A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul (12 page)

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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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Bronwyn interrupted. ‘What about Crouch and his wife?'
He said unexpectedly, ‘I've been running this restaurant for ten years – and it still amazes me, the couples that stay together when they have nothing in common, no affection left …'
‘So they weren't happy?'
‘Always at the opposite ends of the bar to each other … Tim Yardley was the one hanging around Sarah Crouch – like a mutt hoping for a pat.'
 
‘Sarah Crouch did what?' exclaimed Singh.
They were back at the police station after a long lunch and Sergeant Agus was reporting his findings.
‘Like I told you, sir,' said the policeman patiently. ‘I followed the woman with yellow hair from her villa in Ubud – she took a taxi to Kuta beach and met a young man there.'
‘Did you get his name?'
‘She called him Greg. I did not hear any other name but I have identified the budget motel where he is staying – opposite Kuta beach. Usually, the surfers stay there.'
Singh settled into thoughtful silence.
It was Bronwyn's turn to ask, ‘Are you sure they were having some sort of relationship?'
Agus blushed. He did not meet Bronwyn's eyes when answering, ‘Yes,
Ibu
. She … she, er, kissed him when they met on the beach … on the mouth.'
Bronwyn too relapsed into silence.
Singh said, ‘I knew the good wife was behaving a bit odd but I never suspected a boyfriend. It's a great motive.'
‘It doesn't explain how her husband's body got mixed up with the bombing,' pointed out Bronwyn.
‘No,' agreed Singh. ‘But nothing explains that! I'm going to catch myself a murderer and then ask him or her how come they dumped the body there.'
‘Actually, I have a theory about that,' said Bronwyn diffidently.
Singh looked at her expectantly, eyebrows raised into semi-circles.
‘Maybe Richard Crouch's body wasn't at the Sari Club.'
Singh's eyebrows flattened into a straight line.
Bronwyn continued hurriedly, ‘Not at the club or on the street – the body could have been in a car. Maybe in a boot?'
Singh opened his mouth to say something, probably something rude, thought Bronwyn, closed it again and looked at her. He bit his pink bottom lip, and said, ‘Do you know – you might be right! That would explain a few things, certainly.'
‘But not who killed him,' said Bronwyn flatly.
‘No, not who killed him,' agreed Singh. ‘But at least now we have a suspect with a tried and tested motive.'
‘Even if Sarah wanted to run off with her surfer dude, why didn't she get a divorce like everybody else?'
Singh said, ‘You're thinking rationally. In my experience, people who are thwarted in love can be pretty erratic in their behaviour. Crouch might have refused her a divorce. Maybe she needed money – we need to check his financial situation. Did his death benefit her greatly?'
‘Or maybe,' interrupted Bronwyn, ‘surfer boy got impatient and decided the quickest way to get the girl was to get rid of the competition.'
‘I find it very hard to believe that anyone killed Crouch in order to get that nasty, thin-lipped, dried-up stick of a woman.'
Bronwyn scowled. ‘Maybe he didn't judge by appearances.'
Singh chuckled. ‘That's not how it works in real life – especially amongst twenty-something Aussie surfers. You should know that!'
He turned to Agus, the policeman who was waiting politely, listening to the exchange between the Sikh and the woman with interest.
He asked, ‘Did Greg seem as keen on her as she was on him?'
Agus's plain, square face betrayed his confusion. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?'
Singh's foot, in its white sneaker, beat a silent but impatient tattoo on the ground. Bronwyn wondered whether she dared suggest tap shoes for the policeman from Singapore. She decided against it.
Singh asked, ‘Who likes the other more – the girl or the man?'
The policeman's face cleared. ‘The girl likes the surfer, sir.'
‘But not the other way round?'
‘Well – maybe he likes her a bit. But he is not very excited when she says they can be together.'
‘What did I tell you?' crowed Singh. ‘Surfer boy is not in it for
love
.'
Bronwyn asked the Balinese policeman, ‘Did she realise he was not that interested?'
The man shook his head. ‘No,
Ibu
. I could see his face. She couldn't because they were, you know' – he held out his hands in an arc – ‘hugging each other.'
‘Surfer boy is not in it for love but he's hiding his lack of interest from the girl. Hmm, I sense cash!' said Singh gleefully. ‘Bronwyn, check the money situation – they should have found out a bit about Richard Crouch at Scotland Yard by now.'
Bronwyn said doubtfully, scratching her head with both hands, ‘They weren't staying at an especially nice place in Ubud.'
‘Yes, but what counts as being enough money for murder varies from person to person. For our young surfer hero, there might have been enough.'
Bronwyn got to her feet. She said over her shoulder, ‘Give me a moment. I'll see if anything has come in from the UK.'
The Balinese policeman cleared his throat and said, ‘Excuse me, sir.'
Singh ignored him.
Agus repeated the interjection a little louder this time and Singh stared at him in surprise.
‘Do you need me for anything else, sir?'
‘No.'
‘Then I will report back to my station?'
Singh nodded brusquely and the policeman saluted sharply and turned to go.
Singh said to his receding back, ‘We will call you if we need anything else.'
The policeman did not turn but at the door he stopped and looked back into the room. He said, ‘Thank you, sir.'
He walked down the corridor with a spring in his step and passed Bronwyn going the other way clutching a sheaf of papers. He grinned broadly. She looked at him in surprise but did not break stride. She suspected that no one on an errand for the fat policeman from Singapore stopped on the way for a friendly chat. She did not intend to be the first to test his patience by dawdling.
Bronwyn marched into the room and held out her bundle to the inspector. He took it reluctantly and said, ‘What does it say?'
‘I just had a quick glance,' explained Bronwyn, ‘but he seems to have been reasonably well off. There's a flat in Brighton, some cash in the bank and an insurance policy for about ten thousand pounds.'
‘That's enough to tempt someone to kill him,' remarked Singh.
‘There's no will, so the wife gets everything as next of kin. The UK police confirmed the story that he was an only child with no brothers or sisters. His parents died in a car crash in Spain.'
Singh was leafing through a pile of papers with the Barclays logo on the top. ‘His current account is interesting,' he said.
‘What about it?'
‘There's been money going in – US dollars.' Singh ran his finger down the column. ‘Three batches of ten thousand each.'
‘So? He must have been paid for this work he does – as an engineer. I guess he was a consultant or something,' said Bronwyn, revealing her blue-collar respect for the mysterious ways others made money.
‘But he withdrew that same amount of money, half of it in Jakarta and the other half here in Bali.' Singh grabbed a highlighter, marked off the transactions and handed the record to Bronwyn.
Her close-set eyes seemed to overlap in her concentration. ‘The Bali withdrawal was just a day before the bomb – so at least we know he was alive then.'
Singh nodded. ‘Yes, that amount of money in a single withdrawal, he couldn't have used his ATM card. He must have gone to the bank. We need to check on that. Maybe some stranger saw him leave the bank, followed him, shot him, stole the money, hid the body in some vehicle and left it on Jalan Legian.'
‘Could be,' said Bronwyn absently. She was still staring hard at the statements. ‘There are withdrawals of lesser amounts, a few hundred dollars each, from ATMs in Bali
right up until the day of the bombing.' She turned the page. ‘And beyond!'
‘What do you mean?' Singh barked the question, his compressed belly elongating as he sat up straighter.
‘The last withdrawal is just last week – the bombs were on the twelfth of October.'
Singh dragged himself out of the chair and walked over to Bronwyn. He stared down at the paper in her hand. It was quite clear. Richard Crouch's ATM card had been used after the Bali bombs.
Bronwyn said, ‘We might not be able to pinpoint the
earliest
point that he could have been killed – but we know for a fact that the last point that he might have been alive was just after eleven at night on the twelfth.'
‘The dead man is like Hamlet's ghost then. He walks until he is avenged. Very well.' Singh slapped the table with both hands. ‘We will have to avenge the killing of Richard Crouch.'
Bronwyn was silent. She had no idea what the Sikh policeman was talking about. Of a practical turn of mind with no literary pretensions, Bronwyn just wanted to know who had been using Crouch's ATM card.
Singh asked, ‘Do you think they have CCTV?'
‘What?'
‘At the ATMs and banks, do you think they have CCTV?'
‘I don't know,' said Bronwyn. She noticed Singh's thick eyebrows inching towards each other in exasperation and added hurriedly, ‘I'll check.'
He nodded.
At the door she stopped and looked back in, her pert nose wrinkling as if she had caught a sudden whiff of a clogged Bali drain.
‘What is it?' asked Singh.
‘Are we any closer to finding out who done it?'
The overweight policeman sucked in his breath and chuckled. ‘You've been watching too much TV,' he said. ‘I'm afraid real life murder investigations are painstaking and time-consuming.'
He added, swivelling his chair and planting two large feet in their white sneakers lazily on the table, ‘And require a lot of leg work …'
 
An off-duty policeman on his motorcycle pulled over. He debated whether he could be bothered to act on what he had seen – he was done for the day, after all. He sighed and got off his scooter, wriggling to unstick the trousers from his crotch. He had been told to look out for a red motorbike with a big engine, at least 250cc, and here was one parked on the street. He could not just carry on as if he hadn't seen it, notwithstanding that he was already late for the temple.
The bike was innocuous enough. A nice model – a red Yamaha. He was not sure why the police had been told to keep an eye out for it but he knew better than to question his instructions. He was just there to follow orders. He took out his radio and walked further along the road. He needed instructions on what he was to do next.
His radio crackled with static and he whispered his find.
His instructions were simple. He was to maintain surveillance of the bike until he was relieved by another policeman. If the owner returned, he was to follow the bike to its destination.
In half an hour, Sergeant Agus arrived, breathless but determined. He was delighted that he was being given a fresh role in the investigation. His surveillance of that woman Sarah Crouch had given Singh confidence that he, Agus, was up to the task. His chest puffed out proudly. He
could have leapt in the air and kicked his heels together. Intead, he sent the off-duty policeman smartly on his way – he was in charge now – and sat down under an acacia tree. He pulled a small black comb out of his back pocket, spat on it and quickly ran it through his hair. Just because he was out of uniform did not mean he should not be a credit to the force at all times. Agus lit a clove cigarette and inhaled the heady spicy fragrance. It reminded him of sandalwood and curry. He settled down to wait for the owner of the bike to return.
 
‘They've found the red bike!' Bronwyn was red-faced with excitement.
‘They've found
a
red bike,' murmured Singh.
‘Nonsense,' said Bronwyn, refusing to have her enthusiasm dampened. ‘We've had our eyes peeled. There's hardly a brightly-coloured big bike to be seen. If someone's spotted a red bike with a powerful engine, it's the one.'
‘Well, I certainly hope you're right.'
‘Why aren't you more excited? This could be a huge breakthrough. If we can trace Crouch's friends, we'll soon find out if he had any enemies, anyone who wanted him dead on this small island.'

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