The Singapore School of Villainy

by Shamini Flint

  ‘That was a big packet we found in your bag. More than sufficient for the death penalty.’

  Unlike his colleagues earlier, Quentin did not appear shocked at his words. Singh supposed he must have been acutely aware of the risk he was taking in feeding his cocaine addiction. He was a lawyer, after all – smart enough to know the consequences of his actions but just too dependent on the drug to avoid them.

  ‘It was all for me. I was afraid, with the murder investigation, that I might not get a chance to buy some more for a while.’

  Singh nodded. It was plausible. Indeed, it was what he had suspected. ‘So that’s where all the money went?’

  Quentin smiled wanly. ‘I’m afraid so. I wish it had been horses. Can you believe I’m even behind on my rent?’

  Singh felt his respect for the young man grow. He was showing resilience now although it was a bit late in the day. The expression on Singh’s face was sympathetic. It was a well-documented, well-travelled road from drug addiction to criminal behaviour. He said, and it was a statement not a question, ‘And when the money ran out, you decided to indulge in a bit of insider dealing.’

  ‘What?’ There was genuine confusion in Quentin’s voice. His tone was shrill and surprised.

  Singh felt his first frisson of doubt, but he persevered. ‘And Mark Thompson found out – and now Mark is dead.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of murder?’

  Quentin shook his head from side to side as if trying physically to dislodge the accusation. A thin hand went to his neck as if he could already feel the rough cord of the noose.

  ‘You face a mandatory death sentence for the drugs – what’s the point in denying that you killed the boss?’ Singh asked the question as if he was the voice of reason itself. He continued, ‘Why leave your colleagues and friends with the suspicion of murder hanging over them?’

  Quentin dragged himself to his feet and thrust out his hands, a supplicant begging for understanding. ‘I didn’t do it. The insider dealing, the murder – that wasn’t me. None of it was me!’

  ‘This is your chance – maybe your last chance – to do the right thing,’ pointed out Singh.

  Quentin shook his head. Singh’s suggestion that he confess from a sense of altruism had fallen on deaf ears. Instead, the prisoner asked, ‘I don’t understand, why do you think it was me insider dealing anyway?’

  ‘You needed money!’ Singh looked at Quentin Holbrooke thoughtfully. If the young man was not tempted by the noble idea of self-sacrifice, he might prefer revenge. The fat man continued, ‘Besides, your colleagues are only too willing to point the finger of blame at you.’

  Quentin Holbrooke collapsed back into his chair as if the force of gravity was too much for his weakened body and refused to utter another word.

  ‘I’m not sure he did it.’ Singh hated to admit to doubt.

  ‘He must be lying, sir.’ Fong was clearly unconvinced by the assertions of a drug addict.

  ‘But he had absolutely nothing to lose by confessing to insider dealing – or, for that matter, to the murder. He knows we’ve got him for the drugs.’ The inspector’s bottom lip was thrust out so far he looked liked a petulant, albeit hairy, child.

  Fong’s rosebud mouth was pursed shut, indicating his reluctance to contradict his senior officer. Singh, however, wished he would argue further. He wanted Fong to test his scepticism by disputing it. The inspector desperately wished he could put his finger on what was troubling him. He had been uneasy ever since the interview with Quentin when the young man had denied further criminality in a voice that quavered with shock. It was causing the fat policeman indigestion, a very rare occurrence indeed.

  ‘Any word from the boys in the corporate crimes unit?’ he asked.

  Fong shook his head. ‘Not yet, sir.’

  Singh knew he could not expect a response so quickly. He had asked the boffins in the white collar crimes unit for some evidence that Quentin Holbrooke had been insider dealing. They had stared at him owlishly through thick-framed, thick-lensed spectacles. It would be very difficult to find a paper trail, or even an electronic trail – insider dealing was one of the hardest crimes to prove, they explained to Singh. The inspector had refrained from kicking a chair with difficulty. He had merely muttered, ‘Well, do your best,’ and waddled out of the room.

  He would love to have some proof to assuage his hunch that perhaps Quentin Holbrooke was not the murderer after all. It was like an itch in the middle of his back that he couldn’t reach to scratch, and it was driving him nuts.

  ‘Maria Thompson?’ asked Fong. His tone suggested he was half-heartedly throwing a young virgin into a volcano to appease the gods of law enforcement.

  It caused a sudden grin to spread across the senior policeman’s swarthy features. The upbeat mood was fleeting as he remembered his doubts over Quentin Holbrooke.

  As Fong eyed him nervously, Singh hunkered down in his chair, the layers of fat on his stomach folded like an accordion. ‘All right, let’s think this through. What do we believe might have happened?’

  ‘Quentin is a drug addict,’ Fong replied. ‘He was insider dealing to get money for the cocaine. Mark Thompson found out when the Tan Sri called him. He summoned a partners’ meeting. Quentin killed him before he could reveal what he knew.’

  ‘How long has the insider dealing been going on?’

  ‘About six months, according to David Sheringham.’

  Singh almost snatched Quentin’s bank statement. ‘Then can you tell me why Holbrooke was a pauper right up until the murder? He told me he was even behind on his rent! Surely, he would have used some of the funds – even if they were squirrelled away in some Swiss bank account – at least to pay the rent!’

  Fong nodded, a reluctant affirmation that the older man had a point.

  ‘We need to take a closer look at this. Who else worked on the Malaysian file?’

  ‘Annie Nathan and Mark Thompson, sir.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the door swinging open with a crash. Singh glanced up in surprise and was confronted with the sight of Superintendent Chen. He didn’t need to be a top-notch crime investigator to deduce that his boss was incensed – that was apparent from the clenched jaw and clenched fists.

  Superintendent Chen did not mince his words. He pointed a long, bony finger at Inspector Singh. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Singh noticed out of the corner of his eye that Corporal Fong looked as if he was about to wet himself. He didn’t blame the boy. Having a superintendent demanding answers was enough to try the courage of even a senior policeman. Not him, of course, he was used to it. Although, looking at his superior from under eyebrows that had flattened into straight lines, he had to admit he had no idea what was bothering his boss.

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Is it true that you’ve arrested one of the lawyers on a drugs charge?’

  Singh nodded his great turbaned head, his pink bottom lip thrust out. ‘Yes, sir, we found forty grams of coke in his briefcase. Open and shut case, and a damned good motive for murder.’

  ‘Has he been charged?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Release him!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me! Release Quentin Holbrooke.’

  Singh pushed on the arms of his chair, stood up and waddled up to his superior. He was so close that his belly was almost pushing the senior man back out of the door. He thrust his bearded chin forward so that chin and turban were a two-pronged attack. Through gritted teeth, he demanded, ‘Why in the world should I release him?’

  ‘Can you really be that naïve?’ asked the superintendent, taking an involuntary step backwards. ‘Don’t you think this murder investigation of yours has generated enough bad publicity for Singapore? Now you want to hang some thirty-something white yuppie from an international law firm for drug trafficking? You must be out of your mind!’

  A slight movement from Corporal Fong caug
ht their attention.

  The superintendent barked, ‘What is it? What do you want?’

  Fong was pale. A lock of jet-black hair had escaped its normal slick neatness and fallen over his forehead. ‘We found him with the drugs, sir. He didn’t deny it.’

  Singh guessed that the senior policeman was pleased to find someone else to vent his anger on, especially when that someone was a rookie who was ashen-faced with fear, his rapidly blinking eyes indicating a profound regret that he had been moved to contradict a senior officer.

  Superintendent Chen bit off each word as if it was a piece of sour mango. ‘I don’t care if you found the drugs in a condom shoved up a body cavity. We are not compounding the economic woes of this country in the middle of a recession by hanging an expat who works in the city – got it?’

  Singh found his voice. ‘We’re just waiting for some proof that he was insider dealing,’ he lied fluently. ‘What if he killed Mark Thompson?’

  ‘That’s another matter entirely. It will show that no killer of an expatriate is immune from prosecution. Justice in Singapore is blind!’

  And incapable of irony, thought Singh, but he kept his mouth shut.

  The sun was setting over the Singapore Botanic Gardens and the sky was streaked with crimson. There was the merest whisper of wind which swayed the treetops gently. The sounds of crickets chirping and clicking disturbed the stillness and the dusk air was heavy with the scent of white gardenias. Two figures stood under a massive flame of the forest tree, its red blossoms licking the sky like fire. The man and woman were engrossed in each other and had no eyes for the beauty around them. Their bodies were rigid with tension and their conversation took place in heated whispers. Both faces were contorted with such rage that it looked like they were play-acting rather than in earnest.

  ‘That fat policeman suspects something, I tell you! Why else would he have asked if we were close friends?’

  ‘That fool,’ said Reggie Peters contemptuously. ‘He couldn’t find his way out of a room with one door.’

  ‘You’re making a mistake, I tell you. We shouldn’t underestimate him. We have to end this once and for all.’ Ai Leen was pleading, not bothering to hide her desperation.

  He shook his head. ‘You’re just using this as an excuse to renege on a bargain.’

  Ai Leen summoned up a memory of the woman she had been once, the single-minded, ambitious, fearless creature who had let nothing stand in her way. She said, her voice threatening, ‘Don’t push me too far.’

  Reggie leaned forward and grabbed her by the throat, pushing her chin up with his thumbs until she was forced to look at him. For a fleeting second, it appeared possible to Ai Leen that Reggie might kill her, use his superior male strength to throttle the life out of her body. Instead, his body relaxed. He took a step back and then let go. Her hands went to her throat instinctively, protectively, but he made no further move against her.

  He said in a menacing whisper, ‘Listen very carefully to me, bitch. If I suspect your nerve is going, I’ll snap your neck like a twig!’

  Fear and defiance fought for mastery over her expression. She might have spoken but no words could navigate the passage of her hurt throat. Reggie turned and walked away. Ai Leen watched him go and then spat violently on the muddy ground where he had stood.

  ‘I know just who to ask to look into this alleged insider dealing!’ said Singh brightly.

  He seemed already to have forgotten the intrusion by Superintendent Chen and his dubious instructions to release Quentin Holbrooke. Corporal Fong was not quite so resilient. His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding. He wished he had not intervened, it hadn’t achieved anything except to provide an easy target for the senior policeman’s anger.

  Singh continued to muse. ‘If we can prove Quentin was insider dealing, we’ll have a good case against him for the murder. Annie Nathan thinks it was him but the opinions of others aren’t evidence. Isn’t that right, Fong?’

  Fong remembered his earlier fantasies in which he would save the day by nabbing a murderer in the nick of time while his superiors stood around flummoxed. They would have immediately promoted him, bypassing all the standard red tape to reward such an extraordinary addition to the Force. Well, his superiors were flummoxed – but so was he. At least Singh was trying to work through the puzzle. He, Fong, was just trying to keep his knees from trembling.

  ‘Are you going to do it, sir?’ he asked abruptly.

  A sharp vertical line bisected Singh’s forehead in two just above the bridge of his nose. ‘Do what?’ he asked.

  ‘Release Quentin…’

  ‘Well, you heard the man – let it never be said that Inspector Singh did not follow the instructions of his superior officers to the letter!’ Singh enunciated the word “superior” with enormous faux respect and then giggled like a schoolboy.

  The corporal’s face betrayed his confusion. Singh appeared to take pity on his young sidekick because he explained, ‘Look, for different reasons entirely, I have no desire to hang Quentin Holbrooke for drug trafficking. That’s not my job or my inclination. We’ll let him go. He’s at the end of his tether. Let’s see whether he ties a noose in it again – for the murder this time.’

  Fong pulled himself together with a conscious effort. ‘Who did you want to ask for help with the insider dealing matter, sir?’

  ‘Inspector Mohammed of the Malaysian police. We worked together on a recent case. A man of great ability, unimpeachable principles and,’ he continued almost admiringly, ‘an impeccable wardrobe.’

  Fong’s only encounter with the Malaysian police had been as a boy when his father had been pulled over for speeding on the road to Kuala Lumpur. ‘Nak settle, ke?’ the Malaysian cop had asked, pen poised threateningly over the traffic ticket. Fong’s father had pulled out a fifty ringgit note and slipped it to the policeman. Fong had cowered in the back seat of the car for the rest of the journey, convinced that the long arm of the law would soon yank them off to prison.

  Inspector Singh must have had a very different experience with the Malaysian police force if he was prepared to ask them for help.

  However, when they got him on the speaker phone, Inspector Mohammed sounded suspicious rather than pleased to hear from his Singaporean colleague. ‘Singh, to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?’ His expensive education was clearly audible in each syllable he uttered.

  The Sikh inspector chuckled. ‘Just trying to maintain friendly relations between the police forces of our two countries…’

  It was Mohammed’s turn to laugh. ‘Yes, I still wake up sweating from your last effort to forge a bond between nations.’

  Fong could not help smiling at this. It did not surprise him that Inspector Singh had stepped on a few toes on his Malaysian case. He had the biggest metaphorical feet of any policeman he had met – perhaps the shiny white sneakers were actually meant as a warning.

  Singh cut to the chase. ‘I’ve got a big case on my hands…’

  ‘I’ve been reading about it in the papers – some white expat got his head bashed in. Please don’t tell me there’s a Malaysian angle!’

  ‘Afraid so,’ said Singh cheerfully.

  Mohammed’s sigh was audible despite the crackling line. ‘OK, what do you want?’

  ‘One of the suspects might have been illegally trading the shares of a Malaysian company – Trans-Malaya Bhd.’

  ‘Insider dealing?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘They’d need a brokerage account here…’

  ‘Almost certainly not in their own name,’ said Singh.

  ‘Money trail?’ asked the Malaysian inspector.

  ‘Not a dime. Whoever did it has the cash squirrelled away in some numbered Swiss account.’

  ‘You don’t make it easy, do you?’ commented Mohammed.

  Singh was suddenly serious. ‘Neither do the murderers,’ he said heavily.

  Sixteen

  Even thirty years of marriage to this dogmatic, opinionated woman
had not prepared him for her latest effort to cause him maximum humiliation, thought Singh bitterly. He was livid and it showed in his drooping jowls and creased forehead. He was sitting at the dining table. A sumptuous spread of food was laid out before him. Almost unthinkably, in the face of such temptation, Inspector Singh had no appetite. This was not because he had taken a sudden dislike to his wife’s cooking. It was the identity of his dinner companion that had taken the edge off his desire for food.

  Across from him, a suspect in a murder investigation was tucking into his dinner and making polite small talk with his wife. He had asked Mrs Singh to inquire whether Jagdesh Singh was keeping secrets that her nosy relatives might be able to ferret out. Instead, Mrs Singh had invited him home for a meal. He shuddered to think what Superintendent Chen would say if he got wind of this cosy little dinner party.

  Mrs Singh was ladling more dahl onto Jagdesh Singh’s plate. His wife’s hair was tied up in a bun, a strand of jasmine flowers threaded through it. The perfume of the flowers could not compete with the spicy scent of home cooking.

  ‘Some more aloo?’ she asked, almost simpering over the simple question. It was not difficult to deduce that she had been bowled over by her good-looking guest.

  Jagdesh nodded, his mouth too full to speak. His plum-coloured lips curved into a smile and Singh was forced to the conclusion that Jagdesh Singh reminded him of a Bollywood film star. Aquiline nose, olive skin, sparkling teeth and warm eyes – hadn’t he just seen that combination on the television when his wife had been immersed in one of her innumerable DVDs?

  Mrs Singh nodded approvingly at her guest’s willingness to have seconds and ladled out a generous helping of the spicy potato and fenugreek dish while Singh pouted at the double standards. He was always being nagged to reduce his food consumption, not invited to have seconds – and no doubt thirds as well.

  ‘I like a boy who has a good appetite,’ Mrs Singh said, smiling at the hulking thirty-something lawyer as if he was a skinny ten-year-old who needed feeding up.