He stayed on the main road. Telegraph poles festooned with wires measured out his journey until he was past Seminyak with its upmarket boutiques and restaurants. He turned onto a dirt track a few miles after the Oberoi junction. He followed a path flanked by paddy fields, weaving between fetid puddles. After a few minutes, he reached his destination. A collection of motorcycles, dusty from their journey, rested beside scrubby trees. He could hear raucous shouts interspersed with whistles and cheers. He made his way to a little dip in the terrain.
Julian felt the blood pump through his veins like a highpowered hose. He squeezed between the hordes of sweating, screaming men. The scent of hundreds of clove cigarettes made him feel lightheaded. This was the Bali he loved. Not the smooth servile surface but these sudden outbursts of energy and passion that sprung through the cracks of society like bubbling geysers. A female vendor tried to sell him a snack but he shook his head impatiently. He was not there to eat.
The arena was circular and surrounded by a low woven temporary fence. Two cocks were held at separate ends of the enclosure. One was red and white and the other speckled green and black, both with long plumes for tails and flared ruffs. Their owners had tied on the taji, a small steel dagger about four inches long, to the legs of their respective fighting birds. They were priming the birds for the fight now, ruffling their feathers, plucking their combs and kneading their muscles. The crowd was almost hysterical, shouting out their favourites, taking side bets by gesticulating across the crowded arena and offering odds.
Julian felt in his shirt pocket and pulled out a ten thousand rupiah note that he had stolen from his wife’s handbag. He had not dared take more in case she noticed. He took a deep breath and jumped into the fray.
The handlers released the cocks which charged at each other with single-minded fury. They attacked in a flurry of feathers and flying claws, trying hard to slash at the opposing bird with their spurs, enhanced by the vicious taji. In a few seconds, one of the birds was injured, the blood splashing onto the sandy pitch, its white feathers turning red. The referee blew his whistle and the handlers dashed in to separate the birds. The owner of the injured bird looked at the referee and shook his head. The cock would not fight again. He put the bird in a portable woven basket of green leaves and slung the long string handle over his shoulder. His day was over, his cock defeated in its first fight.
There was an exchange of bundles of notes from hand to hand. Small wads of cash were tossed across crowds to the winners. Julian had doubled his money and a slow smile spread across his face. Maybe his luck was turning.
A hand reached out and snatched the grimy notes from his unsuspecting fingers. He whirled around angrily but stopped short when he saw who it was.
The Balinese man, his unbuttoned shirt exposing a hairless chest, said, ‘Very good, I also backed the buik, the green and black cock. Now you owe me two million rupiah less this,’ and he waved Julian’s winnings under his long nose.
Julian thrust out his chin, trying to look confident. He said, ‘I will get you the money soon.’
The Balinese smiled, exposing the large gap between his two front teeth. ‘Better you do that – you have only one more week.’
The first few pages consisted of the forensic dental investigation that had identified the deceased as Richard Crouch. Singh noted that the dental records provided were from England. That meant that the records were reliable and also that Crouch was probably English. He would confirm that with the wife later in the day.
A photograph slipped out of the file into Singh’s ample lap. He picked it up and gazed at the smiling young man leaning against a car, light brown hair curling around his collar, scraggy beard a couple of shades darker. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans frayed at the knees. His arms were crossed in front of him. There was a date in the corner. The photo had been taken almost two years ago. Singh wondered why the wife had not provided something more recent. They were in Bali. Surely they must have taken some shots?
There was not much else in the folder. DNA test results confirmed that the various remains belonged to one and the same person. Photos of the charred body parts, taken individually next to a ruler, gave a sense of their dimensions. Singh noticed the long femur – the young man had been tall.
He gazed at the pictures side by side – one of vibrant life, the other of blackened remnants – then slumped back in his chair.
Bronwyn Taylor’s voice, foghorn loud, interrupted his contemplation.
She said, ‘Geez. I thought you’d given up the evil weed?’
Singh sucked in a lungful of nictotine and decided he really disliked hefty women with fleshy arms and large thighs in badly cut trousers. He noted the silhouette of her overhanging tummy against the soft cotton T-shirt she was wearing. The top was at least two sizes too small. He realised shamefacedly, looking down at his own large gut, that his mental rant constituted a good description of himself. He decided he needed a good kick on his generous posterior for agreeing to have this woman on his team. He preferred the people who worked for him to be timid, quiet and competent. Bronwyn’s bouncy exuberance made him feel like lying down in a dark room with a wet towel over his eyes.
Singh tried to remember how he had got entangled with Taylor in the first place. When he had arrived in Bali he had reported to the joint Balinese – Australian investigative team. Once it had become apparent that he had no useful skills, he had been fobbed off on Taylor. Singh had suspected at the time that Bronwyn had annoyed her superiors. Why else would they waste manpower providing him with an escort?
He stood up and became conscious that he was in bare feet with his socks in his hands. He felt as undressed as the man in the g-string on the beach.
Bronwyn Taylor, her volume only slightly adjusted for proximity, said, ‘Been for a walk on the beach, eh? I’ve been out too – swum for miles, lovely sea this morning. You should try it – although I can’t imagine you in a pair of budgie smugglers!’ She grinned. ‘Or maybe I can!’
Taking Singh’s horrified silence in her stride, she poked him in the stomach with a long fleshy finger, reddened around the knuckles as if she had been in a fistfight. She said, ‘I’m sorry to say it doesn’t look like you get much exercise, mate!’
Singh sat down and pulled on his sandy socks, his cigarette clenched between small, brown-stained teeth. He put on his white sneakers and tied the laces in a double knot.
Bronwyn Taylor asked, ‘Have you finished with the file yet? I’m keen to have a look when you’re done. Today, I hope!’
Singh took a deep breath. He was not surprised that her superiors had sidelined this woman from the main terrorist investigation. He slid the folder across the table.
She sat down heavily on a cushioned wicker chair and started flicking through, stopping as he had done to look at the picture of the laughing young man. Singh saw her round shoulders sag and guessed she was feeling the same pity he had felt for Richard Crouch, a vital young man reduced to fragments.
As he pondered the woman in front of him, he sensed she had ceased to concentrate on the contents of the file and was instead contemplating something unrelated. It caused her high forehead to furrow. The neat, parallel worry lines reminded him of the tractor trail he had seen that morning on the beach.
She looked up and held his gaze with her mild blue eyes. ‘I have no experience,’ she said.
‘Experience of what?’
‘Murder!’
‘Well, that’s a good thing.’
She gave him a small smile but her heart wasn’t in it. She said, ‘I have no experience of murder investigations.’
‘I have plenty,’ remarked Singh.
Bronwyn Taylor snapped, ‘I realise that. My point is that I’m not sure I’m going to be of much use.’
‘That’s probably true,’ Singh agreed cheerfully.
‘So, if you want me off the case, I’ll understand.’
‘We haven’t started yet and you’re pulling out?’
‘Where?’
‘What do you mean, where?’
‘Where, in Bali, with every policeman on the island hunting terrorists, am I going to find a more able assistant?’
Bronwyn didn’t say anything.
Singh asked suddenly, ‘What are you doing here anyway?’
She sighed and tugged at an earlobe. ‘I was supposed to help with communications. I speak Bahasa Indonesia and I volunteered to come out.’
‘That doesn’t explain why you were assigned to look after me …’
‘One of the first questions I was asked by reporters was whether the Australian government should have done more to warn citizens to stay away.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘That there had been background terrorist chatter about targeting Australians … and specific mention of Bali.’
Singh stared at the woman half in admiration, half in shock.
‘Didn’t you realise how politically sensitive that would be?’
‘I guess not. I was told to be honest – that it would keep everyone from flying off the handle. They didn’t realise I had access to some of the high-level briefing memos.’
‘I’m amazed you weren’t put on the first flight back!’
‘They didn’t want to turn it into a bigger story – you know, “brave policewoman who speaks the truth sent home in disgrace” headlines. So they gave me the job of squiring you about instead.’
‘And you didn’t kick up a fuss?’
‘I didn’t want to become part of the story – use up resources at the expense of the families.’
Singh nodded. He could understand that.
Bronwyn dimpled. ‘But when this is over and I’m back in Oz – well, I might decide to talk about some of the things I saw and heard!’
‘But now,’ said Singh, ‘we have a murder to solve.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
The policeman from Singapore nodded. Anyone who was courageous or foolhardy enough to shine a bright light on secretive government activities deserved a bit of support. After all, he was from Singapore – no one knew better than him the heavy hand of the state.
Five
Bronwyn selected a taxi, negotiated the price of the trip like a housewife on a tight budget, and waved Singh over with an imperious hand. He was standing under the tenuous shade of a frangipani tree, inhaling the spicy scent of its white flowers and regretting his impulse to involve Bronwyn in the case. She was not even going to allow him the choice of transport. Her inability to knuckle down in the face of authority was going to be a real pain. At her summons, however, he lumbered docilely over, walking around exposed manholes and stepping over uncovered drains. Singh wondered for a moment whether anyone in Bali ever walked in a straight line from point to point. He narrowly avoided stepping on a small offering, a square receptacle made of coconut leaves with flowers and a biscuit perched on it – Bali streets were littered with them – and clambered into the back seat of the Kijang.
As usual, despite its appearance of superfluous size, the inside was cramped. Singh’s knees were bunched up uncomfortably. Bronwyn climbed in next to him and the vehicle became claustrophobic. Singh felt around for his seatbelt, found the strap and discovered that there was no receptacle for the buckle.
He leaned forward, tapped the driver on the shoulder and said, ‘No seatbelt?’
The man giggled. ‘Buckle broken already!’
Singh noticed that the driver was not wearing a seatbelt either although his appeared to be fully functioning. He scowled at Bronwyn. He didn’t approve of chauffeurs who did not treat personal safety and the safety of their passengers as a first priority.
He asked, ‘So how long will it take to get to Ubud?’
‘About one hour …’
‘I don’t understand why Crouch’s widow had to go and park herself in the middle of bloody nowhere,’ grumbled Singh.
Bronwyn said, ‘You’ll like Ubud.’ She leaned back against the imitation leather seat, slipped on a pair of enormous black shades, rested her head against the car door and shut her eyes.
The driver revved his engine. Singh gestured with a full, flat palm for him to stop. He got out of the car, walked around and hauled himself into the front passenger seat. The seatbelt was functioning and he put it on with a pleased look.
The driver looked at him inquiringly and Singh explained, ‘I want to see some of Bali.’
The driver nodded enthusiastically. His big grin emphasised the surgical scar of a repaired cleft upper lip. He said, ‘My name is Nyoman. Where are you from?’
Singh ground his teeth.
Bronwyn said hurriedly, ‘I’m Australian and he’s from Singapore.’
Nyoman said, ‘I will show you everything. You want to stop to buy presents, yes – for your beautiful wife?’ He jerked his head at Bronwyn. ‘You tell me, ya. Then I stop the car for you.’
Singh said heavily, ‘She is not my wife.’
Nyoman nodded, his enthusiasm undiminished. ‘Yes – OK – we buy gift for your girlfriend. Bali has lot of beautiful things.’
Singh grunted and pulled out a map.
‘It doesn’t look far but it takes so long to get there?’ he asked.
‘Yes, boss. It is very busy road. Lots of handicrafts. Many tourists – except now not so many because of the bombs.’
If it wasn’t for the breakneck speed and the close shaves with chickens, dogs, children and motorbikes, Singh would have been completely absorbed in the view. Instead, his right thigh muscle began to spasm from his instinctive, imaginary braking.
Outside Denpasar, stone statues lined the roads like petrified armies. There were multi-armed Hindu deities, Balinese mythological figures with goggle-eyes and curling tongues, placid, plump Buddhas and modern statuary, including, to Singh’s amazement, a life-size garden gnome.
As he stared out of the window, Nyoman said, ‘This is Batubulan village. Here many people do the stone carving.’
‘You don’t say,’ murmured Singh.
‘The statues are carved from compacted volcanic ash – they call it paras,’ said Bronwyn from the back.
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘Too much hooting and tooting,’ she said wryly, pushing her sunglasses back onto her hair and revealing grey roots along her hairline.
‘So, the statues aren’t really stone?’
‘No, paras decays in a human lifetime. Each generation has to rebuild them in the temples and courtyards. It keeps the village carving traditions alive – some of these skills date back hundreds of years.’
Singh raised an eyebrow. ‘I just saw a Mickey Mouse.’
Bronwyn grinned. ‘Occasionally they cater for tasteless Westerners.’
Nyoman said, ‘You want Mickey Mouse? My cousin in the village is very good carver. Can do any size that you like. I take you there, OK?’
Singh said, ‘No thanks.’
The next village was a mere two miles away. The road between Batubulan and Celuk was packed with shops selling gold and silver jewellery.
Nyoman whispered, ‘You want to buy something for your girlfriend, yes? I can get you very good price in Celuk.’
‘She is not my wife and she’s not my girlfriend. She’s a colleague,’ said Singh categorically.
Nyoman’s face fell. But then he brightened up again. ‘Maybe you take home present for your wife?’
Singh tried to remember if he had ever taken a gift back from any of his travels. His wife would disdain silver but she would love gold. As a traditional Indian woman she viewed gold both as a decorative item and as an investment for a rainy day. She had ropes of gold squirrelled away which she trotted out from time to time to wear at weddings.
Singh smiled. If he was to stop and buy her something, she would assume he was having an affair. She would never believe that a persuasive Balinese cab driver and a charm
ing village had convinced him to break a habit of a lifetime.
He shook his head at Nyoman. ‘Drive on,’ he said firmly.
The next village, Nyoman told them, was Sukawati.
‘And what do they make there?’ asked Singh, an edge of sarcasm to his voice.
‘Not so much,’ said Nyoman. ‘It has many temples. It was part of great kingdom. Many famous dalang are here.’
‘Dalang?’
‘The shadow puppet masters,’ explained Nyoman.
Bronwyn said, ‘It’s quite remarkable actually. They use the puppets to cast shadows on a screen. The dalang tells a story, operates the puppets, sings and plays musical instruments – all at the same time. Remarkable multi-tasking for a mere man.’
‘How come you know so much about Bali?’
‘I was here for a holiday a few years back. I’ve always been interested in Indonesia. I did Indonesian studies at university and learnt the language.’
Nyoman piped up, ‘The dalang tells a story of good and evil. Evil always loses but can never be destroyed.’
Singh thought about the case for the first time on the drive. He had consciously avoided dwelling on it. The prospect of having to tell the widow that the body of her husband had been identified was bad enough. He would also have to break it to her that her husband had been murdered by someone other than the terrorists while keeping an open mind about the possibility that she was responsible for his death. Even for a detective as experienced as him, it was a fine line to walk.
Singh said heavily, ‘Well, let’s hope life imitates art.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bronwyn.
‘That good triumphs over evil.’
Nyoman, latching on to Singh’s reference to art, said excitedly, ‘You want art? Next village is Batuan. Very famous Balinese artists are there!’
Singh stared out of the window. Sure enough, the narrow trunk road was now lined with little glass-fronted art galleries. There was an almost infinite variety of artistic styles; black and white ink drawings, traditional paintings featuring daily life in the paddy fields as well as complex depictions from the Indian epic Ramayana with gods and demons battling for supremacy.
A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul Page 5