A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul

by Shamini Flint

  The inspector said thoughtfully, ‘Well, if it wasn’t you, it must have been Sarah Crouch. Do you think she would have shot him herself or hired someone?’

  Tim levered himself to his feet using the table between them as a support. He shouted, his face mottled red, ‘Sarah is a kind and gentle woman who would never hurt anyone!’

  Singh looked thoughtful, as if he was seriously contemplating adopting this view of the widow’s character. He suggested unhurriedly, ‘Perhaps she asked the other boyfriend to do it?’

  The blood ebbed, leaving Tim’s face waxy and pale. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Come along, I’ll show you!’ said Singh cheerfully.

  He led the man down a narrow corridor until they reached the holding cells. Greg the surfer, dressed in a pair of shorts and a vest with the Bintang logo on it, was lying on his thin cot looking bored. When Singh peered through the bars, he leapt to his feet. ‘You going to let me out, mate?’

  Singh shook his head. ‘No, I just wanted to introduce you to someone.’

  He turned to the man next to him. ‘Tim, this is Greg Howard, Sarah Crouch’s lover.’

  Wayan and Agus the policeman sat in a warung sipping tea, listening to the gossip of their fellow patrons. In the not so distant past, the conversation would have been about local politics and village rivalries. The customers might have fretted about the weather and the rice crops. Now, it was all about the Bali bombings and the arrest of Amrozi.

  The two men had their eyes fixed on the apartment block across the street. It was three storeys high and extremely run down. Paint was peeling away from the building in long strips, exposing the brick underneath like bed sores. The structure had the stamp of shoddy third world constructions – even the concrete seemed crumbly. Clothes were drying on poles protruding from windows. Some of the panes had curtains but many were bare. Seeing undressed windows was like looking into the eyes of the blind, thought Wayan. A few windows were boarded up with plywood. There was no elevator. Instead, there was a flight of stairs leading down to street level. Wayan concentrated his gaze on the entrance over the rim of his tea cup. All he could see was the small altar on the pavement by the staircase.

  He asked, stretching his legs out under the table, ‘How do you know they are in there?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Agus. ‘But I saw one of them come back to this block yesterday evening. On a red bike.’

  ‘Did you see which apartment he went in?’

  ‘No, I did not want to give myself away so I stayed out here. But it was definitely this building. I had a look later – there are only six apartments in there – so we should be able to track them down if we need to do it.’

  ‘I don’t see a bike or anything,’ complained Wayan, who was not happy about being dragged away from his increasingly tenuous job to spend a hot afternoon at a roadside stall.

  ‘They could be out,’ suggested the policeman. ‘We did not get here that early.’

  Wayan, stung by what he thought was an accusation, said, ‘That’s not my fault.’

  ‘Nobody said it was. It is a long way here from Ubud. But if they have gone out, we just have to wait for them to come back.’

  ‘What about my job?’

  ‘This is police business. Your employers will understand.’

  Wayan’s nose wrinkled in disbelief at the naïve optimism of the policeman.

  ‘Are you sure you will recognise these men if you see them?’

  Wayan looked doubtful and began to chew nervously on a fingernail. ‘I am not sure. I saw them a few times. But I did not look at them so carefully.’

  ‘I hope you do,’ said the policeman. ‘Otherwise this will be a real waste of time!’

  They both sipped their tea in silence, listening to the rumble of traffic and the hissing of gas flames as the warung owner fried noodles for his customers. A few birds were singing but their valiant efforts were drowned out by man-made noises.

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Who?’ asked the Balinese policeman, leaning forward and putting two brawny arms on the formica-topped table.

  Wayan scowled at him. ‘The man on the red bike – who else?’

  Agus glared back. ‘I did not get that close. I had to follow him all the way from Monkey Forest Road in Ubud. I was afraid of getting spotted.’

  ‘You must have some idea!’

  ‘He seemed good looking. Quite small-sized but he appeared strong. He had quite long hair.’ The policeman put a hand up to his shoulder to indicate the length of his quarry’s hair. ‘He rode his motorbike very fast. I struggled to keep up with him and once or twice I was sure he was going to have an accident.’

  ‘Maybe it is the same man,’ said Wayan optimistically.

  ‘Why? Does my description sound familiar?’

  Wayan scratched a pimple on his nose. ‘No, not really, but I remember seeing him ride his bike out of the motel compound once – he was very fast.’

  The policeman did not discount this as coincidence. Instead, he beamed. ‘I too think it might be the same man.’

  Again the men lapsed into silence, each engrossed in his own thoughts. People came and went from the apartment block but whenever the policeman raised an inquiring eyebrow at the youth sitting sullenly opposite him, he received a firm shake of the head.

  ‘Do you know what these men have done?’ asked the policeman at one point.

  ‘Don’t you know? I thought you were the police!’

  Sergeant Agus looked embarrassed. He blinked rapidly but said a little defiantly, ‘I was just told to follow the red bike. I ended up here. Next thing I knew, they asked me to fetch you and see whether you could confirm the ID.’

  Wayan said knowingly, ‘That policeman from Singapore – he just tells people what to do. He never does anything himself!’

  Agus contemplated the Sikh inspector – even in the absence of the looming presence of the fat man, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He said, wondering why he felt the need to defend the Singapore officer, ‘I am sure he is very busy also.’

  Wayan said bitterly, ‘Their time is precious but I can sit here all day and lose my job.’

  ‘It is the way of the world, young man,’ said the policeman in an amused tone. ‘Are they drug traffickers, do you think, the owners of this famous red bike?’

  Wayan shook his head, pleased to have some small advantage over the figure in authority. ‘They were friendly with some Englishman who stayed at the holiday villa where I work.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So, he is dead!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Shot – and his body left at the Sari Club just before the bombs.’

  ‘Ayoh! Are these guys the murderers? Did you see them do it?’

  Wayan was tempted to embellish his story – force the policeman to treat him with some respect – but he decided reluctantly that it was a tactic that could backfire spectacularly.

  ‘Not so exciting! That fat policeman just wants to ask them some questions.’

  Agus hunched over in disappointment, his neck disappearing into his muscular shoulders. He had been sure that he was going to apprehend his first murderers. What a feather in his cap that would have been. He would have made a special trip to the Tanah Lot temple on Legian beach if the gods had been so bountiful.

  He stared across the road. He spotted a bike cruising down the street. It was red. There were two men on it. The driver was the one he had tailed from Ubud the previous day. He had not seen the pillion rider before. The motorbike pulled up in front of the apartment block and the two men alighted. The older one glanced up and down the street but not across in their direction.

  As the men disappeared into the stairwell, Wayan said, his voice an excited whisper, ‘That’s him. The younger one. He picked up Richard Crouch sometimes. The other one I do not recognise!’

  The policeman broke into a broad smile. As they stared at the building, a light came on in one of the windows
on the third floor.

  He said, ‘And we know which flat they are in!’

  Wayan nodded. ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘We report success!’ said Agus enthusiastically.

  Wayan grinned. Perhaps it had been worth the long wait after all.

  ‘Where have you been?’ demanded Singh crossly. ‘I had to interview Tim Yardley on my own.’

  Bronwyn ignored his question and the petulantly pursed lips of her superior officer. She asked, ‘What did Yardley say? Do you think he did it?’

  Singh sighed. ‘It would be a great solution, clean and neat. I have no doubt that Sarah Crouch was lining him up to remove her burden of a husband. But I wasn’t convinced that Yardley has what it takes to make the transition from wishful thinking to action. He’s one of life’s spectators, eating cheese and onion crisps, drinking Coke and watching other men get the girls and win the lottery.’

  His sidekick nodded so vigorously it caused her pendulous bosom to bob up and down like a boat on a fractious ocean. Singh averted his eyes.

  She said, ‘When we met him the first time, I didn’t cast him in the role of murderer either. He was acting peculiar though. Like he wasn’t surprised by Richard Crouch’s death.’

  The inspector from Singapore muttered, ‘Yes, I noticed that too. At least, now we know why – Sarah Crouch had already told him that Richard was dead.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ said Bronwyn in a pleased tone. She continued curiously, ‘Did you tell him about surfer boy?’

  Singh grinned maliciously. ‘I introduced them to each other!’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘You heard me …’

  ‘That was a nasty thing to do,’ said Bronwyn firmly. ‘Tim Yardley must have been devastated.’

  ‘Tim Yardley might have killed a man. You’ll forgive me if I think that’s more important than hurting his feelings.’

  Bronwyn ran her tongue over her teeth. She was not sure she had the streak of cruelty that appeared to be necessary to investigate a murder.

  She asked, ‘What was his reaction?’

  ‘I think Yardley is sitting on a beach with a six-pack of Bintang wondering why women are incapable of the sort of loyalty and love he has shown both his wife and Sarah Crouch.’

  Singh stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and fished in a pocket for his lighter. Bronwyn glared at him and nodded at the red and white ‘No Smoking’ sign above his head. The Sikh inspector ran his thumb over the lighter and held the blue and yellow flame to the tip of his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, causing the end to flare a deep orange, exhaled a thick cloud of grey smoke into the room and said, ‘We still need more suspects.’

  His deputy waved her hand in front of her face, ostentatiously fanning the smoke away. She said smartly, ‘Well, I have one!’

  Singh’s cigarette was perched on his bottom lip. It danced as he spoke. He asked, ‘Who?’ His voice was sceptical that Bronwyn could have found something that he had missed.

  Bronwyn decided to ignore the provocation. She said, ‘I watched the CCTV tapes from the various banks and ATMs. That’s why I didn’t come in for Yardley’s interview.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘On the day before the bombs, Crouch withdrew the largest single sum at the Bank Mandiri branch in Kuta, ten thousand US dollars. This man was lurking in the background. ’ She slid a blurry black and white print of a man across the table. The inspector picked it up and stared at it from a distance of a few feet. He needed glasses for his long-sightedness, guessed Bronwyn.

  Singh said, his brow creased with puzzlement, ‘He looks familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen him on television.’

  Bronwyn passed him the photographs she had taken of Sarah Crouch’s friends after their interview with them. ‘It’s Julian Greenwood!’

  Singh smacked a hand to his forehead. ‘I didn’t recognise him.’

  Bronwyn grinned triumphantly.

  The inspector growled, ‘When you’re done patting yourself on the back, perhaps you could find out if there’s any reason Greenwood might have been tempted by the wads of cash in Richard Crouch’s pockets?’

  The flat was a mess. Nuri had not cleared up after breakfast. Ants had gathered in writhing black masses to devour the bits of crust and traces of kaya, a coconut jam. The chairs were disorderly and the whole front room smelt rank. Ghani felt his temper flare uncontrollably. Was this what a husband deserved after a long day?

  He strode into the bedroom. Nuri was lying on her side under the covers. It was the same position he had left her in that morning. He remembered that when he had gone to bed the previous night, his wife was feigning sleep. He had watched her – huddled under the blanket, facing away from the door, eyes tightly shut, and felt a stab of exasperation. He had climbed into bed and turned to face the other way. They had lain back to back, two feet between them despite the narrowness of the bed. It was the universal image of a marriage in trouble.

  Now, twenty-fours hours later, he stared at her, a petite figure on the bed. Her long hair was spread across the pillow like a fan. It was a small room – with the windows and door shut and a sweating human presence in it, the atmosphere was muggy and stale.

  Ghani said roughly, ‘Nuri!’ and when she did not respond, a little louder, ‘Nuri!’

  Nuri turned slowly, blinking against the light, a bare bulb hanging from a yellowing wire. Ghani had switched it on as he walked in.

  She stared at him as if he were a stranger.

  He asked in a gentler tone, ‘Are you unwell?’

  She shook her head and sat up. He noticed that the pillow on which she had been lying had a damp patch on it. Was it sweat or tears, he wondered. What in the world did his young wife have to weep over?

  He had provided well for her. Her parents, although respected in the village for their unswerving faith and religious knowledge, had not been well off. He remembered his visits to the house. It had been a small wooden building with an attap roof. The floor was hard grey cement without even a straw mat to keep the damp out. The rooms were partitioned with plywood, flimsy erections that barely provided privacy. There had been a rusty stand fan to cool the front room and a few rattan chairs with well worn cushions covered in faded cloth. He, Ghani, had given Nuri a much more comfortable house in that Sulawesi village. Not luxurious. He could not afford it and it would not have been fitting for someone who had always led an austere, God-fearing life. But it had been a vast improvement on the home she was married from.

  He treated her kindly as well. Her father had been a stern taskmaster, ruling his children with iron discipline.

  Perhaps, coming from such a regimented background, the freedom he had granted Nuri had been too much. She was young. Bringing her to Bali had been a mistake. Bali was a shock even to a Moslem who was hardened to the decadence of the Westerners. How much more so for an innocent like Nuri?

  He remembered her laughing with delight on the ferry from Java to see the young boys dive into the churning water to retrieve coins that passengers threw for them. She had been so filled with enthusiasm for new experiences.

  Now, his wife sat on the bed looking at him with sad eyes and unbound hair, waiting for him to censure her or beat her or divorce her. It would be so easy to do any of these things. She deserved a scolding for the state of the house. He was certainly well within his rights as a husband to knock some sense into her. Divorce might be an extreme step, but he had only to utter the words and she would, in the eyes of God, be his ex-wife. For a moment, he was tempted. He wanted to wipe that blank look off her face.

  He felt a hint of self-doubt. Was he too old and unattractive? He knew that he was twenty years older than her but he had been much sought-after as a husband. When he had been instructed by the spiritual elders to settle down, he had no difficulty choosing Nuri. She had caught his attention with her sheer unobtrusiveness as she slunk into the room wearing her full hijab, to clear a glass or serve some food to the menfolk. Her father’s reputation as a s
cholar had reached far beyond their small village. Truly, his marrying Nuri had seemed like a match made in heaven, sanctioned by his peers, her family, his spiritual leaders and Allah.

  She was still looking at him. It seemed to Ghani that she was almost willing him to do or say something hurtful, as if it would validate her opinion of him. Her eyes shocked him. Thus did he imagine the eyes of lost souls who had fallen from the grace of Allah. Never had he expected to see that expression of utter emptiness on the face of his wife. Ghani opened his mouth and raised his hand as if he was about to say something and emphasise it with a gesture. Instead, he turned slowly away from her and walked out of the room. Just before he shut the door again, his arm snaked in and switched off the light. Inside, Nuri was plunged into sudden absolute darkness. She closed her eyes and lay back on the pillow.

  Ghani stood at the doorway. Abu Bakr and Yusuf had come in while he was in the room with Nuri. Ramzi was sitting on a chair at the dining table, rocking it back and forth on its back legs.

  Abu Bakr asked gruffly, trying to hide his embarrassment at the marital discord, ‘Is everything all right?’

  Ghani nodded.

  Yusuf seemed to realise something was amiss because he said, his voice quickening with anxiety, ‘Is Nuri all right? Is she unwell?’

  ‘She’ll be fine if she has some rest.’

  If the brothers were curious as to why Ghani was putting up with the mood swings of his wife and their sister, they had the tact not to ask. Or at least, Abu Bakr had the tact not to ask and he had pulled Ramzi aside and warned him to remain silent on the subject of their sister.

  Ramzi had rubbed his cheek where Nuri had slapped him the previous day and said, ‘As you wish, brother. My face still hurts!’

  Bronwyn exclaimed, her usually pale cheeks rosy with excitement, ‘Sergeant Agus just called. Wayan confirmed the identity of at least one of the men. We’ve found the mysterious incomer friends of Richard Crouch!’

  Singh scratched his neck with quick, repetitive actions like a flea-ridden mongrel. He asked, ‘Is Nyoman outside?’