A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul (9 page)

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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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Singh became animated. He said, ‘You should try that place – the Dirty Duck.'
Sarah said coldly, ‘I don't have much of an appetite.'
Singh did not seem to realise that he had been a trifle insensitive. He asked, ‘Who were these friends?'
‘It's mostly Australians out here, isn't it? It took us a while to meet people …'
Singh could see that Bronwyn was about to ask her what was wrong with Australians.
He said hurriedly, ‘I know exactly what you mean about Aussies. They're excruciatingly friendly.'
Sarah responded in an almost affable tone, ‘And love telling you about their personal lives.'
Singh stole a glance at Bronwyn and noticed that the tips of her ears were red but that she was focused on the widow's answers. That was good. A competent police officer always knew when to set aside personal feelings to concentrate on the information provided.
Singh asked again, ‘So who were these friends of yours?'
‘An English couple, the Greenwoods … and' – she smiled sheepishly – ‘an Australian pair, Karri and Tim Yardley.'
Singh made a quick motion with his hand, indicating that Bronwyn should take the details down.
‘Were they Richard's friends too?'
The widow hesitated. At last she said, ‘Yes, but perhaps more so mine.'
‘Did he have friends of his own?'
Sarah Crouch pressed her palms together. Singh noticed that her nails were colourless but well-maintained. He glanced down at his own hands. The nails were too long, the tips dark with grime that matched the fine hair between each joint. He rubbed them against his trousers.
Sarah's nostrils flared slightly, indicating her distaste at what she was going to say. ‘Richard was much less particular than I was …'
‘You disliked his buddies?'
The widow shrugged non-committally.
‘Does that mean that he would go out on his own with them?'
She admitted reluctantly, ‘Sometimes.'
‘Do you have their details?'
‘I'm afraid not.'
‘But they were Australian?'
‘No, that was just my particular prejudice. Richard had
made some friends amongst the locals.'
‘Really?'
‘Yes, most of the times he went out without me, it was on his scooter with the Indonesians.'
‘That's quite unusual,' said Bronwyn. ‘Very few expats fraternise with the Balinese.'
Sarah said, ‘Well – Richard was unusual. He spoke Bahasa Indonesia.'
‘How come?'
‘He spent a few years in Jakarta with his parents as a teenager. He was always very comfortable with … with “native” types, if you know what I mean.' She curled the index and middle finger of both hands to indicate inverted commas as she said ‘native'.
Singh had never actually seen anyone do that before. He decided he had reached his limit as far as Sarah Crouch's company was concerned.
He said abruptly, ‘Be at the police station in Denpasar tomorrow. We will continue this interview then.'
On the way out, Singh stopped at Wayan's desk. There was a young woman manning it and he asked, ‘Where's Wayan?'
‘He has gone home, sir.'
‘Where's home?'
Her delicate Balinese features creased worriedly. She asked, ‘Why do you need him? I know you are police.'
‘Why do you care?' asked Singh.
‘He's my brother.'
‘Excellent,' remarked Singh. ‘Then you can take us to him.'
‘I have to work,' she pleaded. ‘It is my shift.'
Singh stood his ground, his bulk making him physically intimidating. He gave the impression that he could stand
around and wait indefinitely. The receptionist looked terrified.
He said with feigned sympathy, ‘I'm sure the boss will understand. As you said – we are the police.'
She rode a small scooter, her long hair streaming behind her. They followed her in Nyoman's Kijang.
Singh asked curiously, ‘Why are the Balinese so docile?'
‘What do you mean?'
‘They seem to cave in to authority immediately.'
‘Maybe you frightened the poor kid?'
Singh grinned. ‘You could be right – but compare and contrast Sarah Crouch and that young lady. I wouldn't put it past the widow not to turn up tomorrow. That girl' – he nodded at Wayan's sister – ‘is prepared to lead the cops straight to her brother.'
‘I guess most Balinese rely on some aspect of the tourist trade for a livelihood. Maybe they've learnt the hard way that disagreeing with foreigners could cost them their jobs.'
Singh rubbed his beard between thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. ‘It's more than that – it's like an institutional bias in favour of authority.'
‘It's a hierarchical society. Historically, the Balinese have been ruled by kings and sultans. And there's quite a strong caste system – the Brahmins dominate the priesthoods. I suppose you could say that they have respect for authority woven into the very fabric of society.'
‘That's the way I like it,' said Singh comfortably.
And when Bronwyn did not respond, he added, ‘You sure know a lot about Bali!'
Bronwyn realised that despite her purported knowledge of Bali, she had never visited the home of an ‘ordinary' Balinese. Her forays had been limited to the temples and the shops.
They were driving through a small village. The road, off the beaten tourist track, was stony and full of potholes. The Kijang rode the surface like a boat on a stormy sea. There were small piles of rubbish, the standard third world fare of plastic bags, bottles and leaves, at regular intervals. Someone had swept the detritus of village life into neat heaps but it had not yet been collected by any garbage collection agency, assuming there was such a thing.
A cowering stray dog with huge distended teats and patchy fur was frantically scratching a flea-ridden ear. Children in bare feet and outsized T-shirts happily played in the dust and sand. Their mothers hung clothes out to dry. Young men hung around in small groups smoking
kreteks
.
Wayan's home was tiny. Despite its humble size, the typical elements of Balinese architecture, red brick and grey
cement walls, were visible. The garden was a square lush patch of grass with an altar built at the highest point of a stone pyramid. The small structure at the top, with its thatched straw roof and wooden pillars, reminded Bronwyn of an elaborate birdhouse. Incense was burning and Bronwyn sniffed appreciatively. It tempered the smell of fermented mangoes. A tree next to the house was so laden with golden fruit that much of it had been left to fall to the ground and rot.
Wayan's sister rode her motorbike into the midst of rapidly scattering chickens. She jumped off and ran indoors without a backward glance, scurrying in to warn her brother that she had the police in tow.
Their reception from Wayan was the height of hospitality. He ushered them in and invited them to sit down on an eclectic selection of chairs that appeared to have been pilfered from an assortment of Bali hotels. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with whole coconuts, a hole neatly knocked in one end.
Bronwyn thanked Wayan, sipped her drink through a straw and wondered when they would turn the visit away from social courtesy to police business.
For some reason that she could not fathom – what about the fat man
did
she comprehend, she wondered – Singh seemed happy to make small talk.
Wayan's sister was perched on a small wooden stool. She rocked back and forth, distrusting the peaceful social scene before her. She had led the police back to her brother. It was unlikely that it had been for a chat about the weather or the health-giving properties of coconut water.
It was Wayan who brought up the reason for their visit. Unable to carry on in the role of unsuspecting host, he asked, ‘You want to talk about Mr and Mrs Crouch, yes?'
‘Why do you say that?' asked Singh.
Wayan was genuinely surprised. ‘But otherwise why would you come to my house?' His raised eyebrows compressed the acne on his forehead.
Singh stopped beating around the bush. He said abruptly, ‘Tell us all you know about them.'
‘I told you everything already,' protested Wayan.
‘You told us they were not happy. What gave you that impression?'
‘I don't understand what you mean,
Pak
.'
‘How did you know they were not happy?'
Wayan's face lightened. ‘If you work in the hotel you always know about guests staying in the villas,' he explained. ‘She read the book in the patio, he stay in the room. Or she is in the room and he go out with friends. When they eat together, they not talk. They just look at the food …' Wayan trailed off.
‘What is it? What else do you know?' asked Singh sharply.
Wayan looked mischievous. ‘They do not sleep in the same bed.'
‘How could you know that?'
‘Their suite got two rooms, two beds – both are messy in the morning.'
Singh clapped his hands together and said, ‘That is good work. You should be a policeman, Wayan.' He continued, glancing over at Bronwyn, ‘Not much marital bliss in the Crouch household.'
She replied tartly, ‘It doesn't prove that she had anything to do with his death. I just can't picture a scenario where she shot her husband and left the body at the Sari Club.'
Singh sighed. ‘It's a bit far-fetched. What if Crouch had a bit on the side and she followed him? She might have done it if she saw them together at the Club?'
‘Then why isn't she dead? And where would she have got the gun?'
Singh said, ‘We need to get back to Kuta and have a look at the Sari Club – try and get the floor plans. She might have shot him in the bog or in the bushes and had a bit of time to get away.'
He turned to Wayan. ‘Did Crouch have a girlfriend?'
Wayan said, ‘I do not know,
Pak
.'
‘You never saw him with another woman?'
‘No,
Pak
.'
‘He wouldn't have flaunted a girlfriend around the villa,' pointed out Bronwyn.
Singh rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘That's true, of course. Wayan, you mentioned Crouch had friends – who were they?'
‘You mean the white people they used to meet sometimes? '
‘No, those people were friendly with Mrs Crouch. She said that he had other Balinese friends that she didn't like.'
‘I do not know them. But I have seen them around Ubud.'
This time even Bronwyn sensed that there was something Wayan was holding back.
Singh asked abruptly, ‘What was it about Crouch's friends you didn't like, Wayan?'
He stared down at his feet. ‘Why should I not like them?'
‘That's what we're wondering.'
‘It is nothing,
Pak
,' Wayan said reluctantly. ‘Only his friends were
not
Balinese.'
‘Not Balinese?' Singh was surprised. ‘But I thought both you and the wife agreed that Richard Crouch didn't hang around with expats that much?'
‘That's right,' agreed Wayan.
‘Then what
do
you mean?' Singh was fed up.
Bronwyn suppressed a grin. The Balinese could smile and talk and appear to co-operate without actually saying anything if they set their minds to it.
‘His friends were Indonesian, but not Balinese. They were mostly Javanese, I think.'
Bronwyn, unlike Singh, understood immediately. She told the inspector, ‘There's a lot of resentment amongst the Balinese about the influx of Moslem Indonesians from the rest of the country. The Balinese are extremely protective of their Hindu ancestry and culture.'
‘Is that so, Wayan?' asked Singh. ‘Do you dislike the newcomers?'
Wayan was embarrassed but defiant. ‘They take jobs from Balinese, sir. They work in construction and they run
warungs
. Also, they are all Moslem and we Balinese are Hindu. It is very important that we are a Hindu island – if too many Moslems come, there will be more mosques than temples!'
There was a silence as Singh and Bronwyn digested the information.
Wayan added defensively, ‘And now you see what the Moslems have done to Bali? It is they who do the bombings. Now all of Bali suffers.'
 
‘I want a divorce.'
‘What?'
‘You heard me …'
Tim Yardley watched his wife carefully. She seemed genuinely shocked, her finely plucked eyebrows, redrawn with a dark pencil, were arched. The pupils of her grey-green eyes had grown large in the evening light.
‘I don't believe you – you're just upset.'
Tim sighed. He had been reluctant to take this step
without consulting Sarah Crouch. But it had been impossible to reach her. She was lost in an emotional maze of her own. And he could not help her, be there for her, until he was free of this woman staring at him, an expression of bemusement on her face. His gaze was drawn to the streaks of white across the orange sky, jets flying over and leaving their poisonous trail. The setting sun was behind a huge embankment of cumulus clouds but golden rays were pouring through the gaps like a benediction. Tim felt confident of his decision. He would not change his mind.
‘Stop staring into the distance and tell me what this is about!'
He turned back to Karri, noting the long-suffering tone she had adopted. She was still not taking him seriously, convinced that this was some minor rebellion that would soon recede.
‘I want a divorce because I can't carry on like this – you treat me like dirt, you sleep with other men. You've destroyed our marriage – almost destroyed me. I want … I need a last chance to look for some happiness.'
He saw that he had annoyed her. The scarlet tips of her long fingers were pressed together as she tried to keep her temper.
When she spoke, her tone was scornful. ‘What is this – some sort of mid-life crisis? You don't have the courage to make it on your own. That's the only reason you've hung around making a fool of yourself – letting me make a fool of you – all these years.'
Tim was stung into a response. He said, ‘Maybe I won't have to make it on my own!'
Karri laughed, a genuine guffaw of amusement at the idea that her overweight spouse with his careful comb-over would have a substitute in the wings.
Her husband came to the painful realisation that he actually hated the woman standing a couple of feet away from him on a dusty Bali street. The gulf between them was a chasm with his shattered hopes and dreams scattered across the bottom.
He said again, trying to inject firmness into his voice, make her understand that he meant what he was saying, ‘I want a divorce.'
 
Legian Road had reopened to pedestrian traffic.
Singh and Bronwyn walked down the narrow street. It was late evening and they had just returned from Ubud. It was Bronwyn who had suggested they make a detour to the bomb site. They stared at the destruction in shock – even the usually garrulous policewoman was stunned into silence. Buildings up and down the street had had their windows blown out. All that were left were jagged shards of glass forming the sharp teeth around square open jaws. There were burnt-out vehicle wrecks along the road.
The debris-strewn thoroughfare was lined with pieces of white cloth on which people – passers-by, relatives of the dead, Balinese mourners and tourists – had left messages. There were flowers and wreaths, some old, some freshly laid, their bright colours discordant against the blackened background. As the two approached the site, the piles of flowers grew higher until there were small mountains of blossoms commemorating the dead.
In the immediate vicinity of the bombs, there were photos of victims stuck to makeshift memorial pillars. Some had been placed there as tokens of remembrance, but many were frantic entreaties from relatives asking if anyone knew the whereabouts of the persons in the photo – they had been missing since the bombings.
As they reached the entrance of what had once been the Sari Club, opposite the road from Paddy's Bar, they could see the huge bomb crater, a few feet deep, right in front of what was left of the building – heaps of rubble, a few concrete stumps and melted, twisted metal pieces. It was impossible to guess the provenance of the metal without expert forensic help.
The policemen toting machine guns in front of the shell of the Sari Club were unimpressed with their identity cards. It was only when a senior AFP member walked past and was hailed by Bronwyn that the guards were persuaded to let them in.
‘Just make sure you don't touch or take anything,' said the AFP man.
‘Of course not,' said Singh. ‘But haven't you finished the site examination?'
‘Yes, but there's so much information to sift through – so many samples to examine. We're just concerned that we might have to scrape up more evidence with a teaspoon if they find anything odd.'
Singh nodded. Looking around at the destruction, it was impossible to know where the clues, if any, could be hiding.
‘Do you know how it happened?' asked Singh, his voice subdued.
‘As far as we can piece together,' the AFP officer told them, ‘a suicide bomber detonated a bomb inside Paddy's Bar. As the crowds ran down the street, a van drew up in front of the Sari Club. The vehicle exploded. It killed visitors to the Club – and some of those escaping the chaos at Paddy's.'
Singh was standing at the edge of the crater, peering in.
He said, ‘There wasn't much left of Richard Crouch. He must have been pretty close to the eye of the storm. Anyone around him could've been killed too.'
Bronwyn asked, raising one eyebrow, ‘That means the killer was likely one of the victims?'

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