The Singapore School of Villainy

by Shamini Flint

  ‘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 in
to 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?’

  The lawyer did not seem put out by the question. ‘Keeping the firm’s reputation intact if possible; helping out with the manpower shortage.’

  Singh chuckled suddenly – he had never heard a murder referred to as a manpower shortage before. ‘Keep the reputation of the firm intact, eh? Might be difficult as it looks like one of your lawyers bumped off the senior partner!’

  The young man grimaced, the expression emphasising the bump on his nose. Perhaps he was like Pinocchio, thought Singh, and it was possible to tell when he was lying.

  ‘I’m still hoping there’s some explanation for this key thing.’

  ‘No harm hoping – but I’m relying on the evidence,’ said Singh cheerfully, ‘and so far the most likely killer is one of your lot.’

  Sheringham nodded pensively.

  Singh was pleased that he was not naïve – or bloody minded – enough to deny the obvious. ‘In fact, based on the partners’ meeting Mark Thompson called just before he was killed, I think this murder had something to do with the firm of Hutchinson & Rice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe one of your lawyers was misbehaving and Mark Thompson found out?’

  ‘Highly unlikely,’ insisted Sheringham.

  ‘More unlikely than your senior partner being bludgeoned to death at his desk?’

  David Sheringham touched the side of his nose with a long finger to indicate that the inspector had made his point.

  ‘What sort of things was Mark Thompson working on?’

  ‘Not an awful lot…’

  ‘More queen bee than worker ant, eh?’

  Sheringham shrugged.

  ‘Any smoking guns?’

  There was a quick shake of the head. ‘Not very much would make its way to London anyway.’

  The portly inspector was quick to spot the implications of his carefully chosen words. ‘Not very much? But something did!’

  ‘It’s irrelevant.’

  Singh didn’t bother to point out that the only thing that was irrelevant was the opinion of the young lawyer. He merely bided his time, chewing on his lower lip as he watched David Sheringham wrestle with the issue.

  As he suspected, the partner from London had a practical streak. There was no point denying anything that could be obtained, albeit with more leg work, from another source.

  ‘Mark believed that one of the directors of a Malaysian client company, Trans-Malaya Bhd., an infrastructure development outfit, was insider dealing. He wanted to withdraw from the transaction.’ He continued, his voice taking on a pedantic tone, ‘Insider dealing is where a party uses information not in the public domain to trade shares and make an illegal personal profit.’

  Singh growled, ‘I know what insider dealing is – I don’t understand why it concerned London.’

  ‘Not all the partners believed that Hutchinson & Rice should withdraw on principle.’ David Sheringham ducked his head, his expression sheepish. ‘The transaction was a bit of a cash cow.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just tell the Malaysian company about the director?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that insider dealing is difficult to prove – perpetrators use third party brokers and numbered accounts to squirrel away the profits…’

  The inspector pondered the new information for a moment. It was difficult to see yet how it could have led to the death of Mark Thompson. Still, it was the first hint of dissent within the ranks of the legal firm. He would have plenty of opportunity to rattle a few cages and see if the lawyers could be persuaded to reveal more secrets.

  As if reading his mind, David Sheringham said, ‘We would appreciate it if the police conducted their inquiries in the most discreet fashion possible.’

  Singh eyed him curiously. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It would be better if the interviews were conducted in our offices rather than at the police station. It gives us a chance to avoid those reporters in the foyer.’ He gesticulated with his head to indicate the gauntlet he had run trying to get in to see the inspector.

  ‘You must be bloody joking if you think I’m traipsing across to Republic Tower every day just to save your firm some embarrassment.’

  ‘Superintendent Chen has already agreed to my suggestion.’ David Sheringham’s tone was mild and polite. Singh had to appreciate the fact that he refrained from sounding triumphant despite having lined up the big guns on his side.

  The policeman’s stomach growled angrily and for once it was an echo of his mood.

  Maria Thompson had her face pressed up against the glass wall at the arrival hall of Changi Airport. She scanned the passengers with anxious eyes. She spotted them – two slim, dark-haired children, a boy and a girl, holding hands and looking worried. An airline employee loaded their small suitcase onto a trolley from the revolving baggage carousel and then escorted them towards the green lane exit. Maria moved forward slowly and then with a rush, enfolding them in a fierce embrace. They stood stiffly in her arms for a moment and then found the confidence to return her tight hugs. Tears smeared her make-up but nature stepped in to erase some of the lines of care that had developed in the years since she last saw them.

  Six

  Singh decided immediately that he disliked the first Mrs Thompson. He knew the type all too well. A middle-aged white woman, spray-on tan, arms and legs toned by personal coaching sessions with wiry male yoga instructors, full lips – Botox probably. He noted the short skirt that exposed the blue ink tracings of varicose veins behind her knees. Her large feet were crammed into a slim pair of sandals, toenails painted a bright red peeping out the ends.

  He had insisted that Sarah Thompson come to the police station first thing that Sunday morning. She was still a guest with the Thwaites family and he had no intention of interviewing a suspect while other suspects eavesdropped enthusiastically. His instructions to interview suspects at the law offices presumably only applied to the lawyers. Now, they sat across from each other on the plastic folding chairs that Fong had carried in. Singh did not want to be seated behind his desk when he talked to the woman. He had found over the years that witnesses and suspects found it easier to be economical with the truth to someone behind a big desk.

  He glanced up and noticed Fong standing rigidly to attention by the door. The corporal looked poised for action and Singh wondered whether he expected Sarah Thompson to make a dash for freedom in her uncomfortable shoes. He turned his attention back to the woman, noting the faint lines running from her eyes down to her puckered mouth. The tracks of tears – like in that old Smokey Robinson song? This was after all the scorned woman – the question was whether she had lashed out in anger and killed her philandering husband.

  ‘How did you feel about your ex-husband’s death?’ asked Singh.

  ‘I couldn’t be happier that the bastard’s dead!’

  Singh eyed her thoughtfully. This was strong, intolerant language from a murder suspect. Did her anger run so deep that she could not hide it even in the fraught circumstances of a police interview? Or was she confident that, whatever her feelings, this was not a crime that could be pinned on her? Singh noted that her pale eyebrows were almost invisible, in stark contrast to Maria Thompson’s carefully plucked and re-drawn dark eyebrows. So much for the eyes being windows to the soul, thought Singh sourly. He couldn’t even get past the eyebrows of the many wives of Mark Thompson.

  ‘Did you kill him?’ The question was blunt and to the point
and he saw her jaw clench.

  She crossed and uncrossed her legs and Singh caught a glimpse of red panties. He really, really hoped that it hadn’t been a misplaced effort at a flirtatious gesture.

  Sarah Thompson denied culpability with a quick shake of the head and added pointedly, ‘How would I have got into the office?’

  Singh scowled. Details of the limited access to the office had leaked into the morning newspapers. And now this woman was using it as an excuse.

  ‘Mark Thompson might have escorted you upstairs.’ It sounded lame, even to his own ears.

  Sarah guffawed – her tonsils were the same colour as her underwear and toenails. ‘Mark was a pathetic excuse for a human being but he wasn’t a fool!’ Her gaze, as she looked across at him, was calculating and it reminded him of the old moneylenders sitting under trees in his youth, able to determine the credit-worthiness of a client with one glance. She continued, ‘And anyway, I have an alibi.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘On a casino ship – far from these sunny shores – with Joan Thwaites.’

  Singh wagged an officious finger at his young corporal; that would be easy enough to check. And if it was true, this vengeful, unhappy woman was off the hook.

  ‘Who do you think did it then?’ he asked, and sensed rather than saw her relief that he appeared to take her alibi at face value.

  ‘Surely that’s obvious?’

  Singh raised his bushy eyebrows, inviting her to carry on. It was an unnecessary gesture. This woman had been waiting for an opportunity to point the finger of blame and she needed no second invitation.

  ‘That slut! She married him for his money, and she killed him to get her hands on it.’

  ‘I assume you’re referring to Maria Thompson?’

  ‘Of course! Who else?’ This was her last word on the subject because her red lips closed tight – intensifying the creases around her mouth that gave away her age despite the highlighted blonde hair and expensive face lifts.