The Feng Shui Detective's Casebook Part 16

The two hills, their fingers touching behind the house, formed a perfect Dragon and Tiger embrace, protecting the house and encompa.s.sing it with the best fortune imaginable. Further behind the house were tall trees and, beyond, a much larger mountain.

Wong picked out the elements that made the location so magical. 'Green dragon one side, white tiger other side. At back is black turtle. Ming t'ang Ming t'ang in front. Truly here is heaven.' in front. Truly here is heaven.'

'It is really quite remarkable,' Sinha agreed. 'All you need is a red bird at the front, and it would be perfect.'

Wong pointed at the shrubs in front of the house, where several birds could be seen-and one of them was a scarlet minivet, a startlingly bright crimson Indian bird with a jet-black head and cloak.

The two of them started to walk towards the home at the centre of the picture: a small structure with a gently sloping roof. A row of pink ca.s.sia trees stood behind it, a profusion of rose-white blooms visible over the house's green tiles. In pride of place at the heart of the area behind the house was a tree that Wong did not recognise. It stood taller than the ca.s.sias, with solid branches carrying orange and scarlet cl.u.s.ters of flowers.

In front of the house were several low shrubs, decorating a winding path to the front door. On the right of the stone track were several hari champa bushes, their leaves dark green at ground level, rising to bright lemon green for the newest buds. Even from this distance the apple-fragrance of the bushes could be detected. On the other side of the track was a line of yellow oleander shrubs, known in India as the trumpet flower bush. They were growing wild, with some sprigs standing higher than Dilip Sinha. 'I love the trumpet flowers,' the Indian astrologer said. 'Poisonous to man but very popular with the G.o.ds-we use them for decorating temples.'

'That tree is what?' asked Wong, pointing to one beyond the house.

'That's an asoka, a sacred tree for Hindus. It exhales perfume at nights during April and May every year. It is a.s.sociated with love and chast.i.ty. Remember the story of how Sita, the wife of Rama, is abducted by Ravana? Well, she escapes and finds refuge in a grove of asokas.'

'Very beautiful,' said the feng shui feng shui master. master.

'It is. Gautama Buddha was born under one of those.'

As they approached the house, the thick grove of trees behind it appeared to grow taller. 'In feng shui feng shui, trees north behind house very favourable. Lots of leaves, lots of prosperity.'

Sinha agreed. 'Works for me too. In vaastu, vaastu, the north direction is a.s.sociated with the G.o.d Kubera, Lord of Wealth. We a.s.sociate it with the planet Mercury and Indians place their vaults and money boxes in the north, in the belief that this means they will always have something to put into them.' the north direction is a.s.sociated with the G.o.d Kubera, Lord of Wealth. We a.s.sociate it with the planet Mercury and Indians place their vaults and money boxes in the north, in the belief that this means they will always have something to put into them.'

Wong took great draughts of air into his chest. 'Feel much better. Feel hungry for first time.'

'I can tell you why,' Sinha said. 'See that?' He pointed to a creeper gently climbing a trellis on the green-dragon side of the house. It had dark leaves, interspersed with thick bunches of flowers of pale violet. 'We call that the garlic creeper,' he said. 'No relation to the garlic you use in cooking, but it has the aroma of cooking. Rather a neat trick by the G.o.ds.'

As they reached the house, they noticed how simple it was. The walls of Mag-Auntie's home were off-white plaster and the roof was made of terracotta tiles. There was a shiny satellite dish, draped by a creeper, barely visible behind a chimney stack. The windows were small and square. There was no doorbell.

'Auntie,' Subhash called. 'Auntie.'

No reply.

After politely waiting for a minute, he opened the door and all four of them looked in.

The small room was dark, but a little sunlight came from the windows, and there was some artificial illumination from a computer screen to the east.

'Ah, you have come for me. Finally.'

A small but stocky woman, who appeared to be in her late sixties, turned from the computer game she was playing. 'I apologise-these online games-so addictive, you know.' On the screen behind her, a war scenario was displayed.

She looked at Subhash. 'Do you know Epsilon Grand Killer Breakout 3 Epsilon Grand Killer Breakout 3?'

'I play it every day.'

She smiled at him.

He slid into her chair and took over the game.

Before stepping out of the cottage to join the others, she turned to him. 'If I come back and I'm dead, you're dead.'

He nodded without taking his eyes off the screen. Joyce slid into the chair next to him and put her arm across the back of his seat.

The old woman walked out into the glade that had had Wong and Sinha in ecstasy. She was a bulky woman in a shapeless top over a coloured ghaghra. There were a dozen bangles on each wrist. Her black hair was heavily streaked with steel grey.

'I knew you would come for me,' she said.

'Your home is almost perfect,' Wong said. 'Feng shui very good. Very good.' very good. Very good.'

'It is, is, isn't it? This spot was chosen for me by a great master.' isn't it? This spot was chosen for me by a great master.'

'He is a great master. His name is?'

'His name is Mistry and he lives north of here. His home is far, far better, even than this. In vaastu vaastu terms, it is perfection.' terms, it is perfection.'

Wong was amazed. 'I must meet him.'

Mag-Auntie offered to supply him with Mistry's address.

As they reached the edge of the glade, Wong realised that their conversation had entirely the wrong tone. He shouldn't be humbly expressing awe and admiration for Mag-Auntie's home-he should be firmly grilling her to see if she had committed the crime they were investigating.

'You kill the Spaniard?' Wong asked sternly.

'Spanner,' Sinha interpreted.

'If you are referring to the Spam King, Mahadevan Jacob, yes, I killed him.'

Both Wong and Sinha could not help but be surprised at her easy admission of guilt. Taken aback, neither of them knew how to proceed. So they continued strolling, reaching the bamboo grove at the far end of the clearing.

'I killed him-and so did everyone else in Pallakiri, judging by the number of confessions that the police have received,' Mag-Auntie continued. 'I believe it was one hundred and fifty last night-one hundred and fifty-one if you count my admission just now. Unfortunately I am not on the list. I missed the deadline to be registered among the murderers. Mukta-Gupta is at this very moment trying to find a Hyderabadi judge who will legalise his impromptu bit of law making.'

'How do you know this?' Wong asked.

'I lurk in Internet chatrooms. When I'm not playing online games. You find out things surprisingly quickly.'

The three walked slowly along the side of the creek.

'Please explain me. What is a Spaniard? Joyce try to explain, but I find it hard to hear her.'

The old woman nodded. 'Hard for people of our generation. Quite simple. A spammer is the worst sort of human detritus. A spammer is a murderer of hopes and dreams. A spammer is a conman and a thief and a piece of t.u.r.d from one of the dogs of h.e.l.l.'

'Ah. So you don't like spammer,' Wong said, without irony.

She thought for a moment before replying. 'Let me tell you a true story, Mr Wong.'

But after that promising introduction, she lapsed into silence. They walked on almost to the edge of a small lagoon at the edge of the glade. She stopped at the edge of the water and began to talk.

'A woman, let's call her Mukta-Leika, earns a few rupees a day. She comes to my shop. She gives a third of her money to me, so she can log on to the Internet to get news of her daughter Amarjit, who is working as a waitress in Telegu. Every day, she and Amarjit swap a few words. It keeps each of them alive in each other's hearts. Oh yes, they could write letters and send photographs, but this daily conversation is a magical thing for them both. It continues like this for many weeks.'

Mag-Auntie's expression darkened. 'But then one day an evil man in the Internet business sells a bunch of email addresses from my ISP to someone else. They sell it to someone else. They sell it to someone else. Each address is worth a tiny sum of money, so small you can hardly measure. Then one day Mukta-Leika comes to log on. She finds that instead of her daily message from her daughter, her email inbox is filled with rubbish. Pictures of s.e.xual acts, abhorrent to us all. Advertis.e.m.e.nts from people selling items she will never need and could never afford, not if she saved everything she earned for the rest of her life. She tries to stop the flow, but it only increases. Abuse and trickery and lies. So she asks me for help. Of course, I help her. I teach her how to delete the spam emails and find her daughter's letter. But the next day the problem is worse-and it gets worse each succeeding day. Soon, there is so much junk email in her box that her daughter's email cannot even arrive. She spends her full time downloading, but her time is up, and her daughter's letter still isn't there. I give her an extra ten minutes free, but still the junk is coming. There are two hundred pieces of spam, some with HTML, some with pictures, even with video. Even if I gave her a whole hour and bankrupt myself, she cannot cope with searching through the lists of p.o.r.n and rubbish to find the letter. She gives up. The messages cannot be received. Mukta-Leika is broken-hearted.'

Mag-Auntie turned a hard face to Wong. 'This is true story. It happens every day in my cafe. There are many, many Mukta-Leikas, with many Amarjits and Rajeshes and Nitishes and other children to contact. It happens in every village in India-and India has a lot of villages. Connections are made between mothers and children, grandparents and offspring, men and women-people with just a few paise to spare. But the spammers arrive and the system can no longer work for them.'

Wong nodded his head. 'Maybe I understand.'

'If this happened to people you know, do you think it would be moral to get rid of the man who caused all the trouble?'

'Maybe yes. Maybe I would murder him myself.'

'In which case I have beaten you to it.'

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. 'Good idea,' he said.

They were at the Hyderabad Airport departure lounge. Mukta-Gupta had come to see them off. Wong explained that they had failed to locate which of the names on the list of one hundred and fifty was the murderer, and had sadly decided to abandon the chase and leave. 'Very sorry.'

But Gupta, bright-eyed, had refused to accept the apology. He replied that he was no longer looking for a murderer.

'You have found one?' Sinha asked.

'I found too many, so I decided that they cancelled each other out.'

'Oh,' said Wong. 'Nice plan. Is it legal?'

'Well, it would have been ridiculous to charge one hundred and fifty people. So I went to a judge and told him the situation. He said that the man was clearly so unpopular that his death was probably a great service to the community.'

'This is true. Judge is wise. Law in India very flexible.'

Gupta grunted his a.s.sent. 'In this case, yes. So we dropped all charges. Official reason is lack of evidence. Everybody has been cleared.'

'So the case is over?'

'Yes, only . . .'

'What?'

'People are still coming to confess. Everybody wants to take credit for the murder. I have put a sign up in the police station at Pallakiri: NO MURDER CONFESSIONS. But I am a bit worried about it, to be honest.'

'A bit irregular.'

'Correct.'

'But never mind. The law always has grey areas. Grey areas are very important. Isn't that right, Wong?'

The feng shui feng shui master, who felt hungry for the first time in days, was distracted, having smelt a whiff of curry from the airport cafe. He replied: 'Grey colour not bad. But you have excess of water influence, Inspector Gupta, so you should use red colour in your office.' master, who felt hungry for the first time in days, was distracted, having smelt a whiff of curry from the airport cafe. He replied: 'Grey colour not bad. But you have excess of water influence, Inspector Gupta, so you should use red colour in your office.'

The policeman looked at his potbelly. 'I have excess of something, but I don't think it's water influence. I think it is Navelli's Sponge Cake.'

Twenty metres away, Joyce and Subhash were talking intently to each other.

'Here's my email,' she said, handing him a small card.

'Thanks. I'll write to you very soon. I mean, like, as soon as I get home. Like in half an hour.'

'That'll be nice. I'll reply straight away. I mean, I guess I won't because I'll still be on the plane. But as soon as I get to a computer.'

He looked as if he was thinking about kissing her, but nothing happened. Wong beckoned her, and she awkwardly shook Subhash's hand.

Joyce, a lump in her throat, caught up with Sinha as they strode towards the doors leading to immigration. The question that was ricocheting around her head burst out of her lips. 'DK. Why didn't he kiss me?'

'This is India. People don't do that sort of thing here.'

'So it doesn't mean he doesn't love me?'

Sinha turned to her. 'My dear little girl. In India, if he doesn't kiss you, it means he does does love you.' love you.'

Joyce sniffed and felt a heaviness and a lightness in her soul at the same time. She had the impression that something powerful and wiry, like one of the creeper's on Mag-Auntie's house, was growing deep inside her. She turned to wave at Subhash one last time, and then turned away.

5

Bad marks at school

In ancient times, a thoughtful nun was sad about the transience of all life. She said to her teacher: 'All things decay. Today dawned beautifully, but tonight it will die. Life is only a breath. Man is born to die. What value has existence?'The teacher said to the nun: 'Go ask the b.u.t.terfly. Go ask a candle. Go ask a drop of water.'The nun went to a sacred barna tree, a tree with white flowers which attracted white b.u.t.terflies. She watched and saw how the b.u.t.terflies lived only one day each.The nun went to the temple. She looked at candles burning in front of the Buddha. She saw how the candles went out after only one hour each.The nun went to a river. She saw how the river was made of a million drops of water. She saw how they pa.s.sed her town in less than the time it took to sip a cup of tea and never come back.The nun went back to her school. She said: 'Life is transient like a b.u.t.terfly visiting a sacred barna tree.'But the gardener was present. He said: 'No. b.u.t.terflies make plants live. Already the barna tree is older than you are. It has been growing for a hundred years.'She said: 'Life is transient like a candle in a temple.'But the priest was there. He said: 'No. The fire in the temple has been burning for many centuries. It is one thousand years old.'She said: 'Life is transient like a drop of water pa.s.sing a town in a river.'But the old boatman was there. He said: 'No. The river has been there for ten thousand years. It will be there for ten thousand more.'And so it is with us, Blade of Gra.s.s. Some of us see the b.u.t.terfly, the candle and the drop of water. Some of us see the tree, the fire and the river.

From 'Some Gleanings of Oriental Wisdom'

by CF Wong, part 23.

Joyce McQuinnie felt an uncomfortable sourness in her stomach as she stepped through the school gates and walked towards the main entrance. She felt sick. As she walked past the staff car park, she tried to breathe slowly and calm herself. She realised that she was intensely aware of her heart beating: every individual thump seemed to shake her ribcage. Why did schools make her feel so uncomfortable?

She tried to focus on one of the few attractions this a.s.signment held: she was being allowed to do it partly on her own. Since the problem with the fish man's apartment-a problem, which she repeatedly reminded him, was not in any way in any way her fault-CF Wong had dropped the idea of letting her handle clients entirely by herself. her fault-CF Wong had dropped the idea of letting her handle clients entirely by herself.

In this case, he had made a compromise decision. The head teacher of the international school was a minor non-executive director of Mr Pun's board and was thus ent.i.tled to have his premises examined. She was to go for the initial reading, draw floor maps and prepare the basic doc.u.ments. He would come down a couple of hours later, check all this, make any needed changes, present the findings to the client, and see if he could bully him into pre-booking some follow-up visits, to be paid for separately.

But a school- school-did she really have to spend her day in a place she a.s.sociated so strongly with misery? She found herself searching for reasons to justify her acceptance of the a.s.signment. It was good to get out of the office, since her attempts to engage the geomancer and Winnie Lim in conversation were always difficult and deflating. And she was always desperately seeking opportunities to prove herself an a.s.set to the company. A job like this, which gave her a degree of personal responsibility, was useful in that regard.

But as she arrived at the scene, her spirits fell again. What a shame that the a.s.signment was in a secondary school so reminiscent of the ones in which she had spent her early teenage years. The unimaginative blocks with their cookie-cutter cla.s.srooms, corridors, staircases and playgrounds had only negative a.s.sociations for her.

As she approached the main entrance, Joyce felt reluctant to join the scrum of children thronging through the doors, so she loitered near the car park. She folded her arms and surveyed the scene. Every school was different, yet somehow they were all the same: The same smell, the same rectangular low-rise blocks, the same tinted concrete yards, the same patchy green and grey playing field.

It was 9:06 am and school had officially started for the day, although there were still straggling knots of children in the corners of the car park, gossiping or waiting for late friends or siblings.