The Singapore School of Villainy

by Shamini Flint

  He wrapped two hands around Annie’s neck. It was a fragile stalk, smooth and warm to the touch. He felt he could snap it, just like that. And she deserved it, this woman who had lied to the police about him, a so-called friend who had betrayed him. And he had nothing to lose in gaining his revenge – after all, he already faced the death penalty.

  ‘Let me go!’ she screamed.

  His concentration wavered for a moment as a wave of dizziness swept over him. She wrenched free and turned to run. His arm went round her neck, yanking her head painfully back. Her back was to him, her body pressed up against him. She screamed and he stifled further sound with a hand pressed against her mouth. Annie stamped on his foot with all her might, and as his grip loosened in shock, she bit the hand over her mouth as hard as she could. He released her mouth, exclaiming in pain and shock, but the arm round her neck tightened. Annie screamed at the top of her lungs. Quentin struggled to muzzle her again. He tried to control a rising tide of panic, reminding himself that the cemetery was deserted. She fought him furiously. He could feel that each effort to pull free was further asphyxiating her against the arm around her soft throat. He was starting to feel giddy, praying that she would falter first. She was stronger than he had anticipated – he was not sure how long he could hang on.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, he felt a hand on his collar and he was yanked backwards with enormous force. Annie fell to her knees, choking and retching, dragging painful gasps of air into her lungs. Quentin felt as if he was fighting a creature composed more of shadow than of substance. He desperately lunged out, swinging wildly with both fists. It seemed impossible to make anything except chance contact, while his opponent’s blows were landing with precision – dull thuds that landed on his face and chest with the regularity of a pile-driver. For one highly-strung moment he wondered whether his opponent was a figment of his imagination, a drug-induced hallucination. There was a lull. Quentin stood swaying on his feet. David Sheringham hit him hard, fist to jaw, and Quentin crumpled in a heap.

  Inspector Singh’s jaw dropped. ‘What happened?’

  His shock was understandable, thought Annie. They had not briefed him on the phone – just asked him to hurry over. Now he stared at the three of them in astonishment. Both Quentin and David were muddy and dishevelled. Quentin was by far the worst for wear – one of his eyes was almost shut, his bottom lip was split, there were cuts and bruises on his face and arms and he stood heavily on one leg, unable to put weight on the other. His defeated expression, eyes half shut, lips turned down, shoulders bowed, emphasised his physical state. David’s shirt was torn and blood trickled down his cheek from a cut above his eye. Annie did not know it but she presented the most telling evidence of an altercation. Her knees were muddied, she had a glorious bruise on one cheek and her eyes were enormous pools of shock and fright in a face from which all the blood had drained.

  David put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Quentin attacked Annie,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  There was no response from the man who stood accused. His silence rang like a confession. The inspector, a round figure but light on his feet like a dancer, moved to whip out the handcuffs attached to his belt and deftly encircled Quentin’s wrists.

  He said to Corporal Fong, ‘Get him cleaned up. Make certain the police doctor sees him. Put him in a cell and then wait for me. I’ll decide what we’re charging him with – assault or something more – later.’

  They all watched Quentin being led away. He got into the back seat of the car, Corporal Fong slipped in next to him and they sped away.

  Singh made his bewilderment plain. ‘I don’t understand.’

  David put up a hand to stop him. ‘All explanations in a minute. Let us get cleaned up and then we’ll talk.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Singh was waiting for them in the living room, looking relaxed in a comfy chair with a drink clutched in one hand. David appeared, wearing a T-shirt from Annie’s drawer that was several sizes too small for him. Annie handed him a beer. He took it gratefully and waved away the first aid box, making it clear that he thought the medicinal properties of alcohol were superior to any external ointment. Annie curled up on the sofa next to him.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened here, seeing as I have a man in custody?’ asked the inspector, taking charge of proceedings.

  ‘I came home from work, having arranged to meet David. Quentin turned up a short while later.’

  David cut in to say, ‘I’m sorry I was late. I couldn’t get a taxi.’

  Annie nodded her understanding. ‘You were just in the nick of time!’

  She paused, knowing that there was going to be frustration and disbelief from David that she had kept quiet about the insider dealing for so long. ‘I should tell you – I’ve already briefed the inspector – I had a call from a client in Malaysia a few days ago, accusing someone at Hutchinson & Rice of insider dealing.’

  She sensed David stiffen by her side.

  ‘Tan Sri Ibrahim told me that he spoke to Mark the evening he died.’

  David almost yelled at her, ‘Mark knew? But that could have been why he called the meeting!’

  ‘I thought of that. I knew that you would all suspect Quentin, and perhaps me, of the murder…so I didn’t say anything at first.’

  Singh asked, ‘You were afraid of being accused of murder?’

  ’I was protecting Quentin,’ she said, her chin sticking out defiantly. ‘Later, when Quentin was arrested, I realised that he must have needed money for his drug habit. I didn’t feel I could keep the truth from the police any more…’

  She stopped, a fingernail going into her mouth. ‘Quentin turned up here…I wasn’t sure what he wanted.’

  David leaned over to give her a quick hug.

  Annie smiled at him and said, ‘We went for a walk to the old cemetery at the back.’ She gestured in its general direction. ‘Quentin was furious that I’d told the inspector about his insider dealing. He seemed to think that I’d informed the papers that he’d been let off on the drugs charge as well.’

  She shook her head. ‘He attacked me.’

  Singh exhaled gustily and swallowed some gin as if the drink might make the news more palatable.

  Annie took up her tale again. ‘David turned up just as things were getting nasty.’

  ‘How did David know where you’d gone?’ asked Singh.

  ‘I was running late. I finally got a taxi…we were coming up the road here when I saw Quentin and Annie. I got out and followed them. It was getting dark and the cemetery is overgrown, full of trees and shadows. I wasn’t sure what to do. I was just turning back when I heard Annie scream.’

  The lines on his face deepened.

  Annie was still puzzled. ‘But why did you follow us?’

  David’s face flushed. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. ‘I thought that there was something between you and Quentin. I decided to follow you and see for myself.’

  Singh looked at his red face, mortified at having to confess to such juvenile behaviour, and started to chuckle. David glared at him but was forced to concede that the story had its funny side. He began to laugh too.

  Annie said resolutely, ‘I don’t want you to charge Quentin with attacking me. He’s in enough trouble already.’

  Singh took a healthy swig of his drink. ‘Are you sure?’

  David echoed the question, a worried expression on his face. ‘What if he tries again?’

  ‘He won’t. He’s just really fragile right now because of the drugs. And he has a right to be angry – I did tell the inspector about the insider dealing.’

  ‘Insider dealing to get cash to feed his drug habit, attacking you,’ muttered Singh, his thick brows forming into an angry line. ‘I can almost believe he killed Mark.’

  ‘What do you mean? Jagdesh killed Mark,’ interrupted Annie hurriedly.

  ‘Jagdesh had an alibi,’ explained Singh, leaning back in his armchair tiredly.

  ‘What?’ Annie hardly
recognised her own voice, high-pitched, shocked, slurring from her swollen lip.

  ‘Yes, a young man was with him that evening,’ the inspector said calmly, reminding everyone in the room that he was a police officer. ‘He preferred to lie about it to keep his homosexuality under wraps.’

  Looking around, Annie could see that she was not the only one who had not known about the alibi. David looked stunned.

  The policeman’s tone was deliberate. ‘I decided to keep Jagdesh’s innocence a secret – to see what the murderer would do if he believed he was off the hook. And now we know…’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ muttered Annie in a barely audible voice.

  ‘The murderer decided that his purpose was best served by Jagdesh taking the secret of his own innocence to his grave.’

  ‘You mean…?’

  ‘I mean Jagdesh Singh was murdered.’

  Annie stammered, ‘But…how?’

  ‘Pillow over the face,’ said Singh succinctly, holding a pudgy hand against his mouth and nostrils to indicate the crude but effective method that had dispatched Jagdesh.

  ‘I need another drink,’ whispered David.

  Annie rose to her feet dutifully, her face a ghostly mask. She put the coffee machine on, trying to occupy her trembling hands – the inspector’s words were a body blow greater than anything Quentin had inflicted on her. As she walked slowly back into the living room, she caught sight of her briefcase. Her exclamation of shock interrupted proceedings.

  ‘What is it?’ snapped the inspector.

  Annie could not believe she had forgotten the letter. There had been so much going on, so much unpleasantness to divulge and digest, it had gone clean out of her mind. With trembling fingers, she reached for the bag, opened the clasp and slipped the photocopy out.

  Singh stretched out an impatient hand. ‘What is it, for God’s sake?’

  Annie handed the paper to the inspector without a word. Singh held it a couple of feet away – his long-sightedness affecting his ability to read and his patience. It was headed “Resignation Letter” and addressed to “The Partners, Singapore Office”. He read it out loud, taking in every word:

  I hereby tender my resignation from the partnership of Hutchinson & Rice with immediate effect. Before I go, I would like to inform the remaining partners of an episode of which I am deeply ashamed. Approximately six months ago, my elevation to the partnership was under consideration. I had understood from office rumours that Reggie Peters was the fiercest opponent of my promotion. I decided to confront him. He told me that he did not feel I was a lawyer of sufficient quality to join the partnership.

  He said it was within my power to change his mind. He made it clear that he would support my partnership application in exchange for sexual favours. I agreed to his terms and we commenced a sexual relationship. In due course, I was elevated to the partnership with his support. I tried to end the relationship thereafter but he refused, saying that he would reveal what had happened if I did. He insisted that I would come out of it with my reputation severely damaged but that he was senior enough and rich enough to weather the storm.

  Subsequently Mark was killed and I wondered whether Mark had somehow found out about us and Reggie had killed him to keep our secret. I was also concerned that the same motive applied to me. It seems that Jagdesh Singh murdered Mark. I no longer fear being accused of murder. I find that my reputation and career mean less to me now than when I agreed to Reggie Peters’ terms. I believe it is important that he be prevented from abusing his position again, if indeed this is the first time.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Lim Ai Leen

  The inspector nodded his head. Many things were clearer now: the inexplicable friendship between Reggie and Ai Leen; their attempts to put up a united front; the recent distance between them where Ai Leen’s body language – as she cringed from Reggie and flinched when he spoke – suggested genuine dread.

  David said, ‘I don’t believe it,’ but his tone suggested he believed it all too well.

  Singh demanded, ‘Where did you get this?’

  Annie answered in a small voice, ‘My secretary found it at the printer. She made a copy and gave it to me.’ She looked at their shocked faces and said, ‘I asked David to meet me here to tell him. But so much happened that…I forgot I had it!’

  ‘It’s addressed to the partners. Why hasn’t she delivered it?’ Singh demanded.

  David shrugged. ‘Perhaps she changed her mind. It’s an inflammatory piece of work.’

  Annie added, ‘She won’t know we have a copy. My secretary put the original back as she found it.’

  Inspector Singh smiled approvingly at this cunning. This unknown secretary was a smart cookie. He asked, ‘Do these allegations sound plausible?’ He didn’t doubt the contents of the letter for a moment – it was a piece of the puzzle that fitted very neatly into one of the holes in the case – but he was curious to see if the others were of the same mind.

  Annie’s affirmation was immediate.

  David nodded too. He said, running a hand through his short hair so that the grey strands stood on end – ‘What a sorry mess!’

  ‘Jagdesh has an alibi. Does that make Reggie the killer?’ It was Annie with the query.

  Singh looked at her quizzically. It was curious that she was the first to point out the possibilities, the one most willing to accuse a fellow partner of murder. He remembered her reluctance in the early days of the investigation to make any accusations, her reticence so much in contrast to the other lawyers. He wondered what was at the root of the change of attitude.

  David demanded impatiently, ‘Well, does it?’

  The inspector squinted at them thoughtfully. ‘There are loose ends. How would Mark Thompson have found out about the two of them?’

  David waved away the question with an impatient hand. ‘He could have seen them together, overheard them…we might never know exactly. My money’s on Reggie.’ He added quickly, ‘I certainly don’t believe it was Quentin – he wouldn’t commit a premeditated murder.’

  Inspector Singh looked at him penetratingly. It was interesting that David was willing to exonerate the man who had just attacked a woman that he clearly cared about. Either he was a man of such profound integrity that he could separate his personal feelings from his assessment of the case, or he knew something he wasn’t telling the police. Singh had taken a strong liking to the young man from London, but he doubted that he was capable of such a selfless analysis of the facts. This case was like a kueh lapis – layer upon layer of secrets and lies.

  Annie’s frustrated exclamation dragged him back to the matter at hand. She said, ‘But there isn’t any proof!’

  The lawyers turned to the inspector, the final arbiter on whether it was possible to arrest Reggie.

  Singh shook his head. ‘No, there is motive…but nothing to place him at the scene – either scene! I don’t have enough for an arrest, let alone a prosecution.’

  Twenty-Three

  Maria Thompson looked at the accumulating bills on her dead husband’s rosewood desk. She opened a smoothly sliding drawer and brushed them all in with a sweep of her arm. Unfortunately, out of sight was not out of mind. She had maintained the lifestyle she had shared with Mark when money had been no object. Her children deserved it – they had waited long enough in a Filipino village in the care of her ageing crone of a mother while she fought for a better life for them. But now money was short. The insurance people still refused to pay up on Mark’s policy. Her acrylic talons dug into the palms of her hands. They were dragging their feet on the grounds that the murder was still unsolved.

  She would have to sue the insurance company, involve more lawyers in her affairs, even though she was sick to death of the whole tribe. Her knee was bouncing up and down furiously as she thought about the time, effort and – most importantly – money a legal battle would cost. She had seen the blood-sucking attitude of these legal types up close. After all, her husband had been the senio
r partner at just such a firm of parasites. She’d be lucky if there were even a few Philippine pesos left after a court wrangle to get hold of the insurance money.

  Well, perhaps the time had come to cash in one of her other chips, carefully preserved for just such a financial emergency as this.

  Reggie Peters walked out of the meeting he had been chairing at the client’s offices. It had lasted for hours and achieved nothing but he didn’t really care, not while he charged by the hour anyway. He switched on his mobile and it beeped urgently, indicating missed calls. There were three, all from the same number, one that he did not recognise. He was on the verge of returning the calls and then thought better of it. It could wait till he was back at the office. He stepped out of the building. Immediately beads of sweat popped out along his upper lip like a translucent moustache. He dabbed a handkerchief on his brow and squinted at the sun. It was almost lunchtime and he was only a couple of blocks away from Republic Tower. He decided to walk. He had not gone five hundred yards before he regretted his decision. Reggie was not a fit man and he was starting to turn a mottled pink, the colour of cooked lobster. His fine sandy hair was damp against his scalp, the creeping baldness more noticeable. He had worn a suit to the meeting and although he had loosened his tie and was carrying the jacket, the scratchy wool made his legs and crotch itch.

  Reggie wondered whether to duck into a nearby Starbucks for some respite. His ringing phone pre-empted the decision. Reggie hurried into the air-conditioned lobby of the nearest building and recovered his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. He saw at a glance that it was the same person who had been trying to reach him earlier.

  Ai Leen was at home alone. She lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling, unknowingly adopting Quentin’s posture in a jail cell across town. She felt trapped, unable to decide what to do. Intimidated by Reggie the previous day, she had temporarily given up her plan of sending her resignation letter to the partnership. But she knew she would come about; she was just not sure how. She gripped the bedclothes tightly and repeated the last thought to herself. She dragged herself out of bed, showered, dressed and curled up in the sitting room armchair to watch a re-run of a chat show on daytime television. She realised once again, as if she needed reminding, that to work was as essential to her as breathing. She could not conceive of a life where she did not have an office to go to and work to lose herself in. It was just as well she had not committed herself to leaving Hutchinson & Rice by delivering that resignation letter. There would be other solutions.