A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul (13 page)

Read A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul Online

Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
2.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
‘Other than his wife and the surfer boyfriend, you mean? Not to mention that gang of washed-up expats lurking in Sanur. It's
possible
they've found the bike. But you'll forgive a cynical old murder hack if he can't get excited about a “breakthrough” until something has come of it.'
‘You're a grumpy old bastard, aren't you?' said Bronwyn affectionately.
Singh ignored both the express insult and the implied fondness. He asked instead, ‘Is the wife here yet?'
Bronwyn nodded. ‘In the small interview room. I thought
she could wait there a while and wonder why we're anxious to see her again – and at the police station to boot.'
‘Excellent!' said Singh. ‘I like the way you're thinking. The best way to solve a murder is to keep the suspects off balance.'
He hauled himself to his feet using the table edge for leverage and stood very still for a moment, waiting for a bout of dizziness to pass. It appeared that it wasn't only the suspects who were off balance. He really needed to lose some weight.
The inspector continued thoughtfully, ‘In fact, why don't you send someone to pick surfer boy up. We should drag him in as she's leaving – that'll give her something to think about.'
Bronwyn said, ‘Sure thing.'
She hurried out of the room and the policeman wondered why anyone with such a large posterior would wear her shirts tucked in.
Singh walked slowly towards the interview room, considering his tactics. He was not sure how to deal with someone like Sarah Crouch. She seemed so cold and in control. But if she was in love with some twenty-something beach bum, there was a lot going on beneath the surface. He had not been able to crack the façade – harsh questioning was not a sufficiently powerful tool. Sarah was like a high-stakes poker player. Calm, very aware of the cards she'd been dealt, and determined to play them to her advantage. And so far the luck was running with her. How else could one explain having her husband's death conveniently entangled in the randomness of the Bali bombings? The threads of this investigation were snarled up in the Gordian knot of a terrorist attack.
Singh knew that it would be very difficult to bring the
murderer of Richard Crouch to justice. Even if he could be certain, in his own mind, that Sarah – or someone else for that matter – was the killer, he would struggle to prove the case in a court of law. There would be too much uncertainty over the forensics.
The pathologist, Dr Barton, had been convinced that the body was that of Richard Crouch and that he had been shot. Singh believed him. But any good defence lawyer would raise the possibility that, in the midst of so much bloodshed, the chain of evidence had been contaminated.
And what in the world would they have to say about the body being caught up in the blasts?
He could just imagine a judge asking in that dry, sarcastic voice they all had – it seemed to be a prerequisite for the job – ‘Surely it's more likely, Mr, er, um, Singh, that Richard Crouch was killed
in
the blast and that piece of skull you've been waving about so enthusiastically was holed by accident?'
Singh heard heavy footsteps behind him and turned to wait for his Australian sidekick.
She said, ‘I've asked Sergeant Agus to arrest Greg.'
Singh grunted his approval and the two walked down the corridor in silence, both deep in thought about their anticipated encounter with Sarah Crouch. Bronwyn Taylor was half a head taller than the man by her side. She had a pointy head and he had a pointy turban. They were dressed alike, dark slacks and tucked-in white shirts. From behind, there was a similarity in their gait. It was the waddle of the overweight, thighs brushing together and arms sticking out. But there was a sense of purpose to their big strides which trumped the element of comedy.
They opened the interview room door without ceremony. Sarah, lost in her own thoughts, jumped. Singh noted the slight start with approval. She was on the back foot. That
was the advantage of leaving suspects to cool their heels for a while. Typically, a suspect would sit on the edge of his or her seat, all keyed up for the encounter with the police. He did not doubt that the widow had done just that. After a while, he guessed, she would have become cross at being kept waiting. She might have paced the room, stopping from time to time to stare out of the small window pane in the door to see if anyone was coming. Eventually, she would have sat back down and whiled away the time, perhaps by imagining romantic evenings on the beach with her young surfer. That was the point for the police to barge in. He and Bronwyn seemed to have timed it to perfection.
Sarah was too tense to stay silent. She asked immediately, her voice a few notes higher than usual with tension, ‘Why have you asked me to come here? Have you found out anything? I don't like being treated like a criminal. I haven't done anything!'
‘Treating you like a criminal, eh? You've led a sheltered life, my dear woman, if you think this is being treated like a
criminal
.'
Inspector Singh seemed much struck by her observation because he went on in a thoughtful voice, ‘No, no, this is not it at all. Being treated like a criminal involves handcuffs, sometimes police sirens. What do you think, Bronwyn?'
Bronwyn opened her mouth and closed it again.
Singh ignored her inability to contribute to his discourse and continued to muse, ‘And, of course, there would be thumbprints, photographs and holding cells with the Bali criminal fraternity. No, I don't think we would class this as treating you like a criminal.'
Sarah said sullenly, ‘I think you're mad.'
Singh noted Bronwyn's guilty expression. She was probably in agreement with the widow. He wished for a moment
that it was his sidekick who was suspected of a crime. Her face was a mirror to her thoughts unlike the tiresomely impassive mien of Sarah Crouch.
He said, ‘I mean, the thing is, the choice is ours – whether to indulge you a bit or lock you up on suspicion of theft, fraud – call it what you will. We don't even have to get to
murder
– not yet anyway.'
‘What in the world are you talking about?'
‘How did you and your husband pay for expenses?'
‘What do you mean?'
‘When you fancied a good dinner or a shopping trip to Uluwatu – how did you pay?'
Sarah was looking at him suspiciously but could not find a reason to prevaricate. ‘Usually cash, they don't take credit cards here except in the big hotels. Besides, it's silly to pay by credit card in a foreign currency. The banks take you for a ride on the exchange rate and quite likely the shopkeeper will duplicate the strip and your card will be used all over Indonesia before you notice anything wrong.'
Singh nodded approvingly. ‘It's nice to meet a tourist who is not entirely naïve.' He added, ‘But where did you get the cash?'
‘Get the cash?'
‘Exactly!'
She was puzzled, thought Singh, but she answered, ‘Richard brought some US dollars. When that ran out, he used his credit card to withdraw cash from the ATM a few times.'
‘And you?'
‘I didn't have an ATM card that worked here.'
‘No,' said Singh, ‘but you used
his
.'
She was silent for a few moments, considering her answer. ‘No, I wouldn't do that,' she said at last.
‘Probably best not to,' agreed Singh with undiminished
good humour. ‘But what if I was to tell you that your husband's ATM card was used in the days
after
the Bali bombings?'
She decided on surprise but it was not well executed. Her eyes widened a trifle too much. And surely no one in real life, thought Singh, raised their eyebrows to denote consternation.
Sarah asked, ‘Are you sure?'
‘Quite sure!'
‘Well then, whoever killed him must have stolen his card.'
She was quick, thought the inspector approvingly. He liked that. It made the chase more interesting.
‘That's a great theory,' he exclaimed. ‘We should have thought of that!' He continued sorrowfully, ‘There's only one problem …'
‘What's that?'
‘We found this in your bag.'
He slid an ATM card across the table to her.
‘How dare you go through my things?' she shouted angrily. ‘You had no right.'
‘On the contrary,' pointed out Singh, ‘we had every right. We suspected a crime was being committed and here's the proof.' He nodded at the card. Sarah Crouch did not touch it.
‘All right, look, I'll tell you the truth.' The capitulation was sudden and complete. ‘You're right – I had his ATM card. He gave it to me – so I could help myself to some pocket money. He said he could always go into the bank to get cash if he needed it. Besides, I was shopping and stuff. He wasn't doing anything much.'
Singh asked, ‘And after he died?'
She was not so easily trapped. Or maybe she was innocent, conceded Singh.
Sarah said, ‘I had no idea he was dead. He didn't come back that night. But there was no reason to think he'd been involved in the bombings. I mean, we were staying in Ubud. The attacks were in Kuta. I needed some cash, partly to pay for taxis to go looking for him. I withdrew a little bit more.'
‘Six thousand US dollars over the weeks leading up to the bombings – and after,' said Singh.
‘I hadn't realised it was so much,' said Sarah. ‘But I was on my own so much.' Her voice cracked. ‘I guess I spent more than I realised.'
‘All right,' said Singh unexpectedly. ‘That's all we wanted to know. Thank you for coming in.'
Singh got to his feet and held the door open for Sarah Crouch. He trudged after her into the corridor. Bronwyn trailed after them. The trio walked into the lobby in silence. With perfect timing, Sergeant Agus opened a side door and frog-marched Greg the surfer into the room. The young man looked confused and frightened. He had his hands cuffed behind him.
Singh nodded in the direction of the prisoner, apparently oblivious to the expression of open-mouthed horror on the face of Sarah Crouch. He said smugly, ‘Now that's what we call treating someone like a criminal. You see, it's quite different.'
‘What have you done? Tell me why you did it, you bastard!' The voice was a scream. The woman was middle-aged and brown-haired with a blotchy tear-streaked face. Her eyes were swollen from crying.
Singh was flabbergasted. He had been standing in the hotel lobby trying to decide whether to have dinner or return to his room and shower first, when he was accosted. He said, looking around quickly at the small audience her shouts had already attracted, ‘I'm sorry, madam. But I have no idea what you're talking about.'
The woman clutched the front of his shirt with two arthritic claws. ‘You killed my daughter! Why? What did she ever do to you or your people?'
Singh tried to walk away but she grabbed his arm. She clung to it like a small child who would not leave a toy shop. ‘No, you're not getting away so easily. Tell me why you did it!'
The Balinese hotel staff had screwed up the courage to intervene. One of them put his arm around the hysterical
woman and tried to lead her away. He said, ‘Please come back to your room,
Ibu
. You are very upset. This man is a hotel guest. He has not done anything.'
‘My daughter is
dead
. They told me today that there isn't enough of her left to bury. His people, these Moslems, they killed her – and all the others. Why?'
Singh said as calmly as he could, ‘I am not actually Moslem. I know the turban looks similar to the headgear Moslems wear sometimes but it's quite different. I'm a Sikh.'
The woman spat. A frothy foaming gob of saliva, like the white tops of Balinese waves, landed on Singh's cheek.
There was a collective gasp of horror from the onlookers.
Singh took his big white handkerchief from a trouser pocket and wiped his face. He felt sick with disgust. He was also overcome with pity for this poor woman. He, Singh, had no children. His own parents were old. He had only a tepid affection for his wife. Singh had never felt the overwhelming biologically-mandated love of a parent for a child. It was a source of occasional regret and mild relief. But now, here in front of him, was that parental love in the form of a grief-stricken mother – who thought he was a Moslem like the Bali bombers.
Singh put his hands on the woman's shoulders. ‘Listen! I'm not Moslem. I had nothing to do with the bombs. I do not support the actions of these lunatics. I think that they are cruel and bloodthirsty and I hope that they face justice.'
She said dully, ‘You look like a Moslem. Some of them wear that head thing.'
‘Sikhs wear turbans too,' replied Singh quietly.
The woman nodded but Singh was not sure that she had heard, understood or, for that matter, cared. He added, ‘The bombings were carried out by a very small minority of people. Most Moslems were devastated by what happened.'
Singh knew he was wasting his time trying to communicate to this woman that the actions of the few should not be allowed to tarnish the many. He was not even convinced that he was right to try. Perhaps she should be allowed her anger even if it was misdirected. Her child was dead, killed randomly by bombers who smiled when they were arrested and gave the ‘thumbs up' sign to waiting news crews. But if that image of triumphant terrorists was allowed to become the shorthand for all Moslems, the misunderstandings between the Western and Moslem worlds would just get worse and be punctuated by more violence. Already, he was caught in the crossfire both professionally and now, it seemed, personally.
He said again, ‘It's not Moslems, just a few madmen who will be executed for what they've done.'
The woman let go of the front of his shirt and stood before him, arms limp by her sides, completely still. She said, ‘They killed my little girl.'
Singh didn't reply for a moment. He folded his handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. At last, he said, ‘I'm so sorry about that.'
The rush of adrenaline was over and with it the sudden rage that the sight of Singh's headgear had provoked. She whispered, ‘Thank you,' and walked away, her steps slow and uncertain. A hotel employee hovered at her elbow, wishing to be helpful but not knowing how to do it in a way that would not intrude on her grief. The crowd dissipated. A few backward suspicious glances were tossed at the policeman from Singapore. They probably still believed he was a Moslem and a terrorist to boot, thought Inspector Singh of the Singapore police, wishing once again that he had not been deployed to Bali.
 
 
The front door creaked and the men turned to watch Nuri walk in.
She, lost in the maze of her own thoughts, did not appear to notice the semi-circle of men, all staring at her intently.
Ghani asked brusquely, ‘Where have you been, wife? It is growing late.'
Nuri glanced at her husband briefly, her face impassive. She asked, tying her headscarf more firmly under her chin and dropping her carry bag by the door, ‘Were you worried about me?'
This was such an unexpected response, personal and provocative, that Ghani did not respond. Instead, he stared at his wife as if she had grown a second head.
Abu Bakr stepped in hastily. ‘We were all concerned about your whereabouts and your safety, Nuri.'
‘And there was no dinner,' pointed out Ramzi flippantly, grinning broadly at the opportunity to needle his sister.
Abu Bakr waved a hand at Ramzi, the gesture designed to silence him. He said, ‘That is of no concern, sister. But it is best if you are not out in Bali so late. It is a sinful place, full of bad influences. There are many men wandering about. The Westerners are probably drunk or on drugs. They would not know how to respect the modesty of a Moslem woman.'
Nuri muttered, shooting a defiant glance at the men, ‘They seemed fine to me.'
Ghani found his tongue. He said angrily, ‘Wife, you should go to bed now. I do not know what ails you but your tone is not appropriate. You must remember that you are speaking to your husband …'
‘And brothers!' It was Ramzi, still finding the situation amusing.
Nuri walked up to Ramzi until they were standing toe to toe. She raised her hand and slapped him once, hard across
the face. The sound, like the crack of a whip, ricocheted around the room. She said, her voice quiet but quivering with anger, a finger stabbed into Ramzi's chest, ‘I may owe my husband some respect, but
not
my kid brother.'
Ramzi held his face where he had been struck. His brown eyes were wide with shock. Abu Bakr had taken an uncertain step forward when she lashed out but now he stopped and glanced at Ghani.
Nuri's husband was staring at his wife, his jaw slack and his mouth hanging open.
 
Bronwyn wandered into the lobby and raised an eyebrow. ‘What's going on here?' she asked in her booming Australian voice.
Singh winced. Had he not already been the object of enough attention?
He said, trying to inject humour into his voice and failing, ‘I think I've just been accused of being a terrorist.'
Bronwyn said matter-of-factly, ‘It was bound to happen.'
He stared at her in annoyance. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'
‘There's plenty of ignorance to go around. I'm sure your job has taught you that. After September 11th, quite a few Sikhs were attacked in the United States.'
Singh felt obliged to defend his accuser. He said, ‘It was a mother. She said her daughter was killed in the blasts … I guess she was too upset to think clearly.'
They were both silent, contemplating the enormity of that loss.
Singh changed the subject with his usual abruptness, preferring not to dwell on the incident. ‘What happened after I left the station?'
‘Not much. We took surfer boy and locked him in a
holding pen – we'll need to charge him soon or let him go.'
‘Have someone search his luggage,' said Singh. ‘There's bound to be something illegal to smoke in there. We'll be able to charge him with possession of a banned narcotic – it will give us leverage. He isn't in love with the widow. He'll sing like a canary if we give him a reason.'
‘We shouldn't really be looking in his luggage to find something to incriminate him with,' pointed out Bronwyn diffidently.
‘I'm not planning to lock him up forever!'
‘All right, I'll arrange it,' said Bronwyn reluctantly.
Singh guessed that Bronwyn was having to bite her tongue on the subject of proper police procedure and the civil liberties of scumbags like Greg Howard. As far as he was concerned, if the rules reduced his chances of successfully solving a case, the rules would have to be re-written or the rule book jettisoned. The liberty of the subject was just leverage to Singh – something within his gift – and he was willing to forfeit it if it suited his convenience.
‘Did Sarah Crouch go quietly?' Singh, assuming Bronwyn's compliance with his instructions and indifferent to her doubts, had moved on to the next topic of interest to him.
‘She was in two minds. She did ask once we were out of the building what we had surfer boy in for, but I said I didn't know.'
‘Did you ask her if she knew him?'
Bronwyn nodded. ‘Yes – but she said not, she was just curious, nothing more.'
‘What did you say?'
Bronwyn grinned. ‘That I would be interested in such a fine specimen of manhood myself.'
Singh rubbed his grubby hands together, forgetting his
earlier embarrassment at being accused of being a terrorist in the thrill of the chase. ‘That's great. Let's see how the grieving widow reacts to a bit of pressure.'
When Bronwyn did not react, he asked, ‘Well, are you going to stand there basking in my reflected glory or are you going to send Agus to rummage in Greg Howard's luggage?'
 
‘You can't arrest me. I haven't done anything!'
The inspector did not deign to respond to this first line of defence.
Bronwyn wondered why suspects were so lacking in originality when it came to their opening statements. It was patently obvious that the fat policeman
could
arrest the young man and the young man knew it all too well.
Greg Howard's eyes suddenly lit up. He said, ‘I'm an Australian citizen. I want to speak to someone at the embassy. You can't treat me like this.'
Singh burst into loud guffaws. His gut was quivering in synchronicity with his amusement.
There was a silence while the surfer and the policewoman waited for Inspector Singh to gather himself and explain the reason for the sudden laughter. The policeman sat up straight in his chair and made a show of wiping away tears with his big white handkerchief. Bronwyn was unimpressed by his theatrical antics. She decided that the inspector's stage forte would undoubtedly be pantomime.
Singh changed his tone. ‘Do you really think the Australian embassy has time for a surfer boy like you? Right now, after the bombs?'
Bronwyn conceded that the policeman was right. The Australian embassy was unlikely to be concerned about a possible miscarriage of justice involving a youth who did not
appear to own a pair of shoes when they had the aftermath of the Bali bombings to deal with.
Greg seemed to recognise the truth in Singh's words because he said sullenly, ‘What do you want with me? I really haven't done anything wrong.' His fear was exposed when his voice cracked like an adolescent's on the last syllable.
Singh gazed at him with the objective interest of a scientist looking at a bug under a microscope. Greg Howard squirmed in response.
‘Well, there's this …' remarked Singh, slipping a small packet of white powder across the table.
Bronwyn had followed the policeman's instructions to the letter and had Greg's very limited luggage searched. Agus had reported that the young man in front of them was certainly travelling light. He had a rucksack with a few pairs of board shorts, a toothbrush, sun block … and a packet of cocaine.
Greg stared at the small packet. Bronwyn noticed that he had gone pale beneath his tan. He asked, ‘Where did you get that?'
‘In your luggage …'
‘You went through my things?'
‘That's right,' said Bronwyn. ‘Don't worry, we tidied up very neatly. No one will know we were there.'
‘But you're not allowed to do that!'
‘Nonsense,' said Singh briskly. ‘We can and we have – and this little packet turned up. You have some explaining to do before I decide whether to have you charged with possession of a dangerous narcotic or … trafficking.'

Other books

Emperor of a Dead World by Kevin Butler
Miscarriage Of Justice by Bruce A Borders
Cold Stone and Ivy by H. Leighton Dickson
Blind Fall by Christopher Rice
Outlaw's Angel by Colleen Quinn
The Chamber of Ten by Christopher Golden