The Singapore School of Villainy (15 page)

‘Well, Ms Lim? I'm waiting for an explanation.'

‘Why do I have to explain anything to you? This is personal – between Reggie and me. It has nothing to do with Mark.'

‘
I
will be the judge of that, Ms Lim.' The inspector was at his most cutting.

‘We're friends. We support each other in difficult times.'

‘How long have you been
supporting
each other?'

‘A couple of months. We've been colleagues for a few years but have become closer lately.'

‘What triggered this?'

‘We have a lot in common.'

‘Give me an example,' said the inspector disbelievingly, steepling his fingers and peering at Ai Leen over the tips.

Ai Leen glared at him, fear replaced with anger. ‘Our work! I'm a banking lawyer too. We're both partners.'

‘And is your husband aware of this new-found
friendship
?'

Fong had to admire the lascivious overtone Inspector Singh managed to incorporate into his question.

But Ai Leen was a match for this. ‘He's aware that Reggie is a colleague with whom I occasionally have work-related dinners,' she said coldly.

‘Quite romantic spots you choose for these “work-related dinners”,' Inspector Singh pointed out.

‘And why not?' she asked. ‘We need privacy to ensure client confidentiality and I personally am fond of good food – as you are, Inspector,' she said, allowing her gaze to drift across his substantial belly.

‘You mean this?' the inspector asked cheerfully, patting his ample stomach as fondly as he might have done a favourite mutt. ‘This isn't food. It's beer!'

Ai Leen managed to convey her disgust with a slight flaring of the nostrils. ‘I really don't see what any of this has to do with the murder. I think you would be doing us all a favour if you tried to solve the crime rather than cast aspersions upon my character.'

‘Do you have any thoughts on who might have done this?' asked Singh in a much more conciliatory tone.

‘No, I do
not
. I only know it wasn't me. Some stranger killed Mark. He must have snuck past the security guards. In fact, it was probably the security guards who did it.'

This was her final word on the subject because she rose to her feet and, at a nod from the inspector, marched out of the room, powerful calf muscles bunched up above her high pointy heels.

‘What do we know about Ai Leen's partnership?' Singh demanded of his sidekick.

‘Not a lot, sir.'

‘Well, let's find out then.'

Fong found himself hurrying after the inspector as the fat man marched down the corridor. He had a surprising turn of speed for someone of his size. The inspector banged on Annie's door like an irate husband and barged in. Over his superior's shoulder, Fong saw her look up in irritation and then with genuine surprise as she saw who it was.

‘Tell me what you know about Ai Leen becoming a partner,' ordered Singh.

Annie's fingernail went to her mouth. Fong had noticed this nervous gesture. He wondered whether it meant anything – that this woman was afraid. The corporal controlled a smile with difficulty. Being intimidated by Inspector Singh was hardly evidence of criminal tendencies.

‘I was up for partnership at the same time. One hears stories, of course…' Annie broke off her sentence mid-way as if reluctant to reveal unsubstantiated rumours.

Fong was unsurprised that Singh did not have the same qualms.

‘What sort of rumours?'

‘Oh…the usual stuff. Some partners were very keen to promote the local – you know, Singaporean – staff, others had doubts.'

‘How did you feel about it?'

‘Well, to be frank, if I'd been turned down, I would have been livid. But I can see why they wanted a Singaporean on the job. It looks better with clients. And she
is
a very good lawyer.'

‘And Reggie Peters,' asked Singh innocently ‘What's his wife like?'

‘Reggie's wife?' Annie queried. ‘Oh, a long-suffering bottle-blonde. I think she was his secretary once but I could be wrong about that. He does have a habit of hitting on women in the office.'

‘How do you know that?'

Annie ducked her head in embarrassment.

The inspector waited impatiently for her response, his sneaker-clad foot beating a silent tattoo on the thick carpet.

She said, ‘Well, Reggie's made the odd pass at me at office Christmas parties and such like.'

‘What did you do about it?'

‘Kept quiet. If I'd kicked up a stink, Reggie would have got a slap on the wrist but I would've been branded a troublemaker.'

‘And the next day?'

‘And the next day we both pretend it never happened. At least, I pretend. He may genuinely forget.'

Fong's expression must have conveyed his genuine amazement that sexual harassment of women was possible in an environment of highly paid lawyers.

‘It wasn't that bad,' Annie said bracingly. ‘Anyway, I'm not really his type. He prefers the Oriental beauty…like the second Mrs Thompson.'

Singh's knees were stiff from squeezing them under the too-small desk and his lower back ached, a recurrent pain. His head felt musty and crowded, as if someone had stuffed it with old socks. He really would be much happier conducting this murder investigation from his own chair behind his own desk at the police station.

He took a small sheaf of papers out of an A4-sized envelope. These were the anonymous notes that had been found at the Thompson residence, delivered to him at the law offices by a policeman on a motorcycle. There were six notes, almost identical to one another. The messages were on plain white, good-quality paper. He guessed the notes had been done on someone's personal computer, printed with a standard inkjet printer on A4 paper. Gone were the days, thought the inspector longingly, of manual typewriters with their individual idiosyncrasies, bits of newsprint from identifiable newspapers and hidden watermarks leading straight to the desk of the writer.

As for the messages, except that the writer was educated – the notes were grammatically correct and well punctuated – there was not much to be gleaned from them. As Mark had intimated to Stephen, the notes asserted that Maria was still earning an income from prostitution despite being married to Mark. “Old habits die hard” as one of the notes pointed out.

He smoothed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. It was too long, tickling his upper lip. He looked across at his sidekick. He was clean-shaven, his jaw so smooth that Singh was forced to the conclusion that, like so many of his race, Fong struggled to grow hair on his chin and jaw.

He tossed the packet of letters over to the young man and the corporal flicked through them with unfeigned enthusiasm. He was the sort of policeman, still wet behind the ears, thought Singh, who preferred tangible physical evidence to the testimony of unreliable witnesses. It took a long time for rookies like Fong to understand that murders nearly always happened because of personal relationships gone awry, and they were solved in painstaking conversation with those same people. Most policemen never got the hang of it – they were thwarted the moment they were confronted with a killer who left no physical evidence. Their entire investigative methodology revolved around finding a fingerprint, a strand of hair or some revolting body fluid. Where was the fun in that, wondered Singh.

‘At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter who wrote these notes or whether the contents were true. What matters is that Mark Thompson
believed
them to be true,' explained Singh.

Fong's lips were pinched together like a maiden aunt who had stumbled over some Internet porn. ‘The accusations aren't very nice!'

‘That's why Maria might have killed her husband. It's a short trip from these notes to divorce and a penniless future.'

 

Quentin popped his head around the door. ‘May I come in?' he asked in a breathless voice.

Singh, looking up from the wad of anonymous letters, nodded curtly.

Once in a chair, Quentin ran a hand through his thin brown hair and leaned forward, his pale blue eyes popping with earnestness. ‘Have you made any progress in discovering who did this terrible thing?'

‘Who did this terrible thing? You mean who beat your boss to death at his desk?' Inspector Singh did not like euphemisms for murder.

Quentin Holbrooke turned an even whiter shade of pale and nodded uncertainly.

Glaring at him, Singh decided that he disliked insipid men with weak chins who didn't call a spade a spade. He thought of Jagdesh Singh, his young relative. Now there was a man with a jaw to be proud of. He reminded himself, almost regretfully, that a weak chin did not equate with murderous tendencies.

‘We really must get to the bottom of this, for Mark's sake and ours,' said Quentin with an air of great seriousness.

Singh did not understand his demeanour or address – Quentin's manner reminded him of one of the prim and proper spinster teachers who had taught him as a young boy. The lawyer was playing a role, but why?

Quentin was still talking. Unprompted, he was recounting finding the body and the events thereafter. He had been pub-hopping when Mark had called. He had prepared a list of the places – he wasn't sure anyone would remember him but it was worth a shot if it got him off a murder rap.

He slid a piece of paper across the table to the inspector. ‘That's where I was before coming to the office and meeting Annie in the car park.'

‘By accident or design?' the inspector asked.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Did you meet Annie by accident or design?'

‘Oh! By accident, of course. I do try and meet her from time to time by design, but she's a hard lady to pin down!'

He said this last with a wink at the inspector.

‘Has your keycard turned up yet?' asked the policeman tartly, annoyed by Quentin's attempt to forge some sort of masculine bond with him.

Quentin shook his head and the recalcitrant lock of fine hair fell across his forehead again. ‘I'm afraid not. I have absolutely no idea where the damned thing has got to!'

‘Were you a close friend of Mark Thompson?'

‘No, not really. He was too senior at Hutchinson & Rice to hobnob with the likes of me!' He shuddered. ‘It was still a shock, finding him like that.'

Singh ignored these professed sensibilities. ‘You're working with Annie – Ms Nathan – on a matter in Kuala Lumpur?'

‘Yes, the takeover of Trans-Malaya – an interesting deal.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘No particular reason. You know, good money-spinner for the law firm, interesting legal issues…' He trailed off before the policeman's sceptical gaze.

Singh could see that Quentin's fingers were beating an erratic tattoo on the side of the chair. The young lawyer's tone and words were being contradicted by his body language. He was not sufficiently in control, notwithstanding this rehearsed performance, to avoid revealing his nervousness.

‘What about the insider trading on the Malaysian file?'

‘Oh, you've heard about that? Some dodgy dealing by a local director. Mark wanted to pull Hutchinson & Rice from the deal.'

‘And you?'

Quentin shrugged. Bony shoulders were outlined against his fitted pink shirt. ‘It's par for the course in Malaysia, isn't it? Doesn't seem much point being too self-righteous – not if it's going to cost the law firm a bundle!'

Singh slid a piece of paper across the table – it was Quentin's bank statement – and remarked nonchalantly, ‘I don't know about the firm, but something has been costing
you
a bundle!'

‘I have an expensive lifestyle, I guess!' Quentin blinked rapidly a few times and laughed. It sounded tinny and forced to the inspector's ears.

‘Cash withdrawals in large sums – you're down to pennies. I need a better explanation than…' he looked pointedly at the small polo pony and rider on Quentin's shirt ‘…designer clothing!'

‘I must have got a bit carried away with the spending. Thanks for the heads-up, I'll try and rein it in.'

Was this young man trying to suggest that Inspector Singh of the Singapore Police Force was providing personal financial advice? It was time to put some pressure on the young fool. ‘Do you know what I think?'

The lawyer leaned forward with an air of great interest.

‘I think you're being blackmailed.'

Quentin Holbrooke burst into full-throated laughter.

Singh sat back in his chair and scratched his beard under his chin. He was genuinely puzzled. His attempt at pinning Quentin Holbrooke down had resulted in the first bit of real emotion from this amateur thespian – and it was amusement.

Quentin spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I'll be frank with you…I've just had a run of bad luck on the horses.'

Singh squinted at the young man. It was possible, he supposed. Gambling at the Singapore Turf Club in Woodlands was the pastime of serious gamblers as well as part-time punters. It was
possible
– but highly unlikely. Still, his blackmail theory had taken a knock. He would have to find some other explanation for the missing money. Quentin Holbrooke clearly had no intention of coming clean on the subject.

Singh was suddenly sick and tired of prevaricating lawyers. ‘That's all!' he said heavily.

Quentin accepted his abrupt dismissal and walked out, swinging his arms with tightly-controlled, feigned nonchalance.

 

Sergeant Eric Chung was sitting in a clean but nondescript silver-coloured sedan. He remembered that on
NYPD Blue
, his favourite television programme, surveillance vehicles were always rusty old jalopies. That would not work very well on the streets of Singapore where the vast majority of cars were less than ten years old – a by-product of a taxation scheme that rewarded owners for upgrading their cars regularly. Chung was pretty sure that the cops on TV pissed in plastic bottles as well rather than compromise a stake-out. But he and his partner had taken turns to go to the public toilets when nature called. Life really wasn't like television at all, he had come to realise, which made him wonder why he had signed up to be a police officer in the first place. Police work – on the telly – had appeared sexy and dangerous, not mind-numbingly
boring.
Right now, Sergeant Eric, smartly dressed and looking like a computer salesman, was as bored rigid as when he had discovered that he had every season of his favourite cop drama on DVD already.

They had been tailing Quentin Holbrooke for days now. The only thing, thought Chung, that might conceivably be more tiresome than following Quentin Holbrooke was
being
Quentin Holbrooke. All the guy did was come to work every day and stay home in the evenings. He didn't seem to have any friends, let alone a girlfriend. There had been a bit of excitement the previous day when he had walked out of some posh lunch, but all he had done was catch a taxi home. He'd probably gone to bed with a headache while he, Sergeant Chung, had spent the entire afternoon sitting in his car until he was relieved by the night shift.

His partner, a small wiry older Malay man who seemed to have infinite patience, nudged him in the ribs. He looked up and caught a glimpse of Quentin Holbrooke flagging down a taxi in front of Republic Tower.

‘Great – another wild goose chase!' exclaimed Chung. ‘Just when I need the toilet.'

Sergeant Hassan ignored Chung's griping, slipped the car into gear and eased into a leisurely – the taxi ahead was proceeding at a snail's pace – pursuit.

To Chung's mild surprise, the bright-yellow cab was soon navigating the busy traffic down Geylang Road. The narrow crowded back streets lined with colourfully painted old shophouses and fruit stalls did not seem a likely destination for a city lawyer. The taxi pulled up by the side of the road, oblivious to the double yellow lines, and Quentin clambered out.

Hassan said, ‘No place to park – you'd better get out and follow him.'

Sergeant Chung nodded and slipped out of the car, hurrying after the thin figure. He sensed rather than saw Sergeant Hassan continue slowly down the road in his unmarked police vehicle. Chung ignored the gaudy Chinese language signboards, striped awnings and bustling crowds of people as he followed his quarry. He suppressed the desire to grin broadly – now
this
was what he called police work! He almost fell over an old cobbler sitting on the five-foot-way with his worn tools and a pile of old shoes. Quentin Holbrooke came to an abrupt standstill in front of a shuttered karaoke lounge advertising singing personal “hostesses”.

A middle-aged Chinese man with a square head resting on square shoulders – he seemed to have dispensed with a neck entirely – slipped out of a narrow doorway. He sauntered over to the lawyer. The man – he looked like a Lego figure, decided the sergeant – glanced up and down the street quickly. Quentin Holbrooke reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a fat envelope. The other man took it quickly and handed over a small package. The sergeant could not see what it was although he could guess. Quentin Holbrooke shoved the package into his briefcase without a second glance and before Chung could react, he had slipped into another taxi. The two parties to the transaction had not exchanged a single word.

The sergeant looked around anxiously. There was not another taxi in sight and Sergeant Hassan was probably a long way down the road. In any event, Quentin was probably heading back to the office.

There was only one thing to do. He marched up to the Lego man, pulled out his warrant card and said, ‘Police – I need to talk to you.'

A brawny arm came up and shoved Chung in the chest. The man took off at top speed. Chung regained his footing and set off in hot pursuit.

Mrs Singh was seated on a cane sofa with light-green cushions and decorative white crocheted doilies, flanked on either side by an older sister. She was the youngest of four siblings but the fourth sister had discovered travel post-widowhood and was on a cruise ship on her way around Alaska. Such independent behaviour was frowned upon by her family who believed that travel was something that should be limited to weddings, funerals and children's graduations.