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  “The witnesses all claimed you started the fight.”

  They hadn’t interviewed anyone from the market. It wasn’t standard procedure, not unless there had been criminal damage or grievous bodily harm. All Vernon had were three statements from the Staffordshires.

  I shook my head and waited.

  Eventually he flicked over another page and pointed to a line of type that I couldn’t read upside down.

  “Palestine,” he said in a tone that was almost reasonable.

  “That’s right.”

  “Just off the boat yourself?”

  “No, I caught a flight into Changi.”

  He waited. When I didn’t elaborate he said, “Captain Ash Carter. Assigned to Royal Military Police seventy-fifth Provost. Special Investigations Branch. Palestine.”

  It seemed to be the only information he had about me. I nodded and said, “Retired as of two weeks ago.”

  The cold, hard stare returned and I wondered if he ever blinked.

  I added, “Honourable discharge.”

  Vernon puffed himself up again. His teeth were clenched as if he wanted to say something but was unsure what it was.

  Finally he bellowed, “Guard!”

  The door opened and the two MPs stepped smartly inside.

  “Take Mr Carter back to his cell.”

  THREE

  Night approached and slinked slowly across the corridor leaving just a dim light from the room beyond. I leaned on the wall and dozed. Something you learn in the army is to sleep when you can. You also eat when you can but all I was given was a chunk of bread and another mug of water. It was lukewarm and tasted of tin.

  During the night there was a lot of noise and activity. Many drunken soldiers came and went from the pen next door. At one point the sergeant with the eyebrows came through and asked if I wanted a blanket. The heat was unrelenting so I used it as a pillow and curled up on the floor.

  It was still dark when I woke up just before six in the morning. I rubbed the stiffness from my joints and returned to the bench. A guard brought me a mug of tea and a billycan with watery porridge.

  “What’s next?” I asked him.

  “No idea,” he said. “Except…” He looked uncertain.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, sir, you’ve caused a bit of a kerfuffle.” That was all he would say before he left me.

  Thirty minutes later, Eyebrows came back. “Sleep all right?”

  “I’ve had better nights. But I’ve also had worse.”

  He nodded. “You’re staying at The Queens?”

  They’d obviously checked up on me whilst I’d been in the clink. “In theory,” I said. “I checked in but haven’t actually stayed there yet. Yesterday was my first day.”

  Eyebrows cracked a smile. “Well then, welcome to Singapore.” He led me into the corridor. I counted eight men in the pen, looking tired with hangovers and bruises from fighting no doubt.

  Eyebrows checked me out at the desk and showed me a map.

  “This is the Military Police Head Quarters on Bras Basah road. Your hotel is here—” He pointed to a crossroads not far away. “A maximum of ten minutes’ walk. Get yourself cleaned up and I’ll pick you up outside the hotel at oh-eight-twenty.”

  “Pick me up?”

  “Yes,” he said and became more serious. “I’m to take you to Government House.”

  I expected a vehicle, but I was wrong. Pick you up, just meant that Eyebrows would meet me at The Queens Hotel and we would walk. Showered, shaved and with clean clothes I felt like a new man. On the steps of the hotel I formally introduced myself.

  Eyebrows replied with a nod. “Sergeant Dave Hegarty.”

  We set off at a brisk pace.

  “What’s at Government House, Dave?”

  “Sorry, sir, that’s all I’ve been told.” After that, he said nothing.

  We walked in a straight line with the rising sun at our backs. There were occasional blocks of shop-houses—two storey buildings each with a retail shop downstairs and living quarters upstairs—but within minutes we were in the area I learned to call the Government sector. White Georgian properties gleamed in the sunlight.

  Hegarty stopped at a shiny black door with a silver knocker and door pull. He knocked and the door was opened by a Malay butler who bowed curtly.

  Hegarty indicated that I should enter and said he’d wait outside.

  The butler led me down a corridor and parquet flooring clicked under my shoes. I glanced at large oil paintings and expensive looking ornaments. He stopped at an open door and waved me inside.

  The room looked like a cosy private library. There was a plush rug and leather armchairs. It smelled of cigars and polish and was cool compared to the street with a giant fan turning lazily in the centre of the room.

  A man wearing a black suit and white wing-collared shirt sat in one of the chairs. His legs were crossed and he had an unlit cigar in one hand.

  “Captain Carter,” he said rising. “Very pleased to meet you.” The way he stood made me think he either had a false leg or a knee problem.

  I shook his hand. It was soft.

  “And you are?”

  “Secretary Coates.”

  He was a small, relaxed man but with a natural air of authority. Public school and army, I figured, but a long time ago. He was over fifty and gone to seed though his pale eyes were still bright.

  We both sat and I decided his movement suggested the leg was indeed false. Between us was a round mahogany table. I placed a hand on it and said, “Secretary?”

  He smiled. “I work for the Governor. As I’m sure you know Singapore is a Crown Colony. We have a Legislature, a government if you will, and I’m the Secretary responsible for internal security.”

  I nodded and took in the room. The books crammed on shelves were leather bound and looked more like journals or record books than for entertainment. There was a globe to Coates’s right—the sort that was really a drinks cabinet. I could see Asia, but Singapore was too small to make out.

  He saw me looking. “Strategically important,” he said. “Raffles realized it as soon as he spotted the island and pictured it as the gateway to the Orient. Pretty much everything going east or west by sea goes through Singapore.” Then he pierced me with his bright eyes and asked abruptly, “What are you doing here?”

  “I believe you wanted to see me.”

  “I mean in Singapore.”

  “I’m visiting a friend.” Which was true. I’d received a telegram from an old school chum, Tom Silverman.

  SINGAPORE GREAT BUT SOMETHING AMISS -(STOP)- INVESTIGATING -(STOP)- NEED YOUR HELP -(STOP)- PLEASE CALL

  I could do better than call. I needed to get away from Palestine and had nowhere better to go, so a few days later I jumped on a ship to Egypt. Then I caught a ride on a DC 9 to India and then another flight to Singapore.

  Coates was appraising me with his bright eyes. Maybe he doubted my story, but I saw no reason to elaborate or prove its veracity.

  I smiled. “Perhaps now, you could tell me what I am doing here. In your office I mean.”

  The politician lit his cigar with a motion that was both languid and considered. After it was lit he took a long draw and the space between us filled with blue smoke.

  I said, “You had me followed. Before I was arrested I spotted someone tailing me.”

  “We knew you were coming.” He took another long draw and set the cigar down. “Captain Ashley Carter.”

  Only my father called me Ashley.

  I said, “I prefer to be called Ash.”

  “You resigned your commission from the Royal Military Police two weeks ago after seven years of distinguished service. Why would you do that?”

  I looked over his shoulder at an oil painting of elephants in the jungle. The detail was almost good enough to be a photograph.

  Coates said, “You were awarded the Distinguished Service Medal. Which is ironic really. I understand you were instrumental in stopping a bomb plot
against the United Nations building.”

  “It was more the occupants—the international delegates—than the building but apart from that you are correct.”

  “And then you resigned.”

  “Yes. It was time to move on.”

  “Really?” He picked up his cigar and blew another cloud between us. I wondered if he was using it as symbolism—a smoke screen. I wasn’t going to tell him anything he didn’t know. And then I discovered he knew more than I expected.

  He said, “You resigned because you were unhappy. You were unhappy because your snitch—if that’s the right term—was murdered and you could do nothing about it.”

  It was much more than that. I tried to stay relaxed and not let my face betray my feelings.

  Coates said, “The suspected perpetrators—four of them—were found dead three days ago. The same day you left the country.”

  I said nothing. It had been the day I’d left. Coates knew a great deal but not everything. I suspected he was filling in the gaps in his intelligence with educated guesses.

  He continued: “As an MP you were powerless to take any action against the murderers. So I think you resigned and took independent action. You found the perpetrators and you killed them. You revenged your snitch’s death.”

  “That’s pure speculation,” I said.

  “For now.”

  I stood. “Thank you, Mr Coates. It has been an interesting meeting.”

  “Sit down, Ashley.”

  I remained standing and looked at the fine detail of the oil painting.

  He said, “I have a proposition for you,” and pointed to the chair. “Please sit.”

  After I had taken the seat, he rang a silver hand bell and the butler appeared. “Stengahs,” he requested. When the butler returned with two tumblers, Coates explained that they contained weak whisky and soda. He took a sip in the same languid fashion that he smoked.

  I waited.

  “I want you to work for me,” he said with a beatific smile.

  “I’m in Singapore to visit a friend. I’m not staying.”

  “Let’s be frank. You aren’t leaving without my approval. Since I suspect you of murder, I could incarcerate you here on the island.”

  “Under what charge?”

  Coates waved a hand. “I don’t think you understand the situation here, my boy. I am responsible for the security of the island. I am responsible for the police and the law as it concerns the wellbeing of the population. My God, man, do you not know we are at war?”

  “I’m aware of The Emergency,” I said. Since 1948 we had been fighting the communists in the north. It wasn’t the scale of the war in Korea, but it could develop. I was well aware of the tensions.

  “Bandits are everywhere.”

  I nodded. Bandits were what they called insurgents back then.

  Coates continued: “And it’s just a matter of time before the Reds attack us at home. In Singapore.”

  “And this affects me, how?”

  “I want you to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

  “You have the police and the army for that. You said yourself that you’re in charge.”

  “I want you between them.”

  “That’s Liaison’s job.”

  Coates took another slow sip of his watered-down whisky. “I don’t want a liaison officer. I want action. I want someone who can work with the army and the police. I want someone who can also be independent.”

  “And I’m your ideal candidate?”

  “Although you’re a civilian, you’ll be accepted by the army.” He gave me the smile again. “I also know who your father is. And because of your father I know the new Commander-in-Chief for the Far East won’t have a problem either. General Gaskill is based here on the island.”

  This was crazy. Coates was well informed about my recent past and, despite the angelic smile, could make it seriously difficult for me.

  “All right,” I said, “I get why you’ve chosen me but why now?”

  “Because of two things. There’s a rumour that someone is buying arms on the island. Someone—most likely a group—is arming themselves.”

  “And the second thing?”

  I was intrigued when he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. He leaned forward and handed it to me.

  It was about six inches by four with red symbols on one side. It looked like an advertising flyer. There was a circle with a paw print in the middle. Underneath were four characters that I assumed were Chinese.

  “What is it?”

  “Precisely? I don’t know.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “From a reliable source.”

  “And what do they think it is?”

  “Best guess is it’s a secret code.”

  I handed it back but he wanted me to keep it. “A code for what?” I said.

  He finished his drink and for the first time I thought I detected a chink in his façade. He was worried.

  “What do they think it is?” I asked again.

  “An attack,” he said quietly. “There’s suspicion of a plan to attack us—an imminent security threat.”

  FOUR

  Dubious of the Secretary’s motives, I walked back to The Queens Hotel, thinking. At the reception desk, I asked if I could use the telephone. There was only one for the whole building. At first the receptionist dismissed me so I told him I was working for the government. I couldn’t get in any more trouble, could I? I flashed my old warrant card, like the police show and moments later I was alone in the manager’s office and speaking to the operator. She put me through to the colonel of my old regiment, Dexter. He was pleased to hear from me and gave no indication that he knew why I’d left so abruptly although he must have guessed.

  I cut to the chase. “Colonel, I need to know—what’s the situation there?”

  Dexter didn’t immediately answer. I knew him well enough to know he was choosing words carefully. When he spoke he said, “Everything is tickettyboo. There is no problem.”

  So I wasn’t wanted in Palestine for murder. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s just that someone here seems to think there is.”

  “Army?”

  “No.”

  “Government?”

  “Yes.”

  “My advice would be to play the tourist somewhere else. Or go home to Blighty.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Ash?”

  “I’m thinking of staying. For a while at least.”

  “Take care and if there’s ever…”

  I thanked him and ended the call. While I was speaking I twirled the warrant card between my fingers and imagined it was the government ID card Secretary Coates had promised me.

  When I’d said I’d think about his offer, he’d responded, “You have twenty-four hours,” and I reckoned that would be plenty of time to check out how serious the threat was and see my friend. If I then needed to get away, I was certain Tom could help. He was an engineer at the docks and could get me on a boat and off the island.

  Outside the hotel, a porter hailed a trishaw for me. These, I was told, were everywhere in the city and better than a taxi for short distances.

  As skinny as a whippet and speaking no English, I guessed the driver was Bangladeshi. However, he understood when I asked for the docks and we set off at a brisk pace.

  After the Esplanade, which everyone called the Padang, we passed an obelisk and crossed the Anderson Bridge. Its white, arched girders resembled a rail bridge. On the far side we went through a square crammed with cars. As we approached the docks, the road became dense with traffic and the air filled with choking fumes.

  We made slow progress through a gaggle of people and animals before stopping by a pier. I located the harbour masters office and was told that the maritime engineers were based at the end of the main docks. The office was a stone’s throw away but we needed to circle around to Keppel Harbour.

  Using sign-language, I directed my driver back to the long congested ro
ad that took us to the docks supervised by the navy. The navy’s shipyard was to the north of the island but they had an HQ here and oversaw both the troop and commercial shipping.

  At the entrance, a manned barrier ran between high fences and we were stopped by a Masters-at-Arms, the naval equivalent of an MP. He let me enter and I signalled the trishaw driver to wait for me.

  There were no troopships in and, apart from a commercial ship being unloaded, the docks were quiet. The ship was to my right and I could see half a mile of storage areas and warehouses. Just inside on my left was an MT yard, a compound inside which included a motor pool. There were various size trucks and three identical pale blue cars. I’m not a car expert but I could see they were all Ford saloons.

  I continued on past the yard and the dock swept around. Here was a long warehouse, workshops and offices. The Master-at-Arms had pointed to the far end of the wharf and I could see a couple of guys working on something that looked like a giant pulley system.

  As I approached, I called out, “I’m looking for Tom Silverman. Is he about?”

  When they looked up, I read something in their faces: uncertainty or concern maybe. They exchanged glances and one pointed to a door.

  Ducking inside, I saw men working at benches and others sitting around a table drinking tea. The air was filled with a hum of machinery and screech of metal. There was no sign of Tom. I asked the group drinking tea and again received the look.

  A voice behind me said, “Who wants to know?”

  I turned and introduced myself to the guy who explained he was the gaffer.

  “He’s my friend,” I said. “Something’s wrong isn’t it?”

  “I have bad news, I’m afraid.”

  I waited and could tell he was unsure how to explain.

  “Just say it,” I said.

  He shrugged, released from the need to be sensitive and just said, “He’s dead.”

  FIVE

  Instantly, my guts constricted. “Dead? What the hell…?”

  One of the men at the table spoke up. “A car crash at night out on the road to Nee Soon.”