The Singapore School of Villainy (4 page)

It was Jagdesh who spoke first, his voice at a higher and more penetrating pitch than normal. The policeman concluded that he had made a conscious decision that Singh was certain to find out whatever it was they were keeping from him – and obfuscation would just reflect badly on all of them. ‘After eight in the evening, the lifts can't be operated except with a swipe card or by filling in a visitors' book and being escorted by a security guard to the correct floor.'

‘Who has a card to this floor?' asked Singh immediately, not slow to see the implications of what he was saying.

‘Only the partners,' confessed Quentin reluctantly.

The other two looked as if they wished they could contradict him but it was the simple truth.

‘Where is the visitors' book kept?' demanded the inspector, ignoring the undercurrents of tension and dismay.

‘In the lobby, with the security guards.'

Singh beckoned a uniformed policeman who scurried off to do the inspector's bidding. He needed to retrieve the visitors' book and question the security guards. He looked at the lawyers. He guessed they were all desperately hoping that some suspect would emerge – it would suit them down to the ground if some stranger had left his name and address with security downstairs. Singh shook his great head. The survival instinct was always quick to show itself, he thought, leaving the dead ignored and unmourned when the living felt threatened.

Jagdesh interrupted his train of thought to ask sheepishly, ‘Excuse me, sir – I hope you don't mind me asking – but I was supposed to have dinner with an Inspector Singh and his wife this evening. My mother arranged it – it wasn't you by any chance, was it?'

Singh slapped his palm on the table. ‘I knew your name sounded familiar – you're the thirty-something in need of a wife!'

Jagdesh laughed out loud, exposing large, even white teeth. ‘That's what my mother believes, sir. I think she's asked Mrs Singh to introduce me to all the unmarried Sikh girls in Singapore!'

Singh could understand his amusement. If his fellow Sikh, an imposing hulk of a man, with liquid eyes and an attractive, slightly melancholy manner, was unable to find a wife without the help of Mrs Singh, their race would soon be extinct.

Singh groaned suddenly and the trio around the table gazed at him in surprise. ‘I forgot to tell my wife I'd been called out for a case,' he explained.

There were murmurs of feigned sympathy around the table.

The Sikh policeman said, ‘I'll need your passports. Bring them into the station by lunchtime tomorrow. The address is on my card.'

There was an audible gasp from Quentin. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed from the tension of the last few hours and he repeatedly blew his nose on a handkerchief. Every few moments he would shut his eyes, in an action somewhere between a blink and a conscious action. It came across as a nervous tic. But what was he nervous about?

Jagdesh was the first to acquiesce. The big Sikh was bearing up well, at least physically, appearing no more bemused and tired than if he had stayed up an extra couple of hours watching television. The whites of his eyes were still as clear as Singh's starched white shirt. He said, ‘Yessir!' in a theatrically cooperative tone. Singh wondered whether Jagdesh thought he'd have an easy ride because he was a family acquaintance. If he did, he was in for a disappointment.

 

Maria Thompson sat half upright, half lying on a red velvet couch. A figure with less poise would have been described as slouching. She wore a silk kimono dressing gown with a dragon embroidered on the sleeves and back. Smooth unblemished legs with child-like bare arched feet were hooked over a sofa arm and her almond-shaped eyes were fixed on a widescreen plasma television, the sound turned down to the point of inaudibility. Maria Thompson's oval face, with its smooth flat planes of cheek, was expressionless. She appeared mesmerised by the silent figures on the screen.

On the mantelpiece, a few silver-framed photographs of Maria and a smiling white-haired man with a shaggy dark moustache, at least thirty years older than her, were neatly arranged. In one, the couple stood side by side formally, not touching. In another, he was smiling down at her in a close-up of their faces. The photos were in black and white and had all been taken on the same occasion. The clothes, an elegant body-hugging white satin gown and a black tuxedo, were the same in each. A stranger might have assumed from the artificiality of the teeth-exposing smiles that the pictures had come with the frames.

Someone pressed the doorbell and she heard the chiming of electronic bells. Maria Thompson stirred instinctively, then remembered herself and lay back. The clicking heels of sensible shoes marked the progress of the Filipina maid as she walked down the hallway to the main door. She returned a minute later and stood respectfully at one end of the room, an older woman with wiry grey hair. Maria Thompson had no intention of employing young attractive domestic help – after all, who knew better than her, her husband's predilections? The maid's uniform, a black dress with a frilly white bib and apron – a pastiche of the costumes in a Victorian period drama – was carefully starched and ironed.

‘Ma'am, there is a visitor to see you.'

‘Who is it?'

The maid paused for a moment, her elderly face aging ten years in an instant. ‘He come from the police, ma'am.'

Maria Thompson sat up a little straighter although her face remained bored.

‘Why is he come here, ma'am? I have done nothing wrong, I swear it!'

The Filipina maid found the courage to voice her fears, although her papers were in order and she had never supplemented her income in Singapore by working in more than one home or moonlighting as a prostitute.

The mistress of the house, who had done both before marrying Mark Thompson, senior partner at Hutchinson & Rice and her erstwhile employer, went out to meet the police.

 

Jagdesh Singh lay in bed staring at the corniced ceiling. He had his hands folded behind his head and was resting on a soft pillow. The bedclothes were rumpled and his quilt was bunched up over his legs. He rubbed his feet together. They felt cold – as if his heart had become bored with pumping blood through his large body and decided to abandon the task before reaching the extremities. It was past midnight but he couldn't sleep. He was as wide awake as if he had an intravenous caffeine drip.

He wished he had gone to that dinner with the Singh family and ignored Mark's urgent summons. None of the problems he was facing would have come to a head if he had just done that. It seemed that this was yet another fork in the road where he had taken the wrong path. He paused to wonder how the Sikh inspector felt about having a distant relative involved in one of his cases. He had not seemed bothered – treating him with the same casual rudeness as he had the other lawyers. Family, or not, he was a suspect in a murder investigation. The chubby policeman did not look like someone who played favourites.

His mother had told him, when insisting that he accept an invitation to the Singh home for dinner, that the Sikh policeman was famous throughout Singapore for his incredible knack for solving murders.

‘He is very high up in the police force,' she had said. ‘They cannot manage without him.'

He picked up Singh's calling card from a side table and examined it in the dim light of a bedside lamp. He was only an inspector, the fat man with the traditional headgear, hardly “very high up”. It didn't surprise him that his mother had exaggerated – it was a common Sikh pastime to puff up the importance of relatives. His parents were delighted to bask in the reflected glow of their Sikh family – and happy to claim as close relatives the most distant connections by blood or marriage if they thought it would add to the family pride.

It was one of the reasons they were so anxious to get him a wife. His mother was keen to parade her son, the successful lawyer working for an international law firm in Singapore, before the Sikh community in New Delhi. It would be her crowning glory. His younger sister was getting married in a couple of weeks but that did not provide the oldies with the same satisfaction. In their traditional society, only the marriage of a son could do that. Jagdesh arched his head so that it pushed against the downy pillow. The back of his neck was sore – the tension of the last few hours, he supposed. It felt as if his head was too heavy a burden for it. He touched his throat – his glands were swollen. He was coming down with something. He felt tired – more than tired, completely drained of energy. Quentin had been sniffling too – he'd probably caught something from him. Jagdesh closed his dark lids and felt a few unexpected pinpricks of self-pity. He wondered whether he should just bite the bullet and let his interfering relatives arrange a marriage for him to some nice Sikh girl. It was the most practical solution to his difficulties.

 

‘I am Inspector Singh from the Singapore police. Are you Mrs Mark Thompson?'

Maria gave a brief, suspicious nod.

‘I'm afraid I have some bad news, Mrs Thompson.'

A simple form of words that was generally understood to be a herald of death. Maria Thompson was no exception.

She whispered, ‘My family?'

Her voice was trembling, emotion-charged, the face starting to crumble. It was like a mannequin coming to life, thought Singh.

He nodded, somehow conveying both firmness and sympathy in the simple gesture.

‘What has happened to them? Tell me, please. Oh God! Tell me!'

‘It's your husband, Mrs Thompson. I'm sorry to have to tell you that he's dead.'

‘My
husband
?' she repeated after him blankly.

Inspector Singh put out a hand, an involuntary gesture of comfort.

The second wife of the dead man fell to her knees, as if in prayer.

The police officer could not make out the words she was saying over and over as she rocked back and forth. Then he heard her. The words were indeed in the manner of a prayer. She was on her knees repeating, ‘Thank God!'

The usually impassive face of the inspector betrayed his complete surprise.

Ten minutes later, Mrs Mark Thompson was again on the velvet couch, this time sitting bolt upright, kimono folded decorously over both knees. She clutched a mug of hot chocolate close to her chest. For comfort or to give her hands something to do, wondered the policeman. He sat across from her, stiff-backed in a stiff-backed chair, at a slight angle so that the woman had to turn to gaze at him directly. For a while they did not speak. His eyes took in the genuine antique Chinese rosewood furniture, buffed to gleaming, and the brushstroke paintings of mountains, fields and blossoms. A highly polished grand piano stood in the corner, lid down. Two vases filled with green bamboo shoots stood on either side of a gilt-framed mirror. The room had all the passion of a shop display.

Maria, her face blotchy with crying, was defensive. She said, ‘I think maybe you bring me bad news of my children. I have one boy and one girl, eight years old and six years old…from a…another marriage. They are in the Philippines. For a long time I have not seen them.'

Singh did not miss the heartbeat of hesitation before the word “marriage”.

She continued, her voice growing louder, her Filipina accent more pronounced, ‘Of course, I am very upset that my husband has died. But a mother always thinks of her children first!'

Her explanation was defiant but threadbare, decided Singh.

His gaze strayed to the photos on the various surfaces – all of her and Mark – none of these children that she valued so highly.

‘Mark said that I would be happier without reminders of my past in the house.'

‘And were you happier?' Inspector Singh was not afraid to ask the unexpected.

‘I miss my children!' she snapped.

He did not respond to her sudden anger but instead sipped the tea that the maid had brought him, blowing gently on the surface to cool it down.

Her flash of spirit died as suddenly as it had appeared. She asked, ‘What happened to my husband? Was it a car accident? Mark is very careless to drive sometimes.'

Watching her face – each feature as delicate as fine china and framed with long straight black hair – the inspector said, ‘He was murdered. He was beaten repeatedly on the head with the paperweight he kept on his desk.'

She dropped her steaming mug, both hands going to cover her mouth. They both watched the cocoa stain spread dark across the cream carpet like blood from a wound.

‘Who did it?' A whispered question – she was either a brilliant actress or a woman who was almost prostrate with shock. Not even a policeman of his experience could be sure, thought Singh. He realised that the unexpectedly young, exceptionally beautiful second Mrs Thompson should not be underestimated.

‘At present, we do not know. We are launching an investigation, of course.' He was prepared to take her question at face value, setting aside his suspicions for a moment to answer her query honestly.

‘It was
her
. I know it! She hates…hated him. And me also.'

Each word was said with rising hysteria, her open mouth revealing small uneven teeth, a small flaw in her otherwise perfect features.

‘Who do you think killed your husband?'

‘His wife!'

Singh allowed his eyebrows to creep towards each other, a sign of growing impatience. ‘I thought
you
were his wife,' he said.

‘His first wife…his ex-wife – Sarah Thompson! He left her to come to me. I tell you, she killed him. She will come for me next. You must stop her. Oh God! What will happen to my children?'

His team looked nervous but excited. They stared at the inspector like children at a magician's performance – watching every detail, expecting the unexpected, prepared to be awed. So far, the only thing unexpected or awe-inspiring for Inspector Singh was the size of the team with which he had been provided that morning. This was not going to be one of his lonely investigations into the death of a foreign worker at the hands of his
mandur
. The whole paraphernalia of police work was to be at his disposal. The top echelons wanted the case solved – but they also wanted the process to look like something out of a cop drama. There was to be no stinting on expenses or personnel – not while the foreign press was camped outside his station and Singapore's reputation as a safe and desirable place to work was at stake.

He counted four rows of corporals and sergeants – notebooks open in front of them, pens at the ready. He wondered who remained to police the streets. Not that it was necessary. He recalled a recent case where he had been seconded to Kuala Lumpur with its dusty, grimy streets. In orderly Singapore, the population hardly ever jaywalked, always waited for the little green man before crossing roads, and never littered. All things considered, the higher-ups could spare him a few good men.

The room they were gathered in was brightly lit and pleasantly cool. Whiteboards covered the walls. Information notices with the crest of the Singapore police on the top left hand corner were neatly taped to bare spaces. The inspector cleared his throat to elicit the attention of his subordinates. He needn't have bothered. Their eyes were fixed on him anyway.

Just as Singh opened his mouth to speak, he was interrupted by the door opening. Superintendent Chen walked in briskly.

‘Good morning, Inspector. Good, good – I see you have assembled the team,' the superintendent said, and received a curt nod in return.

Surely, it was a bit early in the investigation for the boss to start poking his nose into things?

‘I just came in to remind everyone that this is a very important investigation. The victim, Mark Thompson, was a well-known and respected member of the expatriate community in Singapore. We must do all we can to hunt down the murderer. This case
must
be solved.'

Singh's bottom lip – always in a slight pink pout – was thrust out more aggressively. Apparently, it
wasn't
too soon for the higher-ups to start trampling over his turf.

His superior officer glanced down at him. ‘Did you have anything to add, Inspector?'

‘I believe all murderers should be hunted down, sir. Not just the killers of “a respected member of the expatriate community”.' Singh could not keep the snide tone out of his voice.

‘Of course, of course – but this killing has consequences for the economy of Singapore. We don't want our foreign talent to feel threatened.'

Singh took a deep breath and held his tongue with difficulty. It was the cold hard reality that even in murder there was a pecking order. He might not like it that Mark Thompson was to receive priority treatment because he was “foreign talent”, as wealthy expatriates were referred to in Singapore. On the other hand, he deserved to have his killer brought to justice as much as the next person.

‘We're all keen to get to the bottom of this, sir,' said the inspector, unexpectedly diplomatic for a man of his reputation.

Superintendent Chen looked surprised but pleased that his most difficult subordinate was toeing the line. ‘Carry on, carry on – I don't want to interfere.'

Like hell you don't, thought Singh. Out loud, he said, ‘Mark Thompson was murdered at his desk. The number of viable suspects is limited.' He ran through what he had learnt about the keycard system at Republic Tower.

Superintendent Chen interrupted, his thin face a picture of disappointment. ‘Are you sure it wasn't some outsider – a foreign labourer – maybe from Indonesia or Bangladesh?'

Singh's response was squeezed out from between gritted teeth – ‘I'm not sure of
anything
yet, sir. But it does seem likely that the killer was one of the
partners
called in to attend the meeting that evening. I don't believe in coincidences of that magnitude any more than I believe in God.'

Chen folded his arms tight, a pained look on his face – he had a reputation for fervent religiosity – but he nodded his willingness for Singh to continue.

‘Sergeants Fuad and Lim, you look at the phone records of all those called in for the meeting. I want to know when they were called in by Mark – it will help us narrow the time of death.'

The fat policeman continued, ‘Corporal Dass, check the CCTV tapes – if big brother was watching, I want to know.' Dass looked puzzled at the reference but nodded his head at once. ‘You two,' said Singh, pointing a grubby finger at a couple of uniforms – he had no idea what their names were – ‘start trawling through bank accounts and computers. If this was a matter connected to Hutchinson & Rice, the law firm – money is most likely at its root.'

‘We need to look into who benefited from his death,' interjected the superintendent. He had obviously been brushing up on his investigative techniques, thought Singh dismissively, in all likelihood by re-reading his Agatha Christie collection.

‘Check his finances – ask his lawyers if he left a will,' said Singh to the only female officer in the room, a pretty Malay woman with heavy make-up to cover what he suspected was an attack of acne.

He continued, addressing the room at large this time, ‘Do we have the preliminary scene of crime report yet?'

A middle-aged man with thick, black-framed glasses handed over a bulging file. Singh raised an eyebrow and the forensics man interjected hurriedly, ‘To summarise – no fingerprints on the murder weapon – it was wiped. Prints of the deceased and a number of lawyers and staff were found in the room.'

‘There's nothing particularly sinister about that,' remarked Singh.

The man nodded in agreement. ‘The blood in the room matches the blood type of the deceased
only
.'

‘Anything else?'

‘The swabs of the sinks on the premises found the deceased's blood in the pantry sink.'

‘So the killer washed his or her hands…'

‘That is the most likely conclusion, sir,' agreed the forensics specialist.

‘A shame that they didn't use the bathrooms instead,' muttered Singh.

A front row sergeant looked puzzled but it was only Superintendent Chen who dared put the question into words: ‘Why does that matter?'

‘Male and female toilets, sir. Our perpetrator was in a hurry to clean up and get out. I'm sure he or she would have used the appropriate facilities!' He continued, ‘We had better search the residence of each of the partners as well as the wife and ex-wife. We might get lucky and find a rolled-up, bloodstained T-shirt at the back of the clothes cupboard.'

‘What about witness statements?' asked Chen.

Inspector Singh looked around the room at his bright-eyed, bushy-tailed subordinates. His glance fell on Corporal Fong, his latest right-hand man, leaning forward in his chair so earnestly that Singh feared he might tip over and end up on the floor. ‘I'll do the interviews myself,' he said, his voice at its most gravelly.

He realised that he had assigned tasks to no more than half the enthusiastic youngsters in the room. What in the world was he going to do with the rest of them? He glanced at the superintendent – the lines on his brow were like a child's drawing of waves in the sea. The boss wanted more tangible progress; muddy footprints and half-smoked cigarette butts soaked in DNA-ridden saliva. Very well, thought Singh, he would investigate, but he would also play the pantomime investigator. ‘The rest of you,' he said, ‘divide yourselves into teams of two and follow every single one of those partners. I want to know
everything
; where they go, what they eat, how many times a day they take a leak – got it?'

There were enthusiastic nods around the room.

Superintendent Chen looked pleased.

 

All the partners of the Singapore office of Hutchinson & Rice, bar one, were gathered together at the penthouse club of their office tower block. The absent partner lay in a chilled steel drawer at the morgue of a Singapore hospital, naked except for the small plastic identification tag tied to his left big toe. Their offices were still out of bounds. Cheerful yellow bands which the television age had taught everyone to identify as a police barricade were taped across the entrances. Two blue-uniformed policemen, each equipped with a gun, a knife and a truncheon, had politely ushered the lawyers away as unwanted visitors to the scene of a crime.

Jagdesh decided that the session functioned as a combination of group therapy and council of war. The partners sat around the gleaming polished table, ignoring or oblivious to the panoramic view of sapphire seas and cloudless skies visible through the ceiling-to-floor reinforced glass windows. Annie and Quentin had arrived promptly at nine. Quentin did not look great. His nostrils were inflamed and he dabbed at a constant trickle of mucus. His face was gaunt, as if he had lost weight overnight. Annie was not her usual self either; there were dark rings under her eyes and thin lines running from nose to mouth. Jagdesh, glancing in the mirror while shaving that morning, did not think he was showing any overt signs of strain. Not yet, anyway, he thought grimly. He still felt as if he was coming down with a cold but he was holding up well compared to his peers.

It did not take long for each of them to run through their story – the constant questioning by Inspector Singh the previous evening had perfected their tales. The other partners listened in silence as Quentin described finding the body.

Stephen Thwaites, the most senior partner after Mark Thompson, took charge of the meeting with a reassuring air of calm authority. ‘Who else came in last night?'

‘We did,' said Reggie Peters reluctantly, nodding at Ai Leen to indicate whom he meant by “we”. ‘Mark called me in for some sort of meeting – I picked up Ai Leen on the way. By the time we arrived the police had taken over.'

He continued angrily, ‘That policeman refused to tell us anything except that Mark had been murdered.'

Reggie was sweating despite the cool of the room, droplets of moisture on his forehead and upper lip. His remaining strands of hair clung damply to his flushed scalp and there was a frothy speck of saliva in the corner of his mouth.

‘He was extremely rude. How dare he treat us like that? As if we were common criminals.'

Jagdesh wondered what an uncommon criminal was. Was it the nature of the crime or the criminal that attracted the sobriquet?

‘We weren't even allowed to make phone calls…and we were in
my
office!'

Reggie had reached a new pitch of self-righteous anger. It was bad enough to be subjected to the authority of some local policeman. But to have that happen in his own domain – that was adding insult to injury. A red-faced man at the best of times, he was crimson with annoyance. Jagdesh knew that Reggie was very conscious of his own dignity. He lost his temper with subordinates over imaginary slights. His condescension towards the locals was neo-colonial. Jagdesh, an Indian from Delhi, usually found him offensive. Today he felt sorry for him. It was perfectly apparent that Reggie's contempt for Singapore officialdom had not been on display the previous evening.

‘I thought he was competent enough,' he intervened.

Quentin shot a quick glance at him – no doubt wondering whether he was defending the inspector because he was a fellow Sikh and a family acquaintance to boot.

Ai Leen had hardly uttered a word, although she had been with Reggie the previous evening, leaving him to describe his version of events.

Now she said in her quiet firm tone, ‘Inspector Singh did not appear rude to me.'

Reggie, who had been on the verge of disagreeing heatedly with Jagdesh, subsided at this contradiction. Ai Leen, her contribution to the conversation over, reverted to stony-faced silence. Unlike the rest of the partners who were dressed casually, Ai Leen had arrived for their meeting dressed for a day at the office. She wore a powder-blue twin-set with a double string of freshwater pearls around her neck. Her face was carefully made up, eyebrows plucked into a fine inquiring line. She looked as if she was about to meet an important client, rather than discuss the murder of Mark Thompson.

Stephen was the next one to speak. He said briskly in the plummy baritone that would have ensured him a successful career as a barrister, ‘We'll let the police worry about who did it…'

‘You haven't presented us with your alibi yet,' interrupted Reggie.

Stephen ignored the jibe. ‘I was home in bed with a headache and did not pick up any messages from Mark until this morning,' he continued. ‘It must have been some stranger, possibly someone mentally unbalanced. The police will track him down soon enough.'

‘But how can we know that?' Quentin asked, rubbing his eyes with his palms like a tired child. ‘What about the card keys?'

Stephen shrugged off the question. ‘
Our
first priority must be to avoid a scandal – for the sake of his family and the firm.'

‘It's what Mark would have wanted,' murmured Reggie, belatedly cooperating when the issues were spelt out in terms of his own self-interest.

‘Listen to yourself, you sanctimonious bastard,' growled Jagdesh, getting to his feet and looming over his seated colleague. ‘Mark doesn't deserve to be the subject of a damage limitation exercise!'

‘Well, that's what he was in life. Why should his death change anything?' asked Reggie angrily. ‘Drinking, pissing off clients, screwing the help – his death is only the final scandal!'

‘Let's take a step back here,' said Stephen calmly. ‘We need to stick together. I think we ought to issue a press statement…and close the office for a few days. We should get in touch with the widow, help arrange the funeral. God knows what Maria will do if we leave it to her.'