The Feng Shui Detective Goes South

by Nury Vittachi

  Joyce nodded slowly. ‘I get it. Someone typed it with their fingers in the wrong place on the keyboard.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Wong.

  ‘But how did she end up with her fingers in the wrong place?’

  ‘Is old typewriter. She is typing in the dark. Maybe some keys on edge are missing.’

  ‘I don’t follow any of this,’ said Mrs Mirpuri.

  ‘Like we care,’ said Joyce under her breath. To Wong, she added: ‘We need a typewriter keyboard to work out what it means.’

  ‘Already done,’ said the feng shui master. On the lower part of the sheet, he had scrawled out in scratchy handwriting the letters adjacent to the letters printed. He showed the translation to Joyce.

  Help!!!! I’ve been kidnapped. I’m in a dark room in a building with Portuguese-style tile floors three or four minutes from Hokkien Street. Find me. Urgent!!! Dani.

  ‘The instructions are a bit vague,’ said Joyce. ‘How do we know we are in the right place? “Dark room in a building with Portuguese-style tile floors”. Could be anywhere.’

  ‘She say “dark room”. But I think she mean “darkroom”. You know, photo-developing darkroom. In any room, there is a bit of light, you can see what you are typing. Even at night, with moonlight, you can type in the dark. But if she is in photo-developing darkroom, there is no light. No light at all.’

  ‘I thought there was a red light.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘In movies, there is red light. But in real darkroom, most of the time is just black. If you remove optional red light bulb, then is black all the time.’

  ‘So you reckon she’s in a photo studio, in a darkroom?’

  ‘Most photo shop today have modern machine. No darkroom. Only old-style photo studio have old-style dark -room. I check in Yellow Pages. I know this area a bit. Only a few shop like that. And only two shops in tile-floor building, I think,’ said Wong. ‘This one and one on that street.’ He pointed to a junction half a kilometre up the road on the other side.

  Joyce was suddenly excited. ‘Yay! Let me do this, chief,’ she said. ‘After all, it’s my case. Let me go first. I’ve met some of the guys. I’ll be able to spot the perp.’

  ‘Perp?’

  ‘Perpetrator. Don’t you watch crime shows?’

  ‘Maybe dangerous,’ Mrs Mirpuri said.

  ‘Yes.’ Wong thought about this. Was the potential danger a good reason for him to go first or for him to let her go first? She was surely stronger and faster than he was. But then she was a female and a minor. What if she got shot or wounded or something? Maybe Mr Pun would deduct something from his retainer. Not worth risking. ‘Maybe we go together,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I bet I’ll be able to recognise the guy,’ she said.

  The feng shui master and his assistant marched together into the shop. As they approached the counter, they saw the counter-staffer—a stocky, heavily obese man. He saw them and froze, his mouth dropping open.

  ‘It’s you!’ said Joyce, dramatically.

  ‘Alamak!’ the man said and spun round to race through the door into the back room.

  ‘Go out, call police, fai-dee,’ said Wong.

  Joyce started digging in her pockets for what remained of the office mobile phone.

  Wong disappeared through the door after the fat man.

  There was the sound of a brief struggle—and the geomancer came hurtling back through the door. He fell heavily against the counter. ‘Aiyeeaah!’ he said.

  They could hear the sound of his assailant panting and pushing aside boxes as he scrambled to escape through the rooms behind the shop.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Joyce, jumping nimbly over the counter to her boss’s side.

  ‘All right,’ said Wong, rubbing his upper arm. ‘Let him go.

  Police will catch. Not our job. We go find girl.’

  They went through the door into a suite of offices, untidy stockrooms and tiny portrait studio rooms, and eventually found an exit door that was still swinging. The shopkeeper had raced into a back yard and had disappeared from sight. Wong told Joyce that it was no use giving further chase.

  So they searched the premises. The young woman soon found a locked darkroom, entered through the office by way of a blacked-out revolving door. Although the key was in the padlock, Wong waited for Joyce to search the premises and find a torch before they entered.

  Inside they found a rather attractive young woman fast asleep on a bed she had fashioned out of dozens of packets of photographic paper. She had removed her sari to use as a sheet. There were boxes of chemicals, piles of old photographs and various other items of junk—including a battered old typewriter—in the corners of the room.

  Wong clasped his hands together and looked smug.

  ‘Mystery solved,’ said Joyce, speaking in a whisper so as not to wake Dani. ‘She must have typed out the note in pitch darkness.’ There was McDonald’s fast food debris and two empty bottles of Diamond Black on the floor.

  ‘Who was it? The man?’ the feng shui master asked. ‘Which boyfriend?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But when we enter the shop, you look at him and you say: “It’s you.”’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So you know who it is?’

  Joyce frowned. ‘Not really. It’s just—well, in movies and stuff, when they finally find the mystery bad guy, they always say, “It’s you.” So I did.’

  The geomancer was confused. ‘Is it one of the people you see in the photographs?’

  ‘No. It’s nobody we know. It’s a stranger. Probably some other boyfriend that she never got around to telling anyone about. Someone who turned nasty and decided to really kidnap her. I haven’t the foggiest. Life is not a neat little TV mini-series, you know, CF.’

  ‘Oh.’

  But despite her dismissive tone, Joyce felt oddly unsatisfied.

  Surely there should be some universal law requiring the perp to be someone the investigators knew?

  On the fourth floor of a nondescript building in Telok Ayer Street, the office door once again crashed open. The crack in the frosted glass lengthened further.

  A lithe young Chinese woman with streaked hair entered the room. ‘Is Ms Joyce here?’

  ‘Aiyeeaah! Too many people today.’ Winnie Lim, who had restarted her interrupted phone conversation, peered at the entrant with distaste. ‘Joyce go out.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Did she say where she was going?’

  ‘Don’t know. Not listening. Too busy.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Will she come back today?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Has she got a mobile phone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s the number? No, don’t tell me: you don’t know. Look, I really need to find her, talk to her about something really important. Is there any way you can help me? It’s urgent.’

  Winnie Lim thought for a moment. A very short moment. ‘Don’t know,’ she said lazily through half-closed teeth. ‘Come back later maybe. Or tomorrow maybe.’

  The young visitor looked around the room. Her eyes stopped on Joyce’s desk. It was very obviously the desk of a teenage female, with a portable minidisk player in the centre of the desk, and a single pink designer sports-shoe visible under the seat.

  ‘My name’s Maddy Tsai,’ she said. ‘I’m a friend of Joyce’s. I’ve met Mr Wong, too. Can I wait here for her?’

  Winnie opened her mouth languidly, as if she was going to say, ‘Don’t know,’ again, but closed it without saying anything. She shrugged her shoulders and went back to her phone conversation.

  Maddy sat in Joyce’s seat. It creaked and threatened to tip to one side. She looked around the office. It was shabby and dirty, and the air was hot and still. There appeared to be no air conditioner. But at least it was the room of a friend—something she desperately needed just now.

&nb
sp; She looked at the CDs on the desk. Modern Western pop singers, pretty boys, some with little beards on their chins. They all had baggy clothes. They looked defiant. They looked as if they ruled the world. That’s how it should be. Young people do rule the world. Old people are dying people. It will be our world soon—if we live to inherit it. The thought caused a feeling of white pain to sweep through her brain. How could she possibly be about to die? Her life had hardly begun.

  Her reverie was interrupted by a crash as the door swung open again.

  ‘NOW WHO?’ shouted Winnie, her face showing astonishment at yet another interruption.

  ‘Oh no,’ gasped Maddy.

  A tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned man with a goatee beard entered the room, a smile on his face. ‘So how? Why are you here, my dear? Visit a friend-lah?’

  ‘You followed me.’ She spoke angrily.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I was passing only and saw you come into this building, is it?’

  ‘You followed me. Can’t you just leave me be for a while?’

  ‘Takboleh-lah. Cannot-lah. I’m so much concerned about you, man. I’ve eaten more salt than you. This is good Malay saying. Have news for you. Come, come.’

  Amran Ismail moved menacingly into the centre of the room.

  Maddy glanced quickly around the room. Ismail was in front of the main door, but there was another door on the other side of the office. Did it lead anywhere?

  Winnie Lim, apparently guessing what was going through her mind, shook her head. It led only to an internal room, a meditation room Wong used for afternoon naps.

  ‘Stay away from me.’ Maddy Tsai sprang to her feet.

  ‘I’m your only chance-lah,’ said Amran Ismail. ‘Your only hope. Why you like to run from me? You need me. Without me you got nothing. You are dead. Really dead. I got some news. I found a place we can go. A place you can be safe. Listen to me, can or not-lah?’

  They manoeuvred around each other.

  Suddenly, Ismail sprang forward, reaching for the young woman with his long arms. She ducked out of his grip and tried to scuttle under his left arm towards the door.

  But he fell sideways and reached out, grabbing her ankle with his hand.

  ‘Got you,’ he said, pulling her back.

  ‘Let me go,’ she shouted, trying to wriggle out of his grip.

  ‘Don’t like that,’ he said, holding her tightly by the arms. ‘Now calm down.’

  They struggled for some time. He looked strong, but she was wiry and agile, and hard to keep captive.

  ‘Get away from me,’ she shouted, wrenching one arm free.

  ‘Come,’ he replied, grabbing her wrist with his free hand.

  Suddenly, both of them froze in their tracks as an enormous bellow filled the room.

  ‘STOP THIS NOISE!’ screamed Winnie Lim, standing up. ‘I AM TRYING TO GOSSIP ON PHONE. GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT OF MY OFFICE.’

  The struggling couple were so astonished by the extraordinary volume and intensity of emotion that came out of the body of the tiny receptionist-like creature that they froze.

  ‘GET OUT NOW,’ Winnie shrieked, pointing to the doorway. She stamped her size 3 feet.

  Ismail momentarily loosened his grip.

  Maddy wriggled free and ran out of the front door.

  The bomoh chased after her.

  Winnie was silent for a few seconds. Never could she remember a day when there had been such drama in her office. And from two complete strangers. How exhausting. She picked up the telephone and dialled a number to continue the conversation that had been so rudely interrupted for the second time. She said to her friend: ‘I think I need new job.’

  The police took over the investigation at the photographic studio and Wong left an over-excited Mrs Mirpuri and her yawning, bleary-eyed daughter with a police inspector. Danita, excited at seeing Joyce, initially wanted to tell the whole story to her—but the police told the kidnap victim that she should give a statement to them first. The two friends eventually parted after Joyce agreed to phone Danita later that day for a major goss session.

  Mrs Mirpuri, after giving her daughter a quick hug, was instantly on her mobile phone summoning the television networks, radio stations and newspapers to relate the story of how she had single-handedly rescued her daughter from an evil kidnapper. ‘Bring cameras,’ she said to everyone including the radio newsroom editor. ‘Bring cameras.’

  In a taxi on their way back across town, Joyce, who was also in a state of hyper-excitement, was struggling with questions. ‘There’s lots of things I don’t understand, CF. How did Danita manage to get that letter delivered to our place?’

  Wong nodded. ‘Is a mystery, truly. But I tell you what I think. She is kidnap on Sunday night, stuck in darkroom. She feel around, find photo paper, find old typewriter which is now junk—now everybody use electric typewriter or computer. She write help message to me. Try to describe where she is. She type in dark, so her writing is all wrong, look like code. Some keys missing on edge of typewriter. Then she put letter in envelope. She write address on envelope with her hand, so is correct, even though she write in dark. Then she put envelope on floor of black-out revolving door. When fat man comes in and out, maybe to deliver food, drink, letter is moved, swept out into office area directly next to darkroom. She hope he himself finds it on floor next day or something, posts it.’

  ‘And he did?’

  ‘I don’t know what happen really. But maybe he find letter on the floor and post it. Or maybe he has staff or assistant or family member who work with him. They think it is business letter. She wrote “urgent” on it. Maybe even the kidnap man post it himself. He think other staff member drop it.’

  Joyce grinned. ‘Totally amazing. Her gamble worked. Someone picked up the letter and posted it—to us. She must have written it on Sunday. It got posted some time Monday morning, I guess, which is why we got it yesterday.’

  ‘Correct.’

  The young woman shook her head. ‘Poor thing. Fancy being stuck in the dark for hours and hours. Must have been awful. No wonder her eyes are squinty. Poor Dani.’

  ‘Too bad,’ said Wong, agreeing. ‘Too, too bad.’

  The feng shui master saw a good opportunity for him to have a break from his irritating helper. He dropped her at Telok Ayer Street so that she could write a hefty invoice to Mrs Mirpuri and then deliver it by hand. He also asked her to contact Calida Tsai-Leibler, to make discreet enquiries about Madeleine Tsai and what she saw as her imaginary murderous fiancé. He retained the taxi to take him to his appointment with Dr Liew Yok Tse, for which he was already late.

  ‘Off again? No peace for the wicked,’ said Joyce, waving goodbye from the pavement.

  ‘No piece of what?’ asked Wong. But the taxi whisked him away before she could answer.

  He found the dental surgery in a nondescript tower on Orchard Road without much difficulty and spent some time talking to each of the people who worked there. Superintendent Tan had gone. The ghost had not appeared all day, so staff were starting to lose the tension that had gripped them. But without exception, they remained generally morose and uncomfortable-looking. Clearly, the events of recent days had put a strain on all of them.

  Both of the actual surgeries were almost fully booked with patients for the afternoon, so Wong had to wait and snatch opportunities to talk with individuals when they were free, and carry on with his floor plan analysis when they were busy.

  Dr Gibson Leibler was noticeably more polite than he had been on Saturday, but still maintained a certain aloofness.

  Dr Liew Yok Tse was friendlier. He was a tall, but rather underweight man with heavy bags under a pair of frog-like, hooded eyes. He appeared harassed and looked as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Forty-two years old, the son of an import–export man and a retired schoolmistress, he looked considerably older. He had one sister, two years his senior, who worked as a doctor. The family had originally lived in Johor Baru, but had moved to Singapor
e when Liew was a child. He was married to a legal secretary called Catherine Liu. They had no children.

  The dentist told Wong that he had worked for a group practice for the first ten years of his career, before setting up his own firm four years ago in Chinatown. Then he had met Gibson Leibler through a professional connection a year ago and they had settled on a plan to run a joint operation in a more upmarket location.

  The two dentists presently shared Dr Liew’s dental technician Cheung Lai Kuen, although an advertisement had been placed for a second full-time technician. In the meantime, the role of technician for Dr Leibler was sometimes informally filled by Amanda Luk, twenty-six, who was really the receptionist—although she preferred to call herself ‘front office manager’. She had had just enough training to be able to carry off the job of dental technician, although she seemed to dislike the task, preferring to man the desk.

  She was a rather buxom Eurasian woman with hair dyed the colour of copper wire. She had moved to Singapore from Hong Kong eleven years ago, after her father, an investment banker named Michael Luk, had become nervous about the city-state’s prospects after the 1997 handover. Luk told Wong that she had gone to a good school in Hong Kong—St Paul’s Co-Educational—and then finished her education in Singapore. She worked briefly in the hotel business as an assistant to a public relations officer, before hearing about an opportunity to help set up a new office for Dr Liew and Dr Liebler. She was attractive and dressed rather too well for her role, Wong thought, looking at the woman’s elegant black dress. But then, that was a characteristic of Singapore’s female workers generally.

  Dr Liew’s technician was very different. Cheung Lai Kuen was a thin, bespectacled woman who tended to murmur under her breath, and walked stiffly around as if she had lower back pain. She was thirty-nine, daughter of a porter named Cheung Sin and a nurse named Mabel Poon. After talking to her, Wong had got the impression that she was rather resentful of the fact that her parents had been unable to send her to good schools. She seemed to think that she had the brains to have been a dentist, as opposed to a dental technician. After going to secretarial college, she had had a succession of low-paid jobs for three years before retraining for dental nursing. She had followed her new career for thirteen years, eight of them with Dr Liew, with whom she got on very well.