The Singapore School of Villainy

by Shamini Flint

  ‘It’s amazing, the sheer power of storms in this part of the world. In England, we get so used to icy pinpricks of rain all day. It won’t be fun trying to get a taxi in this weather!’

  David Sheringham was standing at Annie’s elbow – he appeared to have a knack of creeping up on her unawares. She nodded at him, acknowledging the friendly overture but still cautious. This was the spy from head office. Everyone in the office was kowtowing to him already, but she was not so easily convinced of his good intentions. Having made up her mind resolutely on these points, Annie heard herself asking, ‘Where are you staying? I can give you a lift if you like.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ he replied enthusiastically. Light and shadow played across his face as another multi-pronged jagged fork of lightning cleaved the air. ‘I’m at the Raffles. Is that on your way?’

  Annie raised an eyebrow at him. There was no stinting on the expense account if he was staying at Singapore’s luxurious Raffles Hotel.

  He correctly interpreted the look and grinned. ‘There must be some perks in a job that involves going round offices accusing your colleagues of murder.’

  Annie shrugged. He was right. Hutchinson & Rice could afford it anyway. ‘I’ll meet you in ten minutes in the lobby.’

  She ran a further gauntlet of secretarial stares and collapsed into her chair. Her workplace was clean and bare and functional, the only personal belongings a green-leafed potted plant and a small photo of her mother, a bubbly Caucasian woman, smiling broadly for the camera. Her mother had died when she was eleven – leaving Annie alone in the world except for her father. It seemed so long ago that he’d asked her for more money – money that she’d transferred to him just that morning. She knew that he would have no more need of her until his next financial crisis. Annie shook herself like a dog after a rain shower; this was not the time to be brooding about her father’s iniquities. She gave herself a stern mental warning to avoid letting self-pity overthrow her judgement altogether. She had to believe she would put this episode behind her. And to ensure such an outcome she needed all her wits about her.

  Looking at the time, she realised that she was late to meet David. She turned off her computer, grabbed her things and headed down to reception.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said breathlessly as she reached the lobby and found him waiting patiently.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Let’s go! Before we get stuck in traffic.’

  ‘There speaks someone who’s forgotten how lucky they are to work in Singapore,’ said David as they stepped into the lift lobby.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Annie.

  ‘That there’s hardly any traffic, not even during rush hour.’

  ‘Quite true, although rain and rush hour combined do cause a few hiccups.’

  The lift arrived and the doors slid open silently. Ai Leen stepped out. There was a tension about her that was reflected in her tired face and dour expression. She walked past them without a word or a backward glance.

  David put a hand out and the sensors stopped the elevator doors despite the occupants jabbing aggressively at the “close” buttons. As he ushered Annie in before him, they both ignored the scowls of the people inside. The occupants of Republic Tower did not appreciate waiting.

  Annie could see, gazing at their reflection in the lift doors, that she barely reached up to David’s shoulder. She was pleased at an opportunity to study him discreetly. He was just over six feet tall, loose-limbed and clean-shaven. His eyes were very dark, probably grey, under winged brows that were delicate enough to be feminine. His hair was liberally sprinkled with premature grey, and cut aggressively close to a well-shaped head. He was a distinguished-looking man, except for the prize-fighter’s nose.

  As Annie pulled out of the car park, the heavy rain drummed down on the soft roof of the convertible. It was impossible to speak above the rain and the intermittent claps of thunder, so she concentrated hard on driving, trying to make out the other cars on the road, their rear lights barely discernible. Minutes later, Annie turned into the gravel drive of the Raffles Hotel, a beautiful white structure with long bay windows, surrounded by palms and flowering plants.

  ‘Why don’t you come in for a coffee at the Tiffin Room?’ asked David, as she pulled up in front of the building.

  ‘Sounds too good to refuse,’ said Annie, making up her mind quickly.

  At the entrance, a massive Punjabi man, resplendent in a gold-braided white uniform with shiny buttons and a turban, unfurled a massive golf umbrella and held it over Annie’s door. She got out and handed the keys to him as he escorted her to the terrace. David, not waiting for similar treatment, joined her, brushing the drops of rain off his jacket and running his fingers through his glistening wet hair.

  In the lobby, Annie stopped as she always did to admire the polished old wood, thick carpets and gleaming chandeliers. A sparrow flew a circuit around the hall, chirping merrily at the visitors. A couple of backpackers behind her were turned away because they were dressed in shorts and sandals. David, who was either inured to the splendour or hungry, was already at the entrance to the Tiffin Room. They were shown to a quiet table by a window.

  Immediately, David’s eyes turned towards the food on display. ‘I was planning a trip to the gym but I think I’m going to have a late lunch instead. Join me?’

  ‘I might just have a cup of tea and some dessert,’ said Annie.

  David ordered a pot of tea while Annie loitered around the buffet table, raising covers one by one. She walked back to the table, a heaped plate in one hand, sat down and accepted a cup of tea from the waiter, adding a generous dollop of milk and sugar.

  David peered at her plate. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘What is that?’

  Annie smiled warmly at him, dimples showing.

  ‘I’m all Asian when it comes to food!’

  Her plate was heaped with brightly coloured desserts, pink and white stripes, green slices, a bright orange sliver, yellow bits, in all shapes and sizes – squares, rolls, triangles and balls.

  ‘What is that stuff made with?’ he asked. ‘Some of the colours look toxic!’

  ‘To be frank, I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Coconut, pandan, durian, water chestnuts, corn and who knows what else.’

  ‘Durian! A fruit that proves the non-existence of God.’

  ‘The durian is the King of Fruit!’ exclaimed Annie, defending the watermelon-sized fruit with the dangerous spiky exterior, rich yellow flesh and extraordinary odour.

  ‘I’ve heard it’s like eating apple pie on a bog.’

  Annie laughed. ‘Are you aware that gravity was discovered by a Malay farmer long before Newton? Unfortunately, he was sitting under a durian tree.’

  She stopped mid-sentence and stared over her companion’s shoulder. Curious, he turned to follow her gaze. A sleek, distinctive woman with long straight hair to her waist, heavy make-up, conspicuously expensive clothes and chunky jewellery was standing at the entrance holding two children by the hand.

  ‘The second Mrs Mark Thompson,’ Annie whispered.

  Mrs Thwaites had agreed to see Corporal Fong after lunch, at the Thwaites’ residence on the tree-lined avenue that was Nassim Road. It was an amazing palatial building, at least four storeys high, the size of a small condominium. The architect had opted for grey walls and towering sheets of glass – it reminded Fong of a rich country’s embassy. A board on the front gate warned visitors that dogs were on the loose. The corporal pricked up his ears. He thought he could make out the sound of barking. He rang the doorbell nervously, hoping someone would come out to meet him rather than open the gate remotely and expose him to the ire of the dogs.

  The woman who came to the gate surprised him. He was primed, after encountering Sarah Thompson and hearing about Maria Thompson, to expect a certain profile from the partners’ wives but Joan Thwaites was frumpy and middle-aged. Her wispy hair was greying in patches. She wore an unfashionable blouse with small floral patterns and an unflatt
ering pair of jeans that clung to an over-sized posterior and tapered to narrow ankles. She clutched a small dachshund – some sort of miniature breed, Fong suspected – under her arm like a rugby ball. ‘May I help you?’ she asked politely.

  Fong pulled himself together. He needed to avoid having his pre-conceptions colour his judgement if he was to make any headway as an investigator. ‘I’m Corporal Fong of the Singapore Police. I rang. I need to ask you some questions about Mark Thompson.’

  ‘Oh my! That was shocking, wasn’t it? Well, do come in and have a cup of tea.’

  The dog wagged its tail.

  Fong followed Joan Thwaites into the house, noting the marble floors and massive modern art pieces on the walls. Rarely had he seen a woman in such inappropriate surroundings. She led him directly into the kitchen and made him a mug of English Breakfast tea with her own hands despite the maid hovering anxiously in the background.

  ‘So how can I help?’ she asked again, when he was comfortably perched on a stool at the small kitchen table.

  ‘Sarah Thompson told us that you were with her on the night of the murder.’

  Joan Thwaites nodded her head emphatically. ‘Yes, I was.’

  Nine

  Singh was behind his big desk looking through the bank statements and credit card bills of the various lawyers. He could feel a headache developing at the mere sight of the six-figure bank balances; seven figures in the case of Stephen Thwaites and Reggie Peters.

  His mobile rang. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Fong, sir. I’ve just been to see Mrs Thwaites. She confirms Sarah Thompson’s alibi. They were on some sort of overnight gambling cruise ship.’

  ‘OK – good work.’

  He could sense the corporal’s pleasure at a kind word. He hoped Fong wasn’t going to get cocky, and careless. ‘Get back here and write up your report!’

  ‘Yessir,’ said Fong, the lilt in his voice still present.

  Singh returned to the bank statements. Despite their initial reluctance, the lawyers had apparently turned them in voluntarily – under pressure from David Sheringham, he suspected. If there had been financial hanky-panky at the legal firm, chances were slim that the lawyer in question would have used his or her personal checking account. On the other hand, Mark’s murder had been brutal but was unlikely to have been premeditated. There would have been no time for the murderer to think through the consequences of a police investigation and the possible evidentiary trails.

  The credit card statements were like a narrative of the lifestyle of the rich and powerful, thought Singh glumly. It was The Great Gatsby for the twenty-first century: golf games, expensive wines, hotel rooms, first class flights and, in the case of Ai Leen, an enormous amount of Tiffany jewellery.

  Singh turned to Annie’s bank statement. She had transferred money on a semi-regular basis to an Indonesian account – her dad’s, he supposed. He’d get Fong to check. It seemed that they really were close if she was funding his retirement with such large handouts. Singh shook his great head. He had no children. He and his wife would have to survive on his pension. Fortunately, Mrs Singh was frugal to the point of mean and he himself had no expensive habits except for cigarettes and beer. He shuddered. Perhaps he would have to become teetotal to make ends meet in his twilight years.

  There was a timid knock on the door.

  ‘Enter!’ snapped Singh.

  Sergeant Fuad sidled in nervously and stood just inside the door. The inspector almost smiled. It was really quite amusing the way these junior uniforms were terrified of him.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s about Mark Thompson’s will, sir.’

  Singh nodded impatiently.

  ‘All the money goes into a trust fund for his children. His ex-wife received a lump sum payment after the divorce.’

  ‘Maria Thompson gets nothing?’

  ‘Nothing under the will, sir. But she’s the sole beneficiary of a life insurance policy for one million dollars!’

  ‘Would you call that a good motive, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I think so.’

  ‘Me too!’

  So what was he to make of Stephen’s testimony that Maria apparently needed cash plus this windfall on the death of her husband? Shades of the prison house, indeed.

  He nodded a dismissal to the sergeant, held a lighter flame to the cigarette he slipped between his lips and inhaled deeply, watching the end glow red and orange. He was not to be permitted to enjoy his puff – his door was flung open abruptly and Superintendent Chen marched in. Ashes from the cigarette scattered over the front of Singh’s shirt, coming to rest gently against his ample stomach. He dusted them off with the back of his hand, leaving grey streaks against the white, put out his cigarette in a coffee mug and looked at the superintendent questioningly.

  His boss was doing his best to avert his eyes from the thin wisp of smoke that was making its way gently to the ceiling from the not-quite-stubbed-out cigarette. Singh wondered how long this patience would last. He could see the lines of strain running from the superintendent’s jaw down his throat; he was swallowing hard to refrain from delivering another of his “disgrace to the Force” lectures. But right now he needed Singh to solve the case – and that apparently meant cutting him some slack.

  ‘Any progress?’ demanded Chen.

  ‘We’re proceeding with the interviews, sir. Sarah Thompson has an alibi.’

  Chen closed his eyes briefly. Singh supposed that, next to some convenient foreign stranger, a domestic fracas would be his preferred solution to the killing of Mark Thompson. He wondered whether to tell him that Maria Thompson was looking good for the murder and then decided not to offer her as a sacrificial lamb to appease his superior.

  ‘What are those?’ The superintendent gestured to the pile of papers in front of Singh.

  ‘Bank statements…’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Singh picked up the bank statement at the top of the pile. It belonged to Quentin Holbrooke. He glanced at it and then sat up a little straighter. He ran a stubby finger down the list.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Superintendent Chen.

  ‘Quentin Holbrooke, unlike his colleagues, seems to have a cash flow problem.’

  Chen almost snatched the statement from Singh’s fingers. The policeman did not object. He had seen enough.

  ‘He’s been withdrawing large amounts of money in cash at regular intervals. What do you think it means?’ The superintendent could not keep the excitement out of his voice.

  Singh shrugged. ‘Anything or nothing. But my first guess would be blackmail.’

  In the restaurant at the Raffles, David and Annie couldn’t help but stare at the second wife of Mark Thompson. They were not alone. She was the focus of surreptitious glances from the other diners. Whispered comments suggested that she had not gone unrecognised.

  ‘Who are the kids?’ asked David.

  ‘Must be hers,’ Annie said. ‘They’re carbon copies of her. I’d heard that she had a couple of children from a previous marriage but I thought they were in the Philippines.’ And then, under her breath, ‘Damn, she’s seen us.’

  Maria Thompson looked over at them, debating whether to ignore them, acknowledge them from a distance or come over to their table. Still holding the children by the hand, she came over.

  ‘Maria, how are you holding up?’ asked Annie.

  ‘It is not an easy time for me,’ she replied. ‘That woman will try to kill me also.’

  Feeling unequal to responding to this, Annie said instead, ‘Are these your children? They look so much like you.’

  Maria nodded and her expression revealed a fierce maternal pride.

  ‘Mrs Thompson, I’ve been sent out by the London office to try and find out who did this terrible thing. My name is David Sheringham.’ He offered her his hand and she brushed it with the tips of her fingers.

  Maria sniffed. ‘What is there to find out? It was that bitch. I keep
telling the fat policeman. But no one listens. Soon I will be dead too.’

  Her voice rose to a shout. A few people at the other tables were staring openly now.

  David signalled to a waiter and said to Maria, ‘Won’t you and your children join us?’ As Maria visibly hesitated, he continued persuasively, ‘You can explain your suspicions to us.’

  This was an offer she could not refuse. Behind her back, Annie glared at David. They all maintained a discreet silence as a couple of waiters dragged over a table to adjoin theirs. Maria bent over her children, whispered a few instructions in Tagalog and they both headed to the lavish buffet in gleaming silver serving dishes, the younger one skipping as she went.

  ‘What about you, Mrs Thompson? Won’t you have something from the buffet?’ asked David.

  ‘No, no! I come for my children to enjoy. I will have a cup of coffee. I need to keep slim, you understand,’ she said, flashing him a look from under her long (and false, I bet, thought Annie) lashes.

  David leaned forward. ‘Come now, Mrs Thompson, there is no need at all for you to watch your figure. The rest of us will do that.’

  Maria simpered. ‘You call me Maria, please.’

  David poured out her tea, added milk and sugar at her nod, and gave it to her. Maria may have started out as a domestic worker in Singapore but she had got into the habit of being waited on, thought Annie tetchily.

  ‘Now, Maria, tell me what the firm can do to help you. We will do anything in our power.’

  Maria snorted her disbelief.

  ‘You are Mark’s widow,’ David insisted.

  ‘Ha! At least you see this. I’m the widow. She is nothing.’

  Annie felt like pointing out that Sarah had been Mark’s wife for thirty years and was the mother of his two children, unlike Maria who had married him for his money six months previously, but she knew that David would not thank her for it.