The Singapore School of Villainy

by Shamini Flint

‘Well, I had a shower and watched the eight o’clock news before setting out,’ Annie responded, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  ‘It is best to be precise in a murder investigation,’ said the inspector heavily, ignoring her fit of pique. ‘What happened once you got to the office?’

  ‘I bumped into Quentin in the car park.’

  ‘When did he first mention that he had lost his swipe card?’

  ‘He was rummaging in his wallet in the lobby…’

  ‘Did his actions seem contrived?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Annie.

  Singh remembered the embrace she had exchanged with Quentin that morning. He wondered whether she was in some sort of relationship with him and that was at the root of her defensiveness. In his experience, protecting lovers was one of the main reasons that witness testimony became unreliable.

  ‘What happened next?’ asked Singh, filing away his suspicions for later consideration.

  ‘We went upstairs. Everything seemed normal. I stopped by my office while Quentin went ahead to Mark’s room.’

  ‘Wasn’t that odd?’ demanded Singh.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said that it was unusual for a meeting to be called late on a Friday evening, demanding the presence of the partners. Isn’t it a bit strange that you, having rushed to the office, should take your time about actually going in to see Mr Thompson?’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Annie truculently. A wall of hair fell across her face and she pushed it away. She slipped a scrunchie off her wrist and tied her long dark hair away from her face.

  Singh was impressed. This was a witness who did not fear exposing her face, and every expression, to scrutiny. If she was a liar, she was confident that she was an expert.

  ‘I’m asking you why you decided to go to your office instead of going directly to see Mark Thompson?’ growled the inspector. His voice had taken on an aggressive tone, a prosecutor now rather than an investigator.

  ‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing,’ said Annie angrily.

  Singh was pleased to have provoked her.

  She continued, ‘It seemed a perfectly natural thing to do at the time. I had been out of the office all day in KL.’ She shrugged. ‘I just wanted to see whether anything had come up during the day – that’s all!’

  The inspector did not press her. He was satisfied that she was rattled.

  ‘When did you realise he was dead?’

  ‘I thought Mark was sleeping – I wondered how he’d slept through Quentin’s yells. Then I saw the blood in his hair…and down the side of his face. His eyes were sort of open and staring.’ Annie shuddered.

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Quentin checked for a pulse and confirmed that he was dead.’

  ‘Very cool behaviour,’ remarked Singh.

  Annie scowled but did not leap to Quentin’s defence. Perhaps they weren’t in a relationship after all.

  ‘Mr Jagdesh Singh joined you at this point?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Annie. ‘We had come out of Mark’s room and were trying to decide what to do when he turned up.’

  ‘Was there anything odd in Mr Singh’s reaction?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Annie said. ‘Jagdesh only seems to get worked up over cricket.’

  Inspector Singh smiled happily. ‘I myself watch cricket. In fact, I used to open the batting for my school in my younger days.’

  The inspector noted Annie staring at his portly figure from across the desk. He supposed it was difficult to imagine him as having once been a sportsman.

  He dragged himself back to the present with difficulty. ‘Why do you think that Mark Thompson called a meeting of the partners just before someone beat him to death?’

  Annie winced at his choice of words but Singh had no qualms about being graphic in his descriptions. He had noticed in the past that even murderers preferred not to be reminded of the colourful details of their crime. It always struck him as oxymoronic that a human being could take the life of another and then feel queasy about a description of death.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she insisted.

  Singh looked disbelieving. ‘Doesn’t it seem likely that Mark Thompson discovered something about one of the partners, called a meeting to discuss it, and was killed to keep a secret?’

  Annie remained silent. Apparently, she was not going to be provoked into agreeing with a hypothesis that placed any of the lawyers in the firing line.

  Singh altered his strategy to take her caginess into account.

  ‘I believe that you are currently working on a Malaysian takeover?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I noticed the deceased was the designated senior partner on the Malaysian deal?’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ said Annie. ‘That’s just a cosmetic exercise, to reassure clients that someone senior is involved. I sometimes find that useful. Being young, a woman and Asian, it’s like three strikes and you’re out. I have to prove myself to doubtful clients.’

  ‘And to some of your colleagues, I’m sure,’ said Singh.

  ‘You must know what it’s like…’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘I turn up for a meeting and the clients look past me for the “real” lawyers. They never actually say so but for four hundred dollars an hour, they expect a white face at least.’

  Singh nodded. As a Sikh in Singapore, he had battled the same prejudice against minorities – only his error was not to have been born Chinese. This girl had a chip on her shoulder; she had not been able to keep the bitter edge out of her voice.

  ‘But the firm promoted you to partner anyway?’

  ‘It was an uphill battle!’

  Singh was not surprised. In many ways, they were in the same boat – good at their jobs but otherwise square pegs in professions that only valued uniformity.

  ‘Did Mark Thompson play any role at all in this transaction?’ the inspector continued. He drummed his fingers on top of the thick file to indicate his subject.

  ‘He attended the kick-off meeting. The senior people at the company, Trans-Malaya, were present as well as a few Government bigwigs. It seemed a good idea to have him along.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘Yes. Mark was very good with people.’

  ‘So a client may have approached him directly – gone over your head?’

  ‘I guess so,’ she conceded grudgingly.

  ‘Were there any issues?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘No!’

  Singh, looking down at the files in front of him, glanced up at this vehemence.

  Forewarned and forearmed by David Sheringham he asked, ‘What about the insider dealing?’

  Her face was bloodless. For a brief moment she looked like the cadaver of Mark Thompson. Her next words were confident, aggressive even, but the slightly unsteady voice reinforced Singh’s opinion that she had just received a fright. ‘What about it?’ she asked.

  He said nothing, curious to see what she would say next.

  His witness made a quick recovery – she muttered, sounding petulant now, ‘I don’t see what relevance insider dealing by a Malaysian director has to Mark’s death.’

  ‘My dear child, every little bit of information helps us form a picture of the victim. I will decide what is important.’

  He ignored her grimace at his choice of address and looked at his notes again – were there any loose ends to tie up?

  ‘I see you received a call just before Mark’s from an Indonesian number?’

  ‘My Dad rang. He lives in Bali.’

  The policeman nodded approvingly. ‘You are close?’

  ‘He’s all the family I have left.’

  ‘And you called Mark back that evening?’

  ‘Yes, just to find out what the meeting was about. He refused to tell me.’

  Singh leaned back in his chair, folded his arms neatly over his belly like an undertaker arranging the limbs of the dead, and ba
rked, ‘Fong, I like my coffee milky and sweet!’

  Fong returned and placed the mug of coffee at the senior man’s elbow. He noted that the inspector had a cigarette clamped between his teeth. He wondered whether he was obliged to remind him that smoking indoors was illegal in Singapore.

  Singh took the fag out of his mouth, exhaled a cloud of white smoke through his nostrils and smiled broadly – a man without a care in the world. ‘We can begin the next interview now.’

  Cigarettes apparently had a calming effect on the policeman. In the circumstances, Fong decided, it was best to allow him his bad habits.

  ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to fetch Mr Thwaites.’

  The corporal, correctly interpreting this as a command despite the polite form of words, leapt to his feet and knocked a sheaf of papers to the floor. He hesitated painfully, unable to decide whether to clear up first or hurry out in search of Stephen Thwaites.

  The inspector raised an eyebrow – he might as well have cracked a whip. It certainly had the same effect on the nervous young man, who scurried out of the room.

  Fong returned alone a few minutes later.

  ‘Well, where is he?’ demanded the inspector.

  ‘He said he would be here in a short while, sir. He was just finishing something.’

  ‘Listen carefully, corporal – we are conducting a murder investigation. No one, I repeat, no one keeps me waiting!’

  This last shout was still resonating when there was a firm knock on the door and Stephen Thwaites walked in. Although the inspector must have been perfectly audible outside the door, Stephen gave no sign of having heard anything amiss. He ignored the corporal – no surprise there, thought Fong grimly – and stuck his hand out to the inspector. They shook hands briefly.

  Stephen apologised for keeping them waiting.

  The inspector responded with an elaborate shake of the head – his turban emphasised the gesture by increasing the size of the arc. ‘No problem, no problem at all. We understand that you’re a busy man. Please sit, sit.’

  Singh patted his brow with a large white handkerchief, stubbed out his cigarette on the Malaysian file and carefully placed the half-smoked cigarette back in its carton. He bent over with some difficulty to retie the shoelace on his left white trainer which had come undone. Apparently, he had no qualms about keeping his witnesses waiting while he attended to trivial matters, thought Fong, mildly amused by this petty revenge.

  Singh sat up again slowly, his breathing an asthmatic wheeze.

  ‘Fong!’ he barked in a peremptory voice and the corporal leapt to his feet again, almost overturning his table as he did so.

  ‘Fetch Mr Thwaites a drink. What will you have? Coffee, tea?’ he asked.

  ‘A glass of water would be good.’

  ‘Very well, you heard him,’ he said sharply to the corporal, who bolted from the room. Fong wondered whether he should have asked to work at the canteen in the police academy; it would have been more useful training for his current role than anything else he had learnt so painstakingly.

  ‘Our job is similar in many ways,’ he heard the inspector say as he headed out of the office. ‘We both have to nurture and guide the young.’

  ‘True, true,’ said Stephen, who appeared determined to match the inspector’s theatrical bonhomie.

  Fong gritted his teeth and almost slammed the door but managed to desist at the last moment. His was the lowest rank in the force but his stout superior would probably find a way to demote him if he showed any attitude. He came back in with a glass of water that he placed carefully in front of Stephen. He had professionally wrapped the glass in a serviette so that the condensing moisture would not bother the drinker.

  ‘We can begin whenever you’re ready,’ Stephen said.

  ‘No particular hurry,’ said the inspector. ‘No one is going to run away, eh? Not while I have your passports, anyway.’

  His hearty guffaw was met with a weak smile from Stephen Thwaites.

  The inspector waved the corporal to his seat and turned to Stephen. ‘I understand that your wife and the first Mrs Thompson are good friends?’

  Taken aback by the line of questioning, Stephen could not help fidgeting in his chair. His authority dissipated and he became an errant schoolboy across the table from a headmaster.

  ‘I’m not sure how that’s relevant,’ he murmured.

  ‘We’ll let me be the judge of that, shall we?’ insisted the inspector, still all smiling politeness and visible teeth, but now predatory.

  ‘Yes, they’re good friends.’

  ‘I imagine both of you had a lot of sympathy for Sarah Thompson, the wronged wife. Hell hath no fury, eh?’ Singh chuckled and his belly vibrated an accompaniment.

  Stephen remained silent.

  ‘In fact, you were a good friend of Mark’s?’

  Fong could almost see the wheels turning as Stephen wondered whether he should deny a close relationship. The lawyer did not see any particular trap, or perhaps an innate loyalty and honesty made him say, ‘Well, yes. We were the two senior people in the office and had a lot in common, plus our wives – well, my wife and his ex-wife – got along.’

  ‘But you did not always have your wives along, eh, when you were together?’ said the inspector, winking elaborately at Stephen, who appeared bemused and a little worried.

  The lawyer twisted a bulky gold signet ring on his little finger and asked, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I believe,’ Singh made a show of consulting his notes, ‘you were picked up with Mr Thompson two months ago at a Balestier Road brothel?’

  Eight

  Balestier Road – a seedy street of mostly dilapidated old shophouses selling chicken rice and bah kut teh, a medicinal-tasting pork belly soup – was notorious for its hotels that charged by the hour. There was no reason Singh could think of for either Mark or Stephen to be at one, except for the obvious.

  Stephen opted for blank denial. ‘It’s not true,’ he said, folding his arms to convey certainty.

  ‘Come, come, Mr Thwaites. We are both men of the world. There is no doubt at all that you and Mr Thompson were arrested and subsequently released without charge. Your positions in the expat community and the fact that you were not caught, how shall I put it, in flagrante delicto, kept you out of prison. But the Singapore police maintain very good records,’ he continued and grinned meaningfully at the lawyer.

  Stephen’s gaze found its way to the floor, unable to meet the accusing eyes of the inspector.

  ‘You must agree that your presence there requires explanation.’ The inspector leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed and confident that he had the upper hand.

  Singh knew very well that visiting businessmen of a certain type thought a stopover at an Orchard Towers bar or club followed by an assignation in Joo Chiat Road or Balestier Road a must in Singapore. After-hours trips to sordid joints peddling sex were an integral part of business in South East Asia, whether it was the notorious bars in Pat Phong in Bangkok with its sex shows and brothels or the equally unpleasant but less well known strips in Kuala Lumpur or Jakarta.

  ‘Mr Thompson had been married again for just a few months. He seems to have strayed very soon. And what about you? How many years of marriage has it been?’ asked Singh.

  ‘Thirty-five!’

  ‘Domestic troubles?’

  ‘It’s really none of your business, Inspector,’ grumbled Stephen.

  Singh slammed his fist down on the table and everyone in the room jumped. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mr Thwaites. In a murder investigation, everything is my business, whether in the boardroom or the bedroom.’

  ‘But how could this have a bearing on Mark’s murder?’ asked Stephen, his tone almost pleading.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ confessed the inspector. ‘Maybe he was blackmailing you over this incident and you decided to kill him?’

  ‘That didn’t happen!’ cried Stephen. Damp patches were showing through his blue shirt now,
crescents of sweat at his armpits. Singh smiled. Only experienced crooks knew not to wear blue shirts to a police interview.

  ‘I’m inclined to believe you,’ said the inspector unexpectedly. ‘But you need to tell me the truth. Otherwise, I’ll have to question your wife about the state of your marriage.’

  Stephen’s expression was one of disbelief. ‘You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

  Singh raised an eloquent eyebrow.

  Stephen sat upright in his chair and his hand went to his throat to straighten his tie. His gravelly voice steadied. ‘I’d hoped to protect Mark but you leave me no choice,’ he said. ‘Mark invited me out. I could tell from his voice that he’d been drinking heavily. If you don’t know yet, Inspector, Mark was an alcoholic. I decided to join him and try to get him home. I didn’t want any scenes in public which would embarrass the law firm. Besides, he was my friend.’ Stephen sighed. ‘I was frankly surprised to receive the call from him. My wife refused to acknowledge Maria, which curtailed my association with Mark.’ He continued, ‘When I met him that evening, he said he’d been receiving anonymous letters saying Maria was moonlighting as a prostitute.’

  Inspector Singh’s ears pricked up at the mention of letters. ‘Did he show them to you?’

  ‘No, I’m not even certain they existed in the first place. It could just have been an excuse for his suspicions.’

  ‘Why would he suspect her of something like that?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Inspector, it’s not unknown for foreign workers in Singapore to get involved in that racket. They’re mostly here for the money with large families back home to support.’

  ‘But why would she continue after marriage to a wealthy man?’

  ‘That was one of the arguments I put to Mark. He seemed to think she might still need money, I don’t know why.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said the inspector. ‘It should be possible to find out.’ He turned to Corporal Fong. ‘Make a note of that,’ he urged.

  Stephen continued his narrative, his voice steady and low. ‘Mark dragged me to a bar in Orchard Towers…’

  Singh listened intently as a senior partner of a reputable law firm tried to explain how he had found himself hunting for Mark’s wife in a place notorious for its sleazy bars and discos.