The Singapore School of Villainy (16 page)

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 ample 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.

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 dark 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.

A clear plastic bag fell out and landed on the table. It was packed full of a fine white powder just as Sergeants Chung and Hassan had reported.

‘Quentin Holbrooke, I hereby arrest you for trafficking approximately forty grams of cocaine!'

 

Corporal Fong led a dazed Quentin Holbrooke away, leaving the two lawyers and Inspector Singh alone in the room.

‘I don't understand,' whispered Annie.

‘It's quite straightforward, isn't it?' remarked Singh. His tone was jovial.

‘What do you mean?' growled David. Annie thought she had never seen him so enraged.

‘Your lawyer friend, Quentin Holbrooke, is a cocaine addict – and he does a bit of trafficking on the side. Mark Thompson found out. Mark Thompson is
dead
.' Inspector Singh enunciated each word carefully as if he was a teacher to young children.

‘You have no evidence that Mark knew about Quentin's cocaine habit!' insisted David angrily.

‘Did you?' Singh whirled around on the balls of his feet and snapped the question at Annie.

She shook her head. ‘I had no idea – none at all.'

‘And Quentin and Annie were good friends. That just proves that Mark couldn't possibly have known,' interjected David.

‘Mark Thompson was not a naïve young thing…'

Annie bristled but Singh carried on. ‘He might well have spotted the signs of an addiction – it was all there to see, the nerves, the mood swings, the running nose.'

David said, with an air of forced patience, ‘If Mark had known about Quentin's addiction to drugs, he would have tried to get him medical help. Not called some sort of big meeting to announce it to the partners! Why would he?'

‘I agree with you –
if
Quentin was just an addict. But he might have done some peddling on the side.'

‘He
must
have had it for his own use. He wouldn't have been trafficking,' insisted David, his voice as unsteady as Annie's legs.

‘There's no way you could know that,' pointed out the inspector. ‘Besides, it doesn't matter!'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Section 17 of the Misuse of Drugs Act – anyone who has an amount of cocaine in excess of three grams “shall be presumed to have had that drug in possession for the purpose of
trafficking
unless it is proved that his possession of that drug was not for that purpose”.'

Annie turned pale. What was this tiresome policeman trying to say?

Singh sat down, hesitantly at first and then more quickly as gravity took over. He leaned back in Quentin Holbrooke's chair and folded his arms over his belly. Annie realised that this was a policeman who was confident that he had the evidence and the law on his side.

‘Your friend had almost forty grams in that bag. You should know that unauthorised trafficking of more than thirty grams of cocaine means the
mandatory
death sentence. Quentin Holbrooke is going to swing.'

The two lawyers stared at him in open-mouthed horror.

‘The only question', he continued, ‘is whether he swings for the murder of Mark Thompson as well. It doesn't make a huge amount of difference to me. We can only hang him once.'