‘Ah.’
‘Why? Think about it. She’s in Sasha’s class. She probably knows that Sasha has hooked up with her dad. She wants Sasha to be in as much trouble as possible. I mean, wouldn’t you feel awful if a girl your age was trying to seduce your dad?’
‘My father dead.’
‘I know, but I was just saying.’
Wong was still having trouble trying to make sense of it all. ‘But Sasha—after all this happen, why she not tell the truth? Too stupid.’
Joyce shook her head. ‘Her mum’s a loony. If Sasha goes around telling people that she was alone in a room with a teacher who promptly jumped out of a window, everyone’s going to say she’s also loony.’
‘Her friends tell you this?’
‘I think Sasha only told one friend that her mum was a loony. This girl Becky. Becky promised never to tell anyone.’
The feng shui master shook his head. All this had clearly established the truth of one thing he had known for a long time—women are unfathomable, unpredictable and deeply dangerous creatures with which to become involved. And as Inspector Gilbert Tan unravelled this case in the courts of Singapore, school principal Lawrence Angwyn Waldo would start to discover the truth of this for himself.
Wong comforted himself with the thought that he was one of the last masters educated in the old, politically-incorrect school of feng shui, which specified that the yang principle meant strong, positive, life and male, while the yin principle meant weak, negative, death and female. The ancients knew what they were talking about.
6 The adventure
of the offstage actors
An ancient text from the Zen masters tells the story of a man who climbed a holy mountain to talk to the hermit who lived on top. The hermit was the number-one sword-fighter in the world.
The student reached the peak and lay down at the feet of the hermit. He said: ‘I must learn the art of sword fighting. How long it will take?’
The hermit said: ‘It may take ten years.’
The student said: ‘I have many things to do back home. If I work two or three times harder than other students, how long it will take?’
The hermit said: ‘Then it will take twenty years.’
The student said: ‘I do not understand. Why it will take longer if I work harder? I am eager to learn. What if I work night and day and holidays too?’
The hermit said: ‘Then it will take thirty years.’
The fastest way to do anything, Blade of Grass, is the correct way. If you do something in a hurried way, it will take longer.
From ‘Some Gleanings of Oriental Wisdom’
by CF Wong, part 24.
CF Wong read through his story one last time, tweaked a few words here and there, and closed his book with a thud. He picked up his battered briefcase and slid the tattered volume into it. Then he placed the bag with tender care—since it contained his most valuable possession—between his shins, and went to sleep. Ah! The satisfying, easy slumber of the hardworking man who has done his work, done it well, and been generously tipped for it.
The massive kid-leather marshmallow chair in the lobby of the Bangkok Oriental Plaza gently drew his body into it as the Jacuzzi in his suite had done earlier. He felt himself descending fast, tumbling head over heels into a state of happy oblivion. The buzz of hotel business around him faded fast, and he only half-heard, as if at a great distance, the whir of multiple wheels as luggage trolleys trundled across marble floors and thick Persian rugs. The air-conditioning, as is usual in hotel lobbies, was set at flash-freeze. But the frequent blasts of super-heated air coming from the main entrance doors compensated for the chill.
This particular job, Wong dreamily mused, had been particularly successful. By which he meant they had done enough to justify their payment from Mr Pun, and gathered a nice, fat tip as well—and all for a minimal amount of work.
He and his assistant had been assigned to do what Joyce called ‘a parachute job’—flying in to a new country to do a quick survey for a member of Mr Pun’s board, and then getting out fast. The task had been to check the feng shui characteristics of the star dressing room at a swanky new auditorium in Bangkok. The man due to use it was Khoon Boontawee, a Thai movie star who had appeared in thirty-six movies, in every one of which he played a good guy with a naughty streak, or a naughty guy with a streak of goodness. Tonight was the premiere of his new movie, Street Fighting Dragon, in which he played the golden-hearted son of an evil gangster leader. The date, the Friday of a holiday weekend, had been selected by the star’s manager to maximise income, although it was an inauspicious day on the star’s own calendar. So Khoon Boontawee’s mother, who was half-Chinese, had insisted that a genuine Hong Kong feng shui master be imported to alleviate any negative influences.
And the job had turned out to be easy. He and Joyce had been flown in on the Thursday night and been booked into the Plaza. After a huge buffet breakfast on Friday morning, they had been whisked to the theatre. The negative influences had turned out to be obvious to identify.
Khoon Boontawee was born under the sign of the thunder tree in May of 1951 with green as his colour and three as his number. By moving to the new auditorium, he was unfortunately travelling in the direction of his own key number, which was like trying to squeeze magnets of the same pole together. The dressing room itself had an over-abundance of southern energy, giving rise to a risk of the user suffering from emotional swings and an excess of passion—not something that actors generally lacked.
The remedies were simple to organise. Wong had arranged for Khoon’s costumes and personal effects (and the truck which carried them) to travel in a different direction for an hour and approach the hall from a more suitable direction in the early afternoon.
And he had assigned a team of staff to swiftly make changes to the huge dressing room to soften the energy. Southern ch’i, if correctly tempered, was associated with public recognition and fame, which would be ideal for a star. Six potted plants were arranged in the room so that tree energy could support Khoon’s fire energy, and the fibreglass chairs were replaced with bamboo and wicker furniture. Drapes, throw rugs and tablecloths of red and green were added to complete the happy marriage between fire and forest influences. Khoon, he was sure, would walk straight in and feel happy and relaxed.
By six o’clock that evening, everything was complete. It had been a busy few hours, but the work had been straightforward, the theatre staff efficient, and the whole exercise satisfying. Especially now that a tip of one thousand US dollars in a red envelope was in Wong’s inside breast pocket, courtesy of Thai media tycoon Pansak Jermkhunthod, who was on the board of East Trade Industries in Singapore and chairman of Star City Ventures.
They had nothing to do but lounge in the lobby and wait for their car to take them to the airport. Joyce had gone to the hotel shop to buy souvenirs, leaving her boss to doze in the voluptuously over-soft chair. He was soon snoring.
‘Mr Wong. Mr Wong.’
He opened one eye. A silhouette was standing over him, its back to the evening light glowing through the hotel’s glass doors.
‘Unh? You are taxi driver?’
‘No, it’s me. Suchada Kamchoroen. Deputy manager from Star City Ventures. We met this morning?’
Wong failed to recognise the woman, but assumed she was one of the executives to whom he had been introduced at the theatre that morning. He tried to struggle to his feet but his old bones failed him. ‘Ah, yes, Ms Such—er. Very nice you come to say goodbye. Your theatre very nice. Dressing room all fixed. I think you will have plenty good luck no problem now on.’
The manageress, an angular dark-brown woman in her late thirties, squatted down to his level so that he wouldn’t have to stand up. ‘Mr Wong, I think we have a problem. I want to ask your advice.’
‘Yes, of course. You want me to check your office? We have taxi coming to take us to airport, so maybe not too much time. Maybe next time I come to Bangkok I check your office.’
She shook her
head. ‘A problem has come up at the theatre. I need to talk to you urgently.’
‘But we have taxi coming, flight tonight —’
‘Don’t worry about your flight. Our staff can look after you, take you to the airport. We can put you on a later flight, or a flight tomorrow if need be. It’s a—a serious problem. We were told that you have become quite famous in Singapore for solving, er, difficult problems. We’ve got a real difficulty here, and the police aren’t being much help. We will pay you extra, of course. We’ll pay you anything you ask.’
That last sentence filled the feng shui master with a bottomless well of sympathy for whatever new problem had arisen at the theatre. He suddenly sat up straight, his eyes wide open. ‘Too bad. Sit down. Tell me the problem. We can delay flight. I can fix, I’m sure.’ A vision of himself scribbling a figure with many zeroes into his invoice book appeared in his mind.
She delicately lowered her silk-clad body (two-tone red and gold Jim Thompson shot silk cut in Dolce & Gabbana business-suit style) onto the sofa next to him, but before she could speak, Joyce arrived.
‘Oh hi, Kam. Did you come to say bye? Look what I got.’
She hoisted three shopping bags into the air, not without difficulty. ‘Loadsa cool stuff. You wouldn’t believe —’ ‘Hi, Joyce. I’m glad you’ve done some good shopping. But I’m here on serious business. We have a really big problem at the theatre and I need your help.’
The young woman quickly wiped the smile off her face. ‘Oh dear. Yeah, right, fine. Anything we can do, just ask.’ She draped her shopping bags around her feet and dropped heavily into the chair opposite, trying to compose her features into an expression of intense concern.
Suchada Kamchoroen spoke quietly: ‘Khoon has disappeared.’
‘Disappeared,’ Wong echoed.
‘I mean, like completely disappeared. We don’t know where he is. We think something bad may have happened.’
‘Ooh. Maybe he’s just late,’ Joyce said brightly. ‘Some people are like that. I’m late for everything. And I’m not even a movie star. It’s, it’s . . . it’s just my way,’ she finished, rather lamely. ‘Besides, it’s only ten past six. When does the premiere begin? Like eight or something, right?’
The auditorium manageress nodded. ‘It begins at 7:50. But Khoon was due to arrive at the theatre at 4:30 for a half-hour press conference, along with two of the other actors. They never made it. None of them. Khoon was due to do a series of three ten-minute one-to-one interviews, from 5:15 to 5:45. He missed those, too. There’s a pre-show cocktail party about to begin, at which he is supposed to be guest of honour.’
‘Hmm.’ Joyce screwed up her lips in thought. ‘Maybe he forgot. People do that, too. A lot. I forgot a really really important exam once —’
Suchada shook her head. ‘They didn’t all forget. They were in a group.’
‘You telephone him?’ Wong asked.
‘That’s the most worrying thing of all. All three actors had mobile phones, and so did the driver who was bringing them to the theatre. None of them have answered their phones in the past two hours.’
Joyce put her worried face back on. ‘Cheese. That seems a bit like totally suspicious.’
‘It’s as if all four of them have vanished off the face of the earth.’
Wong asked: ‘Where were they last time seen?’
‘We know they left the house where they were staying at about 3:40. They were staying at the private home of our chairman Pansak Jermkhunthod. Khoon was travelling with his two co-stars, Ing Suraswadee and Warin Krungwong. Nothing has been heard of any of them since.’
There was a sudden musical bleating noise. A mobile phone was ringing. Suchada tugged a small, white Nokia cell-phone from her Prada Tessuto handbag. ‘Excuse me. Yes, hello, Kamchoroen here.’
After a few seconds, she stiffened with excitement at the words she heard.
Wong and McQuinnie tried to eavesdrop but Suchada spoke in short, sharp bursts of Thai, responding with excitement to what she was hearing. The only words they understood were the last two: ‘Yes, bye.’
She rang off. ‘They’ve found the car and the driver. But all three actors have gone. The police have interviewed the driver. He says the car was attacked. He is in a bad state. The actors . . . they’ve been kidnapped. Oh, Mr Wong—our luck is not good at all today.’
The premiere of Street Fighting Dragon went ahead without a hitch. But while four hundred people sat motionless in the theatre—indeed, a number were fully comatose, the nearby offices of Star City Theatre Ventures were a hive of activity.
Senior Bangkok Police Major-General Thienthong Sukata, a liver-spotted man with a pear-shaped head, briefed Ms Suchada and her elderly boss, Plodprasad Sardsud, on the discovery of the car in which the actors had been travelling. Plodprasad had very dark skin and wrung his hands continuously as he listened, his head bowed and eyes fixed to the floor.
Wong and McQuinnie sat quietly behind them.
The vehicle was discovered on the outskirts of the city, having veered off the road and hit a tree, where an officer on patrol found it, the policeman explained. Plodprasad groaned, while Suchada sat in silent misery.
The feng shui master insisted that they speak to the man who actually found the car.
A few minutes later, Major-General Thienthong introduced them to a brown-uniformed man of about thirty with astonishingly tiny hips, the sight of which filled Joyce with sick envy. His name was Sergeant Chatchai Suttanu and he claimed to be able to speak English, although he had a pronounced Bangkok accent.
‘Car was Chevrolet Zafira. Actor’s car. Car was travelling along quiet roat just off New Petchburi Roat when another car speet up and came lewel wid them, you know?’ he said. ‘And then someone from insite nubber two car fire —’
‘Wait, please,’ interrupted Wong. ‘Who told you this?’
‘Drywer,’ Sergeant Chatchai said. He looked down at his notebook. ‘A man name, ah, Khun Boonchoob Chuntanaparb.’
‘Thank you.’ Wong began to write the name down, but quickly realised it would be impossible. He scribbled out what he had written and replaced it with: ‘Driver Mr K.’ Then heremembered that Khun meant Mister and scratched the whole line out.
The officer continued: ‘Anyway, bomb was fire from that assailan’ car into Chevrolet Zafira of moowee s’tar. It was fire with big power and s’mats true clows wi’dow, bang!’
‘Bomb?’ asked Wong.
‘He means a missile,’ said Major-General Thienthong.
‘What sort of car was it?’ asked Suchada Kamchoroen. ‘The car that fired the missile.’
‘Drywer Khun Boonchoob do not know what sort of car. He set it was grey car, four doss. It was hard to get detail fom him. He was wery shock, you know?’
‘Which window broken?’ the geomancer asked.
The officer looked down at his notes again. ‘Gas bomb t’ing went true fron’ side wi’dow, and lantet in emp’ty patsenjer seat nex’ to drywer. Stray away it startet giwing off large amoun’ of gas wit lout hissing noise. Gas smell wery bad and make all patsenjers in car to s’tart coughing and have painful ice. In back, moowee s’tar Khun Khoon grap door hander and open door to ex-cape, but dit not go out of car. Car was goin muts too fas’. Somepoty—maybe Khun Khoon or may be other man actor Warin Krungwong—shout to drywer to s’low-s’low car, so they can jum’ out. But now other car was behine other car —’
‘The assailant’s car was behind the actors’ Chevrolet,’ Major General Thienthong inserted.
‘Yets, bat guy car was behine actor Chevrolet and was bumping it from behine. So drywer he coot not s’top car, or even s’low-s’low car.’
‘Cheese,’ Joyce exclaimed. ‘Sounds like a movie.’
‘In fact, it sounds a bit like the movie that is being premiered tonight,’ said theatre director Plodprasad, apologetically. ‘There are two car chases in it. It’s an action movie,’ he added disdainfully, and then appeared to regret his comment. ‘Sorry, that�
�s off topic.’
Major-General Thienthong gave him a stern look before nodding to Sergeant Chatchai to continue.
‘Assailan’ car was behine actor car, smat’ing it from behine, again-again-again. This make it wery hard for drywer to s’top. He poost down hart on foot brake and pull up han’brake wery muts. Car s’pin roun’-roun’-roun’ go off site of roat. It hit barrier and s’crape site wall of s’chool and s’mall-s’mall sop-house sellin’ durian and other fruit. It go a bit more and than s’top about fitty-sisty metre along roat. Fron’ site car all broken into tree.’
‘I hope no one was hurt,’ said Joyce.
‘No one on s’treet was hurtet,’ Sergeant Chatchai assured her. ‘But drywer hit his het, go s’leep. Maybe from crass, maybe from gas, don’t know. He wake up ten minute after. All moowee s’tar gone, snatch away.’
Plodprasad was shaking his head in amazement. ‘All very amazing. Very movie-like. One of the Bond films had a good car chase in Thailand. Now, which was it? Can never remember the name. I think Man with the Golden Gun. The one with Mary Goodnight. I can remember her.’
‘Perhaps the driver was lying. Perhaps he was in cahoots with the kidnappers,’ Joyce suggested.
‘No.’ Sergeant Chatchai was adamant. ‘Drywer was in s’tate of shock. His arm hat burn mark from when gas bomb explote. He hat big cut on his het, loss of blut. I do this job many year. I can hear people who tell lice. He was telling troot.’
Major-General Thienthong turned up his palms in a gesture of futility. ‘So that is our challenge. No description of car. No description of kidnappers. But we have to find them.’ He turned to Wong. ‘If you can help, I would be grateful.’
Straight after breakfast on Saturday morning, Wong travelled with Sergeant Chatchai in a police vehicle to the house where the three actors had stayed. Their plan was to study the scene there and then retrace the route the car had taken from the house towards New Petchburi Road.
It took nearly an hour to reach the mansion on the outskirts of Bangkok. The house was a fortress. A long row of iron railings six metres high, backed by a thick hedge, kept out the rabble. Their car followed a seemingly endless outer perimeter wall for eight minutes, after which they came to a gateway bounded by two large pillars topped with stone eagles more suited to an American military academy.
The Feng Shui Detective's Casebook Page 20
