A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul (16 page)

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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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‘That makes sense,' said Bronwyn in a pleased tone. She continued curiously, ‘Did you tell him about surfer boy?'
Singh grinned maliciously. ‘I introduced them to each other!'
‘You did what?'
‘You heard me …'
‘That was a nasty thing to do,' said Bronwyn firmly. ‘Tim Yardley must have been devastated.'
‘Tim Yardley might have killed a man. You'll forgive me if I think that's more important than hurting his
feelings
.'
Bronwyn ran her tongue over her teeth. She was not sure she had the streak of cruelty that appeared to be necessary to investigate a murder.
She asked, ‘What was his reaction?'
‘I think Yardley is sitting on a beach with a six-pack of Bintang wondering why women are incapable of the sort of loyalty and love he has shown both his wife and Sarah Crouch.'
Singh stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and fished in a pocket for his lighter. Bronwyn glared at him and nodded at the red and white ‘No Smoking' sign above his head. The Sikh inspector ran his thumb over the lighter and held the blue and yellow flame to the tip of his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, causing the end to flare a deep orange, exhaled a thick cloud of grey smoke into the room and said, ‘We still need more suspects.'
His deputy waved her hand in front of her face, ostentatiously fanning the smoke away. She said smartly, ‘Well, I have one!'
Singh's cigarette was perched on his bottom lip. It danced as he spoke. He asked, ‘Who?' His voice was sceptical that Bronwyn could have found something that he had missed.
Bronwyn decided to ignore the provocation. She said, ‘I
watched the CCTV tapes from the various banks and ATMs. That's why I didn't come in for Yardley's interview.'
‘And …?'
‘On the day before the bombs, Crouch withdrew the largest single sum at the Bank Mandiri branch in Kuta, ten thousand US dollars. This man was lurking in the background. ' She slid a blurry black and white print of a man across the table. The inspector picked it up and stared at it from a distance of a few feet. He needed glasses for his long-sightedness, guessed Bronwyn.
Singh said, his brow creased with puzzlement, ‘He looks familiar. I'm sure I've seen him on television.'
Bronwyn passed him the photographs she had taken of Sarah Crouch's friends after their interview with them. ‘It's Julian Greenwood!'
Singh smacked a hand to his forehead. ‘I didn't recognise him.'
Bronwyn grinned triumphantly.
The inspector growled, ‘When you're done patting yourself on the back, perhaps you could find out if there's any reason Greenwood might have been tempted by the wads of cash in Richard Crouch's pockets?'
 
The flat was a mess. Nuri had not cleared up after breakfast. Ants had gathered in writhing black masses to devour the bits of crust and traces of
kaya
, a coconut jam. The chairs were disorderly and the whole front room smelt rank. Ghani felt his temper flare uncontrollably. Was this what a husband deserved after a long day?
He strode into the bedroom. Nuri was lying on her side under the covers. It was the same position he had left her in that morning. He remembered that when he had gone to bed the previous night, his wife was feigning sleep. He had
watched her – huddled under the blanket, facing away from the door, eyes tightly shut, and felt a stab of exasperation. He had climbed into bed and turned to face the other way. They had lain back to back, two feet between them despite the narrowness of the bed. It was the universal image of a marriage in trouble.
Now, twenty-fours hours later, he stared at her, a petite figure on the bed. Her long hair was spread across the pillow like a fan. It was a small room – with the windows and door shut and a sweating human presence in it, the atmosphere was muggy and stale.
Ghani said roughly, ‘Nuri!' and when she did not respond, a little louder, ‘Nuri!'
Nuri turned slowly, blinking against the light, a bare bulb hanging from a yellowing wire. Ghani had switched it on as he walked in.
She stared at him as if he were a stranger.
He asked in a gentler tone, ‘Are you unwell?'
She shook her head and sat up. He noticed that the pillow on which she had been lying had a damp patch on it. Was it sweat or tears, he wondered. What in the world did his young wife have to weep over?
He had provided well for her. Her parents, although respected in the village for their unswerving faith and religious knowledge, had not been well off. He remembered his visits to the house. It had been a small wooden building with an
attap
roof. The floor was hard grey cement without even a straw mat to keep the damp out. The rooms were partitioned with plywood, flimsy erections that barely provided privacy. There had been a rusty stand fan to cool the front room and a few rattan chairs with well worn cushions covered in faded cloth. He, Ghani, had given Nuri a much more comfortable house in that Sulawesi village. Not
luxurious. He could not afford it and it would not have been fitting for someone who had always led an austere, God-fearing life. But it had been a vast improvement on the home she was married from.
He treated her kindly as well. Her father had been a stern taskmaster, ruling his children with iron discipline.
Perhaps, coming from such a regimented background, the freedom he had granted Nuri had been too much. She was young. Bringing her to Bali had been a mistake. Bali was a shock even to a Moslem who was hardened to the decadence of the Westerners. How much more so for an innocent like Nuri?
He remembered her laughing with delight on the ferry from Java to see the young boys dive into the churning water to retrieve coins that passengers threw for them. She had been so filled with enthusiasm for new experiences.
Now, his wife sat on the bed looking at him with sad eyes and unbound hair, waiting for him to censure her or beat her or divorce her. It would be so easy to do any of these things. She deserved a scolding for the state of the house. He was certainly well within his rights as a husband to knock some sense into her. Divorce might be an extreme step, but he had only to utter the words and she would, in the eyes of God, be his ex-wife. For a moment, he was tempted. He wanted to wipe that blank look off her face.
He felt a hint of self-doubt. Was he too old and unattractive? He knew that he was twenty years older than her but he had been much sought-after as a husband. When he had been instructed by the spiritual elders to settle down, he had no difficulty choosing Nuri. She had caught his attention with her sheer unobtrusiveness as she slunk into the room wearing her full
hijab
, to clear a glass or serve some food to the menfolk. Her father's reputation as a
scholar had reached far beyond their small village. Truly, his marrying Nuri had seemed like a match made in heaven, sanctioned by his peers, her family, his spiritual leaders and Allah.
She was still looking at him. It seemed to Ghani that she was almost willing him to do or say something hurtful, as if it would validate her opinion of him. Her eyes shocked him. Thus did he imagine the eyes of lost souls who had fallen from the grace of Allah. Never had he expected to see that expression of utter emptiness on the face of his wife. Ghani opened his mouth and raised his hand as if he was about to say something and emphasise it with a gesture. Instead, he turned slowly away from her and walked out of the room. Just before he shut the door again, his arm snaked in and switched off the light. Inside, Nuri was plunged into sudden absolute darkness. She closed her eyes and lay back on the pillow.
Ghani stood at the doorway. Abu Bakr and Yusuf had come in while he was in the room with Nuri. Ramzi was sitting on a chair at the dining table, rocking it back and forth on its back legs.
Abu Bakr asked gruffly, trying to hide his embarrassment at the marital discord, ‘Is everything all right?'
Ghani nodded.
Yusuf seemed to realise something was amiss because he said, his voice quickening with anxiety, ‘Is Nuri all right? Is she unwell?'
‘She'll be fine if she has some rest.'
If the brothers were curious as to why Ghani was putting up with the mood swings of his wife and their sister, they had the tact not to ask. Or at least, Abu Bakr had the tact not to ask and he had pulled Ramzi aside and warned him to remain silent on the subject of their sister.
Ramzi had rubbed his cheek where Nuri had slapped him the previous day and said, ‘As you wish, brother. My face still hurts!'
 
Bronwyn exclaimed, her usually pale cheeks rosy with excitement, ‘Sergeant Agus just called. Wayan confirmed the identity of at least one of the men. We've found the mysterious incomer friends of Richard Crouch!'
Singh scratched his neck with quick, repetitive actions like a flea-ridden mongrel. He asked, ‘Is Nyoman outside?'
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.
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 identification 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.

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