A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul

by Shamini Flint

  Bronwyn appeared at the door and beckoned to Singh. As he approached, his footsteps muffled in his white sneakers, she said, ‘I just got a call from the Sanglah morgue in Denpasar. They want us there.’

  ‘Who does?’ asked Singh, puzzled.

  She shook her head. ‘Not sure. AFP? Bali police?’

  Singh sighed. ‘Well, I have nothing better to do.’

  There was a car waiting for them outside with a police driver. He saluted smartly as the Sikh inspector trudged towards him. Singh’s eyebrows shot up for the second time that morning. He slid in the back next to Bronwyn and pondered this sudden elevation in status from political window dressing to important personage. An urgent summons. A car and driver. Something was up and he had no idea what it could be.

  Bronwyn’s broad forehead had puzzlement etched on it. She echoed his thoughts. ‘What’s going on?’

  He said, ‘Not a clue!’

  The inspector from Singapore sat back and gazed out of the window. The sky was cloudless and a piercing, eye-watering blue. It was a hot day and the huffing and puffing of the noisy air-conditioning was not helping. Singh wiped his forehead with a big white handkerchief. He ran a forefinger under the rim of his turban, trying to let some cool air drift towards his scalp. His head itched in hot weather. He wished someone would invent a lightweight version of the six yards of cotton cloth he had twined expertly around his big head that morning. He could just dispense with the turban, of course. Many of his fellow Sikhs had long since abandoned the traditional headwear, giving in to the pressures of hot weather and modern dress norms. He himself did not wear the iron bangle – it gave him a rash around his wrist – that was yet another requirement of Sikhism. But Singh knew he would feel exposed and defenceless without his turban. He had worn it for too many years. It was his security blanket.

  He glanced at Bronwyn. Her face was reddened with heat. Tendrils of hair adhered to her forehead. Every single pore on her small nose was as distinct and visible as the craters on the moon. The moisture above her upper lip looked like a translucent moustache. The Bali climate was certainly not kind to pale-skinned Australians. But at least she wasn’t wearing a turban. She noticed him looking at her and smiled – the dimple carved into one cheek gave the smile an infectious quality. Singh had to work hard to avoid grinning back. He didn’t want any accidental overtures of friendship. It was already hard enough keeping this painfully chummy woman at arm’s length.

  It did not take long to reach the Sanglah hospital mortuary. Singh got out of the car with some reluctance. He was familiar with bodies. He had seen them stabbed, shot, drowned and strangled. But he had never been exposed to mass killing on the scale of the Bali bombings.

  There was a tall thin man with overgrown sandy hair lapping the collar of his white coat waiting for them at the entrance. He demanded in a staccato voice, ‘You’re Singh?’

  The inspector nodded. He decided to overlook the man’s gruff tone. From his bloodshot eyes to the vein pumping in his forehead, this was a man at the end of his tether.

  ‘I’m Dr Alex Barton. I’m in charge of the collection of burnt-out body parts we have here.’

  ‘Lucky you!’ muttered Singh as he shook hands with the man, noticing that the skin on his palm was dry and rough. He still had no idea why he was at the morgue. He hoped there wasn’t something that needed doing for which he had no expertise – God only knew what his superiors had told the Balinese about his skill set. He wouldn’t have put it past his Singapore bosses to assure them that he was a forensics expert.

  The doctor looked like he wanted to say something but was not sure how to proceed. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his white coat, glanced at Singh, changed his mind and stared down at the policeman’s white plimsolls, a perplexed expression on his face. He said abruptly, ‘Why don’t you come with me.’

  Intrigued by this air of mystery, Singh trotted after the doctor, taking two steps for every one of the other man. Bronwyn had no trouble keeping pace in her soft-soled shoes that were worn down around the heels. She was almost as tall as the pathologist. Bronwyn was being reticent by her standards. Singh wondered about it for a moment. Did she know something she was not telling him? He abandoned the mental task of second-guessing Bronwyn in favour of the physical task of keeping up with the others.

  Alex Barton did not stop until he reached a large steel freezer. He opened the door and gestured for them to look inside. Singh peered in reluctantly. His disinclination was vindicated by the sight of small piles of charred limbs and other human remains.

  He looked inquiringly at the Australian doctor. ‘Having trouble identifying these victims?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. But it’s early days yet. We’re still waiting for DNA samples, dental records, information on identifying marks, you know, scars, tattoos, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Tough job,’ said Bronwyn sympathetically.

  ‘It wasn’t helped by the cock-ups after the bombs,’ complained the doctor bitterly.

  Inspector Singh asked in his gravelly voice, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There wasn’t enough space here – at the morgue, I mean. The freezer was only designed for ten bodies. We had over two hundred. The remains were left in bags in the garden. They were so burnt, decomposition was faster than normal. I’ve been in war zones that weren’t as bad. But the worst part’ – he shook his head in disbelief – ‘anyone and everyone was allowed to wander in looking for missing relatives. People claimed bodies based on visual identification – hopeless in the circumstances.’

  Bronwyn asked in horrified tones, ‘Do you mean families claimed the wrong bodies?’

  ‘That’s not the least of it,’ said the doctor, sighing. ‘Some of the volunteers who came in to help – they didn’t have any training – they mixed remains. There’s a lot of cross-contamination of DNA samples.’

  ‘But that means there are victims who might never be identified!’ exclaimed Bronwyn.

  The doctor nodded, his face crumpled with lines of worry and fatigue.

  There was silence.

  Singh broke it. He asked, ‘But what do you want me for?’ He continued, ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any expertise on the forensics side.’

  Before Dr Barton could continue, they were joined by another man. Short, squat and with a big square head, he looked like a Caucasian version of Inspector Singh – except without the turban. The newcomer shook hands with Barton, turned to the policeman and asked, ‘You’re Singh?’

  Singh was getting a little tired of dealing with brusque Australians. He said, not bothering to keep the note of irritation out of his voice, ‘Yes, who’s asking?’

  ‘I’m Chief Atkinson – AFP.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  The Australian turned to the doctor and snapped, ‘You haven’t told him?’

  ‘No. I was about to when you showed up.’

  ‘All right.’

  Atkinson gazed at the Sikh policeman appraisingly. Singh supposed he was not a figure to inspire confidence. He was short and fat with an excessive number of pens in the breast pocket of his shirt. His snowy white sneakers were in contrast to the large blue turban on his head. He had a thin upper lip, a pink, moist protruding lower lip and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, both flecked with white.

  Atkinson asked, ‘You Moslem?’

  Singh was really annoyed now. He said, ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but no.’

  ‘Then why’ve you got that hanky around your head?’

  ‘Because I’m a Sikh and our people have been turbaned for longer than you’ve had ancestors out of prison.’

  Atkinson barked with sudden laughter. ‘You might be right about that, mate.’

  Singh maintained a stony silence, his lips pursed to indicate displeasure.

  The Australian continued, ‘I don’t give a damn whether you’re Sikh or Christian or a bloody Moslem for that matter – but as it was a bunch of towel-heads behind the Bali bombs, I thoug
ht it was worth asking.’

  Bronwyn demonstrated the talent for insubordination that was keeping her at the periphery of the investigation. She said in a determined voice, ‘I don’t think the question was justified under any circumstances, sir.’

  The doctor, surprised by the developing antagonism, interrupted them, ‘Look, I’ve got upwards of twenty people in deep freeze waiting for me to turn them from charred remains into human beings. Are you going to get on with it? Because, if not, I’ve got work to do and you guys are just wasting my time – and your own.’

  Atkinson said in a conciliatory tone, gesturing to the doctor, ‘Show him.’

  Barton raised a sandy, sparse eyebrow and then nodded in agreement. He opened the freezer door again and a blast of cold air, laced with just a hint of decaying flesh, washed over them. The doctor brought out a small black plastic carrier.

  Singh decided it looked like a smaller version of the bag he used to put out the garbage every evening.

  Barton took it to a gleaming waist-high steel table on castors and shook out the contents carefully. A few blackened pieces fell out.

  The inspector was certain that he would not have been able to tell the difference between these human remains and the charred pieces of vehicle chassis he had been shown earlier in the day.

  The doctor slipped on a pair of thin rubber gloves and rummaged through the pile.

  Singh felt squeamish. The large breakfast of bacon and eggs followed by fried noodles and washed down with three cups of strong locally grown black coffee was churning in his belly. He decided his stomach felt like a washing machine in a spin cycle. He wondered at his own queasiness. It was not like him at all. Rookies in the Singapore police force spoke admiringly of his cast-iron stomach during autopsies. It was part of his larger-than-life reputation. Why was he more affected by these victims of a suicide bomber than he had ever been when confronted with a corpse in the course of a murder investigation? Singh pondered the question as he watched the doctor. Was it that, in all the murders he had ever dealt with, there was always a personal nexus between killer and victim? Whether it was a crime of passion, of greed or of anger – the two chief participants in the crime had some sort of connection. Quite often the murder was intended to sever that bond but it often had the opposite effect, tying the criminal once and for all to his victim. But here, there was no connection between murderer and victims. All those killed had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time – selected not by the murderer but by the random hand of fate.

  Barton found what he was looking for. He walked over to them holding something in the palm of his hand.

  It was a flat piece of bone, singed around the edges.

  Singh asked, ‘Part of a skull?’

  Dr Barton nodded. ‘Yes, I think so.’ He tapped himself on the forehead. ‘Frontal plate.’

  ‘Why is it important?’ The Sikh policeman was mystified. ‘Presumably you’ve got frontal plates and occipital plates and every other bone in that macabre collection of yours!’

  Barton held up the piece so they could see it clearly. The others peered at it. The doctor slipped his index finger through a perfectly round hole in the centre of the cranial plate.

  Inspector Singh sighed.

  Bronwyn looked at him questioningly. She asked, ‘What is it?’

  ‘A bullet hole,’ said the inspector from Singapore.

  Three

  ‘I don’t understand!’ exclaimed Bronwyn, clutching her thin hair with both hands. ‘Was this one of the bomb victims?’

  Dr Barton nodded. ‘Yes, in the sense that the remains were recovered from the Sari Club. No, in that he was already dead when the bomb went off.’

  ‘But how is that possible? Surely the body would have been spotted? It was a crowded nightclub!’ Singh made his doubts clear.

  Atkinson said, ‘It is almost impossible to understand. But the Sari Club was completely destroyed. There’s no way of knowing for sure if there were any store rooms or corners where a body might have been stashed.’

  ‘How certain are you it’s a bullet hole? Couldn’t it have been caused by shrapnel or nails or something like that?’ Singh’s tone was belligerent, instinctively treating the doctor like a witness whose story had to be tested under pressure.

  Dr Barton remained composed. ‘It’s a good theory, but the Sari Club bomb was not laced with the normal cocktail of metal objects. And – it’s not conclusive – but I tested the carbonated remains around the bullet hole’ – he held up his bizarre trophy – ‘and, although one burnt-out piece of bone looks very much like another, there was gunpowder residue around this hole.’

  Singh exhaled, blowing out his cheeks. He said, ‘So what you’re saying is that in the midst of carnage, there’s also been murder?’

  ‘Well, it’s all murder,’ retorted Barton.

  Singh scowled at him, thick eyebrows almost meeting above his large nose. ‘You know what I mean – there was an individual murder in the midst of mass murder.’

  ‘The question is – does it matter?’ Atkinson posed the question like an academic in an ivory tower.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bronwyn in a subdued voice.

  ‘We’re dealing with an international investigation into a terrorist attack. Do we have the time and resources to look into a murder?’

  ‘Are you suggesting we ignore this?’ Singh was angry.

  ‘I’m suggesting that maybe we should look away. Relative to the suicide bombings – this is a minor matter!’ Atkinson, recognising that he was in a minority of one, was aggressive, his head thrust forward on his thick neck.

  ‘Why did you show this to us if you want to pretend it didn’t happen?’ asked Bronwyn.

  Singh nodded his head to second the question. Bronwyn had the natural perspicuity that he always attributed to women. Atkinson’s behaviour and opinion were not consistent.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ said Dr Barton. ‘I don’t think we should disregard this poor bastard.’

  ‘That’s why you’re here,’ said Atkinson, looking at the Sikh policeman and grinning suddenly, exposing a row of small, sharp teeth.

  Singh had a suspicion he was not going to like what was coming next.

  ‘We heard that your government sent us a security expert without any expertise.’

  Singh shrugged his fleshy shoulders. There was no point denying it.

  ‘So,’ continued Atkinson, ‘we thought you could make yourself useful chasing down the murderer.’

  Singh scratched his beard. ‘It’s impossible. I’m out of my jurisdiction. I don’t have a team.’

  Atkinson said rudely, pointing a finger at the Australian policewoman, ‘You can have her.’

  Bronwyn appeared startled but did not speak.

  Singh was aghast. ‘I wouldn’t know where to begin,’ he said, almost pleadingly. ‘I mean, what do we have to go on – a piece of a skull with a hole in it? We don’t even know who the victim is!’

  Barton said in a smug tone, ‘Oh! Did I forget to mention? I’ve identified the body.’ He held up his favourite prop, spinning the piece of skull around a finger stuck through the bullet hole. ‘Let me introduce you to Richard Crouch, resident of Bali these last six months.’

  Atkinson said, ‘Good work!’

  Barton turned to Singh and Bronwyn. ‘Look, I know this is going to be an almost impossible crime to solve. But I persuaded Atkinson that we owe it to this guy to have a go. It’s not right that his killer is let off the hook because we happen to be busy.’

  Atkinson added, ‘I’m not wasting the manpower I need for the terrorist investigation. Neither are the Balinese. But, I thought, as we have a top cop from Singapore who has a reputation for always getting his man but knows squat about terrorism, why not get him on board? Unless, that is, you’re just here for quality time on the beach?’

  Singh didn’t bother to respond to the blatant provocation. He was thinking hard, chewing on his plump lower lip with vigour. The bottom line was that h
e was not going back to Singapore any time soon. His superiors were determined that their contribution to the cause of Balinese security should stay on Bali. But he was sick and tired of being a fifth wheel on the investigative bandwagon, skulking behind his Australian babysitter, hoping – unsuccessfully as it turned out – that no one would notice that he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. But murder was his expertise. And here was a murder that was at least as challenging as anything he had ever confronted before. No policeman worth his white sneakers could turn down such an offer.

  Besides, the doctor was right. This Richard Crouch, whoever he was, deserved more – he deserved justice. And the pursuit of justice was Singh’s favourite form of exercise.

  He said gruffly, ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘We should go, love.’

  Emily Greenwood ignored her husband. She wiped a trickle of wine off her chin with a well-manicured finger. The nail was painted a delicate shade of cherry. Her pink tongue darted out and licked the tip. She waved imperiously to a hovering waiter. He rushed over and poured more of the rich ruby liquid into her empty glass.

  ‘You’ve had enough, darling. Let’s go home now.’ Julian despised himself for the pleading note that crept into his nasal voice.

  Emily sipped the wine and smiled at her husband, two large grey eyes looking at him with bleary amusement, unruly highlighted blonde tendrils escaping from her chignon. ‘Just one more for the road, love.’

  Even in her drunken state, her tone had the rich plumminess and authority of someone born to privilege. Julian, knowing how hard he worked to maintain a similar accent, doing his best to disguise his ordinary London roots, felt a stab of intense jealousy.

  Why had this woman been born with a silver spoon in her mouth? More like a silver bloody ladle, he thought crossly.

  He had met Emily in Bali six months before, wooed her and married her, convinced it was his ticket to the good life. He had been disappointed in his expectations. Despite her intensely hedonistic lifestyle, devoted to the pleasures that Bali offered to pamper the wealthy, she had remained in firm control of the purse strings.