The Singapore School of Villainy (13 page)

 

Still smarting from his run-in with the superintendent, Inspector Singh waited by the main entrance to Mark Thompson's apartment building. He had come to see Maria but she was not at home. The sun was beating down vigorously and his collar was damp and limp. His turban itched around the rim and his singlet was soaked through. The light was shimmering above the road, the air distorted by the intense heat. It was almost time to abandon this pointless vigil, decided Singh. He needed a cold beer – maybe a snack to go with it, something light and savoury like curry puff.

Just as he made up his mind to postpone seeing the widow to another, cooler, day, a limousine from the Raffles Hotel purred down the street. He was immediately certain that this was the sort of vehicle that Maria Thompson would have selected for her transportation. He put up a hand, waved a badge at the driver and rapped on the rear passenger window. He could not see past the dark tinted glass but his instincts had been spot on. The window rolled down slowly and the exquisite features of Mark Thompson's widow looked out at him. Her expression was mildly inquiring, as if she had been pulled up for a minor traffic offence by the waiting policeman, parking on a double yellow line perhaps.

Singh was impressed. This woman was determined not to show fear – although if she read the newspapers she would know that she was the overwhelming favourite to swing for the murder of Mark Thompson.

‘I want to talk to you,' he said abruptly. He preferred his suspects on tenterhooks and if an aggressive tone was sufficient to achieve that end, he was happy to employ it. Otherwise he would eventually have to question this woman in the less salubrious surroundings of a holding cell. One thing was for cetain – if he had his way, she would soon stop treating him like a traffic cop.

‘I have told you everything I know,' she said as she opened the door and swung her legs out. Two children scrambled out after her.

Singh stared down at them and they edged behind their mother. The children sensed danger. Did their mother? So far, this woman had exuded confidence – but was it a confidence born of innocence or a certainty that the crime could not be brought home to her for the lack of evidence? Unlike the lawyers, Maria Thompson did not fear for a few stains on her reputation. The inspector was convinced she was a woman with plenty to hide. Whether that included murder, he was hard-pressed to say.

He fell into step beside her as she walked towards the apartment block, her silver clutch bag gleaming in the sun. Taking small steps, a waddle rather than a walk, he could feel the cloth of his trousers chafe against his inner thighs. He really should try and lose some weight – he didn't want to cross that fine line from physically intimidating to comic.

‘What do you want?' she asked aggressively as they got to the apartment door. She stood in front of it, legs slightly apart – a physical barrier to indicate that she had no intention of inviting the policeman indoors.

In contrast to thir effert on David Sheringham earlier, the presence of the children did not inhibit the policeman. ‘Mark went looking for you a few months back at a Balestier Road brothel.'

‘You are talking nonsense.'

‘It's true enough – Stephen Thwaites confirmed the story. Your husband believed that you needed money badly enough to resort to the world's oldest profession.'

He could see from the way she fumbled with the keys that her nerves were finally getting the better of her.

‘What for I need money after I marry Mark?' she demanded.

‘You tell me.'

‘It's a lie!'

‘Your husband was starting to doubt you. You had to get rid of him before he divorced you.'

‘It is easy to make accusations against me because I am Filipina. But I will complain to the embassy if you keep bothering me.'

One of her arms went around the shoulders of her younger child, the girl. It was an instinctively protective gesture rooted in a maternal instinct as old as time itself. Singh suddenly remembered the photos in her front room when he had visited to break the new of Mark Thompson's death. There had not been a single shot of these beautiful children that she so clearly adored.

‘You needed money for your
children
, didn't you?' demanded Singh. ‘You said Mark didn't want reminders of your past. He wouldn't give you any money for them.' Singh had spoken instinctively. But from her sudden sharp intake of breath, he knew that his guess had been completely accurate.

The point of his turban was like an accusing finger. ‘That's why Mark believed you were moonlighting as a prostitute!'

Quentin Holbrooke slipped the taxi driver a ten-dollar bill and shook his head at the proffered return. He didn't need a handful of heavy coins to weigh down and distend the pockets of his well-tailored suit. Besides, he would have felt selfish demanding the exact change although, truth be told, he was probably in more financial trouble than the driver. His taxi driver had been middle-aged with a middle-class accent. He suspected that he had been a white-collar worker with a steady job until the recession hit – many of the unemployed took to driving taxis.

He slammed the door of the bright yellow cab and hurried into the building. The cool blast of air, such a contrast from the steamy heat outside, caused a rash of goose bumps to spread across his arms. As he waited impatiently for the elevator, punching the call button over and over again, Quentin felt light-headed. His nose was running and smarting, he had rubbed it raw with a serviette over a long client lunch, a long-winded Chinese buffet featuring a selection of endangered species, from shark's fin soup to sea cucumber. He had been unable to make small talk, his eyes blinking rapidly and his fingers drumming on the table. Stephen Thwaites had glanced at him once or twice in puzzlement and that was
not
good.

The lift arrived, he hopped in, rode up to the seventeenth floor, fumbled with his keys until he managed to open the door and then flung his briefcase down on an Italian leather sofa that was perspiring almost as much as he was. When he first embarked on flat hunting as a new arrival in Singapore, he had searched for a place furnished in a manner consistent with the hot, damp weather of the island. He had soon realised that prospective landlords were only interested in wealth-emphasising décor – his current apartment had leather furniture, brass fittings and absurd ornate chandeliers that hung so low from the ceiling that he could touch them if he stretched.

Opening a drawer, he grabbed a small clear plastic packet and a CD case and sat down at the dining table. He took a deep breath and pushed his lank mousy hair away from his forehead with an impatient hand. He carefully tipped a thin line of white powder onto the flat surface of the case, took a crisp banknote out of his wallet and rolled it into a slim tube. Then he leaned forward, pointed his makeshift tube at the thin line of white powder and inhaled the raw cocaine like a drowning man thrown a life jacket.

 

Inspector Singh was sitting at a table close to the entrance of a Chinese coffee shop with his elbows on a faux pine surface pitted with cigarette burns and missing strips that exposed the splintered wood below. His posterior was balanced precariously but expertly on a red plastic stool – the overhanging layers reminiscent of an overflowing cake tin. Above him, a ceiling fan turned slowly, ineffectual against the steamy evening. In front of him – a much more effective solution to the heat – an ice-cold bottle of beer stood on the table. An empty, clear glass mug squatted expectantly next to it.

This was the way all investigations should be conducted, he decided – with minions to pursue leads, however tenuous, while he did the important cerebral work of piecing together the mosaic of evidence into a picture of the killer.

The spotlight had shifted from the ex-wife to the widow. Sarah Thompson had an alibi and Maria Thompson was the beneficiary under an insurance policy to the tune of a million dollars. If that sort of money wasn't temptation enough to kill an elderly husband, he didn't know what was, especially if that elderly husband had been tightfisted about funds for Maria's children.

He paused to wonder what Mrs Singh's murder threshold was and bared his teeth in an ironic grin – he would certainly watch his back if any human being stood to gain a million dollars from his death. Right now, his wife might get his pension and the few dollars in their savings account. He was still more valuable, albeit annoying, alive. Mark Thompson, on the other hand, had been more valuable dead – and that was precisely how he had ended up.

Singh turned his attention to the lawyers. Quentin Holbrooke's bank statement had revealed a spending pattern that was reminiscent most of all of a blackmail victim. It was just about conceivable that he had killed Mark Thompson because he had been blackmailing him over some not-yet-discovered secret. But that did not square with the partners' meeting the murdered man had called – blackmailers tended not to announce their activities to their colleagues. And Mark's bank accounts did not have any deposits to match the withdrawals from Quentin's. He made a mental note to dig a little deeper. Just because the spotlight was now on Maria Thompson, it did not mean that the lawyers should be allowed to disappear into the surrounding shadows. He remembered his instinct that Jagdesh was hiding something and hoped that he wasn't avoiding any red flags just because the Sikh partner was some sort of distant relative. He had yet to work out the actual family connection and probably never would if it was one of the tenuous but convoluted links that his wife thrived on.

Singh took a gulp of his beer. It was icy cold, just the way he liked it. His wife regularly nagged him about the speed with which he consumed his drink. She did not seem to understand that if he let it sit, the beer would lose its bitter cold edge and become undrinkable. Singh's complaints, when he first became a customer, about the temperature of the beer served at the coffee shop had fallen on deaf ears. But one day the proprietor, a small man with a pock-marked broad face and a grubby off-white vest, had brought him his drink triumphantly, saying, ‘Now your beer is vel-ly,
vel-ly
cold, ah!'

Singh had felt at the time that only his tightly-bound turban prevented his head from exploding. The grinning Chinaman had put
ice
– cubes of quickly melting ice – in his beer. His shock must have been visible because the restaurateur had said, ‘You no like with ice?'

Singh shook his turbaned head with great emphasis. The beer had been taken away.

Nowadays, they kept a bottle at the back of the fridge, where it was coldest, just for him.

 

Corporal Fong, the minion, was at his desk at the station. Instead of working, he was looking at a glossy brochure for private health care. Comprehensive services were on offer including round-the-clock care, resident doctors and private apartments. He knew he could not afford any of it, but the problem of what to do with his father was becoming more urgent. He could not bear the state in which he found the old man when he got home now that his mother had almost completely abdicated responsibility for her husband. During Fong's police academy days, his hours had been regular and he had been able to manage but since his assignment to the murder investigation, he was constantly at the beck and call of that black-hearted devil, Inspector Singh. He threw the brochures into the bin with unhappy accuracy. That was not the solution.

Instead, he tried to get his mind around the job at hand. Inspector Singh had gone home – or, more likely, gone for a beer on the way home. It sounded from his interview with Maria as if she had needed money for her children. The exact opposite of the situation he found himself in – he needed money for his parents. However, the terrible weight of responsibility that Maria must have felt was something he could understand all too well. The desperation to find a solution, the constant worry, the willingness to consider more and more extreme remedies – he had experienced all these emotions first hand. If Maria had turned to murder, he, for one, would not be surprised. In fact, he would bet his next pay cheque that she had killed her wealthy husband to solve her financial difficulties. Unfortunately, thought Fong wryly, he wasn't fortunate enough to have a filthy-rich, expendable spouse.

He reached for the phone and rang the Bali number that Annie Nathan had provided. She had not been pleased that the police wanted to speak to her father, insisting that he was an elderly man enjoying his retirement on Bali and she did not want him disturbed.

‘We just need to confirm that the monies you've been sending to Indonesia were for him…' explained Fong.

‘I've already told you that! Since when was filial responsibility a crime?'

‘It's just procedure, ma'am – we always crosscheck information provided by witnesses.'

There had been silence at the other end. This was not some naïve shopgirl, thought Fong, ready to take a policeman at his word. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she considered her options. Finally, she muttered, ‘His name is Colonel R.K. Nathan,' and recited his phone number.

Colonel Nathan picked up the phone on the second ring.

‘Sir, this is Corporal Fong of the Singapore Police. I just need to ask you a couple of questions.'

‘Is it about Annie? Is everything all right?' The colonel's voice was gravelly with concern.

Fong was immediately reassuring. He had not meant to worry an old man. ‘Yes, sir, she's absolutely fine. We understand from her testimony that she sends you money from time to time.'

‘What's wrong with that? I've just been a bit unlucky with my investments, that's all.' His words were defensive but his tone was aggressive.

Fong found himself babbling explanations. ‘We just need to tie up loose ends, sir. Nothing for you to worry about. It's just a formality.'

‘What did Annie say? That I'm always asking for money? It's not true, young man. I've asked for her help once or twice at
most
.'

The corporal remembered that money had been telegraphed electronically to Bali at least three times that year. Colonel Nathan was understandably embarrassed to be seeking handouts from his only child. Fong shrugged. He didn't see how it mattered. He looked after his parents too – he was just unfortunate not to be as well off as Annika Nathan. His contributions were inadequate to the need. Her efforts, although generous, had hardly left her a pauper.

Annie's father was still defiantly explaining his need for funds. ‘I was played out by a couple of business partners. It wasn't my fault!'

‘Of course, sir. I am sure that Ms Nathan is happy to be of help,' Fong said soothingly.

Colonel Nathan snorted. ‘Anyway, I try and assist her too when I can. Sometimes she needs my help as well, you know. It's not all a one-way street!'

Fong shook his head, interrupted the other man with a hurried goodbye and hung up. He thought about his own situation and his inadequately cared-for paternal parent. Did all relationships between fathers and children have to be so fraught with difficulties?

 

Across town, the police, equipped with the necessary warrants, were searching the Thompson residence. Maria had flounced out hours before, taking her children with her and complaining about harassment until she was out of earshot. The policemen were working painstakingly, leaving nothing to chance. So far they had found nothing. The senior officer at the scene was beginning to suspect that he had been sent on a wild goose chase. However, he had no intention of giving up or reporting failure. The idea of provoking the turbaned man's noisy resentment was too unpleasant. If Inspector Singh believed there were anonymous letters to be found, he and his men would hunt for as long as it took. Besides, he agreed with Singh that the letters, if they really existed, would have been preserved by the late Mark Thompson. He would have wanted them in reserve to confront his new wife with the accusations contained therein. Hunting through Balestier Road brothels was just the opening salvo.

The policeman took a book from the shelf, a thick volume on his own pet interest, the Pacific War, and rifled through the pages. A sheaf of letters fell out. Curiously, he picked them up and leafed through the first few. ‘Only a fool would marry a prostitute' said the first, the words carefully typed and centred on the page. He had hit the jackpot – or found a can of worms. It was a good hiding place – he had to hand it to the dead man – as it was unlikely that his new Filipina wife read very much other than the glossy women's magazines he had seen piled high on the living room coffee table. He beckoned to a uniform and gave him a few brief instructions. The young man, looking daunted, began to take books off the shelf, shaking them out one by one to see if anything else was hidden in the pages.

 

Singh rose to his feet with difficulty, flexing his toes within his white sneakers. They felt hot and sweaty, bunched together uncomfortably. He wondered whether it was reason enough to hail a taxi but then a mental picture of his doctor's long-suffering expression popped into his head. The man was more effective than a conscience, thought Singh. Perhaps he should walk the two blocks to his home. It might temper the effect of the beer on his health and weight, and reduce the severity of the lecture he would receive at his next medical check-up.

He set out reluctantly, trying to keep within the intermittent shadows along the main road. The evening sun was slanting directly into his eyes and he blinked quickly, wishing that he had a pair of sunglasses. He made way for an Indonesian maid walking two barrel-chested Dobermans. It was typical of wealthy Singaporean dog owners to buy the largest and most expensive breed they could find and then leave it to the domestic help to feed and walk the dogs.

He stepped off the pavement again. This time a Sri Lankan maid was walking the offspring of an expatriate family. She pushed a pram with a sleeping baby while clutching at the hand of a little blond red-faced boy who dragged his heels and whined about the heat.

The diaspora of peoples who sold their possessions and paid middlemen exorbitant fees to come to Singapore looking for a better life mostly ended up slaving away “24/7”, as one of those lawyers might say. Singh decided he really couldn't blame Maria Thompson for using any avenue, including sleeping with her employer, to escape the same fate. But had she killed him too?

He glanced at the houses on either side of the street. When he had first moved into the neighbourhood, the area had been forested, with sweeping vistas of hills and valleys. Twenty years on, the horizon was invisible. Monstrous houses, three storeys high with attics and basements, covered car parking, swimming pools and
koi
ponds, all arranged with careful consideration for the
feng shui
elements, loomed large in every direction. Fong had told him about the magisterial residence of the Thwaites. He had seen the Thompson duplex with its tenth-floor private swimming pool and Annie's colonial-era black and white bungalow. It was not difficult to imagine that one of the partners would resort to killing Mark Thompson to preserve such a lifestyle.