The Singapore School of Villainy by Shamini Flint Read Free Book Online Page B

of the partners who were dressed casually, Ai Leen had arrived for their meeting dressed for a day at the office. She wore a powder-blue twin-set with a double string of freshwater pearls around her neck. Her face was carefully made up, eyebrows plucked into a fine inquiring line. She looked as if she was about to meet an important client, rather than discuss the murder of Mark Thompson.
    Stephen was the next one to speak. He said briskly in the plummy baritone that would have ensured him a successful career as a barrister, ‘We’ll let the police worry about who did it…’
    â€˜You haven’t presented us with your alibi yet,’ interrupted Reggie.
    Stephen ignored the jibe. ‘I was home in bed with a headache and did not pick up any messages from Mark until this morning,’ he continued. ‘It must have been some stranger, possibly someone mentally unbalanced. The police will track him down soon enough.’
    â€˜But how can we know that?’ Quentin asked, rubbing his eyes with his palms like a tired child. ‘What about the card keys?’
    Stephen shrugged off the question. ‘ Our first priority must be to avoid a scandal – for the sake of his family and the firm.’
    â€˜It’s what Mark would have wanted,’ murmured Reggie, belatedly cooperating when the issues were spelt out in terms of his own self-interest.
    â€˜Listen to yourself, you sanctimonious bastard,’ growled Jagdesh, getting to his feet and looming over his seated colleague. ‘Mark doesn’t deserve to be the subject of a damage limitation exercise!’
    â€˜Well, that’s what he was in life. Why should his death change anything?’ asked Reggie angrily. ‘Drinking, pissing off clients, screwing the help – his death is only the final scandal!’
    â€˜Let’s take a step back here,’ said Stephen calmly. ‘We need to stick together. I think we ought to issue a press statement…and close the office for a few days. We should get in touch with the widow, help arrange the funeral. God knows what Maria will do if we leave it to her.’
    There were nods of agreement around the table. The business of living must go on, thought Jagdesh, resuming his seat and frowning at his fellow partners. The dead become a dead weight and are left behind.
    â€˜Someone should contact Sarah Thompson,’ said Quentin.
    â€˜Joan will handle that,’ muttered Stephen, looking embarrassed.
    Jagdesh nodded his agreement. Joan, Stephen’s wife, had been a close friend of the ex-Mrs Thompson before she had fled back to the relative anonymity of the United Kingdom after the collapse of her marriage to Mark.
    â€˜I suppose someone would have told Maria?’ asked Quentin doubtfully.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Jagdesh. ‘The inspector mentioned he was going to stop by last night and tell her.’
    â€˜It might be a good idea to draft a statement now. Make certain when the story does break, we have a response,’ suggested Annie, ever practical.
    Stephen retrieved a writing pad from his briefcase and a carefully sharpened pencil. Jagdesh wondered whether the pencil was an affectation, a step up from quill and ink. Perhaps it indicated that, despite a job whose stock was words, he distrusted the permanency of the written word. He was an interesting man, Stephen – overweight and jowly, with a spidery scrawl of broken veins on a prominent nose. His bushy, tufted eyebrows overshadowed dark observant eyes. Bluff and hearty in manner, he had a sensitive streak that was not far from the surface.
    Now he said, ‘The partners of Hutchinson & Rice regret to announce the sudden death…’ He glanced round enquiringly, seeking input into his macabre task.
    A waiter sidled into the room with the late edition morning papers. He laid them gently on the table and then scurried out of the room.
    â€˜EXPAT MURDERED!’ screamed the headline, and in