The Singapore School of Villainy

by Shamini Flint

  Fong looked at him, his expression puzzled. ‘He wasn’t next on the list…’

  ‘In my experience, young man, a self-important bastard like Reggie Peters is best interviewed when his ego has taken a knock! I don’t doubt that dancing to my tune is driving him mad – but he knows he has no choice.’

  Fong swallowed a retort – dancing to the inspector’s tune was driving him mad too but it was probably unwise to say so. Still, the fat man had a point. He was more likely to get information out of a man like Reggie Peters if he was off balance.

  ‘So, what do we know about Reggie Peters?’ asked Singh thoughtfully, his attention already focused on his next witness.

  His subordinate answered quickly. ‘Senior banking partner, wife, three kids – very successful at work but not very popular with his co-workers.’

  ‘Except for the poker-faced Ms Lim Ai Leen!’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘We need more information on this apparent chumminess between Reggie and Ai Leen,’ explained Singh.

  Fong shuffled through his papers until he found the reports from the policemen who had been detailed to tail the suspects. ‘They’ve been spending a lot of time together since the murder, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They’ve been spotted dining together a few times, at fairly out-of-the-way places.’

  Singh reached for the desk phone, hit the speaker button and dialled Stephen Thwaites’ extension.

  The other man picked up with a brusque hello, the tone of a successful professional who believed that his time was worth money.

  ‘Singh here. A quick question – were Ai Leen and Reggie Peters on good terms before the murder?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard me,’ snapped Singh impatiently. ‘Reggie and Ai Leen – chums, buddies, pals?’

  Stephen’s tone was wary but he answered the question. ‘I don’t think so – not especially.’

  ‘They’ve been as thick as thieves since the murder.’

  ‘Really? I had no idea they were close friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ snorted the inspector derisively. ‘Any relationship that springs up around a murder investigation is very suspicious to me.’

  He slammed the phone down without the courtesy of a “goodbye”.

  There was a tentative knock on the door.

  ‘Come,’ growled the inspector.

  Reggie walked in reluctantly, dragging his feet like a child in a supermarket.

  ‘I would like to place it on record that you have caused me and this legal firm great inconvenience by re-scheduling our meeting,’ he said coldly. He had obviously rehearsed his opening line.

  ‘Fong, you heard the man – record his inconvenience please,’ said Singh cheerfully.

  Corporal Fong started typing hastily. He was terrified at Reggie’s opening gambit, imagining a complaint making its way up the ranks until he had a black mark recorded against him in his personnel file. Inspector Singh didn’t seem to care – probably his file was so thick with complaints already that one more wouldn’t make a difference.

  Despite the inflammatory beginning, the interview was low key. The inspector was docile and Reggie, his point made, was striving to appear cooperative. He had known Mark Thompson for many years but the collegial relationship had never developed into a real friendship. ‘We had nothing in common, really,’ explained Reggie Peters. ‘Our wives never really hit it off. And once he married Maria – well, that was the end of it…’

  When Fong tuned back in, Reggie was discussing his whereabouts during the murder. ‘I was at home. The children had gone to bed. My wife was out at a hen night. I didn’t actually speak to Mark but I found a message on my answer phone. Ai Leen rang me – she said she’d got a call too, asked me what it was about.’

  He looked the inspector directly in the eye. ‘I had no idea. I offered her a lift. We were running late so Ai Leen rang the office and had a brief chat with Jagdesh. He didn’t mention the murder.’

  The inspector, having allowed Reggie Peters to carry on uninterrupted, scratched his nose and asked, ‘So who do you think did it then?’

  Reggie seemed surprised by the question but forbore from making a spontaneous accusation.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, carefully smoothing the remaining strands of hair across his almost bald pate. ‘I just can’t understand who would want to do such a thing. I mean, it’s…outrageous!’

  ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it,’ muttered Inspector Singh.

  Fong looked at the inspector curiously. He had expected fireworks, sensing the inspector’s antipathy towards this witness. But he supposed Singh had no evidence of wrong-doing on the part of Reggie. His alibi was tenuous but so were most of their alibis. Even Reggie and Ai Leen were not alibis for each other. Either of them could have come into the office, killed Mark and still been in time to meet the other before setting out once more.

  ‘Will that be all?’ asked Reggie.

  Singh nodded and the lawyer almost strutted out of the room. No doubt he thought that the interview had been so restrained because of his formal complaint at the beginning. Fong wondered if, contrary to what he had thought earlier, the senior policeman had been unsettled by Reggie Peters’ threats. He hoped not. He didn’t want to think of the infallible Inspector Singh as being susceptible to intimidation.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask him about Ai Leen, sir?’ asked Fong tentatively.

  ‘Always better to save questions about relationships for the female half,’ explained Singh smugly. ‘They’re the ones who like to talk about their feelings the most – just look at those women’s magazines!’

  ‘You’ve been spending a lot of time with Mr Peters of late.’

  Singh’s remark was more a statement than a question.

  Ai Leen was caught off guard. She straightened her light-blue skirt over her knees, twisted a plain platinum ring on her wedding finger, and asked, ‘What do you mean?’

  The inspector made a show of fishing around his desk for a piece of paper, found it and looked at it carefully, holding it a couple of feet away from himself. The senior policeman was getting long-sighted, noted Fong. He really needed to get himself a pair of those reading glasses. He hoped it wasn’t misplaced vanity that prevented the inspector from correcting his eyesight.

  Singh read out in a dry voice all the occasions in the past week when Ai Leen and Reggie had been spotted together. It was a long list and Ai Leen’s dismay at the detail the police had of her assignations with Reggie was obvious despite the obscuring quality of a thick layer of make-up. There was fear in her almond-shaped eyes, visible in the expanding pupils, as she listened to the policeman.

  Ai Leen swallowed hard but did her best to sound nonchalant. ‘What does it matter? We’re friends.’

  ‘Quite a new friendship, I understand.’

  If looks could kill, Singh would have been prostrate on the floor. Fong had rarely seen such a vicious expression on the face of any individual. Ai Leen was clearly wondering who had told the inspector about her previously distant relationship with Reggie. The corporal sensed that this was a vindictive woman and she would want her revenge against the whistleblower. The senior policeman had now made enemies of his last two suspects. From his expression, Singh wasn’t bothered. If anything, there was a smugness radiating from the inspector. Fong guessed, with unexpected perspicuity, that Singh would love to set these lawyers at each other’s throats. It was probably his best chance of breaking through their well-constructed defenses.

  ‘Well, Ms Lim? I’m waiting for an explanation.’

  ‘Why do I have to explain anything to you? This is personal – between Reggie and me. It has nothing to do with Mark.’

  ‘I will be the judge of that, Ms Lim.’ The inspector was at his most cutting.

  ‘We’re friends. We support each other in difficult times.’

  ‘How long have you been supporting each other?’

 
‘A couple of months. We’ve been colleagues for a few years but have become closer lately.’

  ‘What triggered this?’

  ‘We have a lot in common.’

  ‘Give me an example,’ said the inspector disbelievingly, steepling his fingers and peering at Ai Leen over the tips.

  Ai Leen glared at him, fear replaced with anger. ‘Our work! I’m a banking lawyer too. We’re both partners.’

  ‘And is your husband aware of this new-found friendship?’

  Fong had to admire the lascivious overtone Inspector Singh managed to incorporate into his question.

  But Ai Leen was a match for this. ‘He’s aware that Reggie is a colleague with whom I occasionally have work-related dinners,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Quite romantic spots you choose for these “work-related dinners”,’ Inspector Singh pointed out.

  ‘And why not?’ she asked. ‘We need privacy to ensure client confidentiality and I personally am fond of good food – as you are, Inspector,’ she said, allowing her gaze to drift across his substantial belly.

  ‘You mean this?’ the inspector asked cheerfully, patting his ample stomach as fondly as he might have done a favourite mutt. ‘This isn’t food. It’s beer!’

  Ai Leen managed to convey her disgust with a slight flaring of the nostrils. ‘I really don’t see what any of this has to do with the murder. I think you would be doing us all a favour if you tried to solve the crime rather than cast aspersions upon my character.’

  ‘Do you have any thoughts on who might have done this?’ asked Singh in a much more conciliatory tone.

  ‘No, I do not. I only know it wasn’t me. Some stranger killed Mark. He must have snuck past the security guards. In fact, it was probably the security guards who did it.’

  This was her final word on the subject because she rose to her feet and, at a nod from the inspector, marched out of the room, powerful calf muscles bunched up above her high pointy heels.

  ‘What do we know about Ai Leen’s partnership?’ Singh demanded of his sidekick.

  ‘Not a lot, sir.’

  ‘Well, let’s find out then.’

  Fong found himself hurrying after the inspector as the fat man marched down the corridor. He had a surprising turn of speed for someone of his size. The inspector banged on Annie’s door like an irate husband and barged in. Over his superior’s shoulder, Fong saw her look up in irritation and then with genuine surprise as she saw who it was.

  ‘Tell me what you know about Ai Leen becoming a partner,’ ordered Singh.

  Annie’s fingernail went to her mouth. Fong had noticed this nervous gesture. He wondered whether it meant anything – that this woman was afraid. The corporal controlled a smile with difficulty. Being intimidated by Inspector Singh was hardly evidence of criminal tendencies.

  ‘I was up for partnership at the same time. One hears stories, of course…’ Annie broke off her sentence mid-way as if reluctant to reveal unsubstantiated rumours.

  Fong was unsurprised that Singh did not have the same qualms.

  ‘What sort of rumours?’

  ‘Oh…the usual stuff. Some partners were very keen to promote the local – you know, Singaporean – staff, others had doubts.’

  ‘How did you feel about it?’

  ‘Well, to be frank, if I’d been turned down, I would have been livid. But I can see why they wanted a Singaporean on the job. It looks better with clients. And she is a very good lawyer.’

  ‘And Reggie Peters,’ asked Singh innocently ‘What’s his wife like?’

  ‘Reggie’s wife?’ Annie queried. ‘Oh, a long-suffering bottle-blonde. I think she was his secretary once but I could be wrong about that. He does have a habit of hitting on women in the office.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Annie ducked her head in embarrassment.

  The inspector waited impatiently for her response, his sneaker-clad foot beating a silent tattoo on the thick carpet.

  She said, ‘Well, Reggie’s made the odd pass at me at office Christmas parties and such like.’

  ‘What did you do about it?’

  ‘Kept quiet. If I’d kicked up a stink, Reggie would have got a slap on the wrist but I would’ve been branded a troublemaker.’

  ‘And the next day?’

  ‘And the next day we both pretend it never happened. At least, I pretend. He may genuinely forget.’

  Fong’s expression must have conveyed his genuine amazement that sexual harassment of women was possible in an environment of highly paid lawyers.

  ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ Annie said bracingly. ‘Anyway, I’m not really his type. He prefers the Oriental beauty…like the second Mrs Thompson.’

  Twelve

  Singh’s knees were stiff from squeezing them under the too-small desk and his lower back ached, a recurrent pain. His head felt musty and crowded, as if someone had stuffed it with old socks. He really would be much happier conducting this murder investigation from his own chair behind his own desk at the police station.

  He took a small sheaf of papers out of an A4-sized envelope. These were the anonymous notes that had been found at the Thompson residence, delivered to him at the law offices by a policeman on a motorcycle. There were six notes, almost identical to one another. The messages were on plain white, good-quality paper. He guessed the notes had been done on someone’s personal computer, printed with a standard inkjet printer on A4 paper. Gone were the days, thought the inspector longingly, of manual typewriters with their individual idiosyncrasies, bits of newsprint from identifiable newspapers and hidden watermarks leading straight to the desk of the writer.

  As for the messages, except that the writer was educated – the notes were grammatically correct and well punctuated – there was not much to be gleaned from them. As Mark had intimated to Stephen, the notes asserted that Maria was still earning an income from prostitution despite being married to Mark. “Old habits die hard” as one of the notes pointed out.

  He smoothed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. It was too long, tickling his upper lip. He looked across at his sidekick. He was clean-shaven, his jaw so smooth that Singh was forced to the conclusion that, like so many of his race, Fong struggled to grow hair on his chin and jaw.

  He tossed the packet of letters over to the young man and the corporal flicked through them with unfeigned enthusiasm. He was the sort of policeman, still wet behind the ears, thought Singh, who preferred tangible physical evidence to the testimony of unreliable witnesses. It took a long time for rookies like Fong to understand that murders nearly always happened because of personal relationships gone awry, and they were solved in painstaking conversation with those same people. Most policemen never got the hang of it – they were thwarted the moment they were confronted with a killer who left no physical evidence. Their entire investigative methodology revolved around finding a fingerprint, a strand of hair or some revolting body fluid. Where was the fun in that, wondered Singh.

  ‘At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter who wrote these notes or whether the contents were true. What matters is that Mark Thompson believed them to be true,’ explained Singh.

  Fong’s lips were pinched together like a maiden aunt who had stumbled over some Internet porn. ‘The accusations aren’t very nice!’

  ‘That’s why Maria might have killed her husband. It’s a short trip from these notes to divorce and a penniless future.’

  Quentin popped his head around the door. ‘May I come in?’ he asked in a breathless voice.

  Singh, looking up from the wad of anonymous letters, nodded curtly.

  Once in a chair, Quentin ran a hand through his thin brown hair and leaned forward, his pale blue eyes popping with earnestness. ‘Have you made any progress in discovering who did this terrible thing?’

  ‘Who did this terrible thing? You mean who beat your boss to death at his desk?’ Inspector Singh did not like euphemisms for murder.

  Quentin Holbrooke turned an even whiter
shade of pale and nodded uncertainly.

  Glaring at him, Singh decided that he disliked insipid men with weak chins who didn’t call a spade a spade. He thought of Jagdesh Singh, his young relative. Now there was a man with a jaw to be proud of. He reminded himself, almost regretfully, that a weak chin did not equate with murderous tendencies.

  ‘We really must get to the bottom of this, for Mark’s sake and ours,’ said Quentin with an air of great seriousness.

  Singh did not understand his demeanour or address – Quentin’s manner reminded him of one of the prim and proper spinster teachers who had taught him as a young boy. The lawyer was playing a role, but why?

  Quentin was still talking. Unprompted, he was recounting finding the body and the events thereafter. He had been pub-hopping when Mark had called. He had prepared a list of the places – he wasn’t sure anyone would remember him but it was worth a shot if it got him off a murder rap.

  He slid a piece of paper across the table to the inspector. ‘That’s where I was before coming to the office and meeting Annie in the car park.’

  ‘By accident or design?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Did you meet Annie by accident or design?’

  ‘Oh! By accident, of course. I do try and meet her from time to time by design, but she’s a hard lady to pin down!’

  He said this last with a wink at the inspector.

  ‘Has your keycard turned up yet?’ asked the policeman tartly, annoyed by Quentin’s attempt to forge some sort of masculine bond with him.

  Quentin shook his head and the recalcitrant lock of fine hair fell across his forehead again. ‘I’m afraid not. I have absolutely no idea where the damned thing has got to!’

  ‘Were you a close friend of Mark Thompson?’

  ‘No, not really. He was too senior at Hutchinson & Rice to hobnob with the likes of me!’ He shuddered. ‘It was still a shock, finding him like that.’

  Singh ignored these professed sensibilities. ‘You’re working with Annie – Ms Nathan – on a matter in Kuala Lumpur?’

  ‘Yes, the takeover of Trans-Malaya – an interesting deal.’