Free The Singapore School of Villainy by Shamini Flint Page B

indicate the gauntlet he had run trying to get in to see the inspector.
    â€˜You must be bloody joking if you think I’m traipsing across to Republic Tower every day just to save your firm some embarrassment.’
    â€˜Superintendent Chen has already agreed to my suggestion.’ David Sheringham’s tone was mild and polite. Singh had to appreciate the fact that he refrained from sounding triumphant despite having lined up the big guns on his side.
    The policeman’s stomach growled angrily and for once it was an echo of his mood.
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    Maria Thompson had her face pressed up against the glass wall at the arrival hall of Changi Airport. She scanned the passengers with anxious eyes. She spotted them – two slim, dark-haired children, a boy and a girl, holding hands and looking worried. An airline employee loaded their small suitcase onto a trolley from the revolving baggage carousel and then escorted them towards the green lane exit. Maria moved forward slowly and then with a rush, enfolding them in a fierce embrace. They stood stiffly in her arms for a moment and then found the confidence to return her tight hugs. Tears smeared her make-up but nature stepped in to erase some of the lines of care that had developed in the years since she last saw them.

Six
    Singh decided immediately that he disliked the first Mrs Thompson. He knew the type all too well. A middle-aged white woman, spray-on tan, arms and legs toned by personal coaching sessions with wiry male yoga instructors, full lips – Botox probably. He noted the short skirt that exposed the blue ink tracings of varicose veins behind her knees. Her large feet were crammed into a slim pair of sandals, toenails painted a bright red peeping out the ends.
    He had insisted that Sarah Thompson come to the police station first thing that Sunday morning. She was still a guest with the Thwaites family and he had no intention of interviewing a suspect while other suspects eavesdropped enthusiastically. His instructions to interview suspects at the law offices presumably only applied to the lawyers. Now, they sat across from each other on the plastic folding chairs that Fong had carried in. Singh did not want to be seated behind his desk when he talked to the woman. He had found over the years that witnesses and suspects found it easier to be economical with the truth to someone behind a big desk.
    He glanced up and noticed Fong standing rigidly to attention by the door. The corporal looked poised for action and Singh wondered whether he expected Sarah Thompson to make a dash for freedom in her uncomfortable shoes. He turned his attention back to the woman, noting the faint lines running from her eyes down to her puckered mouth. The tracks of tears – like in that old Smokey Robinson song? This was after all the scorned woman – the question was whether she had lashed out in anger and killed her philandering husband.
    â€˜How did you feel about your ex-husband’s death?’ asked Singh.
    â€˜I couldn’t be happier that the bastard’s dead!’
    Singh eyed her thoughtfully. This was strong, intolerant language from a murder suspect. Did her anger run so deep that she could not hide it even in the fraught circumstances of a police interview? Or was she confident that, whatever her feelings, this was not a crime that could be pinned on her? Singh noted that her pale eyebrows were almost invisible, in stark contrast to Maria Thompson’s carefully plucked and re-drawn dark eyebrows. So much for the eyes being windows to the soul, thought Singh sourly. He couldn’t even get past the eye brows of the many wives of Mark Thompson.
    â€˜Did you kill him?’ The question was blunt and to the point and he saw her jaw clench.
    She crossed and uncrossed her legs and Singh caught a glimpse of red panties. He really, really hoped that it hadn’t been a misplaced effort at a flirtatious gesture.
    Sarah Thompson denied culpability