A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul (19 page)

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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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When she remained silent he had uttered the meaningless, facetious words, ‘I'm sorry, Sarah.'
Sarah glanced at his surfboard again. If she had thought there was any hope of changing his mind, the sight of that sleek board with its wave motif would have destroyed it. This man whom she loved with the heady passion of a teenager had brought his surfboard along so that he could hit the waves the minute he had dealt with the unplesantness of evicting her from his life. In his eyes, she did not even amount to a holiday romance, just a meal ticket – come to think of it, a surf ticket as well. She was quite sure she had paid for the shiny new equipment.
She wondered for a moment why she was not yelling, demanding that he change his mind, begging him to love her, persuading him somehow to stay in her life. The sheer enormity of her naivety was acting like insulation from the shock and the pain. She knew she would feel it soon but this brief moment of respite was a blessing. She stared at the storm clouds again. They were much closer. Greg probably wouldn't get in much surfing. She got to her feet slowly, feeling like an old woman. She picked up her towel and wrapped it modestly around her thin body. She walked up the beach, narrow feet sinking into the coarse sand. She did not look back. Sarah Crouch knew that her future was now in her past.
 
Abu Bakr asked, ‘Yusuf, are you ready to go?'
‘Where?'
‘The bomb factory, of course. Where do you think?'
Abu Bakr was immediately sorry for snapping at Yusuf. He said in a kinder tone, ‘Come on – let's go.'
Yusuf followed him obediently to the door. Abu Bakr wondered whether he should send him back for a shower; the man reeked of dried sweat and fear. He saw that Yusuf's fingernails were filthy and his clothes were food-stained. He frowned. He had seen it before with young men under his command. Sometimes, if the certain knowledge of death became a burden too great to carry, young soldiers started to abandon the ordinary routine of life. Cleanliness, he had noticed, was always the first to go. It was a mistake, he sometimes explained to his men. In a complex, changing world with unknown threats and dangerous missions, routine was the last thing that should be allowed to lapse. That was what kept the fear at bay – the distraction of the ordinary. He would have to give Yusuf the lecture. He didn't have too long to hang on but Abu Bakr didn't want the wheels coming off before then.
The bomb factory was a secluded bungalow set well back from the road with high stone walls all around. It was not far from the main drag through Sanur with its usual Balinese mix of five-star hotels, tacky tourist shops, cheap backpacker motels and roadside stalls. Abu Bakr and Yusuf caught a taxi to the street but stopped a few hundred yards from the main door. This was no time to show potential witnesses an incriminating destination.
Abu Bakr opened the door slowly and cautiously. The house smelt musty. No one had been in for a while. The doors and windows were fastened tight. There was a thin layer of dust on every surface.
Yusuf followed him in and asked in a whisper, ‘Where is the … you know, the bomb things?'
Abu Bakr walked slowly across the hall, unfurnished and
with bare walls and floor, towards an arched entrance that led to the rest of the house.
If he was given to
haram
analogies, thought Abu Bakr, he would have said that he hit the jackpot. He stood aside so that Yusuf could peer in.
Yusuf asked, his mouth opening and closing like that of a goldfish in a bowl, his voice crackling with tension, ‘What is all that?'
Abu Bakr understood Yusuf's bemusement. There was an assortment of boxes, wires, cigarette cases and empty plastic filing cabinets in a neat heap in the middle of the room.
He took a penknife out of his pocket and slit open one of the cardboard boxes. There were small drums of fuel oil packed neatly within. He looked in another box. Coiled wires, timers, crocodile clips and a couple of brand new mobile phones were arranged within.
He said to Yusuf, ‘This is all we need to make a bomb!'
Yusuf said rather wistfully, ‘I hope we find a good target. I don't really want to kill Moslems or anyone except the Americans.'
Abu Bakr eyed him cautiously. ‘You must remember, Yusuf – Moslems who are not committed to
jihad
as it is written in the Holy Book are also infidels.'
‘What are you doing now?' asked Yusuf, trying to change the subject.
Abu Bakr was rolling out a cable, leaving it snaking across the floor in his wake. ‘This wire will be attached to the bomb. I will add some sort of trigger to the wire for detonation, ' he explained.
Yusuf fell silent. He knew whose job it was to pull the trigger. He realised that he was not looking forward to it. It was one thing to reap a deserved reward in heaven. But he had to blow himself to smithereens first and that
did not sound like it was going to be very pleasant.
Besides, he would miss Nuri.
 
They told Nyoman to wait and crossed the road. It was the usual mad dash across a dusty street, narrowly avoiding motorbikes and stray dogs. Singh was panting by the time he reached the other side. He leaned against the grimy wall and put a hand on his heart. He could feel it hammering against his chest. His was not a physique that allowed for sudden sprints.
Bronwyn asked, a look of concern on her face, ‘Are you all right?'
He nodded but couldn't speak for a moment.
She waited while he caught his breath and then said pointedly, ‘You need to get in better shape. Not much use avoiding the traffic if you're just going to have a heart attack on the opposite side.'
Singh scowled and marched into the apartment block purposefully. He looked at the steep flight of stairs and turned to Bronwyn, a rueful expression on his face. ‘You might be right.'
He started up slowly, holding the bannister for support.
The block of flats was even more decrepit in the day than at night. The paint on the walls was stained and peeling. There were small piles of rubbish, plastic bags and plastic bottles mostly, tucked away in the corners. A gecko lay dead on a step, its corpse covered in small black ants. The stairwell smelt of mould, death and piss. That stink and the climb combined were making Singh light-headed.
He wheezed, ‘She'd better be in.'
Bronwyn said reassuringly, ‘I'm sure she is. Sergeant Agus said only the men had left. He was quite clear about that.'
Singh decided not to expend precious energy on a sceptical
response. He concentrated on the last flight of stairs. Perspiration stung his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to soothe the smarting with tears. He wondered why he had found it easier the previous night. The difference between the cool night air and the sweltering heat of day in the claustrophobic confines of the stairwell, he supposed.
Bronwyn, who had followed meekly behind him for two flights but then overtaken him, was waiting outside the door. Singh noticed that there was no peephole. That was good. Nuri would not be able to refuse to see them without opening the door first. And once the door was ajar, Singh thought to himself smugly, he was a past master at inserting a big, sneaker-clad foot into the crack and preventing any hasty door slamming.
Bronwyn raised a hand to knock and looked inquiringly at the inspector. He nodded assent. It was time to confront the young woman about her relationship with the Englishman whose body parts were at the mortuary with the remains of those whose deaths had involved less personal animosity on the part of the killer.
Bronwyn rapped on the door. Singh approved of her style. It was a mildly authoritative knock. It was the request for entry of a meter reader or a census taker rather than a policewoman. It might entice a young woman alone to open the door. But there was no response. Singh, concentrating hard, could not hear any sound from within the apartment. Bronwyn knocked again, more firmly this time. This knock conveyed bureaucratic urgency. The inspector placed a large hairy ear to the door and shut his eyes to the world. He still could not hear anything within.
Singh took matters into his own hands. It was time to be threatening. He raised a heavy fist and thumped loudly on the wood, shouting, ‘Police! Open this door!' When this did
not elicit a response, he hammered and shouted again. Singh continued to do this intermittently for a few minutes and then, with one last frustrated thump, gave it up as a lost cause.
He started hunting in his pockets.
Bronwyn asked, ‘What are you doing?'
‘Looking for something to pick the lock with …'
‘You can't do that!'
‘Watch me,' said Singh with his usual robust disregard for police protocol.
Bronwyn put her mouth close to the door and yelled, ‘Nuri! We know you're in there. We just want to ask you some questions about Richard Crouch. There's nothing to be afraid of – you're not in any trouble.'
Singh spoke in an undertone but the sarcasm was still audible. He said, ‘It's OK to lie to a witness but not OK to break into a house where you suspect the commission of an offence?'
Bronwyn whispered back, ‘We do not suspect her of anything.'
‘I do!'
Their argument was interrupted by the sound of a bolt being drawn.
The door opened a fraction and the small, heart-shaped face of the Indonesian girl peered out. She stared at them fearfully and then made up her mind. The door was pulled open and she stepped aside to let them in.
Nuri ushered them into the small living room and gestured for them to sit down. She slipped into a room and reappeared a few moments later with a scarf tied loosely around her hair.
The cut on her lip was visible to both police personnel – a red gash, the clotted blood forming a jagged line across top
and bottom lip. There was bruising around her jaw as well, the delicate skin was tinted red and orange.
Singh asked, holding his own jaw to indicate what he was talking about, ‘What happened?'
Nuri was not interested in discussing her injuries. She said in a painful whisper, her mouth moving awkwardly, ‘What happened to Abdullah?'
‘He was killed – shot by someone – through the head.'
Singh's brutal delivery of the facts had an impact. She drew in, wrapped her arms around her knees and bowed her head for a moment. When she looked up again, the bruising was stark against the pallor of her skin and her eyes were filled with tears. But she did not break down.
Singh had rarely seen such a conscious physical effort to rein in emotion. He acknowledged to himself that the girl was tough. She was labouring under an immense burden but still able to function – albeit only to achieve her limited goals – which right now appeared to be information.
Nuri asked, ‘Who did it? Who killed him?'
Singh said bluntly, ‘That's what we're trying to find out.'
She appeared to think for a while, trying to decide what to do or ask. Singh let her contemplate her next step. This was not a witness to badger or bully. Not yet anyway.
She said, her voice clear and firm, ‘You must find out who did this to him.'
Singh cracked his knuckles and she flinched slightly. The assault that had left her cradling her jaw had also made her nervy. He asked, ‘Can you help us?'
‘What can I do? I do not know who killed him.'
‘Tell us everything you knew about him. We have very little background – it makes it difficult to hunt the murderer because we do not know who Richard Crouch's enemies were.'
‘I did not know him very well …'
Singh leaned forward, compressing his large belly against the broad platform of his thighs. He said, sounding asthmatic, ‘You knew him better than the others – your husband and your brothers. They didn't even know that his name was Richard Crouch.'
Nuri changed the subject abruptly. She turned to Bronwyn and asked, ‘Do you have that picture?'
Bronwyn was perplexed. Her face creased into a questioning expression and Nuri replied to the implied query, ‘That picture you showed us yesterday – of Abdullah.'
Bronwyn reached into the folder and brought out the blown-up passport photo. The smiling young man with watery blue eyes stared back at her and she remembered that all she had ever seen of him was a singed piece of skull with a bullet hole in it.
Nuri snatched the picture from her hand almost before Bronwyn had an opportunity to hold it out to her. She asked, ‘Can I keep this?'
Singh asked, ‘Why do you want it?'
Her eyes were still locked on the picture with a schoolgirl's intensity over the poster of a rock star. She responded in a whisper, ‘I have nothing else.'
Singh stood up and ambled over to the window. He drew the curtain gingerly – it was soiled – and gazed out. The street below was busy. Across the road, a
warung
was doing brisk business in imported soft drinks and local delicacies. It was probably the stall from which Wayan and Agus had staked out the apartment. In the midst of tragedy and loss, Singh thought, life went on exactly as normal for everyone else. Grief was such a personal emotion. It could not be shared. He knew that the young Indonesian woman with the delicate skin and soft brown eyes was grieving. And he was sure he knew the cause.

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