The Feng Shui Detective Page 7

  At first she had been reluctant to cancel the just-hangingout evening she had planned with her friends. She found Wong to be difficult company at the best of times, and was rather daunted by the idea of spending her evening in a meeting with three or four Wongs, some of whom may even be more weird and impenetrable than he. But her friends had been blown over by her account of her adventures in Malaysia—‘You saw like a real corpse?’— and she had decided that it was worth sacrificing a night out for an experience that may make a story to tell. ‘Yeah-yeah, I’ll come,’ she had said to Wong earlier that day. ‘It’s cool. You have to keep pushing the envelope, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Wong had replied in a neutral tone to disguise his bafflement.

  Shortly before 8 p.m., the geomancer and his assistant had marched through some narrow streets in what seemed to be an older part of town, and had turned a corner to enter a large area of restaurants and open-air food stalls. It was so poorly lit that Joyce wondered how diners could see what they were eating. After walking a few yards, she realised that the restaurant through which they were walking was part of a series of street cafes, forming a lengthened, disjointed circle, with the jumbled seating for the public filling the centre of the ring.

  Joyce was struck by the sights and smells. It was dark. It was warm. There was something almost frighteningly surreal about the surroundings. In the shadows, fat hawkers appeared and disappeared in the steam from their cooking carts, like djinns conjured up from lamps. Their faces, lit from beneath by their cooking fires, seemed barely half-human. Every few seconds, there would be a sudden woosh and an explosion of conjurer’s smoke as a catty of wet bok choi slid into a super-heated giant wok, before being energetically slapped around with extra-long chopsticks. The sounds of the food market seemed indecently loud in the blackness, which made the night seem further advanced than it was. Against the background roar of several hundred diners talking in that half-shouted style common to Chinese restaurants, there were the cries of the independent vendors with their portable stove-carts, the sizzle of the ‘show’ dishes, the clinks of a thousand bottles and dishes, and the honks of the traffic backed-up on the adjoining high street.

  She was half-conscious that it was the sort of lively nighttime, fire-lit gathering that was somehow primal: people must have gathered at dusk like this to share cooked meats over bonfires ever since man evolved. She sensed the appeal of allowing herself to be sucked into the scene, but she felt too unsettled and unconnected to submit to it. She couldn’t relax. She felt her world was one of brightly lit, surgically clean McDonald’s restaurants. This dark, noisy doppelganger was all just a bit too far beyond the boundaries, she mused.

  The feng shui master slid his thin form gracefully through the tables, evidently knowing where he was going, although in his companion’s eyes, the restaurants all blurred into one pandemonious dining hall. She followed more tentatively, squinting at her feet to make sure she did not tread on ill-placed bags, children or small dogs.

  Suddenly, she felt hungry. Wafts of pungent smoke were drifting from the cooking areas, carrying tempting smells of singed meats. Chilli in the air mingled with the odours of cumin and coriander, the comforting fragrance of boiled rice and the tang of fresh coconut. There was sweet mango, sour shrimp paste, something that smelled like burnt sugar and a hundred other smells she couldn’t identify.

  But now where was Wong? He had been right in front of her a minute ago . . .

  There. The geomancer had abruptly stopped and clasped hands with an Indian man of about sixty who had been sitting at a stained, circular table surrounded by small stools. Wong and Sinha had greeted each other with an odd combination of stiff formality and easy warmth. Clasping four hands together, they had looked into each other’s eyes and nodded their heads, their eyes still locked. Then they had swapped verbal greetings while maintaining the tight grip on each other’s fingers.

  ‘Been too long, Wong. Must meet more often, stop waiting for the mystics.’

  ‘True. We should make more effort. Let us not end this evening without choosing another date.’

  ‘Madam Xu’s already here. She has gone to talk to her friend first. Some old customers of hers here, she says. Come, sit. And the young lady.’

  Wong had then introduced his assistant to the old Indian, Sinha, an astrologer, and the three of them took their seats. A thin young man had immediately appeared through the haze from the stoves with three plastic tumblers full of lukewarm Chinese tea.

  Feeling a little more secure now that they had settled at a table, Joyce sipped the tepid liquid and cast her eyes around at the scene. It always surprised her to see so many young children and even babies out and about at night. You would never see under-fives running around at night in England, she mused. It was milk at seven and bed at half-past, no arguments. Yet in Singapore, children simply seemed to adopt their parents’ schedule, staying up until eleven or midnight, and if they got tired, they just put their heads on the tables and slept where they were.

  As she scanned the crowd, she noticed an elegant, chop-stick-thin middle-aged woman approaching their table. On her bony shoulders hung a black cheong-saam with red piping. ‘Madam Xu!’ Sinha leapt to his feet and held the fortune teller’s hands to guide her to her seat. Before sitting, she bowed and smiled at Wong, who rose and bowed his own greeting.

  ‘And is this the child?’ Madam Xu asked, smiling at Joyce. ‘Hello, xiao pangyou. How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen,’ said Joyce, although she had not started a conversation by volunteering such information since she had been a child.

  ‘And do you want to be a mystic or fortune teller or something similar when you grow up?’

  ‘Erm. I don’t know. Maybe. I’m just like, studying with Mr Wong at the moment. To write something for my project. It’s very kind of you to let me join the meeting. I hope I won’t be in the way.’ Joyce was shocked to hear herself accepting the role of a polite, model child—something she had never been.

  ‘I’m sure there will be no problem. Mr Wong explained on the phone that you understood the form of these meetings, that no information derived here ever goes outside. Superintendent Tan is right behind me, and he will speak of things that are official secrets.’

  Joyce nodded. ‘Yes, C F told me already. It’s all hush-hush top secret, I know.’

  Suddenly a rather delicate male hand appeared on Madam Xu’s shoulder, and a thirty-ish Chinese face loomed over her head. ‘Hello guys and dolls. Sorry I’m late. Quite unforgivable, I know. Helluva cheeky, since I called the meeting. Shall I sit here, is it?’

  The question was perfunctory, since it was the only seat remaining. Superintendent Tan greeted Sinha and Wong and blinked quizzically at McQuinnie. A stocky, Malay-Chinese man with a pear-shaped head, he eased himself down into the chair and his eyebrows rose at the young woman opposite. Not just his clothes, but his entire body seemed to have the rumpled air of the overworked civil servant.

  ‘Please, Superintendent, I must introduce my assistant to you,’ said Wong. ‘I spoke to the others to tell them she is coming. I could not get through to you. You are so busy. She is Joyce McQuinnie. She is helping me this summer. I hope you do not mind she is joining us. She is the daughter of a friend of one of my bosses, so I cannot say no.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ said Joyce, glaring at Wong.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said the Superintendent, arranging a large pile of papers on the table. ‘Bit young, isn’t she, Wong? I mean, for all this stuff? You know what we sometimes get into. Murders and rapes and things.’

  ‘I’m not young,’ said Joyce. ‘I know a lot of stuff. You’d be surprised. And I’ve helped Mr Wong on cases already. Murders and things, whatever,’ she added, as if she were discussing the irritation quotient of mosquitoes.

  The ever-smiling Madam Xu leaned forwards and beamed at the police detective. ‘She is very mature. I can feel it. You need not worry, Superintendent. Almost as knowledgeable as some of my girls.’
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  ‘I hope not,’ said Tan. ‘Anyway, if you are all comfortable with her here, it’s okay with me too. Good to see you all. You are looking well Madam Xu, and you, Wong. And how’s my old friend Dilip?’

  ‘I am extremely well and in fine fettle, Superintendent,’ said the elderly Indian. ‘For my happiness to be complete, only your presence was needed. And now you are here.’ He bowed his head gallantly.

  ‘Very nice speaking as usual,’ said the police officer. ‘Well, first, let me apologise for keeping you waiting. Helluva bad show. But this is worth waiting for. The case which I shall place before you is an interesting one in my humble opinion. Let me just wet my whistle and I will give you all the juiciest details. Under the usual condition of strict secrecy of course,’ he added with a special look at the youngest member of the party.

  The waiter, familiar with the Superintendent’s needs, was already approaching with a pot of Iron Buddha. Wong had a detailed conversation in one of the Chinese dialects with another waiter, to order the food.

  The group then waited in a not uncomfortable silence for the Superintendent’s tea to be poured. He took a slow sip, lowered the tumbler, and cleared his throat.

  ‘He’s quite a good storyteller,’ put in Madam Xu in a stage whisper to Joyce. ‘I think he should be in the theatre.’

  ‘I want you to picture, if you will, a large restaurant in a hotel,’ Tan said. ‘It’s just after three o’clock in the afternoon, and the last luncher has just dabbed his lips with his starched linen napkin and signed his bill. “Thank you, sir,” says the waitress as the man leaves. The restaurant is now empty, except for this last waitress, whose name is Chen Soo. All the other waiting staff have fled for their mid-afternoon break. Most of the kitchen staff have also left, but she hears at least one person still bustling inside, probably the head chef, who is usually last to leave. She also sees a young assistant chef slipping through the swing doors into the kitchen, so it seems that business in there is not quite finished. You follow so far, is it?’

  Joyce found it hard to visualise anything, let alone a spotless hotel restaurant, while sitting in this distracting environment. Trying to cut out the sizzling explosions of wet vegetables hitting woks, she forced herself to focus on Tan’s lips and listen to his slightly sing-songy voice. He had smooth, babyish cheeks, and a slight fuzz on his upper lip. She guessed that he did not need to shave every day and would have a completely hairless chest. He spoke quickly, but giving due weight to each word. She decided that Madam Xu was right: he had a good sense of the dramatic.

  ‘You with me?’ continued Tan. ‘Now this Miss Chen Soo—birthday 10, 10, 1978, birth place Singapore—clears up the last items on the last diner’s table.’

  All three members of the mystics carefully scribbled down this detail, like students receiving exam tips.

  ‘But the lull in the proceedings was not expected to last long. At one of the hotel’s other restaurants, the afternoon tea service had just started, and the food and beverage manager had asked her to help out there. But for this particular room, things would be quiet until about four, when preparations would start for a private cocktail party, which would last from 5 p.m. to about seven, after which the tables would be re-set for the seafood buffet in the evening. In other words, a typical afternoon in the café of a modern, five-star hotel, you see?

  ‘A few minutes later, Chen Soo wheels the used dishes into the trolley parking area just on the other side of the kitchen swing doors. By this time, there is only one person left in the kitchen: the head chef, Peter Leuttenberg, who she sees getting something from the freezer. She returns outside. She puts a fresh table cloth on the table. It takes her only a few seconds, maybe a minute. She hears a voice. “Afternoon, sweetie.” It is the sous chef, a rather dishy European man by the name of Pascal von Berger, who is in the habit of greeting all the young women, despite not being able to remember their names.’

  ‘Where is he from, chief? A Swiss, I suppose,’ Sinha asked.

  ‘Er, hang on a moment.’ The Superintendent flicked through the papers in front of him. ‘That’s right, he’s from Lausanne, birth date 7, 4, 1964.’

  ‘It figures. All Swiss, these hotel people.’

  ‘Ms Chen looks up and greets him as he passes through the swing doors into the kitchen. A few seconds later, she hears a cry, a shout. The word sounds like “Murder”. But it couldn’t be, she thinks. Why shout such a word? Perhaps the men are playing games? She knows that several of the cooks are lively young men—they are playing pranks from time to time. She stands there, not knowing what to do, when Pascal races out of the kitchen. “Miss, miss,” he is calling. “Help, call an ambulance. Peter is ill. Quickly.”’

  Superintendent Tan leaned forward, knowing that he had now fully caught the attention of his listeners. He speeded up his speech. ‘Chen Soo heads for the captain’s desk at the front of the restaurant. She presses the code to summon hotel security on a red alert. She asks Pascal what is wrong with the executive chef. He says: “Peter is on the floor. I think he is dead.” She calls an ambulance. And then the two of them go into the kitchen. Chen notices that von Berger is pale and shivering, in shock. He says to her: “Maybe you do not want to see. It is bad. He is hurt. There is much blood.” But Chen follows him. There, close to the main ovens, the executive chef, a Californian, lies dead on the floor. His hair is wet and matted. There is a spreading pool of blood under him, from a wound apparently on his skull. His head is battered, all out of shape. He seems to be . . .’

  He paused, dramatically. ‘. . . dead!’

  The detective leaned back in his chair and looked at the faces of his four listeners. ‘Murdered.’

  He picked at his right index finger nail for a moment before continuing. ‘Now von Berger says he was still breathing slightly when he found him. The chef had lifted his hand to make some sort of gesture, and he had tried to speak. He said something about a waiter. But unlike in the movies, he named no names.’

  He paused again as the first dishes of food arrived. Joyce looked suspiciously at the chipped bowls, one of which contained a green vegetable and the other something in a lurid orange-brown sauce. She wondered if there would be anything she could eat.

  The officer appreciatively breathed in a lung-full of steam from the plate of garlicky choi sum and oyster sauce. He helped himself to a large portion as he spoke: ‘Hotel security arrives within minutes. Two officers. One is an old Nepalese man named Shiva and one a Malay called Sik. Shiva checks the body. He reckons the chef is dead. Sik stands guard at the door of the kitchen. Medics arrive a few minutes later and confirm the man’s soul has made its final journey.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on, my good man.’ This is Dilip Sinha, who was dishing a generous portion of an unidentifiable substance onto Joyce McQuinnie’s plate, ignoring her protests. ‘The door of the kitchen, you say? Surely a big main kitchen in a hotel would have several doors?’

  ‘Quite right,’ the Superintendent replied. ‘But this wasn’t the main kitchen. The hotel is a big one, and had three kitchens, one large and two small. This was a smallish subsidiary kitchen, known as Kitchen Three, which dealt mostly with just two outlets, and also supplied canapés and what-not for cocktail parties in the function rooms on that side of the hotel. This kitchen had only three doors. A main door into the café, a staff entry door and a fire escape.’

  ‘May we ask which hotel? Would it be the Continental Park Pacific?’

  ‘It would. I see you saw this morning’s Straits Times story about this particular incident.’

  ‘I did.’

  Madam Xu made a clucking noise with her tongue. ‘This is clearly going to be a difficult case, Superintendent. These modern hotels are such big, sprawling complexes. I presume the staff door leads into a network of rooms and corridors, to which literally dozens of staff would have access.’

  ‘Not dozens, Madam Xu. Hundreds. Five-hundred-over, I think.’

  The Superintendent heaped chilli prawns onto his p
late. ‘Someone had smashed open the head of the executive chef and then fled through one of the doors, we first thought. But this case is simpler and at the same time more complicated than it seems. You see, Shiva went to open the staff door and found he couldn’t get through. Chen, the waitress, explained that there was some building work going on in the staff quarters. The construction people had temporarily closed off that passage. A sign had gone up in the staff room explaining that the staff access to Kitchen Three would be blocked for a few days, and staff would have to arrive and leave by the main door, through the coffee shop.’

  Sinha raised one long, bony index finger to make a point. ‘But wouldn’t that be very disruptive to the restaurant, to have staff tramping in and out all the time?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Staff arrived in the kitchen well before lunch time, to prepare the food. The customers rarely arrived before noon and ninety per cent of them go by 2.30 p.m. The kitchen staff would clear up and leave for their fifteen-minute breaks, which were staggered between three and four o’clock.’

  ‘What about the fire escape?’ This was Madam Xu.

  ‘Yes, the fire escape. This would be the perfect exit for a murderer on the run. It goes straight from the kitchen to a corridor on a lower floor which leads right out to the back gardens. A murderer using that route could have made a speedy exit, and gone from the kitchen to the back garden in less than a minute. Except for one thing. He or she didn’t.’

  Joyce asked: ‘Was that locked as well?’

  ‘No. The fire escape wasn’t locked. But it was wired to an alarm, as are all the fire exits in that hotel. You cannot go in or out of a fire exit without tripping the alarm. The security desk confirmed that the door had not been tampered with, nor had the alarm gone off. Therefore, the murderer did not use that exit, you see.’

  Joyce spoke indistinctly with her mouth full of surprisingly delicious onion cake. ‘So he killed the guy and then went out through the coffee shop. Sorry, Mr Sinha. I didn’t mean to spray you.’