The Singapore School of Villainy (10 page)

The inspector raised an eyebrow – he might as well have cracked a whip. It certainly had the same effect on the nervous young man, who scurried out of the room.

Fong returned alone a few minutes later.

‘Well, where is he?' demanded the inspector.

‘He said he would be here in a short while, sir. He was just finishing something.'

‘Listen carefully, corporal – we are conducting a murder investigation. No one, I repeat,
no
one keeps me waiting!'

This last shout was still resonating when there was a firm knock on the door and Stephen Thwaites walked in. Although the inspector must have been perfectly audible outside the door, Stephen gave no sign of having heard anything amiss. He ignored the corporal – no surprise there, thought Fong grimly – and stuck his hand out to the inspector. They shook hands briefly.

Stephen apologised for keeping them waiting.

The inspector responded with an elaborate shake of the head – his turban emphasised the gesture by increasing the size of the arc. ‘No problem, no problem at all. We understand that you're a busy man. Please sit, sit.'

Singh patted his brow with a large white handkerchief, stubbed out his cigarette on the Malaysian file and carefully placed the half-smoked cigarette back in its carton. He bent over with some difficulty to retie the shoelace on his left white trainer which had come undone. Apparently, he had no qualms about keeping his witnesses waiting while he attended to trivial matters, thought Fong, mildly amused by this petty revenge.

Singh sat up again slowly, his breathing an asthmatic wheeze.

‘Fong!' he barked in a peremptory voice and the corporal leapt to his feet again, almost overturning his table as he did so.

‘Fetch Mr Thwaites a drink. What will you have? Coffee, tea?' he asked.

‘A glass of water would be good.'

‘Very well, you heard him,' he said sharply to the corporal, who bolted from the room. Fong wondered whether he should have asked to work at the canteen in the police academy; it would have been more useful training for his current role than anything else he had learnt so painstakingly.

‘Our job is similar in many ways,' he heard the inspector say as he headed out of the office. ‘We both have to nurture and guide the young.'

‘True, true,' said Stephen, who appeared determined to match the inspector's theatrical bonhomie.

Fong gritted his teeth and almost slammed the door but managed to desist at the last moment. His was the lowest rank in the force but his stout superior would probably find a way to demote him if he showed any attitude. He came back in with a glass of water that he placed carefully in front of Stephen. He had professionally wrapped the glass in a serviette so that the condensing moisture would not bother the drinker.

‘We can begin whenever you're ready,' Stephen said.

‘No particular hurry,' said the inspector. ‘No one is going to run away, eh? Not while I have your passports, anyway.'

His hearty guffaw was met with a weak smile from Stephen Thwaites.

The inspector waved the corporal to his seat and turned to Stephen. ‘I understand that your wife and the first Mrs Thompson are good friends?'

Taken aback by the line of questioning, Stephen could not help fidgeting in his chair. His authority dissipated and he became an errant schoolboy across the table from a headmaster.

‘I'm not sure how that's relevant,' he murmured.

‘We'll let me be the judge of that, shall we?' insisted the inspector, still all smiling politeness and visible teeth, but now predatory.

‘Yes, they're good friends.'

‘I imagine both of you had a lot of sympathy for Sarah Thompson, the wronged wife. Hell hath no fury, eh?' Singh chuckled and his belly vibrated an accompaniment.

Stephen remained silent.

‘In fact, you were a good friend of Mark's?'

Fong could almost see the wheels turning as Stephen wondered whether he should deny a close relationship. The lawyer did not see any particular trap, or perhaps an innate loyalty and honesty made him say, ‘Well, yes. We were the two senior people in the office and had a lot in common, plus our wives – well, my wife and his ex-wife – got along.'

‘But you did not always have your wives along, eh, when you were together?' said the inspector, winking elaborately at Stephen, who appeared bemused and a little worried.

The lawyer twisted a bulky gold signet ring on his little finger and asked, ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘I believe,' Singh made a show of consulting his notes, ‘you were picked up with Mr Thompson two months ago at a Balestier Road
brothel
?'

Balestier Road – a seedy street of mostly dilapidated old shophouses selling chicken rice and
bah kut teh
, a medicinal-tasting pork belly soup – was notorious for its hotels that charged by the hour. There was no reason Singh could think of for either Mark or Stephen to be at one, except for the obvious.

Stephen opted for blank denial. ‘It's not true,' he said, folding his arms to convey certainty.

‘Come, come, Mr Thwaites. We are both men of the world. There is no doubt at all that you and Mr Thompson were arrested and subsequently released without charge. Your positions in the expat community and the fact that you were not caught, how shall I put it,
in flagrante delicto
, kept you out of prison. But the Singapore police maintain very good records,' he continued and grinned meaningfully at the lawyer.

Stephen's gaze found its way to the floor, unable to meet the accusing eyes of the inspector.

‘You must agree that your presence there requires explanation.' The inspector leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed and confident that he had the upper hand.

Singh knew very well that visiting businessmen of a certain type thought a stopover at an Orchard Towers bar or club followed by an assignation in Joo Chiat Road or Balestier Road a must in Singapore. After-hours trips to sordid joints peddling sex were an integral part of business in South East Asia, whether it was the notorious bars in Pat Phong in Bangkok with its sex shows and brothels or the equally unpleasant but less well known strips in Kuala Lumpur or Jakarta.

‘Mr Thompson had been married again for just a few months. He seems to have strayed very soon. And what about you? How many years of marriage has it been?' asked Singh.

‘Thirty-five!'

‘Domestic troubles?'

‘It's really none of your business, Inspector,' grumbled Stephen.

Singh slammed his fist down on the table and everyone in the room jumped. ‘That's where you're wrong, Mr Thwaites. In a murder investigation,
everything
is my business, whether in the boardroom
or
the bedroom.'

‘But how could this have a bearing on Mark's murder?' asked Stephen, his tone almost pleading.

‘I don't know yet,' confessed the inspector. ‘Maybe he was blackmailing you over this incident and you decided to kill him?'

‘That didn't happen!' cried Stephen. Damp patches were showing through his blue shirt now, crescents of sweat at his armpits. Singh smiled. Only experienced crooks knew not to wear blue shirts to a police interview.

‘I'm inclined to believe you,' said the inspector unexpectedly. ‘But you need to tell me the truth. Otherwise, I'll have to question your wife about the state of your marriage.'

Stephen's expression was one of disbelief. ‘You wouldn't do that, would you?'

Singh raised an eloquent eyebrow.

Stephen sat upright in his chair and his hand went to his throat to straighten his tie. His gravelly voice steadied. ‘I'd hoped to protect Mark but you leave me no choice,' he said. ‘Mark invited me out. I could tell from his voice that he'd been drinking heavily. If you don't know yet, Inspector, Mark was an alcoholic. I decided to join him and try to get him home. I didn't want any scenes in public which would embarrass the law firm. Besides, he was my friend.' Stephen sighed. ‘I was frankly surprised to receive the call from him. My wife refused to acknowledge Maria, which curtailed my association with Mark.' He continued, ‘When I met him that evening, he said he'd been receiving anonymous letters saying Maria was moonlighting as a prostitute.'

Inspector Singh's ears pricked up at the mention of letters. ‘Did he show them to you?'

‘No, I'm not even certain they
existed
in the first place. It could just have been an excuse for his suspicions.'

‘Why would he suspect her of something like that?'

‘I'm sure I don't have to tell you, Inspector, it's not unknown for foreign workers in Singapore to get involved in that racket. They're mostly here for the money with large families back home to support.'

‘But why would she continue after marriage to a wealthy man?'

‘That was one of the arguments I put to Mark. He seemed to think she might still need money, I don't know why.'

‘Hmmm,' said the inspector. ‘It should be possible to find out.' He turned to Corporal Fong. ‘Make a note of that,' he urged.

Stephen continued his narrative, his voice steady and low. ‘Mark dragged me to a bar in Orchard Towers…'

Singh listened intently as a senior partner of a reputable law firm tried to explain how he had found himself hunting for Mark's wife in a place notorious for its sleazy bars and discos.

He could almost picture them as they weaved their way between tables and onto the dance floor. The strobe lighting, bodies gyrating and the smell of cheap perfume must have been overwhelming.

‘I tried to keep up with Mark. He was swaying on his feet. He kept grabbing young women by the arm, forcing them to look at him, trying to identify Maria.'

There was a silence in the room. Stephen cleared his throat and continued, ‘A group of Filipino men became aggressive. I had to drag Mark away. I begged him to go home. But he took it into his head that he was going to Balestier Road to hunt for Maria in those cheap rent-by-the-hour motels. I did my best to persuade him not to. I had these horrible mental pictures of him bursting in on half our clients and accusing them of using his wife as a prostitute!'

Singh felt a sudden desire to laugh. The tale would be farcical if it did not contain the roots of tragedy.

Stephen rubbed his eyes tiredly with a thumb and forefinger. ‘In the end I went with him. I thought I might be able to stop him getting hurt.'

‘What happened?' asked the inspector.

‘Mark could barely walk in a straight line. I suggested to him that he wait while I had a look around. He refused. We were still in the middle of an argument when the police raided the place and arrested us. I think you know the rest.'

‘So you never did find out if she was there?'

‘Of course she wasn't,' said Stephen. ‘It was just a fit of drunken jealousy.'

‘A pretty extreme case,' remarked the inspector.

‘That would only be relevant if the corpse was Maria's!'

The inspector collapsed in his chair as if the revelations were too heavy a burden for his burly shoulders. The breakup of Mark's marriage must have appalled everyone. Conventional wisdom – as articulated by Sarah Thompson and his own wife – was that Maria had married Mark for his money and the marriage would not see the year out. The reality was even more sordid. However unacceptable Mark's behaviour had been, having an affair with his domestic help, getting caught by his wife and then marrying Maria – it was this last point which had really electrified audiences – Singh felt sorry for the way things had turned out. He shook his head. He must be getting soft in the head, feeling pity for a wealthy, successful man who had married a beautiful woman.

‘Let's turn to the murder, Mr Thwaites,' said the inspector. ‘Where were you on the evening of Mr Thompson's death?'

‘I am afraid I don't have a very convincing alibi.'

The inspector waited placidly for him to continue, making no comment.

‘I popped into the office briefly in the morning but then went over to Bintan—' Stephen mentioned a popular Indonesian island resort not far from Singapore ‘—for a round of golf with a client. We played nine holes and were rained off. I had a couple of beers with him and took the ferry back. The crossing was choppy and I'm not a great sailor. I switched off my mobile phone, climbed into bed and slept soundly. The next morning, I found a message from Mark ordering me to the meeting. I had missed it. A short while later, Jagdesh Singh called me with the news.'

‘So you were
asleep
during the murder?' asked Inspector Singh, a disbelieving note creeping into his voice.

‘That's my story, I'm afraid.'

‘Can anyone vouch for you being home?' asked the Inspector impatiently. ‘Wife, children, maid?
Someone
must have seen you.'

‘My wife was away that evening on one of those overnight casino cruise ships, with Sarah Thompson, if you must know. The help had the day off and the children are away at university,' explained Stephen.

‘Pity you're not having an affair with the maid, eh?' remarked Inspector Singh.

 

Singh was pleased to have a second interview under his belt – figuratively speaking. He ran a thumb along the band of his trousers, trying to make himself more comfortable – there was certainly no space under his belt literally. He turned to Fong. ‘Well, there's no time to waste. Let's see the Indian. And tell David Sheringham I want to see him next,' he added, as Fong reached the door.

Corporal Fong hurried out to summon Jagdesh Singh and in a few moments the tall Sikh was in the room greeting them in his distinct musical accent. ‘My turn for the third degree? That's all right…I haven't got anything to hide. So you're welcome to trot out the thumbscrews – it won't make any difference.'

There was no response to his jovial remarks. Singh stared at his relative with genuine interest. He noted that the teeth of his witness were shiny and even. The policeman ran his tongue over his own teeth – they were not in such pristine condition. He doubted that corrective dental work was that advanced in Delhi. The inspector had heard of medical tourism. Apparently, this young fellow had the financial clout to be a dental tourist. He wondered once more why his wife had been assigned to find Jagdesh Singh a bride. He would bet his beer money that the combination of good looks and deep pockets that the fates had bestowed on Jagdesh Singh would have had the women flocking around.

‘I guess this is no joking matter. Ignore me…I just get like this when I'm nervous!' Jagdesh spoke again, unnerved by Singh's thoughtful contemplation.

‘There is nothing for you to be nervous about, Mr Singh, unless you killed Mark Thompson.'

Here the inspector stopped and looked at Jagdesh inquiringly as if to give him an opportunity to confess. Unsurprisingly, his young relative by marriage eschewed the opportunity to put his head in a noose. Just as well, thought Singh. He certainly hoped this young fellow was not the killer. He shuddered to think what his home life would be like if he was forced to arrest the Sikh partner. Domestic bliss it would
not
be, thought Singh, wincing at the mental image of his wife and her sisters on the warpath. He dragged himself back to the matter at hand with difficulty and noticed that his countryman was looking at him quizzically. That would never do – he did not want rumours of incompetence to seep through the gossipy Sikh community in Singapore. It was time to focus on the nuts and bolts of the investigation. He hurriedly ran through his list of questions and received the stock answers.

Jagdesh did not have a relationship of any sort with Mark Thompson that extended beyond the workplace. Unlike Stephen Thwaites, he would not characterise Mark as a friend. ‘More of a colleague,' he explained.

He did not have an alibi for the couple of hours before the meeting. He had been on the verge of leaving for dinner at the Singh residence when he had received Mark's call, hence his belated telephoned apologies and no-show.

‘A pity you didn't visit as planned,' was Singh's wry comment. ‘My wife would have been an unimpeachable alibi.'

‘I certainly wish I had come along for dinner, sir. I hear that Mrs Singh is a magnificent cook.'

Singh glared at the lawyer to indicate that he was not going to embark on some family-style gossip with him. If Jagdesh was trying to form a bond based on their tenuous family links, he, Singh, was not having any of it. It was bad enough that he was already hoping to exonerate this man purely on the grounds that he feared his wife's ire at any other conclusion.

It was time to cut to the chase. ‘So who killed your boss?'

Jagdesh pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, the action of a man who could feel a headache coming on. Singh noted that there were food spots on his tie. They might only be related by marriage and have nothing in common physically but they did seem to share a common genetic heritage when it came to being messy eaters.

‘I can't believe it was one of the partners,' said Jagdesh. His tone was quiet and reasonable. It reminded Singh that this man was a highly successful lawyer – it would not do to underestimate him or treat him as a mildly comic figure just because Mrs Singh had been tasked with finding him a wife. After all, he himself was regularly underestimated on the grounds solely of his beer belly and fancy headgear.

The inspector's response to Jagdesh's doubt was aggressive. ‘Really? I have no difficulty at all believing that one of you lawyers is a murderer. The only question in my mind is
which
one of you did it!'

Jagdesh stared at the policeman. Singh noticed for the first time that the whites around his dark brown pupils were now shot through with faint red veins. Dusky shadows formed crescents under his eyes.

Despite his calm tone, this was a man who was feeling the pressure. But was it the understandable pressure of a man unwittingly and innocently caught up in a murder investigation or was there a more sinister reason?

‘Mark Thompson called a meeting of the partners. Before it could be held, he was killed. Difficult to avoid the conclusion that he was murdered to avoid revealing something, a secret that one of you lawyers was prepared to go to any lengths to hide.'

Jagdesh's hand went to his throat, and then, as if he belatedly realised it was a telling gesture, he dropped it back onto the arm of the chair.

‘Well, do you agree?' demanded Singh argumentatively.

‘I have nothing to hide!' insisted Jagdesh. But his gaze found his lap as he said it and he would not meet the policeman's eyes.