Bronwyn had never believed that the ends justified the means. She was a strong believer in due process. She didn’t trust results that were obtained under duress – even if it was mental and emotional pressure rather than physical intimidation. She doubted that Singh would resort to roughing up a prisoner. Despite his gross exterior, he was far too subtle for that. But a weak youth like Greg was no match for a master manipulator like Singh.
Singh had abandoned his nonchalant pose. He sat up straight in his chair, his belly straining at the buttons of his shirt. Bronwyn noted that he had actually put on weight. She was not surprised. She had watched him eat his nasi goreng with dessert and sweetened coffee and then cleanse his palate of the oily, rich food with cheap beer. Many of the policemen in Australia prided themselves on keeping in good physical shape. Singh, she thought, was limited to a more cerebral approach. She tried not to smile at the image that popped into her head of Singh trying to restrain someone physically. He struggled to get out of a chair sometimes.
‘Tell us about Sarah Crouch.’
It was the last topic in the world that Greg Howard had expected. His mouth hung open in an expression of foolish surprise. The astonishment passed and was replaced with relief. ‘Sarah Crouch? Why do you want to know about her?’
‘I’ll ask the questions,’ barked Singh.
‘That’s fine with me. I just don’t know very much about her. We met a couple of months ago, had a few drinks together – that’s all really.’
Singh asked, ‘So you’re saying you didn’t conspire with her to kill her husband?’
‘What?’
Singh acted as if the young man had failed to hear him rather than disbelieved the contents of his question. He repeated it more slowly and much louder, ‘Did you conspire with Sarah to murder her husband, Richard Crouch?’
‘Murder? She said he was killed in the bombing at the Sari Club!’
Singh said pedantically, ‘Well, if he had died in the blasts at the Sari Club, it would still be murder – but you wouldn’t be one of the suspects.’
The surfer looked confused. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He was shot!’
‘Geez, that’s just unbelievable!’ His vowels flattened as his Aussie accent got stronger. He continued, ‘You think I shot Sarah’s husband? I never even met the guy.’
‘But you were sleeping with his wife.’ Singh made it a statement rather than a question.
Greg shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. ‘Look, it was a holiday romance. It didn’t mean anything.’
‘Is that how Sarah felt about it?’ It was Bronwyn, interjecting herself into the interview process for the first time.
Greg Howard was silent. He was visibly trying to decide the best answer.
At last he said quietly, ‘She might have taken it more seriously than I did.’
‘Have you told her?’
Greg glanced at Singh, a troubled expression on his face. ‘No. I wasn’t quite sure how to do it. She thinks that because her husband is dead, we can be together. She says’ – he shifted uncomfortably in his seat – ‘she says she loves me.’
‘If I were you,’ remarked Singh, ‘I’d beg me to lock you up and throw the key away. You’re in the clutches of a very determined woman.’
Greg Howard actually shuddered.
Bronwyn asked abruptly, ‘Why did you get into a relationship with her in the first place? She must be fifteen years older than you!’
Bronwyn sounded like an angry parent and Greg responded as if she was. His voice was an apologetic whine as he said, ‘It just happened. I didn’t plan it.’
Singh was more brutal. ‘Don’t act the innocent with us, young man. You were in it for that new surfboard we found in your hotel room. I’ve no doubt there were a few nice meals and long beery evenings thrown in as well.’
Greg opened his mouth to deny the accusations and then closed it again. He put his face in his hands. Bronwyn noticed that he had large strong hands tanned a golden brown.
Greg said, ‘All right – yes, she seemed pretty well off. She liked me. I was getting a bit tired of being broke the whole time. I didn’t mean any harm.’
‘There’s a name for men like you,’ said Singh, his bottom lip thrust out in disgust.
Greg Howard was defiant. ‘Look, I was a bit foolish. But I had nothing to do with her husband’s murder!’
‘That might be true, of course,’ agreed Singh graciously. ‘But maybe you decided to make your meal ticket permanent. ’
‘Look, mate. I’m not that desperate.’
Bronwyn felt her sympathy for the surfer ebb away. He was nothing but a cocky twerp using an older unhappy woman and then mocking her gullibility when it was over. Despite her sudden aversion for Greg, she recognised that his protest rang true. He probably wasn’t that desperate. Why would a good looking young man need to settle for Sarah Crouch as a meal ticket? To cover a few extra holiday expenses, certainly. But to kill her husband for the long-term benefits? It seemed unlikely.
Singh sighed. He said, ‘I’m inclined to believe you.’
Greg exclaimed, ‘Thanks, mate.’
‘So the only question is whether Sarah Crouch was sufficiently enamoured of you to have killed her husband.’
There was a silence in the room. Bronwyn broke it. She said to Greg, ‘Do you think she could have done it?’
Greg Howard shook his head doubtfully. ‘I don’t know. She was quite weird, I thought. Sort of quiet and brooding a lot of the time and then she’d cheer up and be a bit of a laugh. She told me her husband was too busy to spend time with her. But she had his ATM card and that was all she needed to make sure we had a good time.’
‘Did she say what he was doing?’
‘No, not really … I think she suggested that he’d fallen into some bad company. It was actually a joke – she said that she and her husband had both fallen into bad company. But, you know, she preferred hers.’ Greg looked at them and added helpfully, ‘She meant me.’
Bronwyn glared at the surfer. He had gone from fearful to patronising very quickly.
Greg continued, ‘I swear to you – I had nothing to do with her husband’s death.’
‘That may be the case. But I’m afraid I’m going to keep you locked up for a while,’ said Singh.
‘But … but why? I’ve told you everything I know!’
‘Yes, but I need leverage over Sarah Crouch. And …’
Singh paused and Greg blurted out, ‘And what?’
‘I don’t like you.’
The main line rang. Its strident insistent tone shattered the peaceful morning. Wayan, half asleep behind the main desk, picked it up hastily. It was a call for Sarah Crouch. He put the call through to the villa that had been the Crouch home for six months and then, wide awake now, quietly picked up an extension.
Singh had told him in no uncertain terms that he was assisting the police in their inquiries. Wayan had no intention of annoying the fat man with the turban by ignoring his instructions. Guest privacy would have to take a back seat to important investigative work. He betrayed his youth with the grin that suffused his features like a light bulb coming on in a dark room. Playing policeman was certainly more fun than manning the front desk of a largely deserted hotel.
‘Sarah, is that you?’ The line crackled, distorting the masculine voice.
‘Yes, who is this?’ Her reply was thin and echo-less on the phone.
‘It’s me, Tim … Tim Yardley.’
Sarah suppressed a sigh. She had successfully avoided Tim since telling him about Richard’s death although he had been all ready to comfort the grieving widow. He was becoming a major nuisance. She really needed to do something to rid herself of his attentions. She wondered whether to tell him about Greg. She smiled at the thought of her young man. It took ten years off her age. Inspector Singh would not have recognised the beaming woman holding the phone reluctantly to one ear.
‘Sarah, are you there?’
She drag
ged her mind away from her lover – it was an effort of will as painful as a physical separation. ‘Yes, Tim. But this isn’t a good time. I’ve been through a lot. I’m sure you understand that I need some rest and privacy.’
Tim’s voice was high and excited, almost girlish. He said, ‘I’ve done it, Sarah. I’ve done it!’
‘What have you done?’
‘I told Karri I wanted a divorce.’
There was a silence at the other end. Tim said again, ‘Did you hear me? I asked Karri for a divorce. Sarah, we can be together!’
Sarah closed her eyes. The years that had fallen off with her smile returned in the lines engraved deeply around her eyes and mouth.
‘Tim, we shouldn’t be too hasty …’
For the first time, there was hesitation. She thought she heard a sigh, a soft round sound tinged with self-doubt.
‘What do you mean, Sarah?’
‘This is a difficult time. I know we talked about our future. But I need a break, some time to get over Richard’s death. You know, to understand my own mind.’
There was a plaintive note in Tim’s voice, like a child whose toy had been snatched away by the playground bully. He whispered, ‘But you said we could be together … you said that only Richard stood between us.’
‘They’ve tracked the red motorcycle to an apartment in Denpasar,’ said Bronwyn. She had just been briefed on the phone by the Bali policeman. ‘Agus followed the bike from Ubud. There was a young man on it. There was no way to be sure he was from Java – or anywhere else other than Bali – but Agus said he “seemed foreign”.’
Singh grimaced. ‘Have we traced the registration?’
‘It’s being done. We’re a bit short of resources – what with the investigations into the bombings and the security arrangements for the purification ritual.’
‘What ritual?’
Bronwyn said, ‘The Balinese are having a ceremony – to … erm … exorcise the evil at the bomb sites – later this week.’
‘At the sites? Have they finished the forensics?’
‘Apparently … I think there’s some politics going on. The investigation’s been a success, but that’s no use to the Balinese unless they can persuade the tourists to come back. Besides, it’s not an act, is it? The Balinese are genuinely religious. They want to appease their gods.’
‘So what do you think we should do next?’ asked Singh, making a mental note that he was beginning to rely on the judgement of his Australian counterpart.
‘What do you mean?’
‘How about talking to the owner of the red bike?’
Bronwyn hesitated. ‘We’re not even sure these are the right guys …’
Singh paused and chewed on his lower lip hungrily. ‘I tell you what – get that cop, Agus, to pick Wayan up and go and sit in a warung across the road. If Wayan confirms that these are the right men, we’ll have a chat with them.’
‘How do you know there’s a warung across the street?’ asked Bronwyn curiously, taken aback by this apparent omniscience.
‘Isn’t there always?’
Bronwyn nodded. He was right, of course. It was part of the Balinese way of life to stop at a small stall and have a drink or a bite to eat and chat to friends and strangers. As a result, there was a warung every twenty yards.
She reached for a phone. In a moment, she was explaining Singh’s instructions to Sergeant Agus.
She listened to the acknowledgement at the other end, said goodbye and hung up.
‘All done, boss,’ she said cheerfully. ‘What next?’
Singh squinted as if they were outside in the bright Balinese light rather than in a small dingy room.
Bronwyn, watching him, thought it was the first time in the investigation that he had seemed at a loss. He had been in turns cynical, angry and amused – but never uncertain. She suspected it was not a state he found himself in very often and she wondered why he felt that way now.
She said briskly, ‘We’re making progress!’
Singh looked even more perturbed. His brow creased in parallel lines.
Bronwyn asked, ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘Usually, at this point in an investigation – I know who done it.’
‘You usually solve a murder in less than two weeks? I thought you said that only happened on television.’
Singh ignored the snide tone.
‘I might not have solved the crime in the sense of made an arrest. But I have a good idea of who the culprit is – it’s just a question of finding enough evidence to make sure he or she swings.’
‘Are you ever wrong?’ asked Bronwyn, unable to hide her irritation at this certitude.
Singh grinned. ‘It’s been known to happen. But not often.’
His smile metamorphosed into a frown.
‘We’re working in a vacuum. We don’t know enough about the dead man. We know he was unhappy with his wife, he wasn’t keen on her expat friends and she had a toy boy on the side. We know he made some friends amongst the incomers – because his job as an engineer travelling the world meant he was unusually comfortable with “native” types. We know he had a fair bit of money and that he took a lot of it out in Bali – we don’t know to what end. Did he buy a yacht? Did he have an expensive girlfriend? The thing that is really bothering me is that we have no sense of his history, no sense of his past. What was Richard Crouch actually like? Was he the sort of man to make enemies?’
‘Well, someone killed him,’ pointed out Bronwyn.
‘But that’s the wrong way of looking at things,’ Singh said impatiently. ‘To find a murderer, you almost have to ignore the fact that the victim is dead. You need to understand their lives and their relationships and the sort of people they were – who were their friends and enemies, what were their personality traits. When you know everything there is to know about someone – and then he turns up dead – well, you’re in a position to know who killed him.’
Bronwyn nodded slowly. ‘I see what you mean, I think.’
Her mobile phone rang and she flipped it open impatiently. She pushed the hair away from one ear and held the phone to it gingerly.
Singh could just make out an excited babbling on the line. He watched as Bronwyn’s tired, crumpled face smoothed out. He waited, his growing impatience manifested in the vigour with which he drummed his foot on the stained synthetic carpet.
She snapped her phone shut and grinned broadly at the inspector. ‘That was Wayan.’
Singh’s calf muscle was suddenly afflicted with cramp. He leapt to his feet, trying to stretch and groaning with pain. ‘Well? What did he say?’
‘He listened in on a telephone conversation between Sarah Crouch and Tim Yardley …’
Eleven
‘“If Richard was out of the way, we’d be together.” That’s what you said to the wife of one very dead man. Is there any reason I shouldn’t arrest you for the murder of Richard Crouch right here and now?’
Tim Yardley sat in the same cell that had been occupied by Sarah Crouch the previous day. His comb-over had been the first thing to collapse under the pressure of a police interview. The carefully arranged strands were now hanging limply over one ear, the crown of his head as bare and smooth as an eggshell. The three legs of the cheap plastic stool were buckling under his weight, showing white where the major stresses were.
Singh wondered whether this man, who had through his own words been catapulted to the top of the suspects’ list, was going to end up in a heap on the floor. Well, if that happened, he, Singh, wasn’t going to help him get up. He’d slip a disc, for sure.
Yardley wiped his hands on his shorts. Moist streaks showed against the khaki. His crotch was damp as well, Singh hoped with sweat. It was early in the interview for the man to wet himself.
‘Well?’ demanded Singh.
‘I just meant that there was nothing to stand in the way of our being together – with Richard dead. I didn’t have anything to do with his murder!’ His words were of firm den
ial but his tone was that of an overtired child who did not expect to be believed when he insisted that it was not him who had put the cricket ball through the window.
‘Shall I tell you what I think?’
Tim recognised this as a rethorical question. He sat sullenly, his chins folded like an accordion against his chest.
‘Sarah wanted to get rid of her husband. She faked some affection for you. Told you a pack of lies. You killed Richard Crouch. She has her freedom and you’re going to be hanged from the neck!’
‘It … it wasn’t like that at all. Sarah and I fell in love. She was lonely because Richard never paid her any attention. He was always hanging around with some scruffy locals. I’ve not … been happy with my wife, Karri, for a while. We found each other.’
There was a pathetic dignity about a man asserting that, in his late middle age, he had discovered true love on a tropical island.
Singh felt sorry for Yardley. He hoped that his own disenchantment with marriage would not lead him to make such a fool of himself one day. He shook his head slightly to dislodge the irrelevant line of thought. This was not the time to feel pity for a suspect. This was the time to press home his advantage. He leaned forward aggressively. ‘So you killed Crouch for your happy ending!’
‘No! I swear to you – I won’t pretend that I didn’t want him out of the way – but I was shocked when he turned up dead. I almost felt guilty – you know, as if I had wished death on the poor bastard.’
Singh realised that he almost believed Tim. He seemed such an unlikely character to have summoned up the gumption to buy a gun and shoot a man in the forehead. Still, Singh knew better than most not to judge by appearances. After all, wasn’t he constantly underestimated by those who assumed that a fat man in shiny white shoes couldn’t possibly be a detective out of the top drawer?
A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul Page 13
