The Singapore School of Villainy (7 page)

The lawyer did not seem put out by the question. ‘Keeping the firm's reputation intact if possible; helping out with the manpower shortage.'

Singh chuckled suddenly – he had never heard a murder referred to as a manpower shortage before. ‘Keep the reputation of the firm intact, eh? Might be difficult as it looks like one of your lawyers bumped off the senior partner!'

The young man grimaced, the expression emphasising the bump on his nose. Perhaps he was like Pinocchio, thought Singh, and it was possible to tell when he was lying.

‘I'm still hoping there's some explanation for this key thing.'

‘No harm hoping – but I'm relying on the evidence,' said Singh cheerfully, ‘and so far the most likely killer is one of your lot.'

Sheringham nodded pensively.

Singh was pleased that he was not naïve – or bloody minded – enough to deny the obvious. ‘In fact, based on the partners' meeting Mark Thompson called just before he was killed, I think this murder had something to do with the firm of Hutchinson & Rice.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Maybe one of your lawyers was misbehaving and Mark Thompson found out?'

‘Highly unlikely,' insisted Sheringham.

‘More unlikely than your senior partner being bludgeoned to death at his desk?'

David Sheringham touched the side of his nose with a long finger to indicate that the inspector had made his point.

‘What sort of things was Mark Thompson working on?'

‘Not an awful lot…'

‘More queen bee than worker ant, eh?'

Sheringham shrugged.

‘Any smoking guns?'

There was a quick shake of the head. ‘Not very much would make its way to London anyway.'

The portly inspector was quick to spot the implications of his carefully chosen words. ‘Not very much? But something did!'

‘It's irrelevant.'

Singh didn't bother to point out that the only thing that was irrelevant was the opinion of the young lawyer. He merely bided his time, chewing on his lower lip as he watched David Sheringham wrestle with the issue.

As he suspected, the partner from London had a practical streak. There was no point denying anything that could be obtained, albeit with more leg work, from another source.

‘Mark believed that one of the directors of a Malaysian client company, Trans-Malaya Bhd., an infrastructure development outfit, was insider dealing. He wanted to withdraw from the transaction.' He continued, his voice taking on a pedantic tone, ‘Insider dealing is where a party uses information not in the public domain to trade shares and make an illegal personal profit.'

Singh growled, ‘I know what insider dealing is – I don't understand why it concerned London.'

‘Not all the partners believed that Hutchinson & Rice should withdraw on principle.' David Sheringham ducked his head, his expression sheepish. ‘The transaction was a bit of a cash cow.'

‘Why didn't you just tell the Malaysian company about the director?'

‘You know as well as I do that insider dealing is difficult to prove – perpetrators use third party brokers and numbered accounts to squirrel away the profits…'

The inspector pondered the new information for a moment. It was difficult to see yet how it could have led to the death of Mark Thompson. Still, it was the first hint of dissent within the ranks of the legal firm. He would have plenty of opportunity to rattle a few cages and see if the lawyers could be persuaded to reveal more secrets.

As if reading his mind, David Sheringham said, ‘We would appreciate it if the police conducted their inquiries in the most discreet fashion possible.'

Singh eyed him curiously. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘It would be better if the interviews were conducted in our offices rather than at the police station. It gives us a chance to avoid those reporters in the foyer.' He gesticulated with his head to indicate the gauntlet he had run trying to get in to see the inspector.

‘You must be bloody joking if you think I'm traipsing across to Republic Tower every day just to save your firm some embarrassment.'

‘Superintendent Chen has already agreed to my suggestion.' David Sheringham's tone was mild and polite. Singh had to appreciate the fact that he refrained from sounding triumphant despite having lined up the big guns on his side.

The policeman's stomach growled angrily and for once it was an echo of his mood.

 

Maria Thompson had her face pressed up against the glass wall at the arrival hall of Changi Airport. She scanned the passengers with anxious eyes. She spotted them – two slim, dark-haired children, a boy and a girl, holding hands and looking worried. An airline employee loaded their small suitcase onto a trolley from the revolving baggage carousel and then escorted them towards the green lane exit. Maria moved forward slowly and then with a rush, enfolding them in a fierce embrace. They stood stiffly in her arms for a moment and then found the confidence to return her tight hugs. Tears smeared her make-up but nature stepped in to erase some of the lines of care that had developed in the years since she last saw them.

Singh decided immediately that he disliked the first Mrs Thompson. He knew the type all too well. A middle-aged white woman, spray-on tan, arms and legs toned by personal coaching sessions with wiry male yoga instructors, full lips – Botox probably. He noted the short skirt that exposed the blue ink tracings of varicose veins behind her knees. Her large feet were crammed into a slim pair of sandals, toenails painted a bright red peeping out the ends.

He had insisted that Sarah Thompson come to the police station first thing that Sunday morning. She was still a guest with the Thwaites family and he had no intention of interviewing a suspect while other suspects eavesdropped enthusiastically. His instructions to interview suspects at the law offices presumably only applied to the lawyers. Now, they sat across from each other on the plastic folding chairs that Fong had carried in. Singh did not want to be seated behind his desk when he talked to the woman. He had found over the years that witnesses and suspects found it easier to be economical with the truth to someone behind a big desk.

He glanced up and noticed Fong standing rigidly to attention by the door. The corporal looked poised for action and Singh wondered whether he expected Sarah Thompson to make a dash for freedom in her uncomfortable shoes. He turned his attention back to the woman, noting the faint lines running from her eyes down to her puckered mouth. The tracks of tears – like in that old Smokey Robinson song? This was after all the scorned woman – the question was whether she had lashed out in anger and killed her philandering husband.

‘How did you feel about your ex-husband's death?' asked Singh.

‘I couldn't be happier that the bastard's dead!'

Singh eyed her thoughtfully. This was strong, intolerant language from a murder suspect. Did her anger run so deep that she could not hide it even in the fraught circumstances of a police interview? Or was she confident that, whatever her feelings, this was not a crime that could be pinned on her? Singh noted that her pale eyebrows were almost invisible, in stark contrast to Maria Thompson's carefully plucked and re-drawn dark eyebrows. So much for the eyes being windows to the soul, thought Singh sourly. He couldn't even get past the eye
brows
of the many wives of Mark Thompson.

‘Did you kill him?' The question was blunt and to the point and he saw her jaw clench.

She crossed and uncrossed her legs and Singh caught a glimpse of red panties. He really, really hoped that it hadn't been a misplaced effort at a flirtatious gesture.

Sarah Thompson denied culpability with a quick shake of the head and added pointedly, ‘How would I have got into the office?'

Singh scowled. Details of the limited access to the office had leaked into the morning newspapers. And now this woman was using it as an excuse.

‘Mark Thompson might have escorted you upstairs.' It sounded lame, even to his own ears.

Sarah guffawed – her tonsils were the same colour as her underwear and toenails. ‘Mark was a pathetic excuse for a human being but he wasn't a fool!' Her gaze, as she looked across at him, was calculating and it reminded him of the old moneylenders sitting under trees in his youth, able to determine the credit-worthiness of a client with one glance. She continued, ‘And anyway, I have an alibi.'

‘Where were you?'

‘On a casino ship – far from these sunny shores – with Joan Thwaites.'

Singh wagged an officious finger at his young corporal; that would be easy enough to check. And if it was true, this vengeful, unhappy woman was off the hook.

‘Who do
you
think did it then?' he asked, and sensed rather than saw her relief that he appeared to take her alibi at face value.

‘Surely that's obvious?'

Singh raised his bushy eyebrows, inviting her to carry on. It was an unnecessary gesture. This woman had been waiting for an opportunity to point the finger of blame and she needed no second invitation.

‘That slut! She married him for his money, and she killed him to get her hands on it.'

‘I assume you're referring to Maria Thompson?'

‘Of course! Who else?' This was her last word on the subject because her red lips closed tight – intensifying the creases around her mouth that gave away her age despite the highlighted blonde hair and expensive face lifts.

Singh escorted Sarah Thompson to the door with all politeness and then sat down in his cushioned chair. He spun around a couple of times, enjoying the sensation of mild dizziness it prompted until he noted Fong looking at him askance.

Planting his large feet in their spotless white sneakers firmly on the floor, he stopped mid-spin, leaned back comfortably and clasped his fingers over his large belly. ‘Hmmm – the ex-Mrs Thompson claims to have an alibi. Pity! Ex-wives always make such good suspects.' He brightened up. ‘Unless she's lying, of course.'

‘Why would she have waited this long to murder her ex-husband?' asked Fong. ‘It's been more than six months since Mark Thompson ran off with Maria.'

Singh pondered the woman who had just left. She was not the first middle-aged woman whose husband had left her for a nubile young Asian beauty. Many men were drawn to the gentle air of submission that characterised so many of these pretty young things. He remembered that his own wife had been quietly domestic for the first few months of their marriage before her natural assertiveness had emerged. The majority of relationships between older white men and young local women ended in tears – the critical question was whether the one between Mark Thompson and his Filipina bride had also ended in death.

‘What next, sir?' asked Corporal Fong timidly when Singh didn't respond to his remarks.

‘I'm going to go and see that good-looking young woman, Annie Nathan.'

‘Would you like me to come along?'

Singh grinned. ‘Don't worry – I don't need a chaperon!'

 

Annie noticed a dark sedan draw up at the front gate. The short yet dignified figure of Inspector Singh emerged from the front passenger seat. He was dressed, as always, in black trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt that was starting to wilt after a long day. He wore his trademark snowy sneakers and had, as before, a breast pocket full of pens. The weight had caused the pocket to sag and a blue stain had developed where a pen had leaked.

The inspector walked over at a leisurely pace, glancing about him at the two-door convertible in the driveway, the black and white colonial-era bungalow and the glint of blue from the pool. Annie felt a stab of guilt at the luxury that her life as an expatriate in Singapore allowed her. She noticed that Singh's trousers were faintly shiny on the thighs and around his ample posterior – it was obviously a well-worn pair. Perhaps Singaporean policemen were poorly paid. Certainly they were unlikely to earn as much as a junior partner at an international law firm. However, Inspector Singh showed no reaction to her home, either of envy or enthusiasm, although Annie did detect evidence of a mild pleasure in the curvature of the plump pinkish lower lip when he accepted her offer of a beer. Apparently he was willing to drink on duty. She got an icy Carlsberg from the fridge and a glass of water for herself. He took a healthy swig, draining a third of the glass immediately.

‘I'd like to ask you a few questions,' he said, wiping the froth off his beard with the back of his hand.

‘Of course,' said Annie. ‘Although I'm not sure how I can help you.'

‘An investigation is a process of elimination. All information is useful,' he said ponderously.

‘Well, if you eliminate me as a suspect, I'd be delighted.'

He did not respond to this attempt at light-heartedness and it was her turn to have a quick gulp of her drink.

‘Tell me about the office.'

‘What sort of thing do you want to know?' she asked.

‘Anything – the organisational structure, the people.'

‘It would be better to get that sort of detail from Stephen Thwaites. He's the most senior person in Singapore, after Mark.'

‘I'd like to hear it from you.'

Acquiescing, Annie told him what she could, trying to stick to the facts and keep her opinions to herself. ‘There are seven partners – including Mark, that is – twenty-five associates and about thirty staff including all the secretaries and accountants – and the tea lady.'

‘And only the partners have keycards that allow access after hours?'

‘We felt it was necessary to protect client confidentiality. Others need to be escorted up to the office by the security guards.'

Singh steepled his fingers thoughtfully but made no comment.

‘Did anyone sign the visitors' book that evening?' Annie asked.

‘No.'

‘But you can't think that one of the partners killed Mark. I mean, why would any of us do that?'

‘That's what we're trying to find out,' the inspector said.

‘What about Mark's key? Did he have it on him?'

‘Yes.'

Annie's hope that an outsider might be a viable suspect flared.

‘Although Mark wouldn't have let just anyone in, especially if he had just called a meeting of the partnership,' Singh continued.

Annie's crestfallen face reflected her disappointment.

The policeman added, ‘The wife and the ex-wife are possibilities, I suppose.'

Annie remembered the last time she had seen Sarah Thompson. Mark Thompson's wife had stormed into the office, crying and shouting – hysterical. Stephen had gone to Sarah, tried to calm her down and, more importantly, quieten her down. Annie, in a meeting with clients, had apologised hurriedly and slipped out of the conference room.

When Mark had finally appeared at the door of his office, Sarah Thompson had attacked her husband, swinging and kicking at him, screaming incoherently. It had taken a few moments for Annie to discern individual words in the abuse. ‘You're sleeping with her – my God, you're having an affair with
Maria.
'

Mark had managed to get a grip on his wife's arms, preventing her from hitting him again. The lawyers and staff had been standing around, uncertain what to do, desperately conscious of the clients littering the office.

Annie waited for Mark to deny having an affair. She had no idea whether he was or not but it seemed the prudent thing to do. Instead, Mark had asked, his voice breathless from the physical task of holding his wife at arm's length, ‘How did you find out?'

Annie had seen her own dismay reflected on the face of the other lawyers – the office foyer was no place for confessions of adultery.

‘How did I find out? How did I find out? She told me! My
maid's
just told me that she's been sleeping with my husband.'

There was a collective gasp as the identity of the mysterious Maria became known. Mark had broken the ultimate taboo of the Singapore expatriate community.

Sarah was sobbing, her shoulders heaving, like a child lost in a supermarket – anger giving way to despair. Mark dragged her into his office and shut the door but snatches of conversation had still been audible. Annie had never liked Sarah, a large-boned, sunbed-tanned woman with a braying laugh and a condescending attitude. But an alcoholic, philandering husband was a high price to pay for an expatriate entitlement complex.

‘You should tell me.'

Annie stared at the inspector leaning comfortably back in his chair, hands entwined on his belly. She had a sudden premonition that it was a pose she would see often in the coming weeks.

‘I beg your pardon?' she asked.

‘You should tell me what you were thinking. From your expression I would deduce that it has a significant bearing on the investigation.'

Annie pressed two hands to her hot cheeks. She was blushing like some character out of a Jane Austen novel. She decided immediately that there was no way she was going to get into the blame game. Let the inspector find out about Mark's infidelities from one of the other partners. She, Annie, would keep her nose clean. In any event, Mark was unlikely to have escorted Sarah up to the office so she was not a credible suspect despite her cast-iron motive.

‘Mark
must
have escorted his killer upstairs,' she insisted. ‘Nothing else makes sense!'

‘It's possible,' agreed Singh. His tone, however, was sceptical.

‘What about Quentin's key?' asked Annie, casting around for anything that might distract the policeman from his focus on the partnership.

‘What about it?'

‘He didn't have it that day. He must have lost it.'

‘Mr Holbrooke hasn't mentioned this to me. I'll raise it with him.'

‘Yes, do ask him,' said Annie insistently. ‘That must be the explanation.'

‘Why would a stranger coming across a lost key use it to murder your senior partner?'

Annie's optimism that Quentin's lost key would provide a convenient solution evaporated like a rainwater puddle on a sunny Singapore afternoon.

The inspector drained his glass. He stood up, a short figure with a gimlet eye, nodded to Annie and made his way up the driveway. Annie watched him go, noticing how carefully he placed his feet to avoid soiling his pristine sneakers in muddy patches on the gravel. She was uncertain what the visit had been about. She felt rattled. Why had he come? He had asked her for information that he could easily have obtained from any one of the more senior partners. She shook her head and ran a hand through her glossy dark hair. She could not avoid the sensation that his visit had been some sort of test. Had she passed? Or failed?

Annie watched the police car reverse out of her driveway, going over her conversation with the inspector in her head. Then she fetched her mobile phone and rang Quentin.

He picked up at once. ‘Hello?' he said, in a tentative voice.

‘It's me, Annie.' She automatically tried to sound reassuring.

‘Oh! I was expecting the good inspector,' he replied, the relief audible. ‘He called me and the line got cut.'