The Singapore School of Villainy Read Online Free PDF

Singh pounced like an overweight cat on a rubber ball. ‘What do you know?’
    She bit her lip.
    â€˜I’m bound to find out – you don’t want me to think that I don’t have your full cooperation.’ His manner was quietly authoritative – more effective than mere insistence.
    Singh noted out of the corner of his eye that Quentin’s Adam’s apple was bobbing like a rubber duck in a bath.
    The silence grew until it filled the room. Singh had been in the same position many times before. His witnesses were hiding something – within each of the three lawyers an internal debate raged. It was visible in their eyes; each one of them wore a slightly fixed stare, desperately trying to keep their features from hinting at any unpleasant truths.
    It was Jagdesh who spoke first, his voice at a higher and more penetrating pitch than normal. The policeman concluded that he had made a conscious decision that Singh was certain to find out whatever it was they were keeping from him – and obfuscation would just reflect badly on all of them. ‘After eight in the evening, the lifts can’t be operated except with a swipe card or by filling in a visitors’ book and being escorted by a security guard to the correct floor.’
    â€˜Who has a card to this floor?’ asked Singh immediately, not slow to see the implications of what he was saying.
    â€˜Only the partners,’ confessed Quentin reluctantly.
    The other two looked as if they wished they could contradict him but it was the simple truth.
    â€˜Where is the visitors’ book kept?’ demanded the inspector, ignoring the undercurrents of tension and dismay.
    â€˜In the lobby, with the security guards.’
    Singh beckoned a uniformed policeman who scurried off to do the inspector’s bidding. He needed to retrieve the visitors’ book and question the security guards. He looked at the lawyers. He guessed they were all desperately hoping that some suspect would emerge – it would suit them down to the ground if some stranger had left his name and address with security downstairs. Singh shook his great head. The survival instinct was always quick to show itself, he thought, leaving the dead ignored and unmourned when the living felt threatened.
    Jagdesh interrupted his train of thought to ask sheepishly, ‘Excuse me, sir – I hope you don’t mind me asking – but I was supposed to have dinner with an Inspector Singh and his wife this evening. My mother arranged it – it wasn’t you by any chance, was it?’
    Singh slapped his palm on the table. ‘I knew your name sounded familiar – you’re the thirty-something in need of a wife!’
    Jagdesh laughed out loud, exposing large, even white teeth. ‘That’s what my mother believes, sir. I think she’s asked Mrs Singh to introduce me to all the unmarried Sikh girls in Singapore!’
    Singh could understand his amusement. If his fellow Sikh, an imposing hulk of a man, with liquid eyes and an attractive, slightly melancholy manner, was unable to find a wife without the help of Mrs Singh, their race would soon be extinct.
    Singh groaned suddenly and the trio around the table gazed at him in surprise. ‘I forgot to tell my wife I’d been called out for a case,’ he explained.
    There were murmurs of feigned sympathy around the table.
    The Sikh policeman said, ‘I’ll need your passports. Bring them into the station by lunchtime tomorrow. The address is on my card.’
    There was an audible gasp from Quentin. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed from the tension of the last few hours and he repeatedly blew his nose on a handkerchief. Every few moments he would shut his eyes, in an action somewhere between a blink and a conscious action. It came across as a nervous tic. But what was he nervous about?
    Jagdesh was the first to acquiesce. The big Sikh was bearing up well, at least physically,