The Singapore School of Villainy (11 page)

 

If it bothered David Sheringham that he was using Mark Thompson's old office, he gave no sign of it. Singh wandered around the room, sniffing the air like a curious dog. He could smell disinfectant but not even his broad nose, trained over the years to recognise the scent of blood, could pick up any hint of the murder.

‘So, Mark Thompson was an alcoholic?'

David smiled thinly. ‘I see that none of our secrets are safe from you, Inspector.'

‘Keeping secrets is tantamount to obstructing me in the course of my investigations. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that's a crime.'

David raised an elegant shoulder. The gesture was rueful. ‘I didn't want to blacken Mark's name unnecessarily.'

He sounded as if he meant it, thought Singh. Was it possible that this partner who had flown in from London was actually quite a decent chap? The fat man's thoughts turned to Ai Leen and Reggie – it seemed unlikely if Sheringham's colleagues were anything to go by.

‘He was lying right there – sprawled across the desk. Blood everywhere!' Singh pointed at the desk where David sat leaning on his elbows.

The younger man's face blanched white under his tan. He was not as immune to his surroundings as he would like to pretend. ‘Must you remind me?' He removed his arms from the desk as if he expected them to be stained with another man's blood.

Singh's retort was sharp and to the point. ‘You need to know that protecting a dead man's reputation is
exactly
the same thing as protecting that man's killer.'

David Sheringham nodded slowly.

His close-cropped grey hair made him look older, thought Singh, but he was probably in his mid-thirties. He was nobody's fool if he was a trusted senior partner at an international legal firm at such a young age. The question was whether he was going to use his talents to assist or impede the investigation. So far Sheringham had been reasonably helpful – revealing the insider dealing on the Malaysian file even if he had waited to be prompted before doing so. On the other hand, his machinations – with the collusion of Superintendent Chen – were the reason that he, Singh, had to conduct large chunks of the investigation in the suspects' lair instead of the more intimidating surroundings of a police station.

‘What do you want to know?' asked Sheringham.

‘Why did you keep Mark around? He must have been more of a liability than anything else.'

‘These old firms have a very traditional partnership structure. It's actually quite difficult to get rid of someone who doesn't want to leave.'

‘And Mark Thompson didn't want to leave?'

‘Who would? The money, the status…it's a lot to give up. I don't think Mark was even ready to admit that he had a drink problem.'

‘Was he standing in anyone's way?'

Two vertical frown lines appeared in the middle of David's forehead. ‘What do you mean?'

‘The next most senior partner is Stephen Thwaites, right?'

‘You're asking me if Stephen might have killed Mark?'

‘“
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself?
”' declaimed Singh theatrically.

David shook his head emphatically. ‘No way. He was Mark's friend, and one of his last supporters amongst the senior partnership.'

 

Corporal Fong had been sent to fetch the car because Inspector Singh did not deign to make the trip to the basement car park. It did not surprise him. The fat man – he reminded Fong of those many-layered Russian dolls – did not look like someone who opted for long, or even short, walks.

Apart from being used as tea boy, Fong had found it an interesting day so far, although he really didn't know what to make of Inspector Singh's methods. There had been nothing in the police academy about his style of questioning. Fong had been taught to work through the evidence methodically whereas Singh flitted about like a butterfly in a meadow of flowers. Still, he had the lawyers off balance. Producing the brothel visit had been a masterpiece. Stephen Thwaites' face had been a picture. He, Fong, had not even known about the incident. At this thought, he frowned. Whatever his view of the boss might be, the boss had far too low an opinion of him to share vital information. Fong was the bag carrier, driver and coffee maker, nothing more.

A few moments later, he drew up in front of the gleaming building in the unmarked police car. Singh was waiting for him, a squat, brooding figure. Even from a distance it was possible to discern his impatience. The evidence was there in the tapping foot and the folded arms.

However, when the boss clambered into the car, he seemed in a delighted mood. ‘Well, well, well,' he said to his sidekick. ‘That was very interesting, eh? We make progress!'

He rubbed his pudgy hands together like a cartoon villain.

Fong had to remind himself that Inspector Singh was one of the good guys.

‘What's the plan now, sir?'

‘We follow up some leads. And I need to interview Maria Thompson.'

Fong's curiosity overcame his reluctance to expose himself to one of the inspector's biting put-downs. ‘What sort of leads, sir?'

Inspector Singh hesitated, chewing on his plump bottom lip as if debating whether to share his thoughts with the young policeman. At last he said, ‘You tell me – what do you think we should do next?'

Fong wondered whether the undertone of impatience he detected was merely his paranoia working overtime. Either way, this was a chance to actually contribute to the investigation. ‘We need to find out why Mark Thompson thought his second wife needed money and search for the anonymous letter – if it really existed…'

If Singh was impressed, he did not show it. He stared out of the window pensively, elbow on the door ledge, chin in his hand.

‘So Mark Thompson was an alcoholic…' he said thoughtfully, ‘who thought that his trophy bride was still working the night shift. Stephen Thwaites did
not
want Thompson's job and was trying to be his friend. Anikka Nathan did not mention the insider dealing until I brought it up and Jagdesh Singh becomes very nervous indeed on the subject of lawyers with secrets. Curiouser and curiouser!'

Above them, the sky was almost black, even though it was still early in the day. The storm that had been gathering announced its arrival with a thunderous clap. A moment later, the rain was sheeting down. Fong switched the wipers on at maximum speed. He would be better off with a pair of oars, he thought, as the tyres skidded gently on the running water.

Singh slapped a hand against his thigh triumphantly.

‘What is it, sir?'

‘I'll ask my wife to find out what Jagdesh Singh is hiding! If she can't ferret out the information, no one can.'

Fong refrained from commenting on the inspector's plan to draft his wife into action. He already had one sidekick whose primary duty seemed to be to wait on him hand and foot – did he really need another?

Determined to contribute to the discussion, he said, ‘There's the widow as well, sir.'

‘Do
you
think Maria Thompson did it?'

‘She's definitely the most likely person so far,' he responded carefully. ‘She had motive
and
opportunity.'

Singh scowled. He rubbed the window with his shirt sleeve – the rain outside and the air-conditioning inside had caused the glass to fog over.

‘Well, I certainly hope she isn't our murderer…'

‘Why is that, sir?'

‘It would make those partners far too happy.' He snorted loudly. ‘Firm of lawyers, eh? More like a school of villainy…'

Fong ignored this unexpected diatribe. He asked, ‘Back to the station, sir?'

Singh glanced at the corporal. Fong adopted an expression of artificial determination to mask his nervousness.

‘Yes, take me to the station,' he said. And to Fong's delight, he added, ‘And then go and see Mrs Stephen Thwaites. Check on the ex-Mrs Thompson's alibi.'

 

Annie strode down the corridor towards her office, replenished coffee mug in hand. She massaged the back of her neck with strong fingers as she walked. The strain of the earlier interview had left her head and neck aching with tension. The secretaries, whose desks lined the walls, turned in unison to stare at her and then hastily busied themselves. A brief lull in the wild speculation going on in the passageway, she suspected. ‘Is there any news? Do they know who did it?' The strident whisper was from a senior secretary, Yoke Lin, a buxom woman in heavy make-up and a tight-fitting floral dress. Everyone within earshot gave up the pretence of work to listen.

Annie shook her head. ‘No, no developments yet.' She gave them a quick smile to show that she was not evading the question but telling the simple truth.

The dark clouds that had been gathering so ominously on the horizon unleashed their full might over Republic Tower. Rain lashed against the reinforced glass. It appeared as if someone was chucking buckets of water at the window; individual drops were all but indistinguishable. From time to time, the sky was lit up with sheets of lightning. It was so dark outside, night might have fallen. Annie stopped to admire the ferocity of the storm.

‘It's amazing, the sheer power of storms in this part of the world. In England, we get so used to icy pinpricks of rain all day. It won't be fun trying to get a taxi in this weather!'

David Sheringham was standing at Annie's elbow – he appeared to have a knack of creeping up on her unawares. She nodded at him, acknowledging the friendly overture but still cautious. This was the spy from head office. Everyone in the office was kowtowing to him already, but she was not so easily convinced of his good intentions. Having made up her mind resolutely on these points, Annie heard herself asking, ‘Where are you staying? I can give you a lift if you like.'

‘That would be wonderful,' he replied enthusiastically. Light and shadow played across his face as another multi-pronged jagged fork of lightning cleaved the air. ‘I'm at the Raffles. Is that on your way?'

Annie raised an eyebrow at him. There was no stinting on the expense account if he was staying at Singapore's luxurious Raffles Hotel.

He correctly interpreted the look and grinned. ‘There must be some perks in a job that involves going round offices accusing your colleagues of murder.'

Annie shrugged. He was right. Hutchinson & Rice could afford it anyway. ‘I'll meet you in ten minutes in the lobby.'

She ran a further gauntlet of secretarial stares and collapsed into her chair. Her workplace was clean and bare and functional, the only personal belongings a green-leafed potted plant and a small photo of her mother, a bubbly Caucasian woman, smiling broadly for the camera. Her mother had died when she was eleven – leaving Annie alone in the world except for her father. It seemed so long ago that he'd asked her for more money – money that she'd transferred to him just that morning. She knew that he would have no more need of her until his next financial crisis. Annie shook herself like a dog after a rain shower; this was not the time to be brooding about her father's iniquities. She gave herself a stern mental warning to avoid letting self-pity overthrow her judgement altogether. She had to believe she would put this episode behind her. And to ensure such an outcome she needed all her wits about her.

Looking at the time, she realised that she was late to meet David. She turned off her computer, grabbed her things and headed down to reception.

‘Sorry,' she said breathlessly as she reached the lobby and found him waiting patiently.

‘No problem.'

‘Let's go! Before we get stuck in traffic.'

‘There speaks someone who's forgotten how lucky they are to work in Singapore,' said David as they stepped into the lift lobby.

‘What do you mean?' asked Annie.

‘That there's hardly any traffic, not even during rush hour.'

‘Quite true, although rain and rush hour combined do cause a few hiccups.'

The lift arrived and the doors slid open silently. Ai Leen stepped out. There was a tension about her that was reflected in her tired face and dour expression. She walked past them without a word or a backward glance.

David put a hand out and the sensors stopped the elevator doors despite the occupants jabbing aggressively at the “close” buttons. As he ushered Annie in before him, they both ignored the scowls of the people inside. The occupants of Republic Tower did not appreciate waiting.

Annie could see, gazing at their reflection in the lift doors, that she barely reached up to David's shoulder. She was pleased at an opportunity to study him discreetly. He was just over six feet tall, loose-limbed and clean-shaven. His eyes were very dark, probably grey, under winged brows that were delicate enough to be feminine. His hair was liberally sprinkled with premature grey, and cut aggressively close to a well-shaped head. He was a distinguished-looking man, except for the prize-fighter's nose.

As Annie pulled out of the car park, the heavy rain drummed down on the soft roof of the convertible. It was impossible to speak above the rain and the intermittent claps of thunder, so she concentrated hard on driving, trying to make out the other cars on the road, their rear lights barely discernible. Minutes later, Annie turned into the gravel drive of the Raffles Hotel, a beautiful white structure with long bay windows, surrounded by palms and flowering plants.

‘Why don't you come in for a coffee at the Tiffin Room?' asked David, as she pulled up in front of the building.

‘Sounds too good to refuse,' said Annie, making up her mind quickly.

At the entrance, a massive Punjabi man, resplendent in a gold-braided white uniform with shiny buttons and a turban, unfurled a massive golf umbrella and held it over Annie's door. She got out and handed the keys to him as he escorted her to the terrace. David, not waiting for similar treatment, joined her, brushing the drops of rain off his jacket and running his fingers through his glistening wet hair.