‘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.
It was just as well, thought Mrs Singh, wedged uncomfortably between the two women, that she had remained skinny – there would have been no room on the sofa for all three of them otherwise. Her two older sisters had succumbed to the Sikh mother-in-law stereotype and grown enormously fat. The baggy trousers of their salwar khameez were the size of tents to gird their posteriors. It was a sultry, steamy day without a breath of wind and both women were sweating, armpits damp and wet patches forming under their amp
le bosoms. The vigorously spinning ceiling fan merely circulated the hot air. One of the two women grasped a magazine in plump be-ringed fingers and fanned herself. The effort required to produce a breeze outweighed the benefits and she flopped back down, patting her forehead with the end of her dupatta.
‘Too hot nowadays,’ she whispered, almost drowned out by the television. Mrs Singh did not consider it necessary or polite to switch off the TV when visitors arrived, especially if it was just family dropping by. Besides, she was waiting for a Punjabi-language film to come on.
‘Must be that global warming – my son is learning about it in school,’ her other sister remarked. ‘He says we must not drive our cars so much.’
‘What?’ exclaimed the first one, startled into sitting upright again. ‘How to walk when the weather is like this?’ She began fanning herself once more.
The maid trotted in bearing a tray with mugs of hot sweet Nescafé and a side dish of paneer pakora. Both sisters leaned forward, arms outstretched, folds of flab hanging down like heavy drapes. The first one dropped the pakora she had seized immediately. ‘Still hot,’ she explained, licking her finger tips with a pink tongue. The maid handed out side plates and paper serviettes. The sisters were silent for a few minutes as they blew on their snacks to cool the oil and nibbled on them happily.
The oldest sister, a thin layer of perspiration making her flawless skin gleam, asked, ‘So – has brother found this murderer?’
Mrs Singh scowled and deep lines appeared on her taut skin. ‘Not yet. He won’t even let that boy go for his sister’s wedding in Delhi. He’s always so stubborn.’
‘He should let him attend, otherwise it looks very bad for the family,’ remarked her sister, wafting air towards her cheeks with a plump hand.
Mrs Singh suddenly remembered her husband’s instructions. ‘Have you heard anything about Jagdesh?’ she asked. ‘Any secrets? Maybe the mother in India is covering up something about him?’
‘Why? What do you know?’ There was excitement in her sister’s tone at the possibility of some juicy gossip. The other sister swallowed her pakora hurriedly and leaned forward to hear the latest.
Mrs Singh shook her head in quick denial at being privy to any untoward information about their relative. ‘No, no! I don’t know anything. I thought maybe you did.’
There were slumped shoulders and disappointed shakes of the head all round.
She would have to tell her husband that Jagdesh Singh had nothing to hide, decided Mrs Singh. As she had suspected, he was just making unwarranted insinuations against a family member. There was just no way that Jagdesh Singh could have maintained a secret of any importance in the face of the unflagging curiosity of the Sikh community. He was just a nice fellow caught in her unreasonable husband’s clutches.
‘I’m going to invite that boy here for dinner again,’ she said, and her voice was quiet and thoughtful, as if she’d come to a decision of great magnitude.
Thirteen
Annie perched on the edge of her chair like an earnest schoolgirl, wondering how to bring up the subject that occupied her waking moments without revealing more than she needed to – or wanted to – to her colleague.
‘What’s up?’ asked Quentin. He was sitting behind his desk, crescents of sweat visible under his armpits. There were dark smudges under his eyes. He looked as if he had not slept in days, thought Annie. Perhaps he hadn’t; she herself was suffering from terrible insomnia. Sleep was a luxury that suspects in a murder investigation could not afford.
‘Just dropped in for a chat,’ she said casually.
Quentin managed a weak smile. ‘Good timing – I just got back in from running a few errands.’
‘Have you heard anything from the Tan Sri lately?’
Quentin’s expression transformed into one of puzzlement. He smoothed away a lock of mousy hair from his high forehead and asked, ‘The Tan Sri? From the Malaysian file? No – why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering…’
‘I don’t know how you can think about work right now,’ Quentin said, his tone admiring. ‘I’m just going around in circles. Have there been any developments on the file I should know about? That fat inspector was asking about the insider dealing – but I can’t see how that matters, can you?’
Annie shook her head and changed the subject quickly. ‘How was your interview?’
‘A bit of a performance. Hopefully they didn’t notice.’
She said earnestly, genuinely trying to help a friend, ‘You need to stay on the good side of the police. That fat man is dangerous.’
He nodded and Annie smiled at him warmly. She rose to her feet. ‘Back to the grind, I guess,’ she said, and strolled to the door. She was determined to leave Quentin with the impression that it had been a friendly visit, not a fishing expedition to find out if he had heard anything about the insider dealing.
She literally walked into David who grabbed her by both arms to steady her. It was the first time they had made physical contact since he had grabbed her swinging fist that first morning in Mark’s office. She was immediately aware of the strength in his long fingers as she regained her balance. He held on to her, his grip tightening. Then he saw the name on the door from which she had just exited and released her. He did not say a word but she saw that his lips had formed a thin line. She absently rubbed her arm where his grip had almost hurt her. She could not believe that he still suspected that she was in some sort of relationship with Quentin.
She was distracted by the sudden appearance of Singh, ambling down the corridor with Corporal Fong following at his heels like a well-trained dog. He did not seem to notice the tension radiating from Annie and David. He nodded at the two of them in friendly fashion, as if they were acquaintances whose paths had crossed his on an Orchard Road shopping expedition. The policeman peered at the black and gold nameplate for a moment to confirm the room’s occupant, raised his hand to knock, changed his mind and twisted the handle. As he marched into Quentin’s office without a word of warning, Annie stared at his receding back in surprise, then hurried after him. David was hard on her heels. Their mistrust of each other was put aside for the temporary common purpose of figuring out what the turbaned policeman had up his sleeve.
Quentin looked shocked at the sudden invasion by the police but tried to put a brave face on it. ‘Was there something else you wanted to ask me, Inspector?’
Annie and David watched from the door as Singh walked around the desk until he was on the same side as the lawyer. He perched himself on the edge of the teak table and looked carefully at Quentin Holbrooke, his bearded chin no more than a foot away from the lawyer’s pale face.
‘I really should have guessed,’ he muttered under his breath, pink bottom lip thrust out in irritation.
Annie could see that the policeman’s steady perusal was having an effect on her colleague. Despite the air conditioning, a sheen of sweat on Quentin’s forehead reflected the fluorescent lighting and his hands were curled into tight fists to hide his trembling fingers.
Singh appeared to make up his mind.
‘Fong!’ he snapped.
‘Yessir!’
‘Arrest this man…’
‘On what grounds?’ demanded David, hurrying forward as if he intended to physically impede Singh in the exercise of his duties.
‘For the murder?’ asked Annie, her voice high-pitched with shock, a contrast to her usual mellow tone.
Fong marched up to Quentin, all professional now, the uniformed action-man ready to carry out his superior’s orders to the letter. Only the quick sidelong glance he threw at the inspector suggested to the older man that he was in the dark as to the genesis of this sudden turn of events. Singh was pleased, however, that Fong had not stopped to question his orders – he liked his flunkies to be obedient.
Quentin had gone limp, like a small rodent trying to avoid catching the eye of a bird of prey. His face was drained of colour except for the red inflammation around his nose and the da
rk circles under his eyes. His pupils were dilated to their maximum. Only a thin ring of his pale blue irises remained – it reminded Singh of an eclipse of the moon.
The young policeman placed a firm hand on Quentin’s arm and ushered him – almost dragged him – to a standing position.
As Quentin swayed on his feet like a high-rise building in an earth tremor, Singh wondered for a moment if he was going to collapse. The lawyer’s knees did not seem up to the job of keeping him upright.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded David. His voice was firm; he was all attorney now, thought Singh, any misgivings about Quentin suppressed in his desire to protect a colleague.
Singh’s eyes crinkled around the edges. His pouting lower lip was stretched thin by his wide smile. He sauntered over to Quentin’s brown leather case, resting on the floor by his chair, picked it up and placed it on the table.
‘Why don’t you tell us what you have in here, young man?’ Singh sounded like a school teacher who suspected that a student had a collection of soft porn in his schoolbag.
Quentin was trembling. It was terrifying to see a grown man so reduced by a crude, visceral fear. A major part of the policeman was pleased – such intense dread indicated a guilty conscience. At the same time, Singh could not help feeling a smidgen of sympathy for the young man. He really hoped that he never found himself in a position where he was so publicly emasculated.
The lawyers were all staring at the bag, making wild guesses as to its contents, except for Quentin. In contrast to the engrossed expressions of the rest, his eyes had the blankness of gaze that Singh associated with the blind.
‘Well, go on!’ barked the inspector.
Quentin reached out an unsteady hand and unclasped the old-fashioned hook. His hands fell to his sides and he shook his head to indicate his inability or unwillingness to carry on.
Singh scowled. ‘Have it your way. Fong, tip it out.’
Fong released Quentin’s arm and turned the bag over. A few sheets of paper, a couple of pens and a wallet fell out. The junior policeman looked at his boss inquiringly and was rewarded with a rude shake of the head. Fong shook the bag again, this time more vigorously.
The Singapore School of Villainy Page 15