The Singapore School of Villainy by Shamini Flint Page B

an electric saw that buzzed like a dentist’s drill. It caused Singh to run his tongue over his teeth nervously. He didn’t mind autopsies, but he was afraid of dentists. Singh peered at the heart and lungs and then stepped back as Dr Maniam, with some heaving and panting, started dragging organs out of the body. He cut through connecting tissue with an instrument that looked like a long sharp bread knife. The pathologist muttered his observations out loud for the benefit of the tape recorder that was recording his findings. His assistant started weighing organs on a kitchen scale that reminded Singh of the ones used in wet markets by the chicken sellers. The inspector wrinkled his nose – the sweet cloying smell of raw meat put him in mind of the butcher where his wife bought mutton on the bone for her rich curries. Still, it was nothing compared to the stench that would be forthcoming when the stomach cavity and intestines were sliced open. Singh noted that the corporal had prudently retired to a far wall. He had escaped the sights, but the sounds and smells would pursue him to his safe haven.
    Singh’s foot began to tap impatiently as the assistant, wrapped in green scrubs and a face mask, sliced organs thinly for a histology examination. He knew that it was necessary and a part of the standard autopsy procedure but he wasn’t particularly interested in the results. The cause of Mark Thompson’s death was evident to the naked eye – microscopic examinations of the bits and bobs Dr Maniam was extracting with such enthusiasm were superfluous. The head wound looked like a bloody open mouth screaming for attention – and perhaps justice.
    Dr Maniam glanced at Singh’s tapping foot and glared at the fat policeman. His eyebrows looked like two furry caterpillars facing off. His attention was drawn back to the body cavity as he extricated the liver. It was large and a pale orange colour. The pathologist hefted it up with one hand and held it out for Singh who wrinkled his nose but obediently took a step forward.
    â€˜A bit of a drinker, I see!’ exclaimed the doctor proudly.
    Singh scowled. ‘So? Mark Thompson didn’t exactly die of alcohol poisoning, did he?’
    Dr Maniam’s annoyance was written on his face, but he turned to Mark Thompson’s head wound. ‘All right, I see you’re not going to be satisfied until I start looking at this mess.’ He used tweezers to extract fragments of bone from the wound, dropping each piece into a steel bowl.
    Singh held out a plastic evidence bag with the pewter tiger paperweight in it.
    â€˜Fingerprints?’
    â€˜Wiped,’ said Singh tersely.
    Dr Maniam took out the pewter statue with its marble base admiringly. ‘It’s really beautifully weighted to beat someone’s head in.’ He measured the base with a ruler and did the same for the head wound. He pointed at an indentation in the skull and held the makeshift weapon against it. It was a perfect fit.
    â€˜I think I can confirm your murder weapon.’
    Singh nodded. ‘The bits of bone and hair on it are a bit of a giveaway too.’
    Dr Maniam’s nose hairs quivered but he opted to be amused rather than annoyed at this sarcasm. His guffaw caused Corporal Fong, still standing as far away as he could from proceedings, to look up and then turn away quickly. Singh supposed that the blood-splattered floor, overalls and table were a bit off-putting. It brought back memories of a crime drama on television where the pathologist had conducted the autopsy in a spotless dinner jacket before proceeding to a black tie dinner. Dr Maniam looked like he might have been on a killing spree himself.
    Singh snapped, ‘Is there anything you can tell me that I don’t already know?’
    â€˜Well, any findings at this stage are preliminary…’
    â€˜Give me something!’
    Dr Maniam sighed. ‘Well, the first blow would have knocked