The Singapore School of Villainy by Shamini Flint

only slightly smaller print below, ‘MAID (NOW SECOND WIFE) ACCUSES EX-WIFE OF MURDER!’
    Quentin’s voice reflected his bewilderment. ‘But Sarah Thompson isn’t even in the country.’
    â€˜I’m afraid she is,’ confessed Stephen. ‘Sarah’s been staying with us. I didn’t mention it before because it might have embarrassed Mark.’
    â€˜But we have to tell Inspector Singh!’ exclaimed Annie.
    â€˜Not now, we don’t,’ said Jagdesh wryly, gesturing at the paper.
    Inspector Singh sat at a round Formica-topped table on the verandah of the old civil service club on Dempsey Road. His buttocks sank into the cushioned green faux leather seat. The day was picture perfect in the way that was possible only on a Saturday afternoon in the tropics – dappled sunshine, blue skies with streaks of wispy white clouds and snatches of birdsong. Only the low rumble of traffic from Holland Road suggested to the observant that they were in the middle of a metropolis.
    Inspector Singh had just tucked into a massive South Indian meal. A banana leaf, neatly folded in two, disguised the remnants of the senior policeman’s lunch. His young colleague did not appear to know that banana-leaf etiquette required that leaves be folded after meals.
    Singh noticed Corporal Fong glance at his watch and scan the restaurant quickly. He probably feared being spotted by someone senior in the force. Inspector Singh did not see an unsolved murder as a reason not to partake of an early and comprehensive lunch. Fragrant biryani rice, three varieties of vegetables – aubergine, sliced ladies fingers and spinach – a rich lentil gravy, deep-fried slices of the muscular tenggiri fish, mango pickle and crisp poppadums had been accompanied by a large bottle of icy cold beer. This would normally have left the older man with a feeling of languid contentment. But watching the young policeman pick at his food nervously had impaired his enjoyment considerably.
    The inspector knew that none of these sources of aggravation justified his dispensing with the services of the constable. The young man had come highly recommended, straight out of the police academy where he had topped his class. More often than not, he, Singh, had to make do with the dregs of the force – the smart graduates were too valuable to waste on murder investigations. They were needed for securities fraud, criminal breach of trust and other wrongdoings that made Inspector Singh sleepy just thinking about them. But, just for once, his bosses didn’t want him to fail. The murder of an expatriate in Singapore was a terrible blow to the carefully cultivated reputation of the island state. Singh remembered the dead man, sprawled across his desk, with a gaping head wound the size and shape of which had matched the paperweight on the desk. A paperweight that had blood, fragments of bone and hair stuck to its surface. It was an ugly case – the murderer had been angry and determined. Unfortunately the suspects were canny, wealthy lawyers who knew their rights all too well.
    Singh belched. This was no time for post-lunch self doubt. He made his way to the long sinks, washed his hands, rinsed his mouth and lumbered back to the table. His fingers were stained a faint yellow – traces of the turmeric that had coloured the curries. The policeman sat down heavily and ordered a glass of teh tarik .
    Corporal Fong, perhaps unaware that he had already incurred the displeasure of the other man, leaned forward earnestly and asked, ‘What do you think about this case, sir?’
    â€˜What do I think about this case?’ Singh grinned complacently at the other man. ‘I think it is going to make or break careers…but more likely break them.’
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    The remaining partners paid the necessary but awkward visit to the widow, opting to go together rather than have to deal with Maria individually. Even Reggie had decided