Free The Singapore School of Villainy by Shamini Flint

London office.’
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    Maria Thompson was on the phone. She was angry. Her voice sounded like shattering glass.
    â€˜What do you mean, I must wait? I need the money. It’s my money!’ She paused for breath. ‘What does it matter to me if he is killed? I did not do it.’
    The response at the other end was not to her satisfaction. Her long red nails – expensive acrylic extensions – gripped the phone like the talons of a bird of prey. Her large swollen knuckles – six months of luxury could not easily erase the marks of fifteen years labouring in other people’s kitchens – were white with tension. Previously invisible lines appeared around her mouth and fanned out from her eyes.
    â€˜I cannot wait!’
    She slammed down the phone and glanced at the slim diamond-encrusted wristwatch that Mark had bought her. He had been generous with possessions and keepsakes but not with the cash she needed so badly. And he had watched her like a hawk to ensure that she did not pawn her gifts. She paused to hurl an abusive thought into the ether, wishing it had been possible to direct her insults at Mark while he was still alive. But she had been too dependent on his goodwill and largesse to reveal what she really thought of her wealthy older husband.
    It was almost time to set out. Further argument with the insurance people would have to wait. She was not going to risk being late – not for this moment that she had thought of, dreamt of, longed for all the years she had been toiling in Singapore.
    She rifled through her clothes in the walk-in wardrobe. Bright-coloured designer labels predominated. Mark Thompson, in the early days of his infatuation with her, had said that she turned his life from a dull black and white film into one of glorious colour. She had immediately adjusted her wardrobe accordingly. If he wanted an iridescent butterfly, she would be that creature and anything else he desired. Maria Thompson had known that another opportunity to escape the general fate of the Filipina diaspora was unlikely to come her way.
    She chose a hot-pink pantsuit with wide lapels and a broad belt and spent twenty minutes on her face, erasing every sign of age and care with the help of a cosmetic set bristling with jars, potions and brushes. She peered into a mirror, seeking the woman she had been once, the woman who had left her village outside Manila so many years ago. Finally, she slipped on a pair of high-heeled Jimmy Choo’s and climbed into the back seat of a limousine. She barked her command at the driver: ‘Changi Airport!’
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    The young lawyer with the prematurely grey hair sitting across from Singh exuded confidence – the evidence was there in the firm set of an otherwise mobile mouth and the distinctive chin that was thrust forward slightly. He would have been a handsome fellow – almost too good looking if there was such a thing – if it were not for a dent across the bridge of his nose that made him look like a prizefighter who had been in one bout too many. Singh wondered whether it indicated a man who was not afraid of a little violence and then shook his head. David Sheringham had probably walked into a table when he was a toddler – a broken nose was hardly conclusive evidence of an aggressive disposition. Besides, this man had just turned up from London so he wasn’t even a suspect. Despite this, the lawyer’s insistence that he speak to Singh had stirred his curiosity enough for him to arrange a meeting that evening. Already the policeman was regretting the decision – his home-cooked dinner was growing cold. He dragged his thoughts away from the hollow feeling in his stomach to the matter at hand.
    â€˜So you’re a partner from London. What are you doing down here, then?’
    The lawyer did not seem put out by the question. ‘Keeping the firm’s reputation intact if possible; helping out with the manpower