Nury Vittachi - The Feng Shui Detective

‘And that’s gone?’

‘Not gone. The bag was still there. With the other one. Both in Madam Fu’s garden. But big bag was full of bricks. Like from building site.’

‘Ah, the switcheroo.’

‘Switch…?’

‘It’s kind of a law in American movies. Old ones. You had to have a switcheroo. One bag with valuable stuff and another bag which looks the same, only has junk in it. The bag gets switched. They still have it sometimes. Dumb and Dumber.’

‘Yes. American movies dumber and dumber.’

‘So who took it? The driver, right?’

‘Maybe. Or if he stopped somewhere… Maybe there is something he is not telling us.’

‘What about the other bag?’

‘Full of usual businessman stuff, you know. Here’s the list.’

Joyce examined the sheet. Semek’s briefcase contained a huge number of pieces of paper, mostly technical documents to do with soil and rock analysis, the remnants of a doughnut in a paper bag, a Michael Crichton novel, a copy of Penthouse and a bag of peanuts from a SilkAir flight.

In his pockets the police had found a Finnish mobile phone, a local laundry ticket stamped with the word PAID, a bank ATM stub from a machine in Orchard Road, a dictaphone and a spare tape.

‘Did they play the tape?’

‘Yes,’ Wong told her. ‘Were two tapes. One had business letters on it. The other one had him singing.’

‘Singing?’

‘He liked singing. One tape starts with part of a business letter, Kwa says. Changes to him singing ‘ New York, New York ’. He was karaoke singer, understand or not?’

‘Yeuucchh. Yeah, I know karaoke. Where people murder songs in public.’

‘Don’t like? Dead man liked karaoke. Ms Sin said he often went to karaoke clubs.’

‘Any messages on the phone?’

‘None.’

The young woman picked up the list of personal possessions and suddenly whistled. Wong looked over. Had she spotted something important?

‘Wow. What happens to all his junk?’ she asked. ‘Do the police ditch it? I quite fancy the Dunhill lighter. Not that I smoke. And I could do with a new Walkman, and his tape machine is hot. Extra bass, built-in speaker, auto-reverse. I mean, if they were going to throw the stuff away.’

‘No. They give to family members.’

‘Oh yeah. I suppose that’s only fair. So what now? Pack the old bed pan and go feng shui the taxi?’

‘Not bed pan. Lo pan. What is bed pan? Anyway, compass no good in a car. Car always changes, south, west, north, east. Car has no direction itself.’

‘Mine does. Daddy bought me a 1989 mini to learn in a couple of months ago and I lost the keys and it was like, stuck on the side of the road for weeks. You know what a station wagon is? We used to call my car the stationary wagon. That’s a joke.’

‘With this case we need no lo pan. Only lo shu charts, pillars of destiny. First, Mr Semek.’

He opened his dusty volumes with enormous satisfaction and started reading through pages of Chinese characters. Mr Semek’s day pillar was fire and he was born in late spring, at a season of wood, the geomancer explained. He would get strength from fire and wood. Just like in a real fire, if you add more wood and more flames, the fire gets bigger. But if you add water on it, the fire will go out. If you put metal objects or earth on it, it will be difficult for the fire to burn.

The night he died was a day of metal, Wong said. Each element is associated with a part of the body. Mr Semek was shot in the chest. Metal is associated with the respiratory system. In this case, the astrological indications came true in the most literal way. A metal bullet went into his respiratory system.

Motani is also a fire person. However, there was only one wood element in his four pillars, but three metal elements. So he was not a strong fire person…

Gilbert Kwa strode over to the table. ‘Got anything?’

‘Yeah. It’s obvious, isn’t it, chief?’ said Joyce with smile.

‘It is?’ The police officer sat down opposite her.

‘Driver’s innocent. Someone shot the guy through the window of the cab. Long-range gun. Sniper style. With a silencer. Like in that movie The Jackal, you know? Remake of The Day of the Jackal. Good film.’

‘But the driver says the window was shut.’

‘Naah,’ said Joyce. ‘The driver said he stopped to ask directions. How do taxi drivers do that? Well, they wind down the window and shout, right? That’s when someone shoots the guy. The bullet whistles past the driver and kills the guy without the driver even noticing. Waddaya think?’

‘I think you watch too many movies,’ said Kwa, with a smile. ‘For a start, he wasn’t shot. He was stabbed. We saw the hole and the blood and no knife, and we first assumed a gun… but the doctor says he was definitely stabbed-by something like a kitchen knife or fruit-paring knife, short but sharp. We are searching Motani’s house again. Trouble is, could have thrown the thing out of the car window anywhere along the route.’

‘Oh. Does that change your theory?’ Joyce asked Wong.

‘No. Metal in respiratory system. Bullet, knife, the same.’

The young woman sat back and bit her index finger nail. ‘You know, I’ve got another idea. How about this? There was someone hiding in the trunk. He stabs the guy right through the back seat, yanks the knife out, then when the car stops, he jumps out and runs away. The car doors are never opened. Waddaya think?’

Kwa smiled. ‘Still you watch too many movies,’ he said. ‘Nice idea, but the victim was stabbed in the front. Right through the heart. Not the back.’

‘Well, at least I’ve got some interesting theories, which is more than you guys have,’ she said.

‘The answer is not in your movie ideas. Is somewhere on this desk,’ said Wong. He picked up the paperwork, opened his book of charts, and slotted the sheets in. ‘I go to my office. Sit quietly. Draw four pillars of fortune for each person. Must do the investigation properly.’ He stood up.

Joyce remained seated. ‘This is the first time I’ve been in a Singapore police station. Can you give me a tour, chief?’

‘Of course,’ said Kwa.

‘And can you show me where you lock people up and cane them and stuff?’

‘Also can-lah. Come.’

Early that evening, Joyce sat in a Starbucks on Orchard Road with a Coca-Cola and a blueberry muffin. She faced the road and looked at the shops on the other side of the street. Traffic flowed quickly, although there were periodic obstructions. Once, a taxi stopped suddenly to pick up a fare, and a van behind it skidded to a halt. A few curses were exchanged, and then both vehicles moved on. Somewhere in the distance, there was what sounded like a church bell ringing; an unexpected and very European sound, she thought to herself.

There was a Toys ‘R’ Us nearby. And around the corner was a large bookshop. In the boutiques on either side of the road, she saw the same designer clothes she had seen in South Molton Street. A young couple strolled past and sat at the table next to her; they were both wearing Levi’s 501s: she recognised the tags.

Without consciously thinking it, her mind was pondering over the fact that the scene looked like Tottenham Court Road, or perhaps a main road in the Kensington area. Yet it could never be mistaken for such a spot. What made the difference?

The trees, she decided. Very oriental. English trees looked different from Singaporean trees. And the people of course. They were shorter. English people were tall, angular. And there weren’t so many of them. Ten people on a London high street at once, and the pavements looked crowded. Here, there were always seventy people on the pavements, night and day.