He could almost picture them as they weaved their way between tables and onto the dance floor. The strobe lighting, bodies gyrating and the smell of cheap perfume must have been overwhelming.
‘I tried to keep up with Mark. He was swaying on his feet. He kept grabbing young women by the arm, forcing them to look at him, trying to identify Maria.’
There was a silence in the room. Stephen cleared his throat and continued, ‘A group of Filipino men became aggressive. I had to drag Mark away. I begged him to go home. But he took it into his head that he was going to Balestier Road to hunt for Maria in those cheap rent-by-the-hour motels. I did my best to persuade him not to. I had these horrible mental pictures of him bursting in on half our clients and accusing them of using his wife as a prostitute!’
Singh felt a sudden desire to laugh. The tale would be farcical if it did not contain the roots of tragedy.
Stephen rubbed his eyes tiredly with a thumb and forefinger. ‘In the end I went with him. I thought I might be able to stop him getting hurt.’
‘What happened?’ asked the inspector.
‘Mark could barely walk in a straight line. I suggested to him that he wait while I had a look around. He refused. We were still in the middle of an argument when the police raided the place and arrested us. I think you know the rest.’
‘So you never did find out if she was there?’
‘Of course she wasn’t,’ said Stephen. ‘It was just a fit of drunken jealousy.’
‘A pretty extreme case,’ remarked the inspector.
‘That would only be relevant if the corpse was Maria’s!’
The inspector collapsed in his chair as if the revelations were too heavy a burden for his burly shoulders. The breakup of Mark’s marriage must have appalled everyone. Conventional wisdom – as articulated by Sarah Thompson and his own wife – was that Maria had married Mark for his money and the marriage would not see the year out. The reality was even more sordid. However unacceptable Mark’s behaviour had been, having an affair with his domestic help, getting caught by his wife and then marrying Maria – it was this last point which had really electrified audiences – Singh felt sorry for the way things had turned out. He shook his head. He must be getting soft in the head, feeling pity for a wealthy, successful man who had married a beautiful woman.
‘Let’s turn to the murder, Mr Thwaites,’ said the inspector. ‘Where were you on the evening of Mr Thompson’s death?’
‘I am afraid I don’t have a very convincing alibi.’
The inspector waited placidly for him to continue, making no comment.
‘I popped into the office briefly in the morning but then went over to Bintan—’ Stephen mentioned a popular Indonesian island resort not far from Singapore ‘—for a round of golf with a client. We played nine holes and were rained off. I had a couple of beers with him and took the ferry back. The crossing was choppy and I’m not a great sailor. I switched off my mobile phone, climbed into bed and slept soundly. The next morning, I found a message from Mark ordering me to the meeting. I had missed it. A short while later, Jagdesh Singh called me with the news.’
‘So you were asleep during the murder?’ asked Inspector Singh, a disbelieving note creeping into his voice.
‘That’s my story, I’m afraid.’
‘Can anyone vouch for you being home?’ asked the Inspector impatiently. ‘Wife, children, maid? Someone must have seen you.’
‘My wife was away that evening on one of those overnight casino cruise ships, with Sarah Thompson, if you must know. The help had the day off and the children are away at university,’ explained Stephen.
‘Pity you’re not having an affair with the maid, eh?’ remarked Inspector Singh.
Singh was pleased to have a second interview under his belt – figuratively speaking. He ran a thumb along the band of his trousers, trying to make himself more comfortable – there was certainly no space under his belt literally. He turned to Fong. ‘Well, there’s no time to waste. Let’s see the Indian. And tell David Sheringham I want to see him next,’ he added, as Fong reached the door.
Corporal Fong hurried out to summon Jagdesh Singh and in a few moments the tall Sikh was in the room greeting them in his distinct musical accent. ‘My turn for the third degree? That’s all right…I haven’t got anything to hide. So you’re welcome to trot out the thumbscrews – it won’t make any difference.’
There was no response to his jovial remarks. Singh stared at his relative with genuine interest. He noted that the teeth of his witness were shiny and even. The policeman ran his tongue over his own teeth – they were not in such pristine condition. He doubted that corrective dental work was that advanced in Delhi. The inspector had heard of medical tourism. Apparently, this young fellow had the financial clout to be a dental tourist. He wondered once more why his wife had been assigned to find Jagdesh Singh a bride. He would bet his beer money that the combination of good looks and deep pockets that the fates had bestowed on Jagdesh Singh would have had the women flocking around.
‘I guess this is no joking matter. Ignore me…I just get like this when I’m nervous!’ Jagdesh spoke again, unnerved by Singh’s thoughtful contemplation.
‘There is nothing for you to be nervous about, Mr Singh, unless you killed Mark Thompson.’
Here the inspector stopped and looked at Jagdesh inquiringly as if to give him an opportunity to confess. Unsurprisingly, his young relative by marriage eschewed the opportunity to put his head in a noose. Just as well, thought Singh. He certainly hoped this young fellow was not the killer. He shuddered to think what his home life would be like if he was forced to arrest the Sikh partner. Domestic bliss it would not be, thought Singh, wincing at the mental image of his wife and her sisters on the warpath. He dragged himself back to the matter at hand with difficulty and noticed that his countryman was looking at him quizzically. That would never do – he did not want rumours of incompetence to seep through the gossipy Sikh community in Singapore. It was time to focus on the nuts and bolts of the investigation. He hurriedly ran through his list of questions and received the stock answers.
Jagdesh did not have a relationship of any sort with Mark Thompson that extended beyond the workplace. Unlike Stephen Thwaites, he would not characterise Mark as a friend. ‘More of a colleague,’ he explained.
He did not have an alibi for the couple of hours before the meeting. He had been on the verge of leaving for dinner at the Singh residence when he had received Mark’s call, hence his belated telephoned apologies and no-show.
‘A pity you didn’t visit as planned,’ was Singh’s wry comment. ‘My wife would have been an unimpeachable alibi.’
‘I certainly wish I had come along for dinner, sir. I hear that Mrs Singh is a magnificent cook.’
Singh glared at the lawyer to indicate that he was not going to embark on some family-style gossip with him. If Jagdesh was trying to form a bond based on their tenuous family links, he, Singh, was not having any of it. It was bad enough that he was already hoping to exonerate this man purely on the grounds that he feared his wife’s ire at any other conclusion.
It was time to cut to the chase. ‘So who killed your boss?’
Jagdesh pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, the action of a man who could feel a headache coming on. Singh noted that there were food spots on his tie. They might only be related by marriage and have nothing in common physically but they did seem to share a common genetic heritage when it came to being messy eaters.
‘I can’t believe it was one of the partners,’ said Jagdesh. His tone was quiet and reasonable. It reminded Singh that this man was a highly successful lawyer – it would not do to underestimate him or treat him as a mildly comic figure just because Mrs Singh had been tasked with finding him a wife. After all, he himself was regularly underestimated on the grounds solely of his beer belly and fancy headgear.
The inspector’s response to Jagdesh’s doubt was aggressive. ‘Really? I have no difficulty at al
l believing that one of you lawyers is a murderer. The only question in my mind is which one of you did it!’
Jagdesh stared at the policeman. Singh noticed for the first time that the whites around his dark brown pupils were now shot through with faint red veins. Dusky shadows formed crescents under his eyes.
Despite his calm tone, this was a man who was feeling the pressure. But was it the understandable pressure of a man unwittingly and innocently caught up in a murder investigation or was there a more sinister reason?
‘Mark Thompson called a meeting of the partners. Before it could be held, he was killed. Difficult to avoid the conclusion that he was murdered to avoid revealing something, a secret that one of you lawyers was prepared to go to any lengths to hide.’
Jagdesh’s hand went to his throat, and then, as if he belatedly realised it was a telling gesture, he dropped it back onto the arm of the chair.
‘Well, do you agree?’ demanded Singh argumentatively.
‘I have nothing to hide!’ insisted Jagdesh. But his gaze found his lap as he said it and he would not meet the policeman’s eyes.
If it bothered David Sheringham that he was using Mark Thompson’s old office, he gave no sign of it. Singh wandered around the room, sniffing the air like a curious dog. He could smell disinfectant but not even his broad nose, trained over the years to recognise the scent of blood, could pick up any hint of the murder.
‘So, Mark Thompson was an alcoholic?’
David smiled thinly. ‘I see that none of our secrets are safe from you, Inspector.’
‘Keeping secrets is tantamount to obstructing me in the course of my investigations. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that’s a crime.’
David raised an elegant shoulder. The gesture was rueful. ‘I didn’t want to blacken Mark’s name unnecessarily.’
He sounded as if he meant it, thought Singh. Was it possible that this partner who had flown in from London was actually quite a decent chap? The fat man’s thoughts turned to Ai Leen and Reggie – it seemed unlikely if Sheringham’s colleagues were anything to go by.
‘He was lying right there – sprawled across the desk. Blood everywhere!’ Singh pointed at the desk where David sat leaning on his elbows.
The younger man’s face blanched white under his tan. He was not as immune to his surroundings as he would like to pretend. ‘Must you remind me?’ He removed his arms from the desk as if he expected them to be stained with another man’s blood.
Singh’s retort was sharp and to the point. ‘You need to know that protecting a dead man’s reputation is exactly the same thing as protecting that man’s killer.’
David Sheringham nodded slowly.
His close-cropped grey hair made him look older, thought Singh, but he was probably in his mid-thirties. He was nobody’s fool if he was a trusted senior partner at an international legal firm at such a young age. The question was whether he was going to use his talents to assist or impede the investigation. So far Sheringham had been reasonably helpful – revealing the insider dealing on the Malaysian file even if he had waited to be prompted before doing so. On the other hand, his machinations – with the collusion of Superintendent Chen – were the reason that he, Singh, had to conduct large chunks of the investigation in the suspects’ lair instead of the more intimidating surroundings of a police station.
‘What do you want to know?’ asked Sheringham.
‘Why did you keep Mark around? He must have been more of a liability than anything else.’
‘These old firms have a very traditional partnership structure. It’s actually quite difficult to get rid of someone who doesn’t want to leave.’
‘And Mark Thompson didn’t want to leave?’
‘Who would? The money, the status…it’s a lot to give up. I don’t think Mark was even ready to admit that he had a drink problem.’
‘Was he standing in anyone’s way?’
Two vertical frown lines appeared in the middle of David’s forehead. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The next most senior partner is Stephen Thwaites, right?’
‘You’re asking me if Stephen might have killed Mark?’
‘“Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself?”’ declaimed Singh theatrically.
David shook his head emphatically. ‘No way. He was Mark’s friend, and one of his last supporters amongst the senior partnership.’
Corporal Fong had been sent to fetch the car because Inspector Singh did not deign to make the trip to the basement car park. It did not surprise him. The fat man – he reminded Fong of those many-layered Russian dolls – did not look like someone who opted for long, or even short, walks.
Apart from being used as tea boy, Fong had found it an interesting day so far, although he really didn’t know what to make of Inspector Singh’s methods. There had been nothing in the police academy about his style of questioning. Fong had been taught to work through the evidence methodically whereas Singh flitted about like a butterfly in a meadow of flowers. Still, he had the lawyers off balance. Producing the brothel visit had been a masterpiece. Stephen Thwaites’ face had been a picture. He, Fong, had not even known about the incident. At this thought, he frowned. Whatever his view of the boss might be, the boss had far too low an opinion of him to share vital information. Fong was the bag carrier, driver and coffee maker, nothing more.
A few moments later, he drew up in front of the gleaming building in the unmarked police car. Singh was waiting for him, a squat, brooding figure. Even from a distance it was possible to discern his impatience. The evidence was there in the tapping foot and the folded arms.
However, when the boss clambered into the car, he seemed in a delighted mood. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said to his sidekick. ‘That was very interesting, eh? We make progress!’
He rubbed his pudgy hands together like a cartoon villain.
Fong had to remind himself that Inspector Singh was one of the good guys.
‘What’s the plan now, sir?’
‘We follow up some leads. And I need to interview Maria Thompson.’
Fong’s curiosity overcame his reluctance to expose himself to one of the inspector’s biting put-downs. ‘What sort of leads, sir?’
Inspector Singh hesitated, chewing on his plump bottom lip as if debating whether to share his thoughts with the young policeman. At last he said, ‘You tell me – what do you think we should do next?’
Fong wondered whether the undertone of impatience he detected was merely his paranoia working overtime. Either way, this was a chance to actually contribute to the investigation. ‘We need to find out why Mark Thompson thought his second wife needed money and search for the anonymous letter – if it really existed…’
If Singh was impressed, he did not show it. He stared out of the window pensively, elbow on the door ledge, chin in his hand.
‘So Mark Thompson was an alcoholic…’ he said thoughtfully, ‘who thought that his trophy bride was still working the night shift. Stephen Thwaites did not want Thompson’s job and was trying to be his friend. Anikka Nathan did not mention the insider dealing until I brought it up and Jagdesh Singh becomes very nervous indeed on the subject of lawyers with secrets. Curiouser and curiouser!’
Above them, the sky was almost black, even though it was still early in the day. The storm that had been gathering announced its arrival with a thunderous clap. A moment later, the rain was sheeting down. Fong switched the wipers on at maximum speed. He would be better off with a pair of oars, he thought, as the tyres skidded gently on the running water.
Singh slapped a hand against his thigh triumphantly.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘I’ll ask my wife to find out what Jagdesh Singh is hiding! If she can’t ferret out the information, no one can.’
Fong refrained from commenting on the inspector’s plan to draft his wife into action. He already had one sidekick whose primary duty seemed to be to wait on him hand and foot – did he really need another?
Determined to contribute to the discussion, he said, ‘There’s the widow as well, sir.’
‘Do you think Maria Thompson did it?’
‘She’s definitely the most likely person so far,’ he responded carefully. ‘She had motive and opportunity.’
Singh scowled. He rubbed the window with his shirt sleeve – the rain outside and the air-conditioning inside had caused the glass to fog over.
‘Well, I certainly hope she isn’t our murderer…’
‘Why is that, sir?’
‘It would make those partners far too happy.’ He snorted loudly. ‘Firm of lawyers, eh? More like a school of villainy…’
Fong ignored this unexpected diatribe. He asked, ‘Back to the station, sir?’
Singh glanced at the corporal. Fong adopted an expression of artificial determination to mask his nervousness.
‘Yes, take me to the station,’ he said. And to Fong’s delight, he added, ‘And then go and see Mrs Stephen Thwaites. Check on the ex-Mrs Thompson’s alibi.’
Annie strode down the corridor towards her office, replenished coffee mug in hand. She massaged the back of her neck with strong fingers as she walked. The strain of the earlier interview had left her head and neck aching with tension. The secretaries, whose desks lined the walls, turned in unison to stare at her and then hastily busied themselves. A brief lull in the wild speculation going on in the passageway, she suspected. ‘Is there any news? Do they know who did it?’ The strident whisper was from a senior secretary, Yoke Lin, a buxom woman in heavy make-up and a tight-fitting floral dress. Everyone within earshot gave up the pretence of work to listen.
Annie shook her head. ‘No, no developments yet.’ She gave them a quick smile to show that she was not evading the question but telling the simple truth.
The dark clouds that had been gathering so ominously on the horizon unleashed their full might over Republic Tower. Rain lashed against the reinforced glass. It appeared as if someone was chucking buckets of water at the window; individual drops were all but indistinguishable. From time to time, the sky was lit up with sheets of lightning. It was so dark outside, night might have fallen. Annie stopped to admire the ferocity of the storm.
The Singapore School of Villainy Page 10
