She breathed, ‘Abdullah?’
Yusuf’s expression was puzzled, vacant.
She said again, ‘Abdullah? He was involved in this … this plan?’
Yusuf nodded briskly, pleased to have understood her question, vaguely aware that he had a greater hope of her respect if he was a fellow conspirator of her lost love.
‘He was the bomb-maker. He made the device for the first blasts. He was supposed to construct one for us too …’ Yusuf trailed off uncertainly.
Nuri guessed that he did not want to remind her of Abdullah’s death – as if her heart and mind were not screaming that fact at her every instant of every day.
‘Fortunately, Abu Bakr has the skills to continue his work,’ added Yusuf hastily.
Nuri remembered how Abdullah had told her he had something important to do on the evening prior to the Bali bombings, something that could not wait. She understood now why he had left her with Ramzi, insisted that he had to go, promised that he would come back for her.
Nuri wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth, back and forth.
She focused her gaze on Yusuf, still looking at her with longing in his eyes. Her lost love’s legacy was in his hands.
Eighteen
It was an exquisite morning, thought Singh. The sun was already bright although it was still early. The air had the lingering cool of night time. Birds and flowers were both abundant, riotous colour amidst verdant green. Singh wished suddenly he knew more about birds. What, for instance, was the bright yellow one with the strange elliptical trajectory? He recognised the mynahs and sparrows – they were common in Singapore as well. But there was a little red bird darting in and out of a hibiscus bush, the same shade as its lush flowers, that he had never seen before. That was what he was missing, Singh decided, a healthy hobby. Definitely, he would take up bird-watching when he was back in Singapore.
Nyoman was waiting and Singh lumbered over.
‘Ibu Bronwyn not coming today, sir?’
‘No – she’s going to that remembrance service on Jalan Legian.’
Nyoman nodded wisely. ‘Yes, I drove nearby there just now – already the road is full of people going to the site. There is a lot of traffic and security and priests – it is a big mess!’
‘We’re going to the police station in Denpasar,’ said Singh. ‘So we should be able to avoid the crush. I want to have a chat with Sarah Crouch.’
His mobile phone rang. He answered it and uttered a curt ‘hello’.
‘In a good mood as always, I see,’ said Bronwyn. ‘You need to drink less coffee. It makes you irritable.’
‘What makes me irritable is young women who don’t get to the point.’
‘Young? Why thank you, Inspector. No one’s called me that in a while.’
‘Only compared to me,’ grumbled Singh. ‘It was not a compliment.’
Bronwyn’s abrasive laugh came through the airwaves and Singh held the phone away from his ear. It was like scraping out his ears with sandpaper, listening to her sometimes.
‘I just called to let you know that I’ll be at the Sari Club. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? I think it will be a really good way to honour the dead of Bali.’
For a moment, Singh was tempted. Perhaps an event to mark the horror visited on this beautiful island deserved to be respected, even by him. Singh, the atheist, was not a great fan of religious ritual. On the rare occasions his wife dragged him for a Hindu wedding or a funeral in Singapore, he would stand outside the temple and smoke cigarettes with like-minded men while the women, dressed richly or simply as the occasion demanded, would take front-row seats to the spectacle. And it was always a sight to behold. Priests in white cotton sarongs, coconuts smashed into the ground, incense burning, ululating in Sanskrit, holy oil and water, fires burning – Singh found the whole complex religiosity tiresome – but it was an entertaining sight for the uninitiated.
He said, more gruffly than he felt, ‘Someone needs to get on with solving this murder.’ And then feeling a little bit guilty for his rudeness, he continued, ‘But one of us should be there – so I am glad you’re going.’
Singh scratched his beard and wondered if he was growing soft. He scowled. He was not the type to develop a liking for sidekicks. They were there to fetch and carry for him and sometimes to pick up the pieces after him. That was all.
Nyoman stopped the car and Singh got out. He headed for the now familiar interview room. Sarah was waiting within. She was dressed smartly, her hair neat and freshly cut. Light make-up added freshness and colour to her usual death mask. It was so much easier to tell when women were moving on, thought Singh. They took pride in their appearance. It was a signal that they had recovered from bereavement. Men looked exactly the same before and after. No clues could be derived from week-old stubble or an unironed shirt that could not be discounted as typical male behaviour rather than grief.
Sarah said, ‘I’m planning to leave Bali soon. I’d appreciate it if you would return my passport.’
‘Running away with surfer boy?’
She ignored the question and asked irritably, ‘Why have you dragged me down here?’
‘I’m curious to know why you didn’t tell me that Richard was Moslem.’
Sarah’s hands twisted the handkerchief she was holding. She said sheepishly, ‘It was all a bit embarrassing, that’s all. I’ve never told anyone – especially after the bombings. He got religion and was a right pain about it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was always reading the Quran, even when we were out at restaurants and things.’ Her shame at this behaviour was apparent in her reddened cheeks. ‘He would pray five times a day. It was ridiculous … he’d get out of bed to pray at dawn!’
Sarah was indignant and garrulous, remembering her husband’s religious beliefs. ‘He wanted me to convert – to become a Moslem. I said nothing doing – I wasn’t going to make myself a laughing stock. It made him really angry.’ The recollection of enraging her husband caused a small smile to play about the corners of her mouth.
‘How did he find Allah, anyway? Was it recent?’
‘He met some people in London. They took him to some services – is that what you call it? – at the mosque near our home in Finsbury Park. I told you he was looking for answers after his parents died in that car crash. Later, his job took him to Afghanistan and Indonesia and he really got stuck into this Moslem malarkey.’
She shuddered. ‘Can you believe there was a point where he stopped shaving and started wearing that long green dress, it looks like a hospital gown, that some of them wear? I told him that was too much – I would leave him if he didn’t dress like a normal man.’
‘And he agreed?’
‘To be frank, he didn’t seem to care, except to say that he wouldn’t give me a divorce. When he planned this move to Bali he started dressing normally again.’
Singh eyed the woman in front of him. She was a real poster child for religious intolerance. On the other hand, it must have been quite challenging to be married to someone who unexpectedly took up religion – most women only had to put up with golf.
Something was puzzling Singh. He asked, ‘I know you’ve said that this Bali trip was supposed to be an effort to save your marriage – but it sounds like it was far too late for that. So why wouldn’t he grant you a divorce?’
Distracted by her memories, Sarah was being more honest than usual. ‘He was convinced that he could turn me into a good Moslem wife, that it was his duty to save me. I was still quite surprised when he proposed moving to Bali to see if it helped our marriage.’
‘It didn’t work,’ remarked Singh.
‘No, it didn’t,’ agreed the widow.
‘So you found yourself a surfer dude and he found himself a pretty pliant Moslem woman.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Didn’t you know?’ asked Singh, the method actor. ‘Richard, or Abdullah, as she called him, was plann
ing to marry this lovely Indonesian girl from Sulawesi. He met her here in Bali. According to her, it was love at first sight.’
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘I spoke to the girl myself. It was all romantic conversation and seaside walks.’
‘The bastard!’
Singh noted with interest that Sarah was actually trembling with rage. He had always assumed it was a figure of speech. There was a thin white line around her lips. Her teeth were clenched so tight it was driving the blood away from her mouth. An angry vein throbbed in her neck like a snake rustling through the undergrowth.
Singh did his best to make matters worse. He said in a conversational tone, ‘He planned to marry her – take her as a second wife. Moslems are allowed to do that, you know. It’s not bigamy.’
‘Over my dead body he would have married a second wife!’
‘Actually, the dead body belongs to your philandering husband,’ pointed out Singh.
Sarah glared at him. ‘He deserved to die.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘Of course not!’ She added with a flash of honesty, ‘If I’d known about this woman, I would have been tempted.’
‘Why are you so angry? You had a bit on the side too!’
‘Well, that’s over – Greg Howard said his goodbyes a few days ago.’
Her tone was brittle but matter-of-fact. Singh found that he had the capacity to feel sorry for this woman. He was spending too much time with Bronwyn, he decided. He was in danger of developing a sympathetic nature.
Sarah continued, ‘And he still didn’t want a divorce! Maybe he thought I would be chuffed if he brought home a second wife?’ She snorted in disgust.
Singh indulged in his watching Buddha routine, leaning back in his chair with interlocked fingers resting on his beer gut. He thought that the widow was building up a very decent head of steam.
As he expected, Sarah was not loath to continue. ‘It’s the bloody hypocrisy, isn’t it? Acting so holy the whole damn time … talking about the suffering of his Moslem brothers in Palestine. Telling me that he’d worked with the Taliban in Afghanistan – I have no idea what he could have done. They need soldiers, right? Fat lot of good a chemical engineer would have been. But the first bit of skirt that shows him any interest, and its goodbye Mr Holy Moslem.’
Singh’s own sympathy for Crouch was waning slightly. ‘It’s a bit ironic that he should have ended up blown to bits by a terrorist bomb then, isn’t it?’ he remarked.
Sarah nodded, her fine hair falling across her face like a curtain. ‘It is ironic – I remember thinking at the time he would have been pleased about the attack by those mad mullah types.’
Julian Greenwood waited until his wife had left for one of her regular spa treatments. He knew she would spend hours with a couple of Balinese women kneading her plump flesh as if it was home-made dough. He grabbed a chair and quickly took down the painting that the inspector from Singapore had suggested he sell for cash. He wrapped it in old newspaper and sealed it carefully with packing tape. Julian hurried down the driveway with the package under his arm, oblivious to the carefully tended flower beds and neatly pruned bushes along the way. He hailed a Bluebird taxi and instructed the driver in rapid-fire Indonesian to take him to an art gallery in Seminyak. He tried to shut his mind, not to think about what he was doing. He stared out of the grimy windows, watching Bali in all its glowing primary colours race by him, the work of art belted into the seat next to him.
Half an hour later he had sold the painting. The price was well below its value but enough to pay off his creditors with a bit left over. The gallery owner had looked at him with narrowed eyes – a perspiring white man trying to unload a valuable painting in a hurry for substantially less than it was worth. But he had agreed – as Julian had known he would. Times were too tough after the Bali bombings for any entrepreneur to place unconfirmed suspicions above a handsome profit. There were very few people in the position of his wife who did not have to allow the constant pursuit of a few dollars to affect their behaviour or honesty.
He caught the same taxi to the bar on the outskirts of Kuta where he expected to find his nemesis playing pool under the fluorescent lights. He handed over the money silently and was rewarded with a broad grin and a handshake.
‘Good, good! I would not have liked to make an example of you.’
Julian did not acknowledge the comment. He was in a hurry. His wife would be home eventually. She would notice the gap over the mantelpiece immediately. It was as obvious as a six-year-old missing his two front teeth. He did not doubt that Emily would guess what he had done and take steps to recover her property – her art and him, both bought and paid for and kept around the house as decorative pieces.
Outside, on the dusty street, he hopped onto a bus – he had to conserve his remaining cash and obscure his trail. He squeezed into a rickety seat next to an old woman with a chicken in a woven basket on her lap. It reminded him of the cockfighting so when she grinned at him broadly with sireh-stained red teeth sprouting like poisonous mushrooms from her gums, he smiled back.
He would take the crowded ferry to Lombok and then another one to Java. His wife would not be able to trace him. He was free of her and free of his debts. Julian knew he was never coming back to Bali.
Back at the villa in Ubud, Sarah Crouch was hastily flinging clothes into a suitcase. She was seething, her blonde hair in disarray, as she remembered what Singh had told her. Richard had been having an affair. He, who was too bloody holy to grant her a divorce, had a bit on the side. She was pleased he was dead. She had been glad before, but that had been for practical reasons – she wanted her freedom and his cash. But now she was glad he was dead at a visceral level. Sarah ground her small white teeth together audibly.
There was a tentative knock on the door. She scowled. She was leaving that day. She didn’t need her bed made for the last time. The last thing she wanted was an army of Balinese workers, armed with mops and buckets and fresh towels, crawling around the villa like worker ants.
There was another knock at the door, still hesitant but a bit louder.
She flung the door open, yelling, ‘No need to clean today!’
It was Tim Yardley. The expression on his face was that of a lost puppy – droopy eyes, downturned mouth and limp jowls.
Sarah suppressed a sigh. She said, ‘Now is not a great time, Tim.’
He gazed past her into the room, noting the open suitcases and heaps of clothes and other belongings.
‘Are you leaving?’ His tone was conversational.
She looked at him suspiciously. Was it possible he was going to be grown up about her departure? She answered in a more friendly tone, ‘Yes, Bali holds too many painful memories for me now. I hope you can understand that.’
‘I understand painful memories – I understand pain very well indeed.’
So much for grown up, thought Sarah. She wondered again whether Tim had actually killed Richard. She doubted it. She had planted the seed but had never had much expectation of it sprouting. She glanced at him in disgust. This was not fertile soil.
Tim stepped into the hall. She tried to block his entrance but he used his size to good effect. She found herself physically sidelined, bounced out of the way by his bulk. She conceded the ground so as not to engage in an undignified scuffle. He smelt unwashed – layers of grime darkened his neck.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Back to London …’
‘Is that young fella coming with you?’
Sarah stood stock still, only her pale-blue eyes swivelled around to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘That surfer … the policeman from Singapore told me he was your lover.’
Sarah decided to promote Singh to a joint first spot with her dead husband on the ‘people she most despised’ list.
She said, ‘I’d prefer not talk about it, Tim.’
He folded his arms. She noticed that they were hairless but spe
ckled with freckles and moles. She remembered Greg’s strong arms with their fine sprinkling of golden hair. The pang of loss was like a blow to the stomach. She felt winded. She said again, her voice much weaker, ‘I’d really prefer not to talk about Greg.’
Tim seemed to swell with anger. His face turned crimson as his heart pumped blood with an intensity it had not achieved in years. ‘You don’t want to talk about it? I was humiliated by a turbaned cop in a Bali police station because you’ve been playing me for a fool – but you don’t want to talk about it?’ Each word was spat out like a loose tooth after a fight.
Sarah took two small steps backwards. She was suddenly afraid of the enraged creature looming large in her villa.
He continued, ‘You wanted me to murder Richard. I see it all now.’
‘Did you do it?’ The question slipped out. She had not meant to ask, did not really want to know.
He shook his head slowly, the comb-over succumbing to gravity and falling down his cheek. ‘No … I’m afraid I still owe you a body.’
Bronwyn wondered what was appropriate wear for a remembrance ceremony.
She put on a long-sleeved white shirt and a pair of tan trousers that fitted snugly around her posterior. She craned her neck and noticed that her panty line demarcated two large mounds of flesh. Too many beers and curries with the good inspector, she thought regretfully as she struggled to do up her zip. She managed at last, scarlet-faced from the effort. Once the murder investigation was over she was going to eat nothing but green salads for a month. She grabbed a large, wide-brimmed hat on her way out. The purification rites were out of doors and it was turning into a scorching day. Some sort of head protection was essential.
She hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to Jalan Legian. The driver shook his head dubiously. ‘Can try, Ibu. But very busy.’
A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul Page 22
