The Singapore School of Villainy (6 page)

‘Well, that narrows it down to about ninety per cent of the population,' said Singh sarcastically.

Dr Maniam chortled. ‘I don't want to make your job too easy for you.'

Singh sat down in the armchair reserved for his use in the living room. It creaked silently and enfolded him in its familiar embrace, contours snug to his ample frame. It was a relief to be home. It had been a long day and it was far from over – he had told young Fong to follow him back and brief him on any developments as policemen spread out across Singapore searching homes and examining hard drives. But he had felt an uncontrollable desire to escape from the precinct. It was the continual presence of Superintendent Chen that had driven him away. His boss had popped into his office every quarter hour to demand updates, and then looked disappointed that no firm leads had developed in the previous fifteen minutes. He, Inspector Singh, was not accustomed to being closely supervised as he went about his police business – and he didn't like it.

His wife darted into the room, her hair drawn severely back from her face. It gave her face the tautness of a facelift. She placed a mug of sweet, milky tea at her husband's elbow. He grunted an acknowledgement but paid her no heed beyond that. However, ignoring his wife had never been an effective method of shutting her up and it wasn't this evening either. She was still harping on a single subject. ‘I cooked
five
dishes – I can't believe you didn't tell me you weren't coming home!'

Had he fled one nagging creature only to run into the orbit of another, wondered Singh. ‘I was called out for a murder. I completely forgot about dinner – I told you that,' he replied, with an air of great patience.

‘I wouldn't be surprised if you murder these people yourself – just so you can be late to come home!'

Singh guffawed loudly, his belly vibrating with humour.

Mrs Singh had the grace to look sheepish. ‘I've been reading about your case in the newspapers – some expat got killed!'

He nodded his large head thoughtfully and said, the closest he had ever come to confiding in his wife, ‘It might be a difficult one to solve. Too many lawyers involved.'

‘It's in the
Straits Times
that you're in charge. I won't know where to hide my face if you don't find the killer.' Once again, his wife's priority was the possibility of personal embarrassment. If Singh was seeking sympathy, he had obviously come to the wrong place.

The fat man stretched and felt a pain between his shoulder blades as his muscles did his bidding reluctantly.

‘Anyway, everyone knows who did it.'

Singh raised an eyebrow.

Mrs Singh's long nose was wrinkled with disapproval. ‘It was the maid!'

‘The second wife, you mean?'

‘Of course – who else?'

Singh dragged himself into an upright position. He ran his tongue over the front of his teeth, feeling the plaque build-up. He was aggravated by his wife's – and the press's and the public's – willingness to immediately pin the murder on the widow, purely, as far he could see, on the grounds that she had previously been the domestic help.

‘There's no evidence that she murdered him!'

‘She stole a husband, right? I'm sure she could kill one also.'

Singh eyed his wife, almost admiring her ability to draw conclusions from unrelated facts. He knew he was going to regret what he was about to say but he couldn't resist the temptation. ‘I have a few
other
suspects.'

She shrugged her bony soldiers and her caftan fluttered like a sail in a mild sea breeze.

‘Including Jagdesh Singh!' the policeman continued.

‘Who?'

‘You know – your no-show dinner guest who needs a wife. I met him at the crime scene. He's a partner at that law firm – and they're
all
suspects!'

‘You're being silly. He would never be mixed up in something like this!'

‘You've never met him. How could you possibly know that?'

‘He's a good boy from a good family –
our
people would never kill anyone.'

Give me time, thought the inspector, glaring at his wife.

He gulped his tea in order to avoid escalating the argument and was pleased to hear the doorbell ring, its tone that of an old-fashioned telephone.

Mrs Singh peeped out from behind a curtain and said, ‘For you.'

‘How do you know?' he asked, moved by curiosity.

She answered disdainfully, ‘Chinese,' and left the room.

The inspector was forced to acknowledge yet again that his wife would make an excellent detective. Perhaps he should take her conviction that Maria Thompson was the killer seriously. It was true that, despite living in multi-racial Singapore, for someone of his generation, a Chinese visitor would almost definitely have to be a work connection.

It was Corporal Fong, diligently following the inspector home to report on his various assignments. Inspector Singh listened as he delivered a summary of his report in an admirably brief manner. There was nothing in it to surprise the inspector but he had to go through the motions and cover the angles. ‘To sum up, nothing in the register at the front desk, no cards issued for that floor except to the partners…so one of them killed him…or Mr Thompson escorted his killer up.'

‘I agree, sir.'

‘That's a relief,' remarked Inspector Singh.

Fong continued to nod enthusiastically and his senior was left to rue his inability to detect sarcasm and to wonder whether, despite his top marks in the academy, the policeman should be allowed out of the police station.

‘CCTV tapes?' Singh asked curtly.

‘Corporal Dass requested them, sir. But the cameras were being serviced so no tapes were running.'

Inspector Singh was impressed by this industry, but his response gave no sign of it. ‘The murderer is a lucky man – or woman…we will have to change that.'

‘Yessir!'

‘Check the CCTV tapes from the
surrounding
buildings.'

Fong nodded, his expression rueful. Singh guessed he was annoyed that he had not thought to do that himself. At least this solemn Chinaman was setting himself high standards.

‘Anything else?'

‘There's this, sir.'

Inspector Singh stared at the sheet of paper Fong had handed to him. It consisted of a list of numbers that had been called from Mark Thompson's desk phone on the evening of his death. Corporal Fong had carefully cross-referenced the list to the telephone numbers of the partners and jotted down each name next to the relevant number. As Singh had suspected, Mark Thompson had put in a call to every single one of his partners that evening, commencing with Stephen Thwaites. A few had been called twice, even thrice. Clearly he had found it difficult to get through to some of them but Mark Thompson had been determined to summon every single one of them.

Singh placed the list on the table, leaned forward and continued to stare at it, his bearded chin resting on his clasped hands. He noticed that he had left faint fingerprints on the document. He would really have to wear gloves, he concluded, if he ever decided to commit a crime – either that or resort to cutlery to enjoy his wife's curries. He puffed up his cheeks and exhaled slowly.

‘Is something the matter, sir?' Corporal Fong asked tentatively.

Singh's frown was so deep that it narrowed his forehead, moving him, in appearance at least, a couple of evolutionary cycles backwards. He tapped the document with an index finger. ‘Human nature!' he said, his tone revealing his aggravation.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I'm a student of human nature, young man –
that
is how I solve murders.'

Singh noted that his assistant appeared bemused but attentive, as if he expected the senior man to embellish his answer.

Instead, the inspector snapped, ‘So what does human nature tell you about Mark Thompson and this list?'

Fong opened his mouth and shut it again. Singh noticed for the first time that he had a small rosebud-shaped mouth that was slightly incongruous on a man's face.

Singh drummed his stubby fingers impatiently on the table like a schoolgirl practising her scales on the piano.

The constable stared at the list as hard as he could – upside down as he was across the table. ‘I don't quite understand, sir,' he murmured eventually.

‘Neither do I!'

‘What do you mean, Inspector?'

‘Looking at this list, I am pretty sure I
know
who the murderer is – based entirely on my intimate understanding of people's behaviour…'

Fong stared at the sheet of paper as if he expected the word “murderer” to be scribbled next to one of the names.

Singh cracked his knuckles together. ‘But unfortunately, human nature and the facts we have at our disposal are pointing in different directions!'

Singh continued to peruse the list. Should he tell his young sidekick what he thought? So far, there wasn't a single strand of evidence to hang his theory on. He sighed. He might be a student of human nature but it was only incontrovertible evidence that interested bad-tempered judges at murder trials. He would keep his suspicions to himself. It was entirely possible he was being too clever for his own good.

He noticed that Fong was looking at him sceptically. The young man had not yet achieved the confidence necessary to tell the boss that he was chasing windmills with his theories on human nature but he wasn't buying the older man's hypothesis either.

Fong asked tentatively, ‘So
who
do you think did it, sir?'

The inspector's lips were pulled back in a parody of a smile. ‘That's for me to know and for you to find out! I would hate to colour your judgement with my suspicions.' He continued, ‘You can go now, unless there's anything else?' He used the tone of weary resignation that he reserved for subordinates.

Corporal Fong looked embarrassed. ‘A partner from Hutchinson & Rice has been trying to contact you, sir. But you had left the office and your mobile was off. He was very
kiasu
, so they put him through to me…' He trailed off, unknowingly having annoyed the inspector again by using street slang to explain the inquisitiveness of the caller.

Inspector Singh, his interest piqued, asked, ‘Who was it? What did he want? Did he confess?'

‘No, sir. This partner is from the London office.'

 

Maria Thompson was on the phone. She was angry. Her voice sounded like shattering glass.

‘What do you mean, I must wait? I need the money. It's
my
money!' She paused for breath. ‘What does it matter to me if he is killed?
I
did not do it.'

The response at the other end was not to her satisfaction. Her long red nails – expensive acrylic extensions – gripped the phone like the talons of a bird of prey. Her large swollen knuckles – six months of luxury could not easily erase the marks of fifteen years labouring in other people's kitchens – were white with tension. Previously invisible lines appeared around her mouth and fanned out from her eyes.

‘I cannot wait!'

She slammed down the phone and glanced at the slim diamond-encrusted wristwatch that Mark had bought her. He had been generous with possessions and keepsakes but not with the cash she needed so badly. And he had watched her like a hawk to ensure that she did not pawn her gifts. She paused to hurl an abusive thought into the ether, wishing it had been possible to direct her insults at Mark while he was still alive. But she had been too dependent on his goodwill and largesse to reveal what she really thought of her wealthy older husband.

It was almost time to set out. Further argument with the insurance people would have to wait. She was not going to risk being late – not for this moment that she had thought of, dreamt of, longed for all the years she had been toiling in Singapore.

She rifled through her clothes in the walk-in wardrobe. Bright-coloured designer labels predominated. Mark Thompson, in the early days of his infatuation with her, had said that she turned his life from a dull black and white film into one of glorious colour. She had immediately adjusted her wardrobe accordingly. If he wanted an iridescent butterfly, she would be that creature and anything else he desired. Maria Thompson had known that another opportunity to escape the general fate of the Filipina diaspora was unlikely to come her way.

She chose a hot-pink pantsuit with wide lapels and a broad belt and spent twenty minutes on her face, erasing every sign of age and care with the help of a cosmetic set bristling with jars, potions and brushes. She peered into a mirror, seeking the woman she had been once, the woman who had left her village outside Manila so many years ago. Finally, she slipped on a pair of high-heeled Jimmy Choo's and climbed into the back seat of a limousine. She barked her command at the driver: ‘Changi Airport!'

 

The young lawyer with the prematurely grey hair sitting across from Singh exuded confidence – the evidence was there in the firm set of an otherwise mobile mouth and the distinctive chin that was thrust forward slightly. He would have been a handsome fellow – almost too good looking if there was such a thing – if it were not for a dent across the bridge of his nose that made him look like a prizefighter who had been in one bout too many. Singh wondered whether it indicated a man who was not afraid of a little violence and then shook his head. David Sheringham had probably walked into a table when he was a toddler – a broken nose was hardly conclusive evidence of an aggressive disposition. Besides, this man had just turned up from London so he wasn't even a suspect. Despite this, the lawyer's insistence that he speak to Singh had stirred his curiosity enough for him to arrange a meeting that evening. Already the policeman was regretting the decision – his home-cooked dinner was growing cold. He dragged his thoughts away from the hollow feeling in his stomach to the matter at hand.

‘So you're a partner from London. What are you doing down here, then?'