv – one phone call to the
editor and my cover’s blown.’

‘Jones – listen – if that
happens – which it won’t – you say you’re a freelancer appointed by
the owner – say he’s a multi-billionaire and wants the inside track.’

‘And just what is the inside track, Guv?’

‘That’s for us to find out.’

DS Jones shakes her head and looks up
helplessly at the ocean liner marooned in the sky that is the Marina Bay Sands.

‘For
me
to find out, you mean.’

‘I’ve got work to do, too, remember.’

‘Swap you, Guv.’  But the note of
resignation in her voice confirms her knowledge that only she may approach Mr
Goodman without immediately arousing suspicion.

‘You can do it, lass.’  Skelgill
reaches out and grips her shoulder.  ‘Look, get moving – I’ll meet
you in that shopping centre,’ (he gestures across the broad modern highway to
the expansive buildings opposite) ‘there’s bound to be a coffee bar in there. 
Say, four o’clock.’  He holds out the magazine.

She nods and her features take on a set determination. 
She seizes the periodical and without a further word turns and heads for the sliding
doors of the imposing glass-fronted entrance.  Skelgill watches until she
disappears from sight: in her smart two-piece suit, with its close-fitting
skirt and tailored jacket, plus heels that are just on the risqué side of
business dress, she looks every bit the ambitious and successful twenty-something
executive.

After a moment’s contemplation he joins
the nearby queue for taxis, and within a minute is heading for his own
assignation.

*

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Inspector
Skelgill – and I sincerely hope it hasn’t been a wasted journey –
but I’m afraid to say that in the past decade we have not had anybody here by
the name of Dr Snyder.’

Skelgill is impassive.  Of course,
this is something he could have established by telephone from England, but
– although it is not what he was expecting – calling personally at
the school had added a further raison d’être to his role in the trip.

‘You’re quite certain, sir?’

‘Absolutely – I have been Principal
for the past six years.  Prior to that I was Assistant Principal for three
years and Head of English for two – so you can see I have been here the
whole time.’

This is one possibility that Skelgill has
foreseen.  He takes out his phone and locates a screengrab of Dr Snyder lifted
from the Oakthwaite website.  He slides it across the desk.

‘He could perhaps have gone by another
name.’

The Principal removes his stylish
spectacles to examine the portrait.  He looks briefly at the image and
shakes his head.

‘I don’t recognise him, Inspector. 
Although you Europeans look much alike to us.’  He returns the handset
with the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

Skelgill looks suitably nonplussed. 
‘Why might someone claim they taught here, sir?’

Dr Yeung replaces his glasses and blinks
modestly.  ‘SIS is generally regarded as the finest international school
in Singapore.  Of course, we are the oldest.’  He indicates with
raised hands the whitewashed colonial style office in which they sit, a large
wooden fan with varnished blades rotating silently above them.  ‘And we
attract the sons of leading industrialists from all corners of Asia.’

‘So he did his research.’

‘Quite, Inspector.  Perhaps he was
employed at a lesser institution, and saw an opportunity to benefit from our
brand name.’

‘He must have banked on his references
not being checked.’

‘That would seem a little perilous,
Inspector.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘To you and me, sir.’

The Chinese now looks typically
inscrutable.  After a moment he says, ‘We should appreciate the
opportunity to correct this misapprehension – especially if there were
the possibility of some damage to our reputation.’

Skelgill holds up his palms in a placatory
gesture.  ‘I quite understand, sir.’  He slips his mobile back inside
his jacket.  ‘But if you could bear with us on that for the time being.’

Dr Yeung nods his understanding.  It
can’t have escaped him that he has in fact provided a potentially significant
piece of information.

‘I shan’t take up any more of your time,
sir.  Thank you – and also for the tea – I could get a taste
for that.’

The Principal bows graciously and rises
with Skelgill to accompany him to the door.

‘I see there’s an education convention in
town this week, sir.’

‘Yes – we have a strong presence
ourselves.  Although we meet stiff competition from your British public
schools.’

‘Really, sir – I’d have thought you
had the advantage of home turf?’

Dr Yeung shakes his head ruefully. 
‘It is hard to match the traditional connections with top universities –
but we are trying our best to catch up.’

Skelgill grins optimistically.  ‘If
the look of your city’s anything to go by, you left us behind long ago.’

The Principal chuckles and bows a
farewell.

*

Singapore International School is housed
within the same complex of colonial buildings that includes Raffles Hotel, and
Skelgill – now with an hour or more to kill – swinging his jacket
by its coat loop, finds himself wandering past the famous Renaissance façade. 
He pauses and sniffs the air like an inquisitive fox sensing some easy pickings. 
The humidity – although not something that especially seems to trouble
him – is bringing out beads of sweat on his brow, and a damp patch
between his shoulder blades.  His small travel holdall is deceptively
hefty, and the prospect of an air-conditioned seat and a refreshing beverage
must have its appeal.  He turns into the palm-fringed driveway and makes
for the pantiled veranda of the main entrance.  Immediately he attracts
the attention of a stocky British-looking attendant wearing an elaborate
commissionaire’s outfit.

‘Are you a hotel guest, sir?’  He’s
perfectly polite, but careful to block Skelgill’s path with his sturdy frame.

‘Just popping in for a drink.’

‘In that case, sir – the Long Bar
is around the side.’  He indicates a paved route that skirts the building
on its left.

Skelgill, though no doubt curious to see inside
the iconic institution, and perhaps a little irked at being assigned what
appears to be second-class status, gives a surly nod but obediently follows the
commissionaire’s instructions.  It takes a couple of minutes navigating
courtyards, stairways and balconies before the signs deliver him to the
promised bar.  Inside it is rather dark and has the ambience of a wooden
ex-colonial mansion; bartenders busy themselves behind a befittingly long
counter; palm-shaped fans flick in unison overhead.  About half the seats
are taken, though he is guided to an empty table in a corner position.  He
orders the obligatory
Singapore Sling
; it swiftly arrives as a rather
ostentatious pink affair, its sweetness evidently concocted for the tourist
rather than the purist (for whom the traditional
Straits Sling
is an altogether
more challenging beverage).  The copious supply of complimentary groundnuts
does find immediate favour, and he amuses himself by tossing away the husks, as
is the local custom.  Moreover, by the time he leaves around an hour
later, he would also appear to be a convert to the signature cocktail, its
alcoholic effects serving to soften the blow of the bill.

Finding his way back onto Beach Street,
he crosses the wide thoroughfare and, using the map on his mobile to guide him,
begins walking in the direction of Singapore Cricket Club, whose extensive open
grounds he had noted with interest on his taxi ride earlier.  Gaining the
sidewalk he pauses for a moment, looking directly ahead, then suddenly breaks
into a canter, just in time to reach a bright red city tour bus that has pulled
into the kerb ahead.  Upon parting company with DS Jones, he had noticed
the very same brand of transport at a stop outside the mall, the agreed locus
for their impending reunion.  Leaping aboard just as the doors are closing
he hands over a fistful of Singapore dollars to the bemused driver and,
eschewing the hastily proffered headphones, swings himself up onto the
staircase as the vehicle pulls away.  A few drops of warm rain are
beginning to fall from the smoky skies, so as an expedient he opts for a seat
at the canopied rear of the upper deck.  The only other passengers are two
camera-toting middle-aged couples, who appear to be white Europeans until their
greeting of
g’day
reveals their antipodean provenance.

Skelgill picks up a glossy map from the
floor beneath his seat.  The tour is advertised to last an hour, and he
can see that he’s about half way around the circuit from Marina Bay –
perfect timing.  He settles back comfortably into his seat, and almost
immediately falls fast asleep.

*

When he wakes the biggest shock is the darkness. 
Having travelled from a near Arctic Circle summer latitude to barely more than
a degree from the equator, even a seasoned outdoorsman such as Skelgill can
omit to factor the short day-length into his expectations.  He sits upright
in momentary panic – he must be thinking he’s missed his flight, never
mind his rendezvous with DS Jones – then checks his watch, staring at it
disbelievingly.

In fact, it’s only six o’clock.

Perhaps, with hindsight, he would confess
that the combined effects of a two-night sleep deficit, a seven-hour jet lag,
and three Singapore Slings, had ganged up to finally get the better of
him.  Fortunately it isn’t necessary to be back at Changi until around
nine.  Nevertheless, DS Jones must be wondering where he is.  He
pulls out his phone and sees she has texted him – they’d agreed not to
call one another in case either was at a key moment with a party to the
investigation.  He opens the text:

‘Guv – developments – meet
you at airport at nine x.’

His stern features are highlighted in the
glow from the bright little screen.  He begins to tap out a rejoinder, but
half way through cancels it and returns the handset to his pocket.  He
gazes ahead, unseeing as the bus enters the bright canyon of Suntec City, its
concrete-and-glass walls steepling into the darkness overhead.  DS Jones’s
text is timed at five twenty-six; the convention was scheduled to break up for
the day at five.  Perhaps there is some kind of drinks reception to enable
parents of prospective students to mingle with representatives of the
schools?  Equally, she could have hooked up with someone who can provide
useful information.  There don’t seem to be any other plausible
explanations: that her cover has been blown and she has been abducted, or that
she has been charmed by some yacht-owning billionaire, might strike Skelgill as
possibilities, distant and yet disconcerting as they are by equal measure.

As such, he looks uncharacteristically uneasy
for one usually so implacable.  An anxious Englishman abroad, tired,
hungry and dehydrated, he watches blankly as sights flash past, a kaleidoscope
of the familiar and the foreign, the sublime and the ridiculous.  No
sooner than there’s a quaint church, then there’s an ornate mosque, or a temple
or a pagoda.  The smart green-and-white road signs, slightly pompous in
their Britishness – Stamford Road, Raffles Boulevard, Connaught Drive –
speak of an age of understatement, in contrast to glib-sounding business names
like Lucky Joint Construction, Darkie Trading Co., and Top-Hole Employment Agency
(specialising in maids from Indonesia and the ‘Phillipines’).

When the surroundings tell him this is
Chinatown, he alights at the first available stop and begins to stroll along Tanjong
Pagar Road.  Right now the restaurants seem quiet and, though hunger
causes him to linger outside a number of small eateries, he seems deterred by
the lack of patrons.  Indeed, for an island state whose geo-demographics
are the equivalent of the entire five million population of Scotland being
shipped over to the Isle of Mull, the streets are hardly teeming.  Could
this be a phenomenon of the little eastern nation’s high per capita GDP: the widespread
availability of air conditioning keeps the populace indoors?

A small rat runs ahead of him on the
sidewalk, before toppling into the gutter with a flick of its tail for balance,
and then it slides from sight into a drain.  Cicadas are hissing from
somewhere in the darkness between buildings.  The stuccoed houses are
relatively old here; he sees a date – 1903.  With their heavy
porticos it could be a street in London.  Then he comes upon what at first
sight seems like an indoor market – with open ends and side entrances
– then the powerful waft of stir-fry overwhelms him and he is drawn
towards its source.  In fact the establishment is an oblong food court,
lined on two sides with little stalls.  Down its centre, diners have
randomly taken up fast-food-style tables.  They appear to be exclusively
locals.