The Singapore School of Villainy

by Shamini Flint

  There was a half-hearted chuckle at the other end. The inspector supposed that the idea that Quentin’s best hope was his solving the murder was almost amusing. There had been no evidence so far that he would be able to do so. The bodies were piling up, the suspects were thick on the ground but the murderer was tiresomely elusive.

  ‘Did you talk to anyone? How did the story get out?’

  Quentin’s answer radiated puzzlement. ‘I have no idea. It certainly wasn’t me!’

  ‘It must have been one of your colleagues then – they’re the only ones who knew about the original arrest.’ In addition to Fong, the superintendent and himself, he could have added, but didn’t. He was quite sure that the leak hadn’t emanated from the police department.

  ‘But…but why?’ stammered Quentin. The knowledge of betrayal had been a body blow. Singh was not surprised. It was always an ugly moment, the discovery that there were people, so-called friends, family, colleagues, who were willing to do one harm to protect their own interests. Quentin no longer knew whom to trust. The sense of isolation, of paranoia, would be terrifying to a weak-willed young man who was a cocaine addict to boot.

  He answered the question. ‘I’m guessing to keep the police busy, keep the spotlight on you.’

  Quentin found his voice. ‘You mentioned earlier that one of my colleagues said I was the one insider dealing as well…’

  Singh grunted his acknowledgement of the truth of the statement. He had let that piece of information slip to see if it provoked Quentin into any reciprocal accusations but it had not worked at the time.

  ‘One of them must really hate me,’ muttered Quentin.

  ‘No reason to assume it was one and the same person,’ pointed out Singh.

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Quentin’s doubts were audible in his voice.

  What was that expression, wondered Singh – even paranoid people have enemies. It was hard for Quentin to fathom that there might be more than one person who was willing to throw him to the wolves. Singh said sharply, ‘Watch your back, keep your head down and your nose out of trouble!’

  There was silence at the other end. Quentin Holbrooke was lost in his own thoughts.

  Singh snapped the phone shut with a heavy hand. He needed a breakthrough, a stroke of luck, anything really that would give this investigation impetus. He felt as if he was swimming to a distant and yet visible shore against a very strong current.

  Corporal Fong’s mobile phone rang. He listened silently for a moment and then handed the device to Singh without explanation.

  It was Stephen Thwaites, sounding unusually tentative. He said, ‘Inspector Singh? I’m afraid I have a confession to make.’

  Singh remained silent. Was it possible that he had been wrong and Stephen Thwaites had killed a man in order to step into his shoes? He couldn’t believe it. He had taken a liking to the gruff lawyer with the bushy eyebrows who was prepared to accompany Mark Thompson around Singapore brothels rather than abandon him.

  ‘Sarah Thompson wrote the anonymous letters.’

  Singh suppressed a sigh of relief. It was not a confession of murder. He had half-suspected that the ex-wife was the letter writer – she had been sufficiently determined that the new marriage should fail. But the letters had been postmarked in Singapore and she had fled to England.

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘She emailed them to my wife who posted them for her in Singapore.’

  ‘I see,’ remarked Singh. So much for the evidence of Singapore postmarks. He would not have expected anyone to be naïve enough to lend the ex-wife a helping hand in her pursuit of revenge.

  ‘How come there was nothing on Sarah Thompson’s hard drive?’ he asked.

  ‘They used anonymous PCs at internet cafés, apparently.’

  Singh scratched his temple. He blamed the movies for this working knowledge that even the most unlikely culprits had on how to cover their electronic tracks.

  Still, although the contents of the letters might amount to criminal libel, he personally didn’t give a damn. His job was to hunt murderers, not to protect the fragile reputations of second wives. And the first wife had an alibi so notwithstanding her letter-writing skills, she had not taken the ultimate step to ruin her ex-husband’s marriage.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Stephen quietly. ‘She lied – my wife lied. She wasn’t with Sarah Thompson that evening.’

  ‘So what the hell did you think you were doing?’

  Singh’s voice ratcheted up several keys as he scowled at the two women sitting across from him. He had not bothered to ask Fong to bring in chairs as he had done the first time he interviewed Sarah Thompson. He was quite content this time to glare at her across his expansive desk while she sat sheepishly on an uncomfortable red plastic chair, her alibi-providing, falsehood-propagating friend next to her. Perhaps if he had been more authoritative, authoritarian even, these women would not have dared lie to him and Corporal Fong in the first place.

  Neither of the women had responded to his question. He supposed there had been a rhetorical flourish about it. The policeman discovered that he was actually grinding his teeth with irritation and forced himself to stop. His visits to the doctor were both regular and unpleasant – he didn’t want a dentist on his case as well.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sarah Thompson finally, her tone barely above a whisper. ‘It was my fault. I persuaded Joan to say I was with her.’

  ‘Any reason?’ asked Singh bitingly.

  ‘I was afraid you would think I had murdered Mark…’

  Singh’s jaw ached. He was sure that he had read somewhere that it was a sign of an impending heart attack. The policeman hoped that these women were not going to be the death of him. He had always assumed that his beloved wife – or her excellent cooking – would play that role. Massaging his chest with the heel of his palm, he asked tiredly, ‘So did you kill him?’

  There was a brief shake of the head from Sarah Thompson – it was almost as if she did not expect to be believed. And why should she, pondered Singh angrily. After all, this was the person with the most personal animosity towards the dead man.

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Joan asked me to come with her on this casino ship…’ Singh noted Stephen’s wife stir uncomfortably in her seat at the first mention of her name ‘…to forget about Mark for a while. I went on board, but I just couldn’t carry on. I had to talk to Mark, convince him that he had made a mistake. I know it’s pathetic but I was prepared to take him back…’

  She twisted a small handkerchief in her lap and the inspector noticed that the former Mrs Thompson had strong, masculine hands. Hands that could have bludgeoned her ex-husband to death?

  Her voice grew fainter and fainter as she continued her story. ‘I called the house. The maid told me that Mark was at the office. I knew I couldn’t get in there. I decided to wait for him outside his apartment block so that I could waylay him on the way home and he would have no choice but to let me say my piece. I waited for hours, just sitting on the pavement.’

  Sarah Thompson’s eyes were filled with tears. ‘He never came back,’ she said simply, a wealth of grief in her voice.

  Annie arrived home and sat in her car in the driveway. Everything appeared so normal. The house gleamed gold in the evening sun, the windows picked out in black paint. The cat was asleep on the veranda table, so relaxed he seemed like a furry black-and-white rug. She looked at the briefcase next to her and the dangerous secret it contained, then glanced at her watch. She would mix herself a very stiff drink and wait for David. She had called him and he had agreed to come over at once. He had wanted to know what it was about but she had refused to reveal anything over the phone, merely insisting it was urgent. Annie knew that Inspector Singh should have been her first port of call but she had turned to Sheringham instinctively. Annie acknowledged that it was the first time in her adult life that she had felt such a strong attraction to anyone. Prior to this, she had always bee
n too immersed in her career, in the accumulation of a protective layer of wealth, to have had the time or patience for a serious relationship. From David’s tone, she was confident that her sentiments were reciprocated. She knew that, in the midst of a murder investigation, with all their senses sharpened with anxiety, both of them were probably feeling the mutual appeal more strongly than might have been the case if they had met in more normal circumstances. But a growing part of her believed that the prematurely grey man with the broken nose and appealing smile had an important part to play in her future.

  Getting out of the BMW, Annie headed into the kitchen and was mixing herself a drink when she heard the grinding of gears that heralded the arrival of a taxi. David was early. She smirked like a schoolgirl. Well, she would mix a drink for both of them.

  Carrying two gin and tonics outside, Annie was astonished to see Quentin standing on the veranda. She exclaimed and spilt some of the liquid over her hand.

  She glared at him, setting down the crystal glasses and licking her fingers. ‘Jesus, Quentin! What are you doing here?’

  He would not meet her eyes but instead settled on a careful perusal of the middle distance. She noticed how worn and pale he looked. He was not in a position to get any more drugs – not now that the police knew his history.

  ‘Now is really not a good time, Quentin.’

  ‘I must talk to you!’ His tone was determined despite his frail appearance.

  Any sympathy that she felt receded into the darkness and was replaced with annoyance. ‘I’m expecting someone.’

  ‘I know you are,’ said her colleague evenly. ‘I asked your secretary where you were and she told me that you’d gone home to meet David Sheringham.’

  Annie made a mental note to fire Ching at the first opportunity. ‘Well, if you knew that, I’ve no idea what you’re doing here.’

  Quentin seemed to have a change of heart, or at least a change of approach.

  ‘Annie, I just need fifteen minutes…please!’

  She glanced at her watch and decided the quickest way to get rid of her unwanted visitor was to hear him out. ‘OK, you can have ten minutes. Let’s go for a walk.’

  They set out together, drinks left untouched. Annie, from habit, set a purposeful pace and headed in the direction of the cemetery.

  As they entered through the massive wrought-iron rusty gates, Annie, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice, asked, ‘What did you want to say?’

  Quentin picked his way through the overgrown paths and sat down on a squat gargoyle, covered in lichen and moss and guarding an ornate, tiled semi-circular grave. The monument glowed orange and green in the half-light. Annie remained standing, glaring down at him, her arms folded. A stone statue of a young goddess stared up at her with a matching expression.

  He muttered, ‘About the insider dealing…’ and stopped.

  Annie’s wary gaze was fixed on her colleague. She sat down on a moss-covered tombstone.

  ‘I didn’t believe the inspector at first – that it was someone from Singapore. But he said there was no mistake; they had spoken to you and cross-checked the story with Tan Sri Ibrahim.’

  Annie’s response penetrated the dusk like a searchlight. ‘The Tan Sri called me a few days before you were arrested.’

  ‘That’s why they thought I might have had a motive to kill Mark.’

  Annie nodded her understanding. ‘It’s because the Tan Sri told Mark about his suspicions the day he died.’

  Quentin’s face was lost in the lengthening shadows. He said quietly, ‘That fat policeman told me that someone in the office had fingered me.’

  She folded her arms tight across her chest.

  ‘At first I thought it must have been Stephen, or perhaps Reggie. But I’ve been thinking and thinking – and I’ve realised it had to be you who told him.’ Quentin’s voice was thin and echo-less.

  He continued, ‘You’re the only one who knows enough about the file – the only one that Singh would have believed.’

  She nodded briefly.

  He sighed and walked over to the gravestone. The inscriptions were brief and to the point. Gold flaking paint gave the names and dates of birth of the patriarch and his two wives.

  ‘But Annie,’ he said, ‘I didn’t do it. The insider dealing, I mean – it wasn’t me.’

  Twenty-Two

  Singh dropped his briefcase by the door and collapsed into his favourite armchair. He leaned back, trying to find some comfort in its familiar contours, but his upper back was too stiff with tension. He pushed against the heel of one trainer with the toe of the other, hoping to kick it off.

  He still could not believe that Joan Thwaites had lied about Sarah Thompson’s alibi. Stephen had been horrified by his wife’s behaviour – and with good reason, thought Singh grimly. He had a good mind to charge her with obstructing the police in the course of their investigations. Idiotic woman with messy hair in her ill-fitting jeans – what had she been thinking? Undoubtedly, she had been bullied into doing it by the stronger personality, but did that make Sarah Thompson a murderer?

  His wife walked in with a cup of hot tea. He accepted it gratefully and mumbled his thanks. Strong sweet tea was the only thing that stood between him and a blinding headache. He closed his eyes and pictured Sarah Thompson, her skin pulled surgically taut over her face but wrinkled around her neck like a lizard with neck flaps, platinum blonde hair with dark roots showing, high heels and a short skirt. What was that expression? Mutton dressed as lamb. He opened one heavy lid and looked at his wife – thank goodness she did not aspire to an inappropriately youthful appearance. He vaguely recalled that his own mother had worn caftans like his wife did now.

  He remembered the tears in Sarah Thompson’s eyes as she had described waiting for her ex-husband to come back to the home they had shared during their marriage but which now housed his nubile young widow. Those tears had been genuine.

  Besides, notwithstanding the collapse of her alibi, it was highly improbable that the ex-wife would have been escorted to the office by her former husband. And as someone who believed at the time that she had a watertight – albeit-fake – alibi, there would have been no need for Sarah Thompson to risk killing Jagdesh. He slammed his fist into his palm, suddenly angry. Mark Thompson had left a trail of destruction that had culminated in his murder. But that had not been the end. Jagdesh Singh had been a victim too.

  Singh heard a sudden sizzling sound – batter in hot oil. A rich scent of fried cempedak emanated from the kitchen and he felt a simple gratitude towards his wife.

  ‘Fried cempedak?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Yes – just ripe today.’

  The inspector nodded his pleasure. He threw her a bone – she deserved it, this skinny wife of his who had guessed that only his favourite teatime snack could restore him on such a truly frustrating day. ‘You were right – Jagdesh was innocent.’

  ‘Actually, once you told me he was a homosexual type, I said he did it.’

  ‘Well, before that then…’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He had an alibi – a young man was with him.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s happening to the world that one of our boys can be like that but at least he’s not a murderer.’

  ‘Poor fellow,’ said Singh. ‘He didn’t deserve the way things turned out.’

  Both of them paused and looked towards the dining table, picturing the young lawyer tucking into his dinner and agreeing that he would like to meet a nice Sikh girl and settle down.

  ‘The mother collapsed, you know – only son,’ explained Mrs Singh briefly.

  Singh nodded. His failure to find the killer of Mark Thompson had resulted in a young man’s death at the hands of some unknown killer. And far away in Delhi, a family had been destroyed.

  Mrs Singh went into the kitchen and returned with a plate of the fried fruit in golden batter. ‘He really enjoyed my cooking, you know,’ she said sadly.

  Singh took one of he
r hands in his and gave it an affectionate squeeze. ‘He really did.’

  Quentin took both Annie’s hands in his, bringing them up to the level of his chest. He looked into her eyes, the brown pools turned almost black as her pupils widened to catch the last light of the day.

  ‘And that’s not all, is it? It wasn’t enough to tell Singh that I was insider dealing. You told the newspapers that I’d been let off…’

  ‘Of course not!’ She tried to free her hands but his grip tightened.

  ‘I don’t believe you. My God, Annie – I thought you were my friend.’

  ‘Let me go, you’re hurting me.’

  His pale eyes glistened in the encroaching darkness. His hands were sweating from the contact of skin on skin in the humidity.

  Again, she tried to wrest her hands free.

  Quentin’s head was pounding, twin hammers on his temples. There were sharp pains behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly. It felt as if he was looking into a hot bright light even though the two of them were shrouded in gloom. He could feel a damp layer of cold sweat on his face and neck. A breath of wind passed through the trees and he shivered.

  ‘How could you do this to me? I trusted you!’ he said and his voice ascended until it was a shrill animal scream.

  Bats, quick black shadows, flitted back and forth chasing unseen insects. Something brushed against his cheek, a rush of velvet. He started and saw that it was an early owl.

  He was weak, almost lightheaded. He needed to go home and inhale a line of coke – it was the only thing that made him feel good, strong, powerful. But there wasn’t any. The police had his stash. His dealer had been arrested. He had no money and the police had told him – he remembered Singh’s beard thrust aggressively into his face, he had smelt of curry and cologne – that if he crossed the line again there would be no second chances. He felt the first flames of rage and it was almost a relief to feel his self-control waver.