The Singapore School of Villainy (12 page)

In the lobby, Annie stopped as she always did to admire the polished old wood, thick carpets and gleaming chandeliers. A sparrow flew a circuit around the hall, chirping merrily at the visitors. A couple of backpackers behind her were turned away because they were dressed in shorts and sandals. David, who was either inured to the splendour or hungry, was already at the entrance to the Tiffin Room. They were shown to a quiet table by a window.

Immediately, David's eyes turned towards the food on display. ‘I was planning a trip to the gym but I think I'm going to have a late lunch instead. Join me?'

‘I might just have a cup of tea and some dessert,' said Annie.

David ordered a pot of tea while Annie loitered around the buffet table, raising covers one by one. She walked back to the table, a heaped plate in one hand, sat down and accepted a cup of tea from the waiter, adding a generous dollop of milk and sugar.

David peered at her plate. ‘Good God!' he exclaimed. ‘What
is
that?'

Annie smiled warmly at him, dimples showing.

‘I'm all Asian when it comes to food!'

Her plate was heaped with brightly coloured desserts, pink and white stripes, green slices, a bright orange sliver, yellow bits, in all shapes and sizes – squares, rolls, triangles and balls.

‘What is that stuff made with?' he asked. ‘Some of the colours look toxic!'

‘To be frank, I'm not sure,' she said. ‘Coconut,
pandan
,
durian
, water chestnuts, corn and who knows what else.'

‘Durian!
A fruit that proves the non-existence of God.'

‘The
durian
is the King of Fruit!' exclaimed Annie, defending the watermelon-sized fruit with the dangerous spiky exterior, rich yellow flesh and extraordinary odour.

‘I've heard it's like eating apple pie on a bog.'

Annie laughed. ‘Are you aware that gravity was discovered by a Malay farmer long before Newton? Unfortunately, he was sitting under a durian tree.'

She stopped mid-sentence and stared over her companion's shoulder. Curious, he turned to follow her gaze. A sleek, distinctive woman with long straight hair to her waist, heavy make-up, conspicuously expensive clothes and chunky jewellery was standing at the entrance holding two children by the hand.

‘The second Mrs Mark Thompson,' Annie whispered.

 

Mrs Thwaites had agreed to see Corporal Fong after lunch, at the Thwaites' residence on the tree-lined avenue that was Nassim Road. It was an amazing palatial building, at least four storeys high, the size of a small condominium. The architect had opted for grey walls and towering sheets of glass – it reminded Fong of a rich country's embassy. A board on the front gate warned visitors that dogs were on the loose. The corporal pricked up his ears. He thought he could make out the sound of barking. He rang the doorbell nervously, hoping someone would come out to meet him rather than open the gate remotely and expose him to the ire of the dogs.

The woman who came to the gate surprised him. He was primed, after encountering Sarah Thompson and hearing about Maria Thompson, to expect a certain profile from the partners' wives but Joan Thwaites was frumpy and middle-aged. Her wispy hair was greying in patches. She wore an unfashionable blouse with small floral patterns and an unflattering pair of jeans that clung to an over-sized posterior and tapered to narrow ankles. She clutched a small dachshund – some sort of miniature breed, Fong suspected – under her arm like a rugby ball. ‘May I help you?' she asked politely.

Fong pulled himself together. He needed to avoid having his pre-conceptions colour his judgement if he was to make any headway as an investigator. ‘I'm Corporal Fong of the Singapore Police. I rang. I need to ask you some questions about Mark Thompson.'

‘Oh my! That was shocking, wasn't it? Well, do come in and have a cup of tea.'

The dog wagged its tail.

Fong followed Joan Thwaites into the house, noting the marble floors and massive modern art pieces on the walls. Rarely had he seen a woman in such inappropriate surroundings. She led him directly into the kitchen and made him a mug of English Breakfast tea with her own hands despite the maid hovering anxiously in the background.

‘So how can I help?' she asked again, when he was comfortably perched on a stool at the small kitchen table.

‘Sarah Thompson told us that you were with her on the night of the murder.'

Joan Thwaites nodded her head emphatically. ‘Yes, I was.'

Singh was behind his big desk looking through the bank statements and credit card bills of the various lawyers. He could feel a headache developing at the mere sight of the six-figure bank balances; seven figures in the case of Stephen Thwaites and Reggie Peters.

His mobile rang. ‘Yes?'

‘It's Fong, sir. I've just been to see Mrs Thwaites. She confirms Sarah Thompson's alibi. They were on some sort of overnight gambling cruise ship.'

‘OK – good work.'

He could sense the corporal's pleasure at a kind word. He hoped Fong wasn't going to get cocky, and careless. ‘Get back here and write up your report!'

‘Yessir,' said Fong, the lilt in his voice still present.

Singh returned to the bank statements. Despite their initial reluctance, the lawyers had apparently turned them in voluntarily – under pressure from David Sheringham, he suspected. If there had been financial hanky-panky at the legal firm, chances were slim that the lawyer in question would have used his or her personal checking account. On the other hand, Mark's murder had been brutal but was unlikely to have been premeditated. There would have been no time for the murderer to think through the consequences of a police investigation and the possible evidentiary trails.

The credit card statements were like a narrative of the lifestyle of the rich and powerful, thought Singh glumly. It was
The Great Gatsby
for the twenty-first century: golf games, expensive wines, hotel rooms, first class flights and, in the case of Ai Leen, an enormous amount of Tiffany jewellery.

Singh turned to Annie's bank statement. She had transferred money on a semi-regular basis to an Indonesian account – her dad's, he supposed. He'd get Fong to check. It seemed that they really were close if she was funding his retirement with such large handouts. Singh shook his great head. He had no children. He and his wife would have to survive on his pension. Fortunately, Mrs Singh was frugal to the point of mean and he himself had no expensive habits except for cigarettes and beer. He shuddered. Perhaps he would have to become teetotal to make ends meet in his twilight years.

There was a timid knock on the door.

‘Enter!' snapped Singh.

Sergeant Fuad sidled in nervously and stood just inside the door. The inspector almost smiled. It was really quite amusing the way these junior uniforms were terrified of him.

‘What do you want?'

‘It's about Mark Thompson's will, sir.'

Singh nodded impatiently.

‘All the money goes into a trust fund for his children. His ex-wife received a lump sum payment after the divorce.'

‘Maria Thompson gets
nothing
?'

‘Nothing under the will, sir. But she's the sole beneficiary of a life insurance policy for one million dollars!'

‘Would you call that a good motive, Sergeant?'

‘Yes, sir, I think so.'

‘Me too!'

So what was he to make of Stephen's testimony that Maria apparently needed cash
plus
this windfall on the death of her husband? Shades of the prison house, indeed.

He nodded a dismissal to the sergeant, held a lighter flame to the cigarette he slipped between his lips and inhaled deeply, watching the end glow red and orange. He was not to be permitted to enjoy his puff – his door was flung open abruptly and Superintendent Chen marched in. Ashes from the cigarette scattered over the front of Singh's shirt, coming to rest gently against his ample stomach. He dusted them off with the back of his hand, leaving grey streaks against the white, put out his cigarette in a coffee mug and looked at the superintendent questioningly.

His boss was doing his best to avert his eyes from the thin wisp of smoke that was making its way gently to the ceiling from the not-quite-stubbed-out cigarette. Singh wondered how long this patience would last. He could see the lines of strain running from the superintendent's jaw down his throat; he was swallowing hard to refrain from delivering another of his “disgrace to the Force” lectures. But right now he needed Singh to solve the case – and that apparently meant cutting him some slack.

‘Any progress?' demanded Chen.

‘We're proceeding with the interviews, sir. Sarah Thompson has an alibi.'

Chen closed his eyes briefly. Singh supposed that, next to some convenient foreign stranger, a domestic fracas would be his preferred solution to the killing of Mark Thompson. He wondered whether to tell him that Maria Thompson was looking good for the murder and then decided not to offer her as a sacrificial lamb to appease his superior.

‘What are those?' The superintendent gestured to the pile of papers in front of Singh.

‘Bank statements…'

‘Anything interesting?'

‘Not yet.' Singh picked up the bank statement at the top of the pile. It belonged to Quentin Holbrooke. He glanced at it and then sat up a little straighter. He ran a stubby finger down the list.

‘What is it?' demanded Superintendent Chen.

‘Quentin Holbrooke, unlike his colleagues, seems to have a cash flow problem.'

Chen almost snatched the statement from Singh's fingers. The policeman did not object. He had seen enough.

‘He's been withdrawing large amounts of money in cash at regular intervals. What do you think it means?' The superintendent could not keep the excitement out of his voice.

Singh shrugged. ‘Anything or nothing. But my first guess would be blackmail.'

 

In the restaurant at the Raffles, David and Annie couldn't help but stare at the second wife of Mark Thompson. They were not alone. She was the focus of surreptitious glances from the other diners. Whispered comments suggested that she had not gone unrecognised.

‘Who are the kids?' asked David.

‘Must be hers,' Annie said. ‘They're carbon copies of her. I'd heard that she had a couple of children from a previous marriage but I thought they were in the Philippines.' And then, under her breath, ‘Damn, she's seen us.'

Maria Thompson looked over at them, debating whether to ignore them, acknowledge them from a distance or come over to their table. Still holding the children by the hand, she came over.

‘Maria, how are you holding up?' asked Annie.

‘It is not an easy time for me,' she replied. ‘That woman will try to kill me also.'

Feeling unequal to responding to this, Annie said instead, ‘Are these your children? They look so much like you.'

Maria nodded and her expression revealed a fierce maternal pride.

‘Mrs Thompson, I've been sent out by the London office to try and find out who did this terrible thing. My name is David Sheringham.' He offered her his hand and she brushed it with the tips of her fingers.

Maria sniffed. ‘What is there to find out? It was that bitch. I keep telling the fat policeman. But no one listens. Soon I will be dead too.'

Her voice rose to a shout. A few people at the other tables were staring openly now.

David signalled to a waiter and said to Maria, ‘Won't you and your children join us?' As Maria visibly hesitated, he continued persuasively, ‘You can explain your suspicions to us.'

This was an offer she could not refuse. Behind her back, Annie glared at David. They all maintained a discreet silence as a couple of waiters dragged over a table to adjoin theirs. Maria bent over her children, whispered a few instructions in Tagalog and they both headed to the lavish buffet in gleaming silver serving dishes, the younger one skipping as she went.

‘What about you, Mrs Thompson? Won't you have something from the buffet?' asked David.

‘No, no! I come for my children to enjoy. I will have a cup of coffee. I need to keep slim, you understand,' she said, flashing him a look from under her long (and false, I bet, thought Annie) lashes.

David leaned forward. ‘Come now, Mrs Thompson, there is no need at all for you to watch your figure. The rest of us will do that.'

Maria simpered. ‘You call me Maria, please.'

David poured out her tea, added milk and sugar at her nod, and gave it to her. Maria may have started out as a domestic worker in Singapore but she had got into the habit of being waited on, thought Annie tetchily.

‘Now, Maria, tell me what the firm can do to help you. We will do anything in our power.'

Maria snorted her disbelief.

‘
You
are Mark's widow,' David insisted.

‘Ha! At least you see this. I'm the widow. She is
nothing
.'

Annie felt like pointing out that Sarah had been Mark's wife for thirty years and was the mother of his two children, unlike Maria who had married him for his money six months previously, but she knew that David would not thank her for it.

The children returned to the table with laden plates and started tucking in enthusiastically. David smiled at them and hesitated, unwilling to discuss the subject further in their presence.

‘Do not worry about the children. I have explained everything. And anyway their English is not so good.'

‘Did Mark ever see Sarah?' David asked.

‘Of course not,' Maria said scornfully. ‘She is old and ugly. What for he wants to see her?'

‘Perhaps to discuss their children? Maybe their studies or money?'

He had touched a raw nerve. ‘He would not see her, but if he did, she would ask for
money
. She is a very greedy woman.'

‘And his children?' asked Annie.

‘He hasn't seen them since the divorce.'

‘That must have been really hard for him,' said Annie. ‘Perhaps your children helped to bridge the gap?'

‘This is the first time my children come to Singapore.' Maria blinked rapidly a few times – was she holding back tears? ‘Mark did not want them.'

‘That was very bad of Mark,' said David, leaning towards her sympathetically. ‘Why did he feel that way?'

‘I don't know,' she said wearily, the strain starting to show. ‘Maybe he was jealous?' Maria placed a caressing hand on the head of each of her children. ‘I know you all think I kill Mark. But I am not the one, so you must find someone else to blame.'

‘Maria, nobody will accuse you of anything you did not do,' said David reassuringly.

Maria was sceptical. ‘Why should I believe you? I am a Filipina in Singapore and I do not trust you. Or the police.'

She rose to her feet and picked up her Ferragamo purse, beckoning imperiously to her children, who obediently abandoned their meal.

David got to his feet too. He took Maria's hand in both of his and said, ‘Don't worry too much.'

She inclined her head regally at him and swept out of the room, her children trailing after her. A few men turned to watch her go, their expressions more lascivious than curious.

‘Well, that's Maria for you; every arrival is an entrance and every departure an exit!' muttered Annie.

‘You can see why,' remarked David. ‘She really is an exceptionally sexy woman.'

‘It was quite clear you thought so…all that fawning,' said Annie. She had intended to sound sarcastic but could not help but feel she sounded more aggrieved. Trying to sound objective, she continued, ‘I realise that she oozes sex appeal. Presumably that's why Mark married her.'

She noticed to her intense discomfiture that David's grey eyes were twinkling with amusement.

‘She doesn't hold a candle to you,' he said, grinning.

Annie scowled and then found she could not maintain the expression. His smile was infectious.

‘So where shall we go on our
second
date?' David asked with mock seriousness.

‘This wasn't a date,' she insisted and then wondered if she was protesting too much.

‘A nice restaurant, a gorgeous woman, good conversation – feels like a date to me!'

Annie knew that she was not beautiful – the cleft chin was too determined, her brown eyes disproportionately large. But she had to admit that it was nice that David Sheringham seemed to think otherwise.

He misunderstood her silence and asked, ‘Is it Quentin?' She detected a genuine note of disappointment in his voice.

If David thought there was something between her and Quentin, might the inquisitive inspector have reached the same conclusion? Annie shook her head quickly, denying the relationship. For some reason it was important to her that the man opposite her did not think she was involved with anyone else.

 

Maria Thompson summoned a hotel limousine with the Raffles “R” emblazoned on its side, bundled the children in and was handed into it by a liveried doorman. She refrained from tipping him – she had worked hard to come by her money and was not going to hand it out to some uniformed car jockey who was doing no more than his job. Besides, she might well be short of ready cash while waiting for the insurance to come through.

Once again, she congratulated herself on persuading Mark to take out the policy. It had not been easy. Her new husband had not wanted to think about his own death or to acknowledge the age gap between them and the inevitability of his pre-deceasing her. She had been forced to tread carefully so as not to confirm his fears that she had married him for his money. Married him for his money? Well, of course she had! Mark had been in relatively good shape for a man of his age with an alcohol habit. He had not been overweight, although his flesh had been flabby, covered in pale, almost translucent, hairless skin with blue veins showing. She shuddered at the recollection. Would that have been her choice? Certainly not. She would have found herself a young, sinewy Filipino man, bronzed by the sun. He would have strong work-roughened hands, not the desk-job softness of Mark's that had felt like a woman's hands on her skin. Well, she could find herself a real man now, she thought with pleasurable anticipation. A new father for her children. One who would teach them to fly a kite and take them fishing. They deserved better than an old man who had refused to meet them or acknowledge their existence. But his money was going to pave the way to a better future for all of them. They owed Mark Thompson something for that.