The Singapore School of Villainy (24 page)

Her voice grew fainter and fainter as she continued her story. ‘I called the house. The maid told me that Mark was at the office. I knew I couldn't get in there. I decided to wait for him outside his apartment block so that I could waylay him on the way home and he would have no choice but to let me say my piece. I waited for hours, just sitting on the pavement.'

Sarah Thompson's eyes were filled with tears. ‘He never came back,' she said simply, a wealth of grief in her voice.

 

Annie arrived home and sat in her car in the driveway. Everything appeared so normal. The house gleamed gold in the evening sun, the windows picked out in black paint. The cat was asleep on the veranda table, so relaxed he seemed like a furry black-and-white rug. She looked at the briefcase next to her and the dangerous secret it contained, then glanced at her watch. She would mix herself a very stiff drink and wait for David. She had called him and he had agreed to come over at once. He had wanted to know what it was about but she had refused to reveal anything over the phone, merely insisting it was urgent. Annie knew that Inspector Singh should have been her first port of call but she had turned to Sheringham instinctively. Annie acknowledged that it was the first time in her adult life that she had felt such a strong attraction to anyone. Prior to this, she had always been too immersed in her career, in the accumulation of a protective layer of wealth, to have had the time or patience for a serious relationship. From David's tone, she was confident that her sentiments were reciprocated. She knew that, in the midst of a murder investigation, with all their senses sharpened with anxiety, both of them were probably feeling the mutual appeal more strongly than might have been the case if they had met in more normal circumstances. But a growing part of her believed that the prematurely grey man with the broken nose and appealing smile had an important part to play in her future.

Getting out of the BMW, Annie headed into the kitchen and was mixing herself a drink when she heard the grinding of gears that heralded the arrival of a taxi. David was early. She smirked like a schoolgirl. Well, she would mix a drink for both of them.

 

Carrying two gin and tonics outside, Annie was astonished to see Quentin standing on the veranda. She exclaimed and spilt some of the liquid over her hand.

She glared at him, setting down the crystal glasses and licking her fingers. ‘Jesus, Quentin! What are you doing here?'

He would not meet her eyes but instead settled on a careful perusal of the middle distance. She noticed how worn and pale he looked. He was not in a position to get any more drugs – not now that the police knew his history.

‘Now is really
not
a good time, Quentin.'

‘I must talk to you!' His tone was determined despite his frail appearance.

Any sympathy that she felt receded into the darkness and was replaced with annoyance. ‘I'm expecting someone.'

‘I know you are,' said her colleague evenly. ‘I asked your secretary where you were and she told me that you'd gone home to meet David Sheringham.'

Annie made a mental note to fire Ching at the first opportunity. ‘Well, if you knew that, I've no idea what you're doing here.'

Quentin seemed to have a change of heart, or at least a change of approach.

‘Annie, I just need fifteen minutes…please!'

She glanced at her watch and decided the quickest way to get rid of her unwanted visitor was to hear him out. ‘OK, you can have ten minutes. Let's go for a walk.'

They set out together, drinks left untouched. Annie, from habit, set a purposeful pace and headed in the direction of the cemetery.

As they entered through the massive wrought-iron rusty gates, Annie, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice, asked, ‘What did you want to say?'

Quentin picked his way through the overgrown paths and sat down on a squat gargoyle, covered in lichen and moss and guarding an ornate, tiled semi-circular grave. The monument glowed orange and green in the half-light. Annie remained standing, glaring down at him, her arms folded. A stone statue of a young goddess stared up at her with a matching expression.

He muttered, ‘About the insider dealing…' and stopped.

Annie's wary gaze was fixed on her colleague. She sat down on a moss-covered tombstone.

‘I didn't believe the inspector at first – that it was someone from Singapore. But he said there was no mistake; they had spoken to you and cross-checked the story with Tan Sri Ibrahim.'

Annie's response penetrated the dusk like a searchlight. ‘The Tan Sri called me a few days before you were arrested.'

‘That's why they thought I might have had a motive to kill Mark.'

Annie nodded her understanding. ‘It's because the Tan Sri told Mark about his suspicions the day he died.'

Quentin's face was lost in the lengthening shadows. He said quietly, ‘That fat policeman told me that someone in the office had fingered me.'

She folded her arms tight across her chest.

‘At first I thought it must have been Stephen, or perhaps Reggie. But I've been thinking and thinking – and I've realised it had to be you who told him.' Quentin's voice was thin and echo-less.

He continued, ‘You're the only one who knows enough about the file – the only one that Singh would have believed.'

She nodded briefly.

He sighed and walked over to the gravestone. The inscriptions were brief and to the point. Gold flaking paint gave the names and dates of birth of the patriarch and his two wives.

‘But Annie,' he said, ‘I didn't do it. The insider dealing, I mean – it wasn't me.'

Singh dropped his briefcase by the door and collapsed into his favourite armchair. He leaned back, trying to find some comfort in its familiar contours, but his upper back was too stiff with tension. He pushed against the heel of one trainer with the toe of the other, hoping to kick it off.

He still could not believe that Joan Thwaites had lied about Sarah Thompson's alibi. Stephen had been horrified by his wife's behaviour – and with good reason, thought Singh grimly. He had a good mind to charge her with obstructing the police in the course of their investigations. Idiotic woman with messy hair in her ill-fitting jeans – what had she been thinking? Undoubtedly, she had been bullied into doing it by the stronger personality, but did that make Sarah Thompson a murderer?

His wife walked in with a cup of hot tea. He accepted it gratefully and mumbled his thanks. Strong sweet tea was the only thing that stood between him and a blinding headache. He closed his eyes and pictured Sarah Thompson, her skin pulled surgically taut over her face but wrinkled around her neck like a lizard with neck flaps, platinum blonde hair with dark roots showing, high heels and a short skirt. What was that expression? Mutton dressed as lamb. He opened one heavy lid and looked at his wife – thank goodness she did not aspire to an inappropriately youthful appearance. He vaguely recalled that his own mother had worn caftans like his wife did now.

He remembered the tears in Sarah Thompson's eyes as she had described waiting for her ex-husband to come back to the home they had shared during their marriage but which now housed his nubile young widow. Those tears had been genuine.

Besides, notwithstanding the collapse of her alibi, it was highly improbable that the ex-wife would have been escorted to the office by her former husband. And as someone who believed at the time that she had a watertight – albeit-fake – alibi, there would have been no need for Sarah Thompson to risk killing Jagdesh. He slammed his fist into his palm, suddenly angry. Mark Thompson had left a trail of destruction that had culminated in his murder. But that had not been the end. Jagdesh Singh had been a victim too.

Singh heard a sudden sizzling sound – batter in hot oil. A rich scent of fried
cempedak
emanated from the kitchen and he felt a simple gratitude towards his wife.

‘Fried
cempedak
?' he asked hopefully.

‘Yes – just ripe today.'

The inspector nodded his pleasure. He threw her a bone – she deserved it, this skinny wife of his who had guessed that only his favourite teatime snack could restore him on such a truly frustrating day. ‘You were right – Jagdesh was innocent.'

‘Actually, once you told me he was a homosexual type, I said he did it.'

‘Well,
before
that then…'

‘How do you know?'

‘He had an alibi – a young man was with him.'

‘I don't know what's happening to the world that one of our boys can be like
that
but at least he's not a murderer.'

‘Poor fellow,' said Singh. ‘He didn't deserve the way things turned out.'

Both of them paused and looked towards the dining table, picturing the young lawyer tucking into his dinner and agreeing that he would like to meet a nice Sikh girl and settle down.

‘The mother collapsed, you know – only son,' explained Mrs Singh briefly.

Singh nodded. His failure to find the killer of Mark Thompson had resulted in a young man's death at the hands of some unknown killer. And far away in Delhi, a family had been destroyed.

Mrs Singh went into the kitchen and returned with a plate of the fried fruit in golden batter. ‘He really enjoyed my cooking, you know,' she said sadly.

Singh took one of her hands in his and gave it an affectionate squeeze. ‘He really did.'

 

Quentin took both Annie's hands in his, bringing them up to the level of his chest. He looked into her eyes, the brown pools turned almost black as her pupils widened to catch the last light of the day.

‘And that's not all, is it? It wasn't enough to tell Singh that I was insider dealing. You told the newspapers that I'd been let off…'

‘Of course not!' She tried to free her hands but his grip tightened.

‘I don't believe you. My God, Annie – I thought you were my friend.'

‘Let me go, you're hurting me.'

His pale eyes glistened in the encroaching darkness. His hands were sweating from the contact of skin on skin in the humidity.

Again, she tried to wrest her hands free.

Quentin's head was pounding, twin hammers on his temples. There were sharp pains behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly. It felt as if he was looking into a hot bright light even though the two of them were shrouded in gloom. He could feel a damp layer of cold sweat on his face and neck. A breath of wind passed through the trees and he shivered.

‘How could you do this to me? I trusted you!' he said and his voice ascended until it was a shrill animal scream.

Bats, quick black shadows, flitted back and forth chasing unseen insects. Something brushed against his cheek, a rush of velvet. He started and saw that it was an early owl.

He was weak, almost lightheaded. He needed to go home and inhale a line of coke – it was the only thing that made him feel good, strong, powerful. But there wasn't any. The police had his stash. His dealer had been arrested. He had no money and the police had told him – he remembered Singh's beard thrust aggressively into his face, he had smelt of curry and cologne – that if he crossed the line again there would be no second chances. He felt the first flames of rage and it was almost a relief to feel his self-control waver.

He wrapped two hands around Annie's neck. It was a fragile stalk, smooth and warm to the touch. He felt he could snap it, just like that. And she deserved it, this woman who had lied to the police about him, a so-called friend who had betrayed him. And he had nothing to lose in gaining his revenge – after all, he already faced the death penalty.

‘Let me go!' she screamed.

His concentration wavered for a moment as a wave of dizziness swept over him. She wrenched free and turned to run. His arm went round her neck, yanking her head painfully back. Her back was to him, her body pressed up against him. She screamed and he stifled further sound with a hand pressed against her mouth. Annie stamped on his foot with all her might, and as his grip loosened in shock, she bit the hand over her mouth as hard as she could. He released her mouth, exclaiming in pain and shock, but the arm round her neck tightened. Annie screamed at the top of her lungs. Quentin struggled to muzzle her again. He tried to control a rising tide of panic, reminding himself that the cemetery was deserted. She fought him furiously. He could feel that each effort to pull free was further asphyxiating her against the arm around her soft throat. He was starting to feel giddy, praying that she would falter first. She was stronger than he had anticipated – he was not sure how long he could hang on.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he felt a hand on his collar and he was yanked backwards with enormous force. Annie fell to her knees, choking and retching, dragging painful gasps of air into her lungs. Quentin felt as if he was fighting a creature composed more of shadow than of substance. He desperately lunged out, swinging wildly with both fists. It seemed impossible to make anything except chance contact, while his opponent's blows were landing with precision – dull thuds that landed on his face and chest with the regularity of a pile-driver. For one highly-strung moment he wondered whether his opponent was a figment of his imagination, a drug-induced hallucination. There was a lull. Quentin stood swaying on his feet. David Sheringham hit him hard, fist to jaw, and Quentin crumpled in a heap.

 

Inspector Singh's jaw dropped. ‘What happened?'

His shock was understandable, thought Annie. They had not briefed him on the phone – just asked him to hurry over. Now he stared at the three of them in astonishment. Both Quentin and David were muddy and dishevelled. Quentin was by far the worst for wear – one of his eyes was almost shut, his bottom lip was split, there were cuts and bruises on his face and arms and he stood heavily on one leg, unable to put weight on the other. His defeated expression, eyes half shut, lips turned down, shoulders bowed, emphasised his physical state. David's shirt was torn and blood trickled down his cheek from a cut above his eye. Annie did not know it but she presented the most telling evidence of an altercation. Her knees were muddied, she had a glorious bruise on one cheek and her eyes were enormous pools of shock and fright in a face from which all the blood had drained.

David put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Quentin attacked Annie,' he said matter-of-factly.

There was no response from the man who stood accused. His silence rang like a confession. The inspector, a round figure but light on his feet like a dancer, moved to whip out the handcuffs attached to his belt and deftly encircled Quentin's wrists.

He said to Corporal Fong, ‘Get him cleaned up. Make certain the police doctor sees him. Put him in a cell and then wait for me. I'll decide what we're charging him with – assault or something more – later.'

They all watched Quentin being led away. He got into the back seat of the car, Corporal Fong slipped in next to him and they sped away.

Singh made his bewilderment plain. ‘I don't understand.'

David put up a hand to stop him. ‘All explanations in a minute. Let us get cleaned up and then we'll talk.'

Fifteen minutes later, Singh was waiting for them in the living room, looking relaxed in a comfy chair with a drink clutched in one hand. David appeared, wearing a T-shirt from Annie's drawer that was several sizes too small for him. Annie handed him a beer. He took it gratefully and waved away the first aid box, making it clear that he thought the medicinal properties of alcohol were superior to any external ointment. Annie curled up on the sofa next to him.

‘Why don't you tell me what happened here, seeing as I have a man in custody?' asked the inspector, taking charge of proceedings.

‘I came home from work, having arranged to meet David. Quentin turned up a short while later.'

David cut in to say, ‘I'm sorry I was late. I couldn't get a taxi.'

Annie nodded her understanding. ‘You were just in the nick of time!'

She paused, knowing that there was going to be frustration and disbelief from David that she had kept quiet about the insider dealing for so long. ‘I should tell you – I've already briefed the inspector – I had a call from a client in Malaysia a few days ago, accusing someone at Hutchinson & Rice of insider dealing.'

She sensed David stiffen by her side.

‘Tan Sri Ibrahim told me that he spoke to Mark the evening he died.'

David almost yelled at her, ‘Mark knew? But that could have been why he called the meeting!'

‘I thought of that. I knew that you would all suspect Quentin, and perhaps me, of the murder…so I didn't say anything at first.'

Singh asked, ‘You were afraid of being accused of murder?'

'I was protecting Quentin,' she said, her chin sticking out defiantly. ‘Later, when Quentin was arrested, I realised that he must have needed money for his drug habit. I didn't feel I could keep the truth from the police any more…'

She stopped, a fingernail going into her mouth. ‘Quentin turned up here…I wasn't sure what he wanted.'

David leaned over to give her a quick hug.

Annie smiled at him and said, ‘We went for a walk to the old cemetery at the back.' She gestured in its general direction. ‘Quentin was furious that I'd told the inspector about his insider dealing. He seemed to think that I'd informed the papers that he'd been let off on the drugs charge as well.'

She shook her head. ‘He attacked me.'

Singh exhaled gustily and swallowed some gin as if the drink might make the news more palatable.

Annie took up her tale again. ‘David turned up just as things were getting nasty.'

‘How did David know where you'd gone?' asked Singh.

‘I was running late. I finally got a taxi…we were coming up the road here when I saw Quentin and Annie. I got out and followed them. It was getting dark and the cemetery is overgrown, full of trees and shadows. I wasn't sure what to do. I was just turning back when I heard Annie scream.'

The lines on his face deepened.

Annie was still puzzled. ‘But why did you follow us?'

David's face flushed. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. ‘I thought that there was something between you and Quentin. I decided to follow you and see for myself.'

Singh looked at his red face, mortified at having to confess to such juvenile behaviour, and started to chuckle. David glared at him but was forced to concede that the story had its funny side. He began to laugh too.

Annie said resolutely, ‘I don't want you to charge Quentin with attacking me. He's in enough trouble already.'

Singh took a healthy swig of his drink. ‘Are you sure?'

David echoed the question, a worried expression on his face. ‘What if he tries again?'

‘He won't. He's just really fragile right now because of the drugs. And he has a right to be angry – I
did
tell the inspector about the insider dealing.'

‘Insider dealing to get cash to feed his drug habit, attacking you,' muttered Singh, his thick brows forming into an angry line. ‘I can almost believe
he
killed Mark.'

‘What do you mean? Jagdesh killed Mark,' interrupted Annie hurriedly.

‘Jagdesh had an alibi,' explained Singh, leaning back in his armchair tiredly.

‘What?' Annie hardly recognised her own voice, high-pitched, shocked, slurring from her swollen lip.

‘Yes, a young man was with him that evening,' the inspector said calmly, reminding everyone in the room that he was a police officer. ‘He preferred to lie about it to keep his homosexuality under wraps.'