The Singapore School of Villainy

by Shamini Flint

  Singh’s eyebrows almost met over the ridge of flesh that formed a hillock above his nose.

  ‘No, Aunty – my good appetite is my problem!’ Jagdesh patted his belly fondly.

  ‘Nonsense! You are still young. You need your food.’

  If you’re lucky, thought Singh snidely, you can eat Indian sweetmeats until you’re fifty and then struggle to tie your shoelaces. He didn’t utter the thought out loud. He was determined to maintain a sullen silence.

  His wife trotted to the kitchen and brought out a dish piled high with fresh chapattis.

  ‘If you marry Chinese, you won’t get this sort of food,’ she said.

  She had apparently decided the moment was ripe to go on the attack.

  Jagdesh grinned. His incisors were slightly longer than his other teeth and it gave his smile a devilish edge. Singh wondered how he had missed it before.

  ‘I’m sure a willing wife could learn how to cook. Maybe you could give her lessons.’

  Singh suppressed a smirk. The young lawyer had his wife torn between her horror that he seemed to be confirming the family’s suspicion that he had a Chinese girlfriend and her pleasure at the suggestion that her cooking was good enough to teach. His amusement turned to irritation when he noticed that his wife was now positively beaming at the compliment paid by this young scion of the extended family.

  ‘You musn’t upset your parents, they have high hopes for you.’

  Jagdesh laughed out loud. He said, his tone consoling, ‘I’m just joking, Aunty. I don’t have a girlfriend. Too busy at work.’

  Too busy at work indeed! He would have expected Jagdesh to be fending off the women with a broom, not too absorbed in his job to have a social life. Could anyone be that much of a workaholic? The taciturn policeman frowned. Had Jagdesh’s so-called busy schedule included a window to bump off the boss? After all, he was sceptical that Quentin Holbrooke was a murderer, the insider dealing just didn’t square with the account statements. He preferred not to believe that Maria Thompson had taken the ultimate step to ensure her financial security. Perhaps it was his good-looking young relative who was the culprit. But what possible reason could Jagdesh have had for killing Mark? So far, Singh acknowledged ruefully, his suspicions were based entirely on a gut feeling that the boy was keeping secrets and his exasperation at his wife’s fawning behaviour. It was hardly conclusive of guilt. After all, Mark Thompson hadn’t been on his case to settle down with a nice Sikh girl.

  Unlike his wife, who was not pulling any punches. She said, ‘I know some really pretty Sikh girls who are very anxious to meet you. One of them is a doctor!’

  It was her trump card, but perhaps played a little too early. Her expression was anxious as she scanned the face of the prospective groom. ‘England-qualified,’ she added hurriedly in case he should think that the girl had her medical degree from one of the hundreds of Indian colleges offering dodgy degrees to the offspring of status-conscious Indians from all over the globe.

  Jagdesh smiled sweetly at his hostess. ‘I would be very happy to meet her, Aunty.’

  Despite his earlier determination to maintain an aggressive silence to indicate his disapproval of this enforced tête-à-tête, Singh could not stand the saccharine conversation between his wife – his own wife – and this murder suspect.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ he demanded.

  Jagdesh looked at him in surprise, his masticating jaw slowing down but not stopping entirely.

  He spoke with his mouth still half-full. ‘What do you mean, Uncle?’

  Singh was distracted by the form of address. ‘I’m the inspector in charge of a murder investigation – and you’re a suspect! So let’s have less of this “uncle” nonsense.’

  Jagdesh swallowed hard and coughed – one large hand covering his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was just trying to be polite.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be so rude to our visitor,’ exclaimed Mrs Singh. ‘You heard what he said – he’s just trying to be polite. Maybe you can learn some manners from him!’

  Singh felt a sharp pain between his eyes. His wife was about to trigger a major headache with her wilful blindness to protocol. Not even he, the well-known maverick, could match her efforts to ignore appropriate conduct during a murder investigation.

  He tried again. ‘What are you afraid of?’

  Jagdesh pushed his plate away. Either he was finally full or he had suddenly lost his appetite. ‘I’m not afraid of anything, sir. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Singh nodded, as if he was taking his unwanted guest’s assertion at face value. But he had been quick to note that Jagdesh’s brown eyes had been gazing at the plastic table cloth when he had answered the question.

  Mrs Singh was triumphant. ‘See – I told you he wasn’t the murderer!’

  Later that night, across town, in a bar in Chinatown, a tall man perched on a red leather barstool polished smooth over the years. The bartender leaned over and tipped the last of a bottle of Chivas Regal into his nearly empty whisky tumbler. He held it up to show the man that the bottle was empty and received a nod of acknowledgement from him. The quiet, brooding sort, thought the barman idly. But he had a big man’s capacity for liquor. He had drunk steadily through a whole bottle of whisky. The only telltale signs were a redness around the eyes and a slight unsteadiness when he reached for his glass.

  ‘Can I get you something to eat?’ he asked.

  The big man shook his head, turning his bleary gaze to the barman. ‘No, I’ve had dinner – thank you.’

  The heavy front door of the bar was pushed open and the red lanterns that were strung across the streets were briefly visible. A waft of hot exhaust-laden air accompanied a young Chinese man onto the premises. He stood at the entrance, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimness within. He was dressed in black, a body-hugging short-sleeved shirt with oversized shiny ebony buttons all down the front, leather trousers and soft leather ankle boots with silver buckles. He had dressed in black to lend himself an air of sophistication, but his youth shone through. He must have suspected as much, because he nervously ran a hand through his thick spiky hair. After looking around the bar carefully, the corners of which were lost in velvety darkness, he sat down on a stool next to the tall man sipping his Chivas absent-mindedly and put his elbows on the bar. He had tanned, sinewy, hairless arms and his nails were clean and well manicured.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ the barman asked him.

  ‘Same thing as him,’ he said, nodding at the glass of the man perched on the stool next to him. His request drew a bleary glance from his neighbour and the Chinese man smiled at him in a friendly but tentative fashion. On receiving no response, he looked away and sipped his whisky while idly playing with the beer mat in front of him. A large brown hand took hold of his in a gentle but firm clasp. The young man glanced up at Jagdesh Singh and this time his smile was wide and confident.

  The mobile by Singh’s bed rang. Mrs Singh didn’t hear it. She had a pillow over her head to drown out her husband’s constant snoring.

  For a few semi-conscious seconds, his hand sought his alarm clock. Then the inspector answered the phone groggily, making a silent promise that if the call was not important he would have the badge of the policeman who had woken him. He hoped it was Corporal Fong. However, after listening to the caller for a few seconds, he grew alert and sleep slipped from him like a blanket falling to the floor.

  ‘No! Not yet. Wait for me. I’ll be there as soon as I can!’ He was almost shouting. His wife stirred by his side and he moderated his tone. He really, really didn’t want to have to tell her about the latest developments in his case.

  The apartment building was concrete, steel and glass. It towered above the older blocks around it, most of them empty and slated for destruction. Singh was outside a heavy door on the tenth floor. He had two uniforms with him, both of them looking nervous but excited. Singh did not share their energy or their enthusiasm. He knew he would be much happier remaini
ng in complete blissful ignorance of what he suspected lay behind the door.

  Sergeant Chung, who clearly thought of himself as some sort of action man after his altercation with the drug dealer, said, ‘Do you want me to break down the door, sir?’

  Singh looked pained. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘But we suspect the commission of an offence! We can go in…’

  Singh had never fully understood the expression about not teaching one’s grandmother to suck eggs but he was damned if he was going to be lectured in the small hours of the morning by some adrenaline-charged rookie. He muttered, ‘That’s why I’ve asked the security guard for the spare key.’

  Sergeant Chung looked crestfallen. Perhaps, thought Singh, he should have let the young fool break a leg trying to smash his way through the heavy door.

  An elderly man who walked with a limp and was dressed in a uniform festooned in epaulettes and shiny buttons arrived in the elevator. He held a large bunch of keys, one silver key pinched between a sweaty thumb and forefinger. ‘I bring you the master keys. But I very worried about what the residents will say. Sure they will be very angry.’

  ‘This is police business,’ said Singh brusquely.

  The old man, having recorded his disapproval of their conduct, slipped the key into the door and turned it silently. He looked inquiringly at the police. The inspector waved him away.

  Sergeant Chung pulled out his gun with a flourish.

  ‘Put that away, you young idiot! What do you think is going on in there exactly?’

  ‘We should be prepared for anything, sir!’

  ‘I’m not prepared to get shot in the back by you,’ growled Singh.

  Chung slipped his gun back into its holster, his mouth slack with disappointment.

  The inspector raised a stubby finger to his lips, took a deep breath and opened the door slowly.

  The room was empty and in semi-darkness. The dim light came from a single floor lamp. A thin strip of yellow light was visible under a closed door at the other end of the hall. Singh led the way, moving with unexpectedly light feet for such a superficially clumsy figure. He turned the handle and flung the door open.

  Two heads popped out from under the crumpled bedclothes. One belonged to a handsome, youthful Chinese man with dishevelled spiky hair whose mouth formed an “o” of surprise. The other man was the inspector’s nephew a few times removed, Jagdesh Singh.

  Inspector Singh leaned back against the doorpost, hands hanging limply by his sides. His murder investigation had just turned into a gay bedroom farce.

  Seventeen

  The sun was streaming in the large windows behind him so the lawyer sitting at his desk was a dark featureless silhouette. David could not see the expression on Stephen’s face nor deduce why he had been summoned by the senior partner.

  Stephen got to the point quickly. ‘I just got a call from the police station. Jagdesh has been arrested!’

  ‘Jagdesh has been arrested? What for? You don’t mean for the murder? What about Quentin?’

  ‘No, not for the murder.’

  Stephen’s voice was calm, but David sensed that the calmness was a thin veneer. The older man stood up and walked around the desk, his eyes stormy and bloodshot. His voice was wheezy, as if he was physically winded by the news he had just received.

  ‘Just tell me!’ David hurled his angry request at Stephen. He needed to know. He couldn’t understand Stephen’s unwillingness to reveal the details after having announced the raw fact of Jagdesh’s arrest.

  ‘Buggery!’

  David stared at him, genuinely mystified.

  ‘Superintendent Chen called – you know he agreed to keep the firm in the loop – to inform me that Jagdesh Singh was picked up last night. Or in the early hours of this morning, I should say. He was in bed with a young man.’

  David was bemused. He ran a thin hand through his short hair so that it stood up like the fur on an angry cat. ‘Jagdesh is gay? I never knew that.’

  ‘I didn’t either. No one did, it would seem!’

  ‘But I don’t understand why he’s been arrested.’

  ‘As the good policeman reminded me, homosexuality is still illegal in this country,’ stated Stephen.

  ‘You must be joking!’ exclaimed the lawyer from London.

  Stephen shrugged. ‘Well, it’s not called “unlawful carnal intercourse against the order of nature” in the statutes any more – merely “gross indecency” – but yes, homosexuality is still illegal in Singapore. The law isn’t much enforced, which is probably why you weren’t aware of it.’

  ‘What’s their proof anyway?’ demanded David.

  ‘The police tailed him to his flat from a well-known gay bar in Chinatown. And he was caught in bed with a young man by Inspector Singh.’

  David shook his head as if he was trying to clear his mind of wayward thoughts. ‘I thought you said the law wasn’t enforced. So why have they arrested Jagdesh?’

  ‘Superintendent Chen intimated that it might be a motive for murder…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me!’

  ‘But I don’t understand.’

  ‘Apparently, the thinking is that Mark might have found out about the homosexuality and Jagdesh killed him to keep his secret safe.’

  ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’ David was speaking through gritted teeth, a white ring of tension around his mouth. ‘Aside from the obvious point that there is no evidence that Mark knew, why in the world would Jagdesh kill him over something like that?’

  ‘You’re thinking like a lawyer from London,’ said Stephen gruffly. ‘But Singapore is one of the last bastions of the conservative society. It has an extremely vocal religious crowd – that’s why homosexuality is still illegal in the first place. It’s sort of like the “red” states in the United States, but without the liberals on the coasts.’

  David was snide. ‘God, gays and greed?’

  Stephen ignored the sarcasm. ‘Exactly,’ he said heavily.

  Annie stopped by the ladies’ room on the way to her office. She needed to splash some cold water on her face, try and clear her head of the events of the last couple of days. She had found the courage to tell Inspector Singh about the Tan Sri’s call but she was still aghast at what she had done. Quentin thought of her as a friend, a good friend, and she had told the Singapore police that he was insider dealing. She knew it had been the necessary and prudent thing to do. Insider dealing was difficult to prove if the criminal was careful and covered his tracks. But the Tan Sri’s allegation would have been sufficient to raise the possibility that she or Quentin might have a motive for murder. Quentin was already in deep trouble over the drugs. There was just no point keeping the Tan Sri’s suspicions a secret any more. Not when he was almost certain to call back sooner rather than later and speak to someone other than herself – he might even have gone directly to the police. It was only a matter of time, now that he was back in Kuala Lumpur, before he heard that Mark had come to a violent end. Annie squeezed her eyes shut. She knew she had done the sensible thing in telling Singh. But it didn’t make her feel any better about it.

  Annie reached the restroom. She flung the door open, stepped in and then stopped abruptly. The door swung shut behind her, clattering into the heels of her sensible shoes. Ai Leen was standing before the tall wall mirror above the spotless sinks. At the sound of Annie’s clumsy entrance, she whirled round, hurriedly trying to wind a pretty silk scarf around her neck – but not before Annie had a glimpse of her throat. The butterfly-shaped bruising on her neck had been made by angry hands.

  Annie started forward, exclaiming in horror. ‘Ai Leen! What happened…?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Jagdesh did not seem all right. He looked as if he had not slept in a while. His usually slick hair was dishevelled. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion and worry and he would not meet the inspector’s concerned gaze. His jaw, always slightly darker than his skin
despite his usual close shave, was covered in a dark layer of overnight growth. He just stood there silently and gazed unseeingly at the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry – I know this is hard for you. But I need to ask you some questions.’

  Singh forced himself to ignore Corporal Fong’s puzzled expression. He knew his moderate tone was at odds with his usual attitude to suspects and witnesses. But he could not ignore the young man’s ravaged face. It must have been bad enough to be caught, to have his homosexuality finally out in the open. But for the man standing outside the closet to be a policeman, and a relative, that was like rubbing salt into an exposed wound.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ he suggested. Jagdesh was swaying on his feet. He looked exhausted, as if he had dressed in a hurry before being bundled into a waiting police car and driven to the station with sirens blaring – which had indeed been the case – the last bit of fanfare courtesy of Sergeant Chung.

  Jagdesh’s expression suggested befuddlement, as if the simple request to sit down was too complex for his brain to process. Fong stepped forward and, with unexpected gentleness, ushered him into the chair.

  ‘Are you aware that homosexuality is illegal in this country?’

  There was no response from the other man. Singh repeated the question in a more assertive tone. He received a quick nod in reply.

  ‘Are your colleagues and family aware that you’re gay?’

  Jagdesh leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands.

  ‘I’ll take that as a “no”,’ said Singh dryly. He continued, ‘Did Mark Thompson know about your sexual preferences?’ He hated the line of questioning that he was being forced to adopt but he needed to be sure in his own mind that the young man would not have committed murder to preserve his secret.

  ‘I don’t think so – why do you ask me that?’ was Jagdesh’s confused response.

  Inspector Singh’s dark eyes were fixed on the young man’s face. Was this genuine puzzlement or a clever attempt to act the innocent? It was difficult to imagine that the unkempt young man with the tortured eyes was in a position to maintain any sort of deception. On the other hand, Singh reminded himself, this was a man who had managed to maintain his heterosexual persona in public for a long time, and had done so sufficiently effectively that Singh’s own wife was still seeking a suitable bride for him. He remembered dinner at his home – had it only been the previous evening? ‘I would like that very much, Aunty,’ Jagdesh had said when she suggested introducing him to a few would-be brides. Well, at least he knew now why such an attractive and wealthy young man had seemed peculiarly bereft of female company.