The Feng Shui Detective's Casebook (7 page)

That’s when she discovered that she was locked in. Neither the front nor back door would open. Each was triple-locked. She recalled the padlock and chain on the gate outside the front door.

She was trapped. Her mobile phone still wasn’t working and there was no landline in the apartment. How was she going to get out? She went out onto the balcony and tried to climb back up onto the roof, to see if she could get out the way she had entered. But it was too high. There were no chairs or ladders in the apartment on which to stand. She tried clambering back onto the slippery windowsill, but there was an overhang above it that prevented her reaching up towards the edge of the roof.

Perhaps there was something else in the house which she could stand on? But no: there was nothing suitable—not one chair except the low stool on which she had sat to do her writing in the kitchen. She searched every inch of the house and peered out of every window but could find no way of escaping. She was well and truly stuck.

Joyce felt panic welling up inside her. But she took deep breaths and forced herself to remain rational. She was in no danger, she told herself. First, Wong and Winnie both knew where she was. They would come and get her. Second, Mr Tik would eventually have to turn up to feed his fish. Surely they had to be fed once a day or so? Besides, she wasn’t going to come to any harm through lack of food or water. The taps and electricity were still working. If she found herself actually starving, she could always find a cooking pan and eat one of the fish—if she could bring herself to do such a thing. No, there was no real danger. All she needed to do was stay alive until help came along.

But waiting to be rescued was boring. Watching exotic sea creatures go around in their tanks quickly lost its allure. And the place was stinky. After four hours, she was feeling half-asphyxiated by the smell. She’d have to throw these clothes away.

Joyce decided she might as well try to make contact with people outside.

She went back out onto the balcony and called out to passers-by below.

‘Helloooooo,’ she yelled to people walking on the street below. ‘Heeeeeyyyy.’

No one looked up. She was fifteen floors above them, and her voice was drowned out by traffic that roared from a major road some 75 metres to the southwest of the block.

She wondered whether she should write a help message and send it down to ground level. But who would find a piece of paper on the ground and read it? It would probably be kicked into the gutter or get run over by a vehicle. It might not be read for hours, or days, if ever.

No. She needed something more creative. Perhaps she could lower something distinctive that would make people look up? She thought for a moment about throwing rainbow fish down until someone looked up, but then remembered that Wong had said the fish were very valuable and expensive. He might take it out of her pay.

Joyce went back into the apartment and walked around again, looking for something long and thin that would stretch fifteen storeys to reach the ground. What she needed was a really long rope or something that she could use to lower a message to ground level. In the movies people knotted sheets together, but there were no beds. What could she find to use as a rope?

She opened a cabinet under the sink in the bathroom and found two old rolls of toilet tissue. ‘Got it,’ she exclaimed.

She wrote a message on the first few sheets of paper:
HELP
,
CALL FENG SHUI MASTER CF WONG TELL HIM TO COME TO THIS
ADDRESS
,
URGENT
,
OR POLICE
.

Then she added the office phone number, attached a pen to the sheet to give it weight and gently lowered the long line of toilet tissue out of the window. Fortunately, it was a still afternoon and there was little breeze. Although it made her dizzy to hang over the balcony and watch the paper descending, she was pleased to see that a single roll of toilet paper took her message about two-thirds of the way down the building. She carefully knotted the last few sheets to the first sheets of a second roll and continued to lower the message.

Two minutes later, the message touched the ground. It dangled near the front door of the building, swinging gently from side to side in the breeze.

The first resident to pass, an elderly man, glanced at the vertical line of toilet tissue paper, but did not stop to examine it.

‘
Oi
!’ Joyce screeched from fifteen storeys above him. ‘Idiot,’ she added, as he disappeared.

After a few minutes, a middle-aged woman carrying bags of shopping appeared and strolled towards the front door. She noticed the swinging line of tissue and paused.

Joyce watched excitedly as she shook her head disapprovingly. Then she looked up to see where it was coming from.

‘Heeey! Look up here,’ the young woman hollered. ‘I’m stuck.’

The woman gave no signs of noticing her or hearing her cry. But to Joyce’s delight, she lowered her shopping bags and picked up the tissue, noticing the writing spread across several sheets. She started to read.

The phone rang at Telok Ayer Street. Winnie had disappeared and Wong was alone in the office, carefully calculating just how much money he could make from monthly repeat visits to Mr Tik’s rainbow apartment.

‘Yes?’ said Wong, snatching up the handset.

‘Are you CF Wong?’ asked a young male voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you a
feng shui
master?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ha! I would have thought that toilet paper would be bad
feng shui
,’ said the voice with a laugh.

‘What?’

‘Toilet paper. Do you know your name is on a long piece of toilet paper hanging out of building in Fort Canning?’

Wong was speechless.

‘Are you still there, Mr Wong?’

‘You are who?’

‘I’m calling from the news desk of the
Straits Times.
We just got a call from a lady who says that someone has draped her building with toilet paper with your name on it.’

‘What?’

‘Someone has written your name on a roll of toilet paper and dropped it out of the top of a building. It’s a message fifteen floors long. In Fort Canning. Do you know anything about this? We’re sending a photographer. Do you have any comment? Mr Wong? Are you there, Mr Wong?’

But the
feng shui
master had dropped the phone and was racing down the stairs to get into a taxi.

Twenty minutes later, CF Wong and Tik Sin-cheung arrived at the apartment block in Fort Canning Road. Tik, who had been roughly manhandled into the taxi by the desperate
feng
shui
master, was still asking questions as they spilled out onto the pavement.

‘But I don’t understand. Why do we need to visit my old flat? I store my personal effects there. No one is allowed inside. It’s very personal to me.’

‘Someone is inside. You must get her out.’

‘What do you mean? Who is inside? And how did she get there? No one can get in. It’s locked. It’s locked with three locks, and there’s a padlock and chain on the steel gate. I’m sure there’s no one inside.’

‘She got in, I think.’

‘Who? A burglar? Was she trying to steal my fish? I have fish inside. Just a few. They’re mine. Really.’

‘No, she is not burglar. She is my assistant.’

‘Why did you send your assistant to my old flat? I didn’t ask you to do my old flat.’

‘Special service for old customer. We do your new flat and we do your old flat too, free of charge.’

Tik went quiet. ‘Are you sure she managed to get inside?’

‘I think.’

The businessman spoke slowly, carefully. ‘I have . . . private things in there. I don’t want people to know what’s inside. I have a few new fish. I mean,
a lot
of new fish.’

Wong turned to look at him. There was an unmistakable tone of guilt in his voice. Tik spoke again, his voice betraying deep concern. ‘If your staff member has managed to get in, then I will get her out. But you do . . . you do promise full confidentiality, don’t you? You don’t need to tell anyone what was in there, is it?’

The
feng shui
master said nothing.

‘I would be willing to pay an extra fee, do you know what I mean? A special confidentiality fee? One thousand bucks? One thousand-over bucks?’

Wong’s mind was racing. Now here was a dilemma—not an ethical one, but a financial one. Clearly Tik had something serious to hide. And the geomancer could hazard a guess as to exactly what it might be. And he, Wong, was now being offered a bribe to keep quiet about it. This was where the math came in. If Tik’s opening offer was one thousand Sing dollars, what would his final offer be? Conversely, what would be the financial effect on his
feng shui
consultancies if the spate of fishnappings that had swept Singapore continued? In the past month alone, two frustrated customers had cancelled long-term contracts after they had installed expensive fish that had promptly disappeared. He glanced at Tik’s garish clothes and decided that the fish-collector did not have a bright future. Better to put his trust in taking action to ensure the return of stability to the Singapore aquatic scene.

The geomancer marched swiftly through the main gates of the apartment block and then froze. He saw a young man in a multi-pocketed vest snapping photographs of the long string of toilet paper, swinging in the late afternoon breeze.

Wong hurriedly backed away, having a deep-rooted fear of the media. He positioned himself on the other side of the main wall, where the press photographer couldn’t see him. ‘You go inside. Unlock door. Let my staff member come out. I wait here,’ he told Tik.

The businessman, looking ever-more anxious, jingled the keys in his pocket and set off into the apartment block.

Keeping out of sight of the snapper, the geomancer tried to gaze up at the fifteenth floor. There was nothing to see.

A police car pulled up outside the block and a small, rather ruffled police officer climbed out. He straightened himself with some difficulty and stared up at the unravelled toilet paper. He chewed a well-masticated pen thoughtfully.

Spotting Wong, Inspector Gilbert Tan vainly attempted to pull his trousers over his round stomach, and ambled over.

‘Ah, Mr Wong,’ he said. ‘Your call sounded so urgent-lah. What can I do for you? You summon me to tell me someone is dropping toilet paper out of a window, is it? Dropping toilet paper in private estate is not a crime, yet, I think, unless we try to use litter ordinance.’

The
feng shui
master shook his head. ‘Ah, Inspector Tan. Have good news and bad news.’

‘Tell me bad news first.’

‘Good news for you. Bad news for me.’

‘Oh. In that case, tell me good news first.’

Wong nodded. ‘I think maybe we found fish thief.’

‘What fish thief?’

‘The big money fish stolen from all over? Carp, angelfish, exotic fish, like that? Remember? Fish thieves over past few months? In the newspaper?’

‘Ah,’ said Inspector Tan. ‘Fish thieves, yes. Not most high profile case-lah. But yes, I did read somewhere that there have been a lot of stolen fish over past few months. You’ve found the culprit, is it?’

Wong pointed upwards. ‘Man in this flat has suddenly got large number of fish. Small broker. Big money fish. Suddenly he is rich. Very suspicious.’

The photographer went back to his car and, after dawdling for a few moments, revved it up and raced away, tyres squealing.

Wong, seeing his opportunity, took hold of the police officer’s elbow and steered him to the building’s front step. They pressed the buttons of the flats at random until someone buzzed the main door open. ‘So easy to get into Singapore flats,’ lamented Inspector Tan. ‘Nobody interested in security.’

In the elevator, the police officer turned to his friend. ‘So that is good news? You think you found a fish thief? And what is bad news?’

Wong looked gloomy. ‘Bad news is I think I very soon lose customer. Also maybe upset Mr Pun, my biggest customer.’

As the elevator neared the top of the building, an unmistakable odour seeped into the space.

‘Eee!’ said Tan. ‘Hate the smell of fish.’

‘Joyce the same.’

‘And you?’