A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul (14 page)

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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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Bronwyn realised from his trembling hands that Greg Howard understood the distinction – possession of a banned substance might involve a slap on the wrist. Trafficking on the other hand would ensure that the surfer was a much older man before he could work on his tan again – assuming that he wasn't sentenced to death by a Balinese court.
Greg was shaking one knee so violently under the table that the surface was vibrating. He didn't seem to notice. He locked his hands together in his lap to stop the quivering and leaned forward as far as the table would allow him. ‘I was not trafficking, ' he whispered. ‘It's just a tiny bit – for my own use.'
‘The fact is,' said Singh comfortably, ‘there's enough in that packet for me to put you away for a very long time.'
‘But I don't understand,' said Greg plaintively. ‘What do you want from me?'
‘It's funny that you should ask me that,' remarked Singh. ‘There is something you can do for me – and it might help me decide that you had that bag of white powder for
personal
use …'
‘What is it? I'll do anything!'
Bronwyn felt sorry for the young fellow as he looked up with hope dawning in his eyes – the prison door had been left open a crack. He was not much older than her own sons, she thought. She really, really hoped that none of her boys ever found themselves in the clutches of a figure as dominant and dangerous as Inspector Singh. To have something that the inspector from Singapore wanted was to be in a very tight spot indeed. He was, for someone on the side of the angels, capable of some very dirty tactics.
Bronwyn had never believed that the ends justified the means. She was a strong believer in due process. She didn't trust results that were obtained under duress – even if it was mental and emotional pressure rather than physical intimidation. She doubted that Singh would resort to roughing up a prisoner. Despite his gross exterior, he was far too subtle for that. But a weak youth like Greg was no match for a master manipulator like Singh.
Singh had abandoned his nonchalant pose. He sat up straight in his chair, his belly straining at the buttons of his shirt. Bronwyn noted that he had actually put on weight. She was not surprised. She had watched him eat his
nasi goreng
with dessert and sweetened coffee and then cleanse his palate of the oily, rich food with cheap beer. Many of the policemen in Australia prided themselves on keeping in good physical shape. Singh, she thought, was limited to a more cerebral approach. She tried not to smile at the image that popped into her head of Singh trying to restrain someone physically. He struggled to get out of a chair sometimes.
‘Tell us about Sarah Crouch.'
It was the last topic in the world that Greg Howard had expected. His mouth hung open in an expression of foolish surprise. The astonishment passed and was replaced with
relief. ‘Sarah Crouch? Why do you want to know about
her
?'
‘I'll ask the questions,' barked Singh.
‘That's fine with me. I just don't know very much about her. We met a couple of months ago, had a few drinks together – that's all really.'
Singh asked, ‘So you're saying you didn't conspire with her to kill her husband?'
‘What?'
Singh acted as if the young man had failed to hear him rather than disbelieved the contents of his question. He repeated it more slowly and much louder, ‘Did you conspire with Sarah to murder her husband, Richard Crouch?'
‘Murder? She said he was killed in the bombing at the Sari Club!'
Singh said pedantically, ‘Well, if he had died in the blasts at the Sari Club, it would still be murder – but
you
wouldn't be one of the suspects.'
The surfer looked confused. ‘What happened to him?'
‘He was shot!'
‘Geez, that's just unbelievable!' His vowels flattened as his Aussie accent got stronger. He continued, ‘You think I
shot
Sarah's husband? I never even met the guy.'
‘But you were sleeping with his wife.' Singh made it a statement rather than a question.
Greg shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. ‘Look, it was a holiday romance. It didn't mean anything.'
‘Is that how Sarah felt about it?' It was Bronwyn, interjecting herself into the interview process for the first time.
Greg Howard was silent. He was visibly trying to decide the best answer.
At last he said quietly, ‘She might have taken it more seriously than I did.'
‘Have you told her?'
Greg glanced at Singh, a troubled expression on his face. ‘No. I wasn't quite sure how to do it. She thinks that because her husband is dead, we can be together. She says' – he shifted uncomfortably in his seat – ‘she says she loves me.'
‘If I were you,' remarked Singh, ‘I'd beg me to lock you up and throw the key away. You're in the clutches of a
very
determined woman.'
Greg Howard actually shuddered.
Bronwyn asked abruptly, ‘Why did you get into a relationship with her in the first place? She must be fifteen years older than you!'
Bronwyn sounded like an angry parent and Greg responded as if she was. His voice was an apologetic whine as he said, ‘It just happened. I didn't plan it.'
Singh was more brutal. ‘Don't act the innocent with us, young man. You were in it for that new surfboard we found in your hotel room. I've no doubt there were a few nice meals and long beery evenings thrown in as well.'
Greg opened his mouth to deny the accusations and then closed it again. He put his face in his hands. Bronwyn noticed that he had large strong hands tanned a golden brown.
Greg said, ‘All right – yes, she seemed pretty well off. She liked me. I was getting a bit tired of being broke the whole time. I didn't mean any harm.'
‘There's a name for men like you,' said Singh, his bottom lip thrust out in disgust.
Greg Howard was defiant. ‘Look, I was a bit foolish. But I had nothing to do with her husband's murder!'
‘That might be true, of course,' agreed Singh graciously. ‘But maybe you decided to make your meal ticket permanent. '
‘Look, mate. I'm not that desperate.'
Bronwyn felt her sympathy for the surfer ebb away. He was nothing but a cocky twerp using an older unhappy woman and then mocking her gullibility when it was over. Despite her sudden aversion for Greg, she recognised that his protest rang true. He probably
wasn't
that desperate. Why would a good looking young man need to settle for Sarah Crouch as a meal ticket? To cover a few extra holiday expenses, certainly. But to kill her husband for the long-term benefits? It seemed unlikely.
Singh sighed. He said, ‘I'm inclined to believe you.'
Greg exclaimed, ‘Thanks, mate.'
‘So the only question is whether Sarah Crouch was sufficiently enamoured of you to have killed her husband.'
There was a silence in the room. Bronwyn broke it. She said to Greg, ‘Do you think she could have done it?'
Greg Howard shook his head doubtfully. ‘I don't know. She was quite weird, I thought. Sort of quiet and brooding a lot of the time and then she'd cheer up and be a bit of a laugh. She told me her husband was too busy to spend time with her. But she had his ATM card and that was all she needed to make sure we had a good time.'
‘Did she say what he was doing?'
‘No, not really … I think she suggested that he'd fallen into some bad company. It was actually a joke – she said that she and her husband had both fallen into bad company. But, you know, she preferred hers.' Greg looked at them and added helpfully, ‘She meant me.'
Bronwyn glared at the surfer. He had gone from fearful to patronising very quickly.
Greg continued, ‘I swear to you – I had nothing to do with her husband's death.'
‘That may be the case. But I'm afraid I'm going to keep you locked up for a while,' said Singh.
‘But … but why? I've told you everything I know!'
‘Yes, but I need leverage over Sarah Crouch. And …'
Singh paused and Greg blurted out, ‘And what?'
‘I don't like you.'
The main line rang. Its strident insistent tone shattered the peaceful morning. Wayan, half asleep behind the main desk, picked it up hastily. It was a call for Sarah Crouch. He put the call through to the villa that had been the Crouch home for six months and then, wide awake now, quietly picked up an extension.
Singh had told him in no uncertain terms that he was assisting the police in their inquiries. Wayan had no intention of annoying the fat man with the turban by ignoring his instructions. Guest privacy would have to take a back seat to important investigative work. He betrayed his youth with the grin that suffused his features like a light bulb coming on in a dark room. Playing policeman was certainly more fun than manning the front desk of a largely deserted hotel.
‘Sarah, is that you?' The line crackled, distorting the masculine voice.
‘Yes, who is this?' Her reply was thin and echo-less on the phone.
‘It's me, Tim … Tim Yardley.'
Sarah suppressed a sigh. She had successfully avoided Tim since telling him about Richard's death although he had been all ready to comfort the grieving widow. He was becoming a major nuisance. She really needed to do something to rid herself of his attentions. She wondered whether to tell him about Greg. She smiled at the thought of her young man. It took ten years off her age. Inspector Singh would not have recognised the beaming woman holding the phone reluctantly to one ear.
‘Sarah, are you there?'
She dragged her mind away from her lover – it was an effort of will as painful as a physical separation. ‘Yes, Tim. But this isn't a good time. I've been through a lot. I'm sure you understand that I need some rest and privacy.'
Tim's voice was high and excited, almost girlish. He said, ‘I've done it, Sarah. I've done it!'
‘What have you done?'
‘I told Karri I wanted a divorce.'
There was a silence at the other end. Tim said again, ‘Did you hear me? I asked Karri for a divorce. Sarah, we can be together!'
Sarah closed her eyes. The years that had fallen off with her smile returned in the lines engraved deeply around her eyes and mouth.
‘Tim, we shouldn't be too hasty …'
For the first time, there was hesitation. She thought she heard a sigh, a soft round sound tinged with self-doubt.
‘What do you mean, Sarah?'
‘This is a difficult time. I know we talked about our future. But I need a break, some time to get over Richard's death. You know, to understand my own mind.'
There was a plaintive note in Tim's voice, like a child whose toy had been snatched away by the playground bully. He whispered, ‘But you said we could be together … you said that only Richard stood between us.'
 
‘They've tracked the red motorcycle to an apartment in Denpasar,' said Bronwyn. She had just been briefed on the phone by the Bali policeman. ‘Agus followed the bike from Ubud. There was a young man on it. There was no way to be sure he was from Java – or anywhere else other than Bali – but Agus said he “seemed foreign”.'
Singh grimaced. ‘Have we traced the registration?'
‘It's being done. We're a bit short of resources – what with the investigations into the bombings and the security arrangements for the purification ritual.'
‘
What
ritual?'
Bronwyn said, ‘The Balinese are having a ceremony – to … erm … exorcise the evil at the bomb sites – later this week.'
‘At the sites? Have they finished the forensics?'
‘Apparently … I think there's some politics going on. The investigation's been a success, but that's no use to the Balinese unless they can persuade the tourists to come back. Besides, it's not an act, is it? The Balinese are genuinely religious. They want to appease their gods.'
‘So what do
you
think we should do next?' asked Singh, making a mental note that he was beginning to rely on the judgement of his Australian counterpart.
‘What do you mean?'
‘How about talking to the owner of the red bike?'
Bronwyn hesitated. ‘We're not even sure these are the right guys …'
Singh paused and chewed on his lower lip hungrily. ‘I tell you what – get that cop, Agus, to pick Wayan up and go and sit in a
warung
across the road. If Wayan confirms that these are the right men, we'll have a chat with them.'

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