Nury Vittachi - The Feng Shui Detective

‘What was the position of the two people who died, please?’ Wong asked.

‘They were on the jungle trek. You’ll see later.’

‘No, I think he means like, the position in the company,’ said Joyce. ‘You just said go and see the owner. But our contact in Malaysia, he said the owners were eaten.’

‘Yes, they were co-owners with Mr Tambi. The people who were eaten. Mr and Mrs Legge. They were all partners. But now they are dead. Eaten by lions. Not a nice way to go.’ The man smiled, showing a mouthful of dirty teeth.

‘So Mr Tambi has become owner of the whole operation?’ Joyce asked, doing her Girl Detective bit. ‘Like, is it better for him that way? With the others out of the way?’

‘You may think so.’

She found Dubeya’s tone hard to interpret. Did he mean it was better, or that we might think it better but would be wrong? His expression was made even harder to fathom by the fact that his eyes appeared to be looking in different directions. He gruffly pointed to a fork in the road ahead of them, and told them to head to the left and follow the No Entry signs.

Wong lifted his clutch foot and the car jerked back to life.

They slowly travelled up a long, curving drive. To the left, they saw a tall fence enclosing a thick forest-doubtless the outer edge of the animal sanctuary. They passed several small buildings of a practical nature-garages, storerooms, something that looked like a stable-before the road turned again, and the Proton scrunched onto the gravel of a large, low house. It was built in yellow stone, in the old colonial style, but had a certain boxiness about it that gave away its more recent origins.

The geomancer ran his eyes over the outside of the building carefully. It was modelled on the plantation villas of early Singapore. The house was raised on piles, Malay style, but had European deep verandahs. Decorated eaves and suspended lattice-work in Kallang fashion suggested a Chinese architect, but one with eclectic tastes: the windows had Portuguese shutters.

The lower verandahs were hung with mosquito nets in a rather lurid shade of pink, presently common in that part of Malaysia. Sinha laughed: ‘No doubt some scientist worked out the colour the creatures would like least, ignoring the fact that human beings would find it equally repugnant.’

Standing in the porch was their host. Sulim Abeya Tambi was an obese, sweaty man with curls of jet hair plastered onto a mottled dark brown face. He wore white robes in light cotton, which were too thin to be flattering, and his belly bounced in lazy synchronisation with his waddling gait. He was tall, more than 2 metres in height, and had hands like spades.

‘Come in, come in, how nice of you to come, do come and make yourselves comfortable,’ he sang effusively, in a high and wispy voice, but with an unexpectedly educated English accent. He led the visitors into an old-fashioned hall, featuring dark stained wood and a mess of garments and boots on a low table.

They followed him through to a large, open sitting room, and were urged to sit on some rather uncomfortable rattan furniture. Tambi then disappeared to find a servant boy to bring them some fresh king coconut.

‘Ouch. I hate these seats,’ said Joyce, squirming on a low armchair. ‘They’ve got like, little sharp bits which go right through your Levi’s.’

After the bustle and activity of their arrival, silence returned to the room. And then, the quiet sounds of the jungle started to drift in over the verandah: buzzing, fizzing noises, plus a sort of low hiss. Occasionally there were bird calls which sounded almost human. Joyce had turned off her personal stereo out of politeness, but there was still a song playing in her mind. She consciously stopped it running through her head, and then rose to go and stand on the verandah. She stared at the sea of green before her. Something made a caw caw sound far in the distance. There was something hypnotic about the scene.

Three minutes later, their rotund host reappeared and seated himself grandly on a wicker chair which had a pair of fold-out planks on which he rested his ankles. ‘So glad to have you here. It’s been an absolutely horrible summer, and we desperately need to start afresh-which is where your advice is needed,’ he said.

Little vertical lines appeared above his eyebrows as he assumed an expression of deeply felt pain. ‘Three weeks ago we were on the brink of the realisation of a dream. We had twenty-five full-time staff. We had a host of animals, including five lions. All the advertising was lined up in magazines throughout the country and the region even. Journalists were waiting to come and see what we had in store. Travel agents were taking bookings for tours which would include a visit to Tambi’s Trek, which would fast become the most essential part of any visit to Malaysia.’

He took a swig of coconut through a straw that seemed ridiculously thin to feed such a huge frame.

‘And then it all went wrong.’ He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if he was speaking to the ceiling. ‘The death of my dear, dear friends and partners meant the death of my dream. Who would come to an animal park where even the people who run it were not safe? Who would even come near such a place?’

He suddenly opened his eyes and stared at his visitors.

‘Would you? Would you? Would you, young lady?’

‘Well, um,’ said Joyce, who wondered whether she should point out that she had comenear such a place.

‘Exactly. You would not. All the tours were cancelled. All the advertising was withdrawn. All the staff-ungrateful wretches-fled except for my cousin Dubeya, whom you met. I prepared, as is my tradition, to go into a long period of mourning, and abandon the project. I was devastated, as I had known Gerry and Martha Legge for many years and considered them my best friends. But then, I thought, No. Let me try once more. In their memory. They loved animals, as I do. Let me do it, not for myself, but for them.’

He moved forwards, lowered his feet to the ground, and shifted to the edge of his seat. He looked directly into Wong’s eyes. The others watched uncomfortably as the chair tilted forwards under his weight.

‘And that is what you have to do for me. Make it safe. Not only make it safe, but give it the feeling of safety. Make everyone who steps into Tambi’s Trek feel this is the most secure place in the world. Make them feel they can leave their children and babies on the ground here and nothing will happen to them. Reorganise. Redesign. Check every inch of the house. Check every inch of the grounds. If it costs money, I don’t mind. What changes you want me to make, I will make. It may cost me millions, but closing it down and abandoning my ideas will also cost me millions.’

Tambi’s expression changed again, this time to one of a humble supplicant. ‘I am not asking much,’ he said. ‘Only a miracle. Can you do this?’

Wong looked down at the briefing papers in front of him for a moment. Then he looked Tambi in the eye. ‘Miracles we have fifteen per cent extra surcharge. Is it okay?’

Wong spent the next four hours sitting at a huge dining table-it seemed designed to seat about thirty people-with his book of charts, a map of the theme-park grounds, and a map of the district in front of him. He scribbled, he scrawled, he calculated, he drew charts on tracing paper, he overlaid sheets onto sheets, he looked at books full of trigrams, he mumbled to himself and he pulled at the hairs on his chin.

Joyce wandered around the house, and peered out of the windows at the jungle. There were weird-sounding birds calling and unseen creatures chattering and she thought she could hear a lion roar. It was all so deliciously exciting and exotic! It really was like being in a movie. She imagined herself a jungle dweller, greeting a nervous visitor-Brad Pitt, preferably-and impressing him with her ability to run a fabulous home in the depths of the rainforest. She paced the corridors, lost in a fantasy. Suddenly chancing upon the wild-eyed Dubeya emerging from what she had thought was an empty room, she suddenly felt frightened, and returned to sit by Wong in the dining room.