A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul (7 page)

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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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Singh said, ‘We're police,' and flipped out his Singapore ID.
Wayan did not query his statement.
Singh had noticed this respect for authority amongst the
Balinese. He would have to ask Bronwyn, the walking encyclopedia on Bali, for an explanation. It did not seem fear-driven or oppresed, more a casual acknowledgement of a social hierarchy and the Balinese individual's own place within the structure.
Wayan guessed, his big eyes deep and curious, like an infinity pool at an expensive Balinese hotel, ‘You have found the husband?'
Singh nodded.
‘He is OK?'
There was no response from the police.
‘He is dead?' asked Wayan.
‘I'm afraid so,' said Bronwyn.
‘Bali bomb?'
Singh shrugged, his stomach swaying in synchronicity with his shoulders.
Wayan seemed to take this as an affirmative. He said, ‘The wife, poor thing. Are you going to tell her now?'
‘After you tell me everything else I need to know,' said Singh curtly. It was time for Wayan to understand that this was not a friendly chit-chat with passing tourists.
‘What do you want to know,
Pak
?'
‘Would he usually go to the Sari Club without his wife?'
‘I don't know where he goes. But yes, always he goes out on his own.'
‘Did he have any driver he used regularly?'
Singh mentally crossed his fingers. If Crouch had used a regular driver, as people often did in Bali – once they found someone reasonably priced whose vehicle did not appear to be a deathtrap – it would be easy to trace his movements.
Wayan said, ‘No, no. He has a motorbike.'
That trail went cold pretty quickly, thought Singh with disappointment.
Wayan added, ‘Sometimes his friends pick him up.'
Singh's ears quivered although his voice betrayed no excitement.
‘Friends?' he asked.
‘Yes, some men …'
Singh noticed that Wayan was hesitating – on the verge of saying something but having second thoughts. He was about to follow up when the young man's fair skin flushed as red as his acne. He said, ‘Good morning, Mrs Crouch. The police are here to see you.'
Singh and Bronwyn both turned around, Singh with curiosity and Bronwyn with sympathy.
Sarah Crouch was a slight strawberry blonde with lightblue eyes. She wore a wide floppy hat to protect her fair skin. Although she had been in Bali for six months, she was still pale, almost translucent, faint blue veins visible on her cheeks. Singh thought that she would have been pretty once. He could imagine that, young and smiling, with her small even features and blue eyes, she would have turned a few heads. But her looks had not withstood the uncertainty of wondering whether her husband was dead. Sarah was thin and worried-looking, her face covered in spidery lines that radiated out from the corners of her eyes like a fan and down the sides of her mouth. Her lips were thin, chapped and almost bloodless. Her blue eyes were faded, the whites tinged with red.
She said, ‘You were looking for me?'
Singh said, ‘We're the police. We'd like to talk to you about your husband.' He took out his police ID and so did Bronwyn.
Here there was no instinctive respect.
‘Singapore? Australia?'
Singh said, ‘We're assisting the Balinese police and have been seconded to your husband's case.'
‘What's going on? Have you found him?'
Bronwyn said gently, ‘Is there somewhere private we could go?'
Bronwyn had telegraphed that the news was not good. She had given the woman time to prepare. He, Singh, did not have so much tact. Forewarned was forearmed. He would have preferred to break the news harshly and suddenly and then watch this widow of a murdered man for any reaction that did not seem entirely consistent with hearing about her husband's death for the first time.
Sarah said, ‘The patio is normally empty at this time,' and led them through the guest house. They walked out the back door into a small walled garden with lush tropical ferns against mossy stone walls. At the far end, the highest point in the garden, there was a carved stone gargoyle with bulbous eyes, curled lips and fangs on a pedestal. The creature was draped in a black and white checked
sarong
and had a flaming red hibiscus behind one ear. It was no more appropriate, mused Singh, than if he took to wearing a flower behind his ear. Balinese men with their delicate features and wide smiles might get away with adorning blossoms. It certainly suited the women with their streaming black hair and colourful
sarongs.
But him and that gargoyle? It was like putting lipstick on a pig.
There was a large timber deck protruding into the garden with a few tables and chairs and green umbrellas for shade. Sarah led them to one, pulled out a heavy wooden chair with difficulty and sat down. She faced them squarely but there was an unblinking quality to her stare that suggested fear.
Too much fear, wondered Singh. After all, the odds were that the disappearance of a man at the same time as a major terrorist attack was not a coincidence. Surely she must be prepared for the most likely explanation for his absence.
‘He's dead, isn't he?' Sarah Crouch seemed unable to bear the silence from the police officers.
Bronwyn sat down opposite her and leaned forward sympathetically. ‘I'm afraid so.'
Singh watched the widow carefully. She seemed composed.
She asked, ‘Was it the bombs?'
Singh nodded curtly. It was not strictly true but he wanted to observe this faded creature before showing his whole hand.
She sighed. ‘I guess I knew. Richard would have contacted me if he was all right. I just thought … hoped, he might have been one of the survivors.' She paused and glanced at them. ‘But deep down I knew that he wasn't.'
‘How did you know?' asked Singh, more sharply than he intended.
‘I beg your pardon?'
‘How did you know he was unlikely to be wandering around with amnesia or something like that?'
Singh noted Bronwyn staring at him in the periphery of his vision but he did not take his eyes off the widow.
Sarah said, ‘I visited all the hospitals – they let me in to see the injured – those who had not been identified. Actually, it was such chaos that no one stopped me when I walked through the wards looking for Richard.'
Her eyes went dark. ‘I'll never forget. There weren't enough doctors, medicines, anaesthetics. There were desperate family everywhere, checking the living before the dead.'
She dragged herself away from the memory of the victims. ‘He wasn't there. Richard wasn't there.'
Her voice trailed off for a moment. Then she said, ‘But now I guess you've found him?'
Singh relented. He said, ‘Yes, the body of Richard Crouch has been identified from dental records.'
She nodded. ‘They asked me to get those from the UK. Richard had quite a lot of dental work done when he was a kid. He was still afraid of the dentist. I used to laugh at him about it.' She smiled at the memory, revealing small even white teeth of her own.
Singh wondered whether it demonstrated a heartless streak – to laugh at a husband's fear of dentists. He knew he was grasping at straws, trying to find something in this woman that might demonstrate a capacity for murder.
Sarah asked, ‘Will they release the body for burial?'
Bronwyn said apologetically – Singh thought that she was the sort of woman who would always be apologising for things that were outside her control – ‘There's not much left of him, I'm afraid.'
Singh added, ‘The body won't be released for a while yet.'
The widow asked, ‘Why? I read in the papers that bodies are being shipped back to Australia. The Balinese have held a few funerals as well!'
‘There are reasons,' said Singh non-committally.
‘Reasons? I've been sitting on this island for ages waiting for news.' Her voice broke and she started to sob. ‘I'm running out of money!'
Singh said, apparently oblivious to the sudden breakdown, ‘We'd prefer it if you didn't leave the country.'
‘Me? Why?'
‘Because you're a suspect in a murder investigation.'
‘What? You think
I'm
a terrorist? Are you mad?'
Bronwyn broke the news. ‘Richard Crouch was murdered. He didn't die in the bombings.'
Sarah looked blank.
Bronwyn said patiently, ‘Your husband was killed, but not in the bombings.'
‘But how can that be? You just said there was not much of him left! Where was he found?'
Singh realised how difficult the case was going to be. The coincidence of murder and mass murder was too much for the widow to take in. How was he to find the thread that led to the murderer in the tangled skein of the terrorist offence?
The policeman explained, ‘He was at the Sari Club. But he was killed beforehand.'
Sarah said, ‘But, but … that's impossible.'
Singh said, ‘Improbable, I grant you. But the forensic investigation was conclusive. Your husband was shot in the head with a small-calibre weapon. His body was in or around the Sari Club at the time of the bomb and was caught up in the explosion.'
When this met with no response from the widow, he continued, ‘So, I'm afraid you
are
part of a murder investigation. If you don't mind, I'd like to have your passport … and Richard's.'
‘You think I might have done it?' The disbelief in her voice was convincing.
Bronwyn put out a hand in an instinctive gesture of denial and said, ‘No, of course not. But I'm sure you can see that we have to investigate this very thoroughly. It would be a dereliction of our duty not to consider you a suspect … and ask you to stay in Bali.'
Singh was tempted to smile. If that did not lull his only suspect into a false sense of security, nothing would. Bronwyn might be quite useful after all with her over-developed sense of empathy and misplaced sense of pity.
‘Of course,' said Sarah, ‘I do understand. It's just been such a shock.'
Singh stood up. ‘Right, we'll leave you your privacy and meet back here this afternoon at three o'clock.'
Bronwyn and the widow wore matching expressions of surprise.
Singh pretended not to notice. He turned sharply on his heel – his rotund shape and small feet made him look like a spinning top – and marched out.
He could hear Bronwyn thanking the woman for her time. Her footsteps beat a sharp staccato on the stone floors as she hastened to catch up with him.
Nyoman was waiting for them in front of the guest house. They clambered into the back of the vehicle.
Bronwyn said, ‘I know why you did that!'
‘Did what?'
‘Walked out just then – you want to keep her off balance because you think you might get better information that way. Isn't that right?'
‘Nonsense,' said Singh. ‘It's lunch time and I'm hungry.'
 
Ghani walked in.
Nuri thought she had rarely seen such as unassuming creature as this man she had married. Ghani was of medium height. He wore a nondescript pair of unbranded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. His hairline was receding. What was left formed a neat semi-circle running around the back of his head from ear to ear. His most prominent feature was his florid nose. His lips were obscured by a grizzled beard and moustache. His lids were heavy. It gave him a superficially sleepy look but the pupils that gazed out were black pinpoints of engagement with the world around him.
He looked like a good-natured sort of uncle, she decided, the type who brought sweets and thought childish mischief was amusing.
Her husband took off his shoes and socks and placed them neatly by the door. He looked approvingly at the table where
lunch was laid out. He said, ‘This looks good, wife. Let us eat.'
Nuri nodded her thanks.
Ghani looked around and asked, an irritable note creeping into his gruff voice, ‘Where is Yusuf?'
Nuri had noticed that all the men found Yusuf annoying. She often wondered why they had brought him along to Bali from their village in Sulawesi. He was not learned in the scriptures like her older brother, Abu Bakr. He did not have Ramzi's ability to attract young men to their proposed school. He was just Yusuf, slight, annoying and diffident. She supposed there was always room for an odd-job man.
She hurried to the smaller of the two bedrooms and knocked on the door.

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