The Singapore School of Villainy (20 page)

Jagdesh rose to his feet and stumbled towards the stairs. For a brief moment, Singh wondered whether to go after him. He took a small step forward but then changed his mind. Jagdesh needed some time to lick his wounds. Arrested, outed, humiliated and suspected of murder – it was a lot to contend with without a clumsy attempt at kindness from a distant uncle.

Inspector Singh was watching videos. Every now and then he would gesture to Corporal Fong who was in charge of the remote controls. The corporal had learnt over the last ten minutes which gesture indicated that he was to pause, rewind or play a particular scene again, so the irritable outbursts that had punctuated the first part of the reel were now over. The film that Inspector Singh was watching was in black and white and of extremely grainy quality. The figures were out of focus and distant. It did not seem to merit his absorption.

The CCTV cameras in Republic Tower were a comprehensive network that covered the lift lobbies as well as every public area. It would have been difficult to enter the building and avoid being caught on film. But the murderer had been lucky and the cameras were out of action. The inspector, however, believed that there was always one lucky break for each side in a case. And now, unexpectedly, Corporal Fong claimed to have found taped evidence, not on the CCTV tapes from Republic Tower, but on the tape from a building half a block away. The corporal had requisitioned all the tapes from a three-block radius as instructed by his tubby boss and watched every single one late into every night. On one of them, spotted by Fong's sharp young eyes but visible even to the rheumy old eyes of the inspector, was Mark Thompson walking in the direction of Republic Tower for his appointment with death. His young Filipina wife teetered alongside on high heels.

Singh sighed. He said, ‘Great! More suspects!' He had a surfeit of suspects.

‘More suspects is better than no suspects, sir!'

Singh looked at his assistant suspiciously. Was he trying to be funny? It seemed unlikely. He knew very well that his aggravation at Corporal Fong was merely displacement of his much greater annoyance that he was not making better progress with the case. Newspaper editorials were calling for a quick resolution of the murder investigation that was a stain on Singapore's reputation amongst the international community. Superintendent Chen had been the conduit for every complaint about the slow rate of progress from the senior echelons of government and the police force. Singh gritted his teeth. It wasn't as if he wasn't doing his best. He reached for a packet of cigarettes to help him calm down. He thought of Quentin Holbrooke. Was he so different from that miserable young cocaine addict? He too had his drug of choice – tobacco instead of a product of coca leaves. His favourite weed was legal, albeit highly taxed and a regular drain on his resources.

‘Fong!' he snapped, extricating a cigarette and slipping it between his thin upper lip and moist pink bottom lip.

The young man was sufficiently inured to the senior policeman's tetchy tones to remain seated but he did turn to look at his boss with a pained expression on his face. Probably thinks I'm going to send him for coffee, thought Singh.

He paused for a moment to light his cigarette, ignoring the corporal's slight grimace as the smell of tobacco-laden smoke reached his overly sensitive nose. ‘We have evidence placing Maria Thompson a hundred yards from the scene of the crime. We need to question that young lady again.'

 

Inspector Singh's and Maria Thompson's positions were almost identical to those they had assumed the night he had gone to break the news of Mark's murder. He sat in the straight-backed chair; she sat across from him on the red velvet sofa. There were changes to the room: subtle, but ripe with meaning. The pictures of her and Mark were gone. In the same frames were recent shots of herself and her children, by the sea, in a garden and in that very room. On the Afghan hand-knotted rug between them, a child had commenced building a train set complete with stations, miniature people and animals. Life now animated the room.

Maria Thompson professed indifference to the anonymous letters, barely glancing at them even when Singh waved them under her nose like an overenthusiastic perfume seller at a department store counter. ‘What for do I care what this person says? She does not even dare to put her name on the letters!'

‘How do you know the author was a “she”?'

‘It was his ex-wife, I tell you!'

Singh shrugged. It was possible. The provenance of the notes was less relevant than their consequences.

‘It was because of these letters that Mark went to look for you on Balestier Road.'

‘Men are like that sometimes. A wife is not enough. It does not mean anything.'

‘He was looking for
you
!'

‘Mark would never believe these lies.'

Maria swept her hair up into a knot, exposing the elegant line of her neck. This was a woman, thought Singh, who was instinctively flirtatious – she almost could not help herself.

He had one more card to play. He watched her, a small part of him admiring her porcelain-perfect face, trying to gauge whether the time had come to show his hand. He opened the manila folder he was carrying and slipped a black-and-white photo across the coffee table towards her.

She glanced at it with mild interest and asked, ‘What is this?'

He said, ‘A photo taken from a CCTV camera two blocks from Republic Tower.'

‘What for you show this to me?'

He said evenly, ‘It was filmed on the night of the murder.'

She repeated the question. This time her voice had a hard centre, her Filipina accent coming through more strongly.

The inspector stood up and folded his arms, a round figure with an air of menace.

‘I am saying that you were near Republic Tower on the night of the murder. You lied to me when you said you were at home.'

She shrank back in her chair and crossed herself furtively, the profound Catholicism of the average Filipina putting in an appearance. Then she pulled herself together. It was a conscious, visible effort. Her back straightened and her hands fell to her sides. She lifted her chin and met his gaze without fear.

‘So what?' she asked.

‘I discover that you lied to me, that you were at the scene of your husband's murder, a murder for which you have an excellent motive – the best motive of all,
money
– and that is all you have to say to me?'

She did not flinch. She was a woman hardened by experience. She had battled all the adversity that life had dealt her with such a generous hand, using her only weapons – her face and her will. She was not going to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

He tried again. ‘You were in the area that night. I know it and you know it. Did you
see
anything that would help me find out who did kill him?'

He could see that she was sorely tempted to say something, make something up perhaps. But her innate caution stopped her.

‘If I go to the office, maybe I saw something…but I did not.'

His gambit had failed. The inspector knew that he was no further along than he had been when he rang her doorbell half an hour earlier.

It was time to change strategy. ‘All right, yours was the perfect marriage, your husband trusted you completely.' His voice had a hopeful note as he finished his sentence. ‘Did Mark ever tell you any secrets – about the lawyers?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Did he know something about any of them, something that the other partners
didn't
know?'

Singh held his breath. Was there some small possibility that Mark had confided in her, told her about Jagdesh's homosexuality or Quentin's drug addiction?

Maria was thoughtful, as if trying to decide whether to speak up or keep silent. Finally, she shook her head. ‘The lawyers treat me like rubbish. Mark did not talk to me about them.'

Singh's shoulders were round with disappointment.

Maria suddenly laughed out loud. Fissures appeared in the thick cake of make-up on her face. ‘Except that the handsome one is a
paminta
!'

‘What do you mean?' Singh was not familiar with Filipino street slang.

‘You know, the Indian. He's gay. Mark and I spotted him at a bar last month – with a man! I said to Mark, I don't understand. He's good-looking that one, surely he can get a girl.'

Singh winced at the casual dismissal of homosexuality as a predilection of ugly men but persevered. ‘What was Mark's reaction?'

She raised her shoulders dismissively. ‘Why should he care?'

‘Did he tell anyone?'

‘I don't think so.'

Singh nodded his great head. ‘Here's my card. If you reconsider any of the lies you've told me – give me a ring.'

She took it reluctantly, her hand brushing against his fingers. She looked at him through half-closed eyes before approaching him slowly. She put one slender hand on his chest and he felt his heart beating faster. A shadow of a smile played across her face, like a breath of wind through leaves.

‘Can I help you in any other way?' she asked in a low tone, never taking her eyes off his face.

His large hand closed over hers and he stood looking at her, breathing in her delicate scent and admiring the doll-perfect features.

He said distinctly, enunciating each word with full round syllables for maximum impact, ‘There is
nothing
you can do for me.'

 

Annie walked down the corridor with hesitant steps until she was outside Ai Leen's door. She had to confront Ai Leen. She could not let things stand – not after what she had seen. She took a deep breath, rapped on the door and marched in, not waiting for an invitation. She doubted that Ai Leen would be keen to see her, to speak to her, if her flight from the ladies' room was any evidence. She would have to force the issue.

Ai Leen was standing by a cabinet, rifling through files. Annie noticed immediately that she had the scarf wound carefully around her neck, all evidence of the terrible bruising, the imprint of fingers on her slender neck, obscured by the light silk material.

‘What do you want?' snapped Ai Leen, her eyes firmly on the task at hand, refusing, after an initial sidelong glance, even to look at her colleague.

Her fingernail going to her mouth, Annie said awkwardly, ‘I just wanted to see if you were all right. You know – your throat…'

‘I'm fine. Now why don't you mind your own business?'

‘Ai Leen, please – I just want to help.'

The other woman whirled around on her high heels as she slammed the filing drawer shut. Her cheeks were flushed with anger, slashes of red across her high cheekbones. She marched up to Annie, her gaze penetrating and unblinking.

‘You just want to help? Really? Then get out of my room and keep your mouth shut about what you saw.
That's
the only way you can help me.'

She held the door open and Annie retreated hurriedly. She heard rather than saw the door slam shut behind her.

Annie was soon sitting hunched and tense in her own chair. She watched the cursor on her screen flashing repetitively. It was vaguely hypnotic and she enjoyed the sense of respite it gave her. It was all getting too much for her. Her attempt at comforting Ai Leen had been misconstrued and she had no idea what to do next to help her colleague. She supposed it must have been Ai Leen's seemingly unassuming husband who had left those marks and she was too embarrassed to admit it or seek help. Nothing else would explain her rage at Annie's offer of support.

A hesitant knock on the door brought her around. Was it Ai Leen, regretting her earlier outburst? However, when the door opened it was David Sheringham who walked in. She looked at him in surprise. He was pale and the lines around his mouth and eyes were deeply etched, as if he'd received a recent shock.

‘What's the matter?' she asked as she stood up and walked around the table so that she was closer to him. She saw that his grey eyes were dark with worry.

‘Have there been any developments? Is it Quentin?'

The knowledge of what she had done was like a heavy weight on her shoulders. Had David found out that she had told Singh about the insider dealing? Was he disappointed that she had failed to protect a colleague in trouble?

‘It's Jagdesh.'

She hadn't been sure what to expect, although she had feared the worst from David's dour expression. But she hadn't suspected anything to do with Jagdesh.

‘What do you mean? What about him?'

‘He's been arrested, for “gross indecency”. You know – homosexual behaviour.'

‘Jagdesh? I never knew he was gay.'

‘None of us did…'

‘But why have the police arrested him?'

‘Homosexuality is still illegal in Singapore.'

She unknowingly echoed Stephen's words. ‘I know that – but the law's hardly ever enforced.'

‘I think they're trying to pin the murder on him.'

‘Jesus…where is he?'

‘I just spoke to Singh. They've released him “pending further investigations”. I've been trying to get hold of him but he's not responding to my calls or messages. I'm really worried about the poor fellow. I thought you might have more luck contacting him – as his friend.'

Distress was radiating from him like a high fever and Annie put a comforting hand on his arm. David, arrogant and confident, never failed to annoy her. But David admitting to doubt and confusion won her sympathy. He wrapped his arms around her and she felt the strength of his comforting embrace. She looked up at him, needing to see if he was all right. Her eyes met his and a sudden constraint fell between them. Annie became aware that her heart was racing. His cool, grey eyes were warmer than she had ever seen them before, a warmth of affection and admiration that she had suspected he felt – and feared that she reciprocated – and could now read for herself in his expression. His face was too close, his grey eyes were smiling now, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. She tried to take a step back, to escape from this dangerous emotional place, but his grip tightened. He held her gaze and then leaned forward and brushed her mouth gently with his.

The sound of the door opening caused her to start and pull away. David held on for an instant longer, instinctively protesting her decision. And then he let go, a tacit agreement that the moment had been too impulsive, and yet too important, to become part of the public domain. Annie gave him a quick shy smile and turned to face the opening door.