The door opened and Superintendent Chen hurried in, smiling broadly. He stopped when he saw Jagdesh Singh although the young man, lost in his own world, did not appear to notice the interruption.
‘Ah…good! You have the suspect.’
Singh scowled at his superior. This was not the time for the senior man to undermine his carefully laid groundwork. He hoped the boss would leave the questioning of the emotionally fragile young man to him but he was not optimistic. Superintendent Chen was fidgeting like a man who had drunk far too much coffee that morning.
Jagdesh raised his head and looked at Singh, ignoring the other two men in the room. Singh had previously only seen such an expression of desperate pleading on the faces of street children in Jakarta. Then, it had caused him to turn out his pockets. He felt like reaching for loose change now.
Jagdesh asked, ‘Does anyone else have to know…you know, about me?’
Singh noticed the superintendent shift uncomfortably but ignored him.
He said gently, ‘Not if you tell me everything I need to know.’
Jagdesh sat up a little straighter in his crumpled shirt. The inspector noticed that the buttons were done up wrong. The lawyer said, his voice a little firmer than it had been previously, ‘All right.’
‘Did Mark Thompson know about your homosexuality?’
‘I don’t think so – he never suggested he did. Why is that important?’
Superintendent Chen could keep quiet no longer. ‘Why is that important? Don’t try and act the innocent with us! You killed Mark Thompson to hide your dirty little secret. Well – your secret is out. I’ve already told your bosses that you were arrested for gross indecency.’
Singh leapt to his feet in shock. ‘Sir, how could you do that?’
Jagdesh looked as if each word had struck him like a cudgel. This was police brutality too, thought Singh, a vicious verbal version of the more common physical abuse.
‘Why not?’ demanded Chen. ‘You’re not doing your job and asking the tough questions. You’re acting like everything is normal just because this – what do you call it? – “queer” is a relative of yours!’
‘We have no evidence that Mark knew!’
‘Well – find the evidence then…’
‘I will do whatever this job requires without letting misplaced prejudices determine my investigative methods, sir,’ said Singh stiffly.
Superintendent Chen’s eyebrows formed two persuasive semi-circles. ‘You must see that this fellow has a motive for killing Mark Thompson?’
Singh nodded hastily to Corporal Fong, who escorted Jagdesh out of the room, a firm hand on his upper arm. If he was going to discuss possible motives with Superintendent Chen, he did not intend to do so in front of a suspect.
‘I’m not convinced that Jagdesh would murder someone just because they found out he was gay,’ the inspector said adamantly. ‘If Mark knew – and it’s a big if – at most he would have indulged in a bit of late-night gossip over a glass of wine. There’s no reason to assume that he was a homophobe!’
Superintendent Chen’s words dripped with derision. ‘There was so little discrimination and prejudice that he was comfortable telling everyone he was gay? Anyway, he may work for an international law firm, but he’s an Indian from Delhi. Not exactly the gay capital of the world.’
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘I understand what you’re telling me,’ Chen said in a mollifying tone. ‘But in this culture, and in his own culture, his sexual orientation might be a motive for murder!’
Singh nodded reluctantly. Superintendent Chen was right – after all, the senior policeman was a living breathing example of the sort of prejudice Jagdesh might have expected to encounter in India and Singapore if his homosexuality had been public knowledge. He didn’t want to admit it, but his job was to find a murderer, not to ignore the available evidence because he objected to society’s norms.
‘I’m prepared to release him from custody for now. We’ll decide later whether to charge him for this crime – or any other – once you’ve done your job and found me some evidence!’
Singh nodded, desperate to get his senior officer out of the room before he was provoked into saying something that cost him his badge. Now more than ever he needed to stay on the job if he was to prevent his relative from being prematurely charged with the murder of Mark Thompson.
‘And what about Quentin Holbrooke? Have you released him?’
Singh shot a questioning glance at Fong, who had sidled back into the office. ‘Yes, sir, he was released today.’
‘Excellent – perhaps one of you policemen might consider finding me some evidence of murder now!’ On this parting shot, the superintendent marched out of the room.
Fong said quietly, ‘I never suspected Jagdesh was gay.’
‘He’s gone to great lengths to keep his secret,’ agreed Singh reluctantly.
‘Do you think he might have done it?’
‘Kill Mark? Over this? No, I don’t think so. But I must say I’m not sure what to believe.’
The inspector rubbed his eyes tiredly. He had been up all night. He was much too old to be dragged from his comfortable bed for stake-outs and midnight arrests. He snapped. ‘Well, let’s not worry too much about whether we believe Jagdesh killed Mark. This is a murder investigation, not the Oprah Winfrey show. I want evidence that Mark knew about Jagdesh Singh’s secret. Without it, we have nothing!’
The two men walked out of the room together.
Jagdesh was sitting on a plastic stool outside the door, a young uniformed policeman next to him.
‘Mr Jagdesh Singh,’ said Inspector Singh formally. ‘I am releasing you for the present. We will decide whether to press charges at a later date. I already have your passport. You are free to go.’
Jagdesh rose to his feet and stumbled towards the stairs. For a brief moment, Singh wondered whether to go after him. He took a small step forward but then changed his mind. Jagdesh needed some time to lick his wounds. Arrested, outed, humiliated and suspected of murder – it was a lot to contend with without a clumsy attempt at kindness from a distant uncle.
Eighteen
Inspector Singh was watching videos. Every now and then he would gesture to Corporal Fong who was in charge of the remote controls. The corporal had learnt over the last ten minutes which gesture indicated that he was to pause, rewind or play a particular scene again, so the irritable outbursts that had punctuated the first part of the reel were now over. The film that Inspector Singh was watching was in black and white and of extremely grainy quality. The figures were out of focus and distant. It did not seem to merit his absorption.
The CCTV cameras in Republic Tower were a comprehensive network that covered the lift lobbies as well as every public area. It would have been difficult to enter the building and avoid being caught on film. But the murderer had been lucky and the cameras were out of action. The inspector, however, believed that there was always one lucky break for each side in a case. And now, unexpectedly, Corporal Fong claimed to have found taped evidence, not on the CCTV tapes from Republic Tower, but on the tape from a building half a block away. The corporal had requisitioned all the tapes from a three-block radius as instructed by his tubby boss and watched every single one late into every night. On one of them, spotted by Fong’s sharp young eyes but visible even to the rheumy old eyes of the inspector, was Mark Thompson walking in the direction of Republic Tower for his appointment with death. His young Filipina wife teetered alongside on high heels.
Singh sighed. He said, ‘Great! More suspects!’ He had a surfeit of suspects.
‘More suspects is better than no suspects, sir!’
Singh looked at his assistant suspiciously. Was he trying to be funny? It seemed unlikely. He knew very well that his aggravation at Corporal Fong was merely displacement of his much greater annoyance that he was not making better progress with the case. Newspaper editorials were calling for a quick resolution of the murder inv
estigation that was a stain on Singapore’s reputation amongst the international community. Superintendent Chen had been the conduit for every complaint about the slow rate of progress from the senior echelons of government and the police force. Singh gritted his teeth. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t doing his best. He reached for a packet of cigarettes to help him calm down. He thought of Quentin Holbrooke. Was he so different from that miserable young cocaine addict? He too had his drug of choice – tobacco instead of a product of coca leaves. His favourite weed was legal, albeit highly taxed and a regular drain on his resources.
‘Fong!’ he snapped, extricating a cigarette and slipping it between his thin upper lip and moist pink bottom lip.
The young man was sufficiently inured to the senior policeman’s tetchy tones to remain seated but he did turn to look at his boss with a pained expression on his face. Probably thinks I’m going to send him for coffee, thought Singh.
He paused for a moment to light his cigarette, ignoring the corporal’s slight grimace as the smell of tobacco-laden smoke reached his overly sensitive nose. ‘We have evidence placing Maria Thompson a hundred yards from the scene of the crime. We need to question that young lady again.’
Inspector Singh’s and Maria Thompson’s positions were almost identical to those they had assumed the night he had gone to break the news of Mark’s murder. He sat in the straight-backed chair; she sat across from him on the red velvet sofa. There were changes to the room: subtle, but ripe with meaning. The pictures of her and Mark were gone. In the same frames were recent shots of herself and her children, by the sea, in a garden and in that very room. On the Afghan hand-knotted rug between them, a child had commenced building a train set complete with stations, miniature people and animals. Life now animated the room.
Maria Thompson professed indifference to the anonymous letters, barely glancing at them even when Singh waved them under her nose like an overenthusiastic perfume seller at a department store counter. ‘What for do I care what this person says? She does not even dare to put her name on the letters!’
‘How do you know the author was a “she”?’
‘It was his ex-wife, I tell you!’
Singh shrugged. It was possible. The provenance of the notes was less relevant than their consequences.
‘It was because of these letters that Mark went to look for you on Balestier Road.’
‘Men are like that sometimes. A wife is not enough. It does not mean anything.’
‘He was looking for you!’
‘Mark would never believe these lies.’
Maria swept her hair up into a knot, exposing the elegant line of her neck. This was a woman, thought Singh, who was instinctively flirtatious – she almost could not help herself.
He had one more card to play. He watched her, a small part of him admiring her porcelain-perfect face, trying to gauge whether the time had come to show his hand. He opened the manila folder he was carrying and slipped a black-and-white photo across the coffee table towards her.
She glanced at it with mild interest and asked, ‘What is this?’
He said, ‘A photo taken from a CCTV camera two blocks from Republic Tower.’
‘What for you show this to me?’
He said evenly, ‘It was filmed on the night of the murder.’
She repeated the question. This time her voice had a hard centre, her Filipina accent coming through more strongly.
The inspector stood up and folded his arms, a round figure with an air of menace.
‘I am saying that you were near Republic Tower on the night of the murder. You lied to me when you said you were at home.’
She shrank back in her chair and crossed herself furtively, the profound Catholicism of the average Filipina putting in an appearance. Then she pulled herself together. It was a conscious, visible effort. Her back straightened and her hands fell to her sides. She lifted her chin and met his gaze without fear.
‘So what?’ she asked.
‘I discover that you lied to me, that you were at the scene of your husband’s murder, a murder for which you have an excellent motive – the best motive of all, money – and that is all you have to say to me?’
She did not flinch. She was a woman hardened by experience. She had battled all the adversity that life had dealt her with such a generous hand, using her only weapons – her face and her will. She was not going to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
He tried again. ‘You were in the area that night. I know it and you know it. Did you see anything that would help me find out who did kill him?’
He could see that she was sorely tempted to say something, make something up perhaps. But her innate caution stopped her.
‘If I go to the office, maybe I saw something…but I did not.’
His gambit had failed. The inspector knew that he was no further along than he had been when he rang her doorbell half an hour earlier.
It was time to change strategy. ‘All right, yours was the perfect marriage, your husband trusted you completely.’ His voice had a hopeful note as he finished his sentence. ‘Did Mark ever tell you any secrets – about the lawyers?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did he know something about any of them, something that the other partners didn’t know?’
Singh held his breath. Was there some small possibility that Mark had confided in her, told her about Jagdesh’s homosexuality or Quentin’s drug addiction?
Maria was thoughtful, as if trying to decide whether to speak up or keep silent. Finally, she shook her head. ‘The lawyers treat me like rubbish. Mark did not talk to me about them.’
Singh’s shoulders were round with disappointment.
Maria suddenly laughed out loud. Fissures appeared in the thick cake of make-up on her face. ‘Except that the handsome one is a paminta!’
‘What do you mean?’ Singh was not familiar with Filipino street slang.
‘You know, the Indian. He’s gay. Mark and I spotted him at a bar last month – with a man! I said to Mark, I don’t understand. He’s good-looking that one, surely he can get a girl.’
Singh winced at the casual dismissal of homosexuality as a predilection of ugly men but persevered. ‘What was Mark’s reaction?’
She raised her shoulders dismissively. ‘Why should he care?’
‘Did he tell anyone?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Singh nodded his great head. ‘Here’s my card. If you reconsider any of the lies you’ve told me – give me a ring.’
She took it reluctantly, her hand brushing against his fingers. She looked at him through half-closed eyes before approaching him slowly. She put one slender hand on his chest and he felt his heart beating faster. A shadow of a smile played across her face, like a breath of wind through leaves.
‘Can I help you in any other way?’ she asked in a low tone, never taking her eyes off his face.
His large hand closed over hers and he stood looking at her, breathing in her delicate scent and admiring the doll-perfect features.
He said distinctly, enunciating each word with full round syllables for maximum impact, ‘There is nothing you can do for me.’
Annie walked down the corridor with hesitant steps until she was outside Ai Leen’s door. She had to confront Ai Leen. She could not let things stand – not after what she had seen. She took a deep breath, rapped on the door and marched in, not waiting for an invitation. She doubted that Ai Leen would be keen to see her, to speak to her, if her flight from the ladies’ room was any evidence. She would have to force the issue.
Ai Leen was standing by a cabinet, rifling through files. Annie noticed immediately that she had the scarf wound carefully around her neck, all evidence of the terrible bruising, the imprint of fingers on her slender neck, obscured by the light silk material.
‘What do you want?’ snapped Ai Leen, her eyes firmly on the task at hand, refusing, after an initial sidelong glance, even to look at her colleague.
Her fingernail going to her mouth, Annie said awkwardly, ‘I just wanted to see if you were all right. You know – your throat…’
‘I’m fine. Now why don’t you mind your own business?’
‘Ai Leen, please – I just want to help.’
The other woman whirled around on her high heels as she slammed the filing drawer shut. Her cheeks were flushed with anger, slashes of red across her high cheekbones. She marched up to Annie, her gaze penetrating and unblinking.
‘You just want to help? Really? Then get out of my room and keep your mouth shut about what you saw. That’s the only way you can help me.’
She held the door open and Annie retreated hurriedly. She heard rather than saw the door slam shut behind her.
Annie was soon sitting hunched and tense in her own chair. She watched the cursor on her screen flashing repetitively. It was vaguely hypnotic and she enjoyed the sense of respite it gave her. It was all getting too much for her. Her attempt at comforting Ai Leen had been misconstrued and she had no idea what to do next to help her colleague. She supposed it must have been Ai Leen’s seemingly unassuming husband who had left those marks and she was too embarrassed to admit it or seek help. Nothing else would explain her rage at Annie’s offer of support.
A hesitant knock on the door brought her around. Was it Ai Leen, regretting her earlier outburst? However, when the door opened it was David Sheringham who walked in. She looked at him in surprise. He was pale and the lines around his mouth and eyes were deeply etched, as if he’d received a recent shock.
The Singapore School of Villainy Page 19
