A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul (22 page)

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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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The door opened and the fat policeman in the turban and his female sidekick walked in. Ghani could have wept with relief. It
was
about Abdullah, the bomb-maker. Singh waddled over and sat down on the only other chair in the room. He faced Ghani across the small, scuffed table – two swarthy, bearded, stocky men with matching expressions of determination on their faces. Bronwyn leaned against the wall with her hands on her hips.
Singh asked, with a superficial and highly unconvincing smile on his face, ‘Is there anything you would like to tell us about Abdullah's death?'
‘I told you everything I know already.'
Singh sensed that Ghani was relieved by his opening gambit. That was odd. What in the world had he been expecting that an implied accusation of murder should be welcome?
He said, ‘Plead guilty, tell the judge your mitigating circumstances – I bet he won't even send you to jail.'
Ghani's expression, which had been unconvincingly puzzled, now seemed more like the genuine article. He muttered, ‘I don't understand.'
Singh said, ‘We don't
blame
you for killing Richard Crouch. Frankly, in your position I'd probably have done the same. But it would be much easier for everyone if you just confessed.'
‘But I did not kill him.' The protest rang true. Was he that good an actor, wondered Singh.
‘But he was sleeping with your wife …'
Ghani's face drained of blood. His hands, which were laid flat on the table in front of him, bunched into fists. He sat there for a moment trying to regain control of his temper. It was a losing battle. He stood up and leaned forward, hands splayed, eyes popping like golf balls in the mud. He shouted, ‘Why do you speak such lies to me?'
Singh was leaning back in his chair. He had not moved a muscle. Bronwyn was standing bolt upright, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet, ready to enter the fray if Ghani attacked the senior policeman. Singh hoped she knew a martial art.
The inspector from Singapore took his courage in his hands and said nonchalantly, ‘You didn't know – about your wife and Crouch?'
Ghani slammed his fist on the table. Singh noticed for the first time that he had a long thin scar running up his forearm. It looked like a knife wound. Ghani shouted, ‘It's not true!'
It was Singh's turn to stand up. He leaned forward and eyeballed Ghani. ‘Look, I'm not making this up. She told us herself.'
‘What do you mean? Who told you?'
‘Nuri,' and he added helpfully, ‘your wife. We went to see her this afternoon. She told us that she and Crouch were planning to run away together. From the condition of her face, it looks like you don't mind trying to resolve your marital problems with violence.'
Ghani collapsed back into the chair and put his hands over his face, his elbows resting on his knees.
Singh sat back down. He picked his nails, flicking any real or imagined dirt onto the floor. Singh was indifferent to the raging internal conflict of the man in front of him. He had decided reluctantly that he was not the killer of Richard Crouch. His shock at the affair between his wife and the
dead man had been like another person in the room, so tangible was the emotion. This man was no longer a credible suspect. If he had not known about Nuri's infatuation with Crouch, he had no motive. At most he was a witness – perhaps he would be able to give them some insights into Ramzi's character.
Again, Singh wondered why Ghani was afraid – if it was not of an accusation of murder.
Ghani sat up. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry. He straightened his spine and pulled back his shoulders.
Singh was reminded that he was a soldier.
Ghani said calmly, ‘I had nothing to do with the death of Abdullah. I thought he was a friend. If what you say is true – I will question my wife – I do not regret his death.'
Singh said in a friendly tone, ‘I believe you.'
‘Does that mean I can go?'
‘After you tell us if Ramzi killed Abdullah.'
‘Ramzi? Why would Ramzi kill him?'
‘Same reason.
He
knew about the affair. He might have been trying to protect the family honour.'
‘He knew? You are saying Ramzi knew about my wife … and that man?'
‘That's exactly what I'm saying,' said Singh, steepling his fingers and looking at the other man over the apex.
The policeman from Singapore suspected that Ghani had rarely been told that his broad face was a mirror to his emotions. Under the weight of the revelations that Singh was flinging at him, it was possible to read his thoughts from the expressions flitting across it. There was shock that Ramzi might have known about Nuri and not told him, a brief flurry of disbelief and finally a sinking sensation that if Ramzi had known, it was not impossible that he had killed Richard Crouch.
Singh was sure that Ghani had no real knowledge of Ramzi's guilt. His fear that Ramzi was involved was based entirely on his intimate knowledge of the young man's character. In their short encounter, Singh had put the young man down as a contrary young fool with a misplaced self-confidence. Looking at Ghani's worried face, he knew that his assessment was correct.
Singh stood up, held open the door to the interview room and said abruptly, ‘You can go now.'
The prisoner who, a short a while earlier, would have made a dash for freedom if he had been given half a chance, walked slow and stooped towards the exit. He stole a sidelong glance at the policeman as he walked past, fearful of the comic figure who knew so many secrets.
Bronwyn tossed a few words after him. ‘We don't want any more attacks on your wife. Not unless you want to spend a lot of time in a Bali prison. And I promise you – I will make it happen.'
Ghani had paused in mid-step as she spoke – now he continued on without looking back.
Singh closed the door and leaned on it, looking across at his colleague. ‘What did you think of that?'
‘It was a bit mean of you to suggest that Nuri was actually
sleeping
with Crouch.'
Singh grunted. ‘It would've been too dull to describe the love-struck shopping expeditions.'
She asked, ‘Do you think he killed Richard Crouch?'
Singh rubbed his forehead with thumb and forefinger. ‘No such luck.'
Bronwyn whipped out her mobile phone and made a quick call. ‘The brother hasn't come back to the flat yet,' she explained, holding the phone away from her ear for a moment. ‘Do you want someone on Ghani's tail?'
‘Nah, waste of manpower – he didn't do it. We need to look elsewhere for the killer of our philandering Moslem.'
Bronwyn laughed. ‘It is a bit of a contradiction, isn't it?'
‘I told you that lusts of the flesh always trump God!'
‘It seems that you're right. Do you think he'll hurt Nuri? Should we send her some protection?'
‘He heard your warning.'
Singh scratched his beard. He was troubled. He didn't know why. He felt he was missing something. And he had no idea what it could be. It was disturbing because the investigation was going well. He was down to two suspects. Sarah, the wife, and Ramzi, the brother of the girlfriend. He didn't really suspect either Tim Yardley or Julian Greenwood, despite their solid motives. Neither of them had the temperament to shoot a man in the head. He remembered Greenwood skulking nervously in the presence of his wife. He could imagine him attacking her in a fit of rage, but not Richard Crouch. Greenwood was a man to flee his troubles, not to confront them with violence. Besides, according to Agus, he still owed money to the gangster who was threatening retribution. Presumably if he had followed Crouch out of the bank and killed him, he would have had the sense to empty the dead man's wallet and pay off his debts.
As for Yardley, a clever, manipulative woman like Sarah Crouch might have persuaded him to murder a rival – she
did
remind him of Macbeth's wife. But he suspected it would have taken longer than the few months they had known each other and would have involved a method slightly less bloody. Probably, Sarah would have had to guide him every step of the way and he had found no evidence of any careful planning between the pair.
Richard's death had come as a shock to Nuri so she was out of the running. Ghani had not appeared to know about
his wife's infidelity of the heart, if not of the body, so his motive was tenuous at best. For all sorts of practical reasons like access to weaponry and temperament he would have put his money on Ramzi being the killer. But he was not yet absolutely certain. He needed to see Sarah and Ramzi again. He was confident that once he confronted both of them with what he knew, it would become obvious who had murdered Richard Crouch.
Bronwyn was sitting quietly across from him writing up the notes from their interview with Ghani. Her pen scurried across the page in orderly rows, like planting or ploughing, he thought. He wondered why he was indulging in agricultural metaphors – he who had lived in a city his whole life.
It might be the news Bronwyn had broken to him about Wayan. He had lost his job at the villas where Sarah and Richard Crouch had stayed. Occupancy was almost zero – only Sarah's enforced, extended stay kept the place open. But there was no money for a full complement of employees in this post-bomb Bali landscape. The young man who was regularly prevented by the police from doing his job was the first casualty in the pursuit of a trimmed down workforce. He had come to see Bronwyn that evening, almost in tears, hoping she would help him keep his job or find a new one. Singh had forbidden her from leaning on the hotel. There was no point, he explained. The police might have contributed to the promptness of Wayan's dismissal but the underlying reason was the absence of tourists. In those circumstances, there was no point bullying the owners.
Bronwyn's expression had been rebellious.
Singh had asked, ‘You don't agree with me?'
‘It
is
partly our fault.'
‘Yes,' said Singh patiently, ‘but mostly the bombers'.'
‘It just seems so unfair …'
Singh could not tell if she was referring to Wayan's predicament or that of Bali more generally.
He answered, ‘It isn't fair – but there are worse hard luck stories than Wayan's. There are families the length and breadth of this island that have lost not only their livelihoods but family members.'
‘I know, but you should have seen his hands.' Bronwyn's voice caught in her throat with sympathy.
‘His hands?'
‘Yes, they were all cut and bruised. He's gone back to working on his father's paddy field. His hands aren't used to the hard labour. He was a mess and in quite a lot of pain too.'
‘He'll get used to it.'
‘That's what his father told him. That he just had to keep at it, his hands would toughen up.'
Bronwyn was annoyed at the advice but Singh thought it was sensible and practical. A young man like Wayan would soon get used to his new life.
Indeed, it was not Wayan who interested him but Ramzi. He asked, his tone staccato and impatient, ‘No sign of Ramzi?'
The pen did not stop moving but Bronwyn said evenly, ‘No more sign than about five minutes ago when you last asked me …'
‘Shouldn't you call again and make sure that the cops haven't wandered off for dinner or something?'
Bronwyn was firm. ‘No – they know that the scary policeman from Singapore will have their badges if they screw up.'
Singh grinned, baring his small brown smoker's teeth. ‘Really? Excellent!'
‘What about Sarah Crouch?'
‘Agus will get her for you in the morning.'
 
 
When he got to the safe house, Ramzi was already there.
Ghani walked straight up to his brother-in-law. The young man grinned at him. ‘I got the van, boss. Just as you asked.'
Ghani hit him. With all the power his squat strong body possessed channelled through one angry clenched fist, Ghani struck Ramzi on the chin. The young man rocked back on his heels in shock, tried to recover his balance, failed and fell heavily against the explosives-filled plastic cabinet nearest to him.
Abu Bakr screamed, ‘Be careful! You'll set it off.'
Everyone froze. It was as if someone had pressed pause on the video player in the midst of an action film. Ramzi lay motionless on the ground, his back to the cabinet. Ghani, who had taken a few angry steps forward, anxious to continue his assault, stopped – his fists still raised. Yusuf dropped his Quran, which he had been reading feverishly, and stared at the others in open-mouthed confusion.
The silence and the stillness lasted for thirty seconds. It felt like an eternity to the men in the room.

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