A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul

by Shamini Flint

  Bronwyn nodded. Nyoman had become their personal driver in Bali. He drove them everywhere and hung around outside the hotel lobby or police station when they were not on the move, smoking his kreteks and indulging in small talk with the other drivers. Bronwyn, worried about the wasted hours spent waiting for them, had urged him to ferry other passengers. Nyoman had declined, assuring her that it was a privilege to wait for such important clients. She had been impressed by his loyalty but the cynical inspector from Singapore had pointed out that Nyoman had a lot more to lose from their finding another chauffeur. He was not being loyal, he was being prudent.

  They clambered into the back seat of the Kijang and Bronwyn recited the address to him.

  Nyoman laughed. ‘Tough neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘Nothing to see and nothing to buy. I have no cousins there at all!’

  ‘We’re on police business,’ snapped Singh. Nyoman’s constant good humour grated on him – it was like fingernails on a blackboard or the clinking together of steel cutlery. It set his teeth on edge. It was the same with all the Balinese. They were always so friendly and happy. Even the pall cast by the Bali bombings did not stop them inquiring politely where one was from, whether one liked Bali, how long one was staying and a thousand other similarly innocuous questions which, when repeated every day by dozens of Balinese, really annoyed the taciturn inspector.

  Nyoman turned his head to look at them in the back seat with a wide, excited grin. ‘Police business? That is very exciting! ’

  ‘Not half as exciting as your driving while looking backwards, ’ growled the inspector.

  Nyoman sniggered at what he assumed was a witty sally by the fat man but did turn his attention to the road – just in time to narrowly avoid a family of four crammed on the back of a small bike.

  ‘So, are you going to arrest someone? Is it about the Bali bombs?’

  Bronwyn said, ‘No, far from it. We’re just interviewing some witnesses. If we were going to arrest anyone in connection with the blasts, I think you’d see a lot more back-up!’

  ‘Pity I have no siren,’ exclaimed Nyoman, accelerating recklessly in his excitement.

  Singh snorted derisively and the rest of the drive was conducted in silence.

  Twelve

  Singh stood at the door, listening hard. He could make out the sound of lowered voices. He heard an advertising jingle – it was a television. Hopefully, it meant there was someone at home. He did not relish clambering up the three flights of stairs again. Singh rapped on the door sharply. There was a sudden silence. The television had been switched off. After a few moments, he raised his great fist and pounded on the door. Bronwyn glowered at him. He guessed she thought he was acting too much like the lumbering policeman.

  Before he could annoy her further by kicking the door down without a warrant, it swung open, squeaking tiredly on its hinges. Singh held up his badge and said a trifle breathlessly, still trying to recover from the steep stairs, ‘Police. We need to ask you some questions.’

  The bearded man who had opened the door hesitated for a moment and then stepped aside reluctantly. The two police personnel strolled in.

  Singh’s first thought was that he had never seen a more unlikely lot for striking up friendships with expats. The men were unkempt and seemed tired – as if they worked long hours or the night shift. Singh guessed they must have come to Bali to work in the construction or cargo industry. It was hard work for low wages but Bali was still a magnet for men with families to support.

  The men remained silent and watchful. Singh was not surprised. Crooked cops often hounded vulnerable incomers, demanding bribes for not entangling them in bureaucracy.

  Bronwyn, her blue shirt showing damp perspiration patches under her armpits, had picked up the same nervous vibe. She said reassuringly in the Indonesian language, ‘We just need to ask you a few questions about a friend of yours?’

  Singh had no difficulty understanding her – the difference between the Indonesian and Malaysian versions of the Malay language was largely a question of accent. The inspector’s face remained impassive but he was annoyed. These men were being questioned as witnesses. It was always best to keep those who had dealings with the police on edge. Reassurance was counterproductive. When was Bronwyn going to get over this need to comfort suspects? The correct tactic was to pile pressure on them until they cracked like eggshells.

  He demanded abruptly, his tone belligerent, his chin thrust forward, ‘Tell us who you are.’

  It was the man who let them in who broke the silence. He said, ‘I am Ghani from Java. These are my friends Abu Bakr, Ramzi and Yusuf.’ As he introduced them, he indicated with a pointed thumb the man he was referring to and they nodded in acknowledgement. All, that is, except Ramzi. With a broad smile to indicate that he, at least, was not intimidated by the police, Ramzi walked over and shook hands with Singh vigorously. He nodded at Bronwyn in a friendly fashion and then retired to his corner of the room.

  Singh decided that, in contrast to the confident Ramzi, Yusuf appeared simple. He looked at them vacantly, his face expressionless and his eyes blank. Singh could almost smell the musky odour of a trapped beast from where he was standing. Yusuf must have had a really bad experience with the police, thought Singh almost sympathetically, to turn into such a bundle of nerves at the mere sight of a couple of cops.

  ‘Are you all from Java?’ This was Bronwyn, her tone light and conversational.

  Ghani hesitated and then said, ‘No, just me. The others are from Sulawesi.’

  ‘You’ve come a long way,’ remarked Singh.

  ‘We need the work,’ muttered Ghani. He hoped the others remembered the simple story they had put together for instances like these.

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Mostly we work on the construction sites as day labourers.’

  ‘So why are you looking for us?’ It was Ramzi, unable to hide his curiosity.

  Singh stared at him long and hard. He knew the type. Cocky, lots of nervous energy – men like Ramzi generally overrated their own abilities. According to Agus, the rider of the red bike had been young and square-jawed with wavy black hair. The description fitted this impatient young man in tight jeans.

  His older brother – they had to be siblings, the resemblance was so marked – had the same chiselled features but his hair was short and he had a wispy beard with hints of grey in it. Abu Bakr was glaring at the younger man as if to chastise him for speaking out of turn or, more likely, restrain him from doing it again.

  Singh said mildly, ‘We are looking for information on Richard Crouch?’

  There were genuinely blank stares all around. The inspector felt a frisson of doubt. Was this a wild goose chase?

  Ghani said categorically, ‘We do not know anyone by that name.’

  Singh noted that he and Ghani were almost the same height. They both had grizzled beards. There the resemblance ended. Singh had gone soft doing a job that used his brain but left his muscles to atrophy. Ghani was strong, with the powerful build of a manual labourer. He did not have the sculpted muscular build of the dilettante body builder. Ghani’s physical strength was real and practical and visible in his thick neck and stocky shape.

  Bronwyn asked, ‘Are you sure?’

  Ghani nodded firmly and his actions were echoed by all the men except Yusuf. Singh did not think that Yusuf’s stillness suggested he knew Crouch. It merely indicated that he was too engrossed in his own internal dialogue to follow the line of questioning.

  Singh said, pointing at Ramzi aggressively, ‘But you have been identified – witnesses have seen you with him!’

  All the men turned as one to glare at Ramzi – like landlocked synchronised swimmers, thought Singh.

  Ghani was livid – his face was mottled and his jaw clenched. Singh wondered why he was quite so angry.

  Ramzi appeared genuinely taken aback. There was nothing exaggerated about his puzzled frown.

  Singh decided on the spot that if Wayan had got the id
entification of Richard Crouch’s friends wrong he would lock him up for twenty-four hours with every Balinese deadbeat he could find.

  Singh asked, grasping at straws, ‘You have a big red motorbike?’

  Ramzi said cautiously, ‘Ya.’

  ‘And you’ve been to Ubud?’

  ‘Ya.’

  ‘And yet you deny knowing Crouch?’

  Ramzi nodded in emphatic fashion.

  None of them had heard the bedroom door open so when Nuri spoke, the men jumped.

  She asked, her voice literally trembling with anxiety, ‘Why do you ask about Richard?’

  Singh and Bronwyn both turned to stare at the latest addition to the room.

  The thin, exhausted-looking woman with puffy eyes and lank long hair asked again, ‘Why do you ask about Richard Crouch?’ This time her voice had a panicky edge.

  Singh was the first to respond. He asked a question in turn, ‘Did you know him?’

  She nodded once.

  Ghani intervened. He said furiously, ‘What are you saying, wife? You are talking nonsense. How could you know this Richard Crouch?’

  At first it did not appear that she had heard him. But then she whispered, ‘What do you mean? We all know him …’

  There was consternation in the room. Ramzi barked, ‘I think you have gone mad, sister.’

  Ghani shouted, ‘Be quiet – you don’t know what you are saying!’

  Abu Bakr stepped forward, trying to usher the young woman back into the bedroom. Nuri stood her ground and Singh intervened. ‘Why do you say you know Crouch?’

  ‘He was our … friend. What has happened to him?’

  Bronwyn had been looking in the folder she was carrying and now she took out an enlarged copy of Crouch’s passport photo.

  She walked over to Ghani and held out the picture silently. Nuri sidled towards him. She reminded Singh of a small hungry beast looking for a scrap of food amongst predators. Her husband took the photo and gazed at it curiously. Blood drained from his face like sand through an hourglass.

  Singh stated categorically, ‘You do know him.’

  Ghani hesitated. His sudden pallor made him look older. The lines of worry and the single scar that radiated from the corner of his eye and disappeared into his hairline were clearly defined, as if a sculptor had gone over the lines with a sharp knife, determined to bring out the character in his subject’s face. Abu Bakr and Ramzi edged closer, anxious to have a peek at the photo.

  Ghani said, trying to inject a lighter tone into his voice, ‘Yes, we know him. He is a friend – we met him in Ubud.’

  Bronwyn did not try and hide the puzzlement in her voice. ‘But then why did you deny it?’

  Ghani answered quietly, ‘You asked whether we know Richard Crouch? We do not know Richard Crouch. We met this man at a mosque. He told us his name was Abdullah.’

  Singh exhaled, a gusty sound, audible to all.

  From the expressions on the faces of Abu Bakr and Ramzi, they were flabbergasted as well. Ramzi, especially, looked shocked. His pupils were dilated and his mouth was agape, revealing the tips of even, white teeth.

  ‘You became friends?’ Singh was anxious to understand how the relationship had developed.

  He did not miss the warning glance Ghani gave the rest of the men. If Ghani wanted to be official spokesperson, Singh decided, he would let him adopt the role. But he would not hesitate to separate the men and question them independently if he did not like what he heard.

  Ghani spoke slowly and clearly. The Sikh policeman suspected he wanted to make sure the others didn’t contradict him. ‘We met at a mosque in Denpasar. He was friendly. A really good person. Sometimes we would meet him for a meal in Ubud or he would come to Denpasar. Ramzi would pick him up on the bike.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit odd that you should be making friends with expats?’ asked Singh, looking around the small, dingy apartment, an incredulous expression on his face.

  If Ghani knew he was being provoked, he gave no sign of it. He replied evenly, ‘We are outsiders here in Bali. The Balinese do not like anyone from the rest of Indonesia. They say we take their jobs and pollute their Hindu religion. But we are just here to earn some money. When Abdullah, the one you call Crouch, was friendly – well – it was nice for us.’

  The explanation sounded well rehearsed, thought Singh, but it could also be true.

  He asked rudely, ‘But what did he get out of it?’

  He was trying to annoy Ghani but, as he should have guessed, it was the hot-tempered Ramzi who took offence.

  Ramzi spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Why do you ask such a question? Because he is white? Because he is a Westerner you think he is too good for us?’ He turned suddenly to Bronwyn, pointing at her with an accusing finger. ‘Does she think she is better than us too?’

  Abu Bakr walked over to Ramzi and put a hand on his shoulder. He said quietly but firmly, ‘Brother, let Ghani do the talking. The police – it is their tactic to provoke anger.’

  Ghani added, ‘Abdullah is a devout Moslem. He did not find that much to amuse him in Bali.’

  It was Nuri who spoke again, her body stiff and tense as she looked at the policeman from Singapore. ‘Where is he? Where is Abdullah?’

  Bronwyn and Singh glanced at each other. Was this the time to reveal what they knew and, if so, how much?

  This case was going nowhere fast, thought Singh, and dropped his bombshell. ‘Richard Crouch – Abdullah, as you know him – is dead.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Ghani. Abu Bakr muttered something under his breath. He might have been uttering a prayer or swearing, Singh couldn’t tell. Ramzi was looking down at his feet but at Singh’s words he raised his head and their eyes met fleetingly. For a split second, Singh had the impression that Ramzi was keeping secrets.

  None of them had been watching Nuri. It was the sudden exclamation from Yusuf that drew their attention. She had collapsed. Yusuf rushed over and tried to raise her head.

  Bronwyn, ever efficient, hurried forward and knelt by the girl. She felt for a pulse and fanned Nuri’s pale cheeks with her hand. Abu Bakr handed her a magazine. She smiled gratefully at him and continued to fan the girl, this time using the magazine.

  Ghani was staring at Nuri in bemusement. He said, a little plaintively, ‘My wife has not been well recently.’

  Bronwyn said briskly – she had slipped into ward matron mode, thought Singh – ‘I think she’s just fainted. Perhaps I could have a wet towel?’

  It was Yusuf who hurried over to the sink, eyes worried behind his glasses. He carefully rinsed out the cloth, squeezed it as hard as he could and brought it to Bronwyn. She started to wipe Nuri’s face gently. Yusuf hovered over her like a mother hen, intermittently tugging at his beard.

  Ramzi ignored the melee around his sister. He asked, ‘How did he die?’

  When there was no immediate answer, he repeated the question more urgently, ‘How did Abdullah, our friend, die?’

  Singh said casually, ‘Oh! He was shot through the head.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  Bronwyn glowered at the man sitting next to her. It was a wasted gesture. He was staring pensively out of the tinted window of their Kijang.

  Nyoman asked enthusiastically from the front, ‘Did you catch anyone?’

  Bronwyn took out the irritation she felt for her colleague on the driver. ‘Do we look like we’ve arrested anyone?’

  Nyoman retreated into huffy silence and Bronwyn said apologetically, ‘I’m sorry, Nyoman. We’re all a bit tired, that’s all.’

  She glanced at her watch, pressing a button so that the hands were backlit. It was getting late. She waited for a few minutes but then realised that the inspector had not noticed that she was giving him the cold shoulder. She abandoned the effort to draw the policeman’s attention to his own conversational shortcomings and asked, ‘Do you think they had anything to do with it?’

  ‘The murder of
Richard Crouch alias Abdullah?’ Singh’s voice crackled with amusement. ‘Now that was an unexpected development!’

  ‘His being a Moslem?’

  She sensed rather than saw Singh nod his head in the darkness of the quiet street.

  Bronwyn said, her voice growing more confident as she saw that the inspector was equally unsure about what to make of Richard Crouch’s friends, ‘It does explain why an expat might have been friendly with incomers.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Singh. ‘It’s almost believable that they formed a bond based on feeling excluded.’

  ‘Almost believable? Does that mean you don’t believe it?’

  ‘I never believe anything unless I have some proof of it,’ said Singh smugly. ‘It’s the first rule of a murder investigation – everybody lies!’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true,’ said Bronwyn. ‘People surely realise that if they have nothing to hide it’s better to come clean with the police.’

  Singh slapped his hand down to emphasise his disagreement and was overwhelmed by a violent paroxysm of coughing triggered by the dust he had dislodged from the car seat.

  Bronwyn remarked, ‘You ought to vacuum this vehicle once in a while, Nyoman.’

  Nyoman muttered, ‘As you wish, Ibu,’ and then lapsed into silence, his stiff back the only clue that he was offended.

  She said in exasperated tones, ‘I was just joking, Nyoman!’

  ‘Yes, Ibu. But I will still clean the car tomorrow.’

  Singh was blowing his nose into a handkerchief. He said, ‘I shan’t do that again.’

  When there was no response from Bronwyn, he asked, ‘Do you think those men had anything to do with the murder?’

  She shook her head doubtfully. ‘I can’t think why they would have killed Richard Crouch …’

  ‘Did you think they were hiding something?’

  Bronwyn replied tentatively, ‘They did act a bit defensive – but nothing unusual for an incomer, I would assume. We did go in and ask them whether they knew anything about a murdered Bali expat. That must have really frightened them.’