A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul

by Shamini Flint

  ‘So they weren’t happy?’

  ‘Always at the opposite ends of the bar to each other … Tim Yardley was the one hanging around Sarah Crouch – like a mutt hoping for a pat.’

  ‘Sarah Crouch did what?’ exclaimed Singh.

  They were back at the police station after a long lunch and Sergeant Agus was reporting his findings.

  ‘Like I told you, sir,’ said the policeman patiently. ‘I followed the woman with yellow hair from her villa in Ubud – she took a taxi to Kuta beach and met a young man there.’

  ‘Did you get his name?’

  ‘She called him Greg. I did not hear any other name but I have identified the budget motel where he is staying – opposite Kuta beach. Usually, the surfers stay there.’

  Singh settled into thoughtful silence.

  It was Bronwyn’s turn to ask, ‘Are you sure they were having some sort of relationship?’

  Agus blushed. He did not meet Bronwyn’s eyes when answering, ‘Yes, Ibu. She … she, er, kissed him when they met on the beach … on the mouth.’

  Bronwyn too relapsed into silence.

  Singh said, ‘I knew the good wife was behaving a bit odd but I never suspected a boyfriend. It’s a great motive.’

  ‘It doesn’t explain how her husband’s body got mixed up with the bombing,’ pointed out Bronwyn.

  ‘No,’ agreed Singh. ‘But nothing explains that! I’m going to catch myself a murderer and then ask him or her how come they dumped the body there.’

  ‘Actually, I have a theory about that,’ said Bronwyn diffidently.

  Singh looked at her expectantly, eyebrows raised into semi-circles.

  ‘Maybe Richard Crouch’s body wasn’t at the Sari Club.’

  Singh’s eyebrows flattened into a straight line.

  Bronwyn continued hurriedly, ‘Not at the club or on the street – the body could have been in a car. Maybe in a boot?’

  Singh opened his mouth to say something, probably something rude, thought Bronwyn, closed it again and looked at her. He bit his pink bottom lip, and said, ‘Do you know – you might be right! That would explain a few things, certainly.’

  ‘But not who killed him,’ said Bronwyn flatly.

  ‘No, not who killed him,’ agreed Singh. ‘But at least now we have a suspect with a tried and tested motive.’

  ‘Even if Sarah wanted to run off with her surfer dude, why didn’t she get a divorce like everybody else?’

  Singh said, ‘You’re thinking rationally. In my experience, people who are thwarted in love can be pretty erratic in their behaviour. Crouch might have refused her a divorce. Maybe she needed money – we need to check his financial situation. Did his death benefit her greatly?’

  ‘Or maybe,’ interrupted Bronwyn, ‘surfer boy got impatient and decided the quickest way to get the girl was to get rid of the competition.’

  ‘I find it very hard to believe that anyone killed Crouch in order to get that nasty, thin-lipped, dried-up stick of a woman.’

  Bronwyn scowled. ‘Maybe he didn’t judge by appearances.’

  Singh chuckled. ‘That’s not how it works in real life – especially amongst twenty-something Aussie surfers. You should know that!’

  He turned to Agus, the policeman who was waiting politely, listening to the exchange between the Sikh and the woman with interest.

  He asked, ‘Did Greg seem as keen on her as she was on him?’

  Agus’s plain, square face betrayed his confusion. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  Singh’s foot, in its white sneaker, beat a silent but impatient tattoo on the ground. Bronwyn wondered whether she dared suggest tap shoes for the policeman from Singapore. She decided against it.

  Singh asked, ‘Who likes the other more – the girl or the man?’

  The policeman’s face cleared. ‘The girl likes the surfer, sir.’

  ‘But not the other way round?’

  ‘Well – maybe he likes her a bit. But he is not very excited when she says they can be together.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ crowed Singh. ‘Surfer boy is not in it for love.’

  Bronwyn asked the Balinese policeman, ‘Did she realise he was not that interested?’

  The man shook his head. ‘No, Ibu. I could see his face. She couldn’t because they were, you know’ – he held out his hands in an arc – ‘hugging each other.’

  ‘Surfer boy is not in it for love but he’s hiding his lack of interest from the girl. Hmm, I sense cash!’ said Singh gleefully. ‘Bronwyn, check the money situation – they should have found out a bit about Richard Crouch at Scotland Yard by now.’

  Bronwyn said doubtfully, scratching her head with both hands, ‘They weren’t staying at an especially nice place in Ubud.’

  ‘Yes, but what counts as being enough money for murder varies from person to person. For our young surfer hero, there might have been enough.’

  Bronwyn got to her feet. She said over her shoulder, ‘Give me a moment. I’ll see if anything has come in from the UK.’

  The Balinese policeman cleared his throat and said, ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  Singh ignored him.

  Agus repeated the interjection a little louder this time and Singh stared at him in surprise.

  ‘Do you need me for anything else, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I will report back to my station?’

  Singh nodded brusquely and the policeman saluted sharply and turned to go.

  Singh said to his receding back, ‘We will call you if we need anything else.’

  The policeman did not turn but at the door he stopped and looked back into the room. He said, ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He walked down the corridor with a spring in his step and passed Bronwyn going the other way clutching a sheaf of papers. He grinned broadly. She looked at him in surprise but did not break stride. She suspected that no one on an errand for the fat policeman from Singapore stopped on the way for a friendly chat. She did not intend to be the first to test his patience by dawdling.

  Bronwyn marched into the room and held out her bundle to the inspector. He took it reluctantly and said, ‘What does it say?’

  ‘I just had a quick glance,’ explained Bronwyn, ‘but he seems to have been reasonably well off. There’s a flat in Brighton, some cash in the bank and an insurance policy for about ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘That’s enough to tempt someone to kill him,’ remarked Singh.

  ‘There’s no will, so the wife gets everything as next of kin. The UK police confirmed the story that he was an only child with no brothers or sisters. His parents died in a car crash in Spain.’

  Singh was leafing through a pile of papers with the Barclays logo on the top. ‘His current account is interesting,’ he said.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘There’s been money going in – US dollars.’ Singh ran his finger down the column. ‘Three batches of ten thousand each.’

  ‘So? He must have been paid for this work he does – as an engineer. I guess he was a consultant or something,’ said Bronwyn, revealing her blue-collar respect for the mysterious ways others made money.

  ‘But he withdrew that same amount of money, half of it in Jakarta and the other half here in Bali.’ Singh grabbed a highlighter, marked off the transactions and handed the record to Bronwyn.

  Her close-set eyes seemed to overlap in her concentration. ‘The Bali withdrawal was just a day before the bomb – so at least we know he was alive then.’

  Singh nodded. ‘Yes, that amount of money in a single withdrawal, he couldn’t have used his ATM card. He must have gone to the bank. We need to check on that. Maybe some stranger saw him leave the bank, followed him, shot him, stole the money, hid the body in some vehicle and left it on Jalan Legian.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Bronwyn absently. She was still staring hard at the statements. ‘There are withdrawals of lesser amounts, a few hundred dollars each, from ATMs in Bali right up until the day of the bombing.’ She turned
the page. ‘And beyond!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Singh barked the question, his compressed belly elongating as he sat up straighter.

  ‘The last withdrawal is just last week – the bombs were on the twelfth of October.’

  Singh dragged himself out of the chair and walked over to Bronwyn. He stared down at the paper in her hand. It was quite clear. Richard Crouch’s ATM card had been used after the Bali bombs.

  Bronwyn said, ‘We might not be able to pinpoint the earliest point that he could have been killed – but we know for a fact that the last point that he might have been alive was just after eleven at night on the twelfth.’

  ‘The dead man is like Hamlet’s ghost then. He walks until he is avenged. Very well.’ Singh slapped the table with both hands. ‘We will have to avenge the killing of Richard Crouch.’

  Bronwyn was silent. She had no idea what the Sikh policeman was talking about. Of a practical turn of mind with no literary pretensions, Bronwyn just wanted to know who had been using Crouch’s ATM card.

  Singh asked, ‘Do you think they have CCTV?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At the ATMs and banks, do you think they have CCTV?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bronwyn. She noticed Singh’s thick eyebrows inching towards each other in exasperation and added hurriedly, ‘I’ll check.’

  He nodded.

  At the door she stopped and looked back in, her pert nose wrinkling as if she had caught a sudden whiff of a clogged Bali drain.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Singh.

  ‘Are we any closer to finding out who done it?’

  The overweight policeman sucked in his breath and chuckled. ‘You’ve been watching too much TV,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid real life murder investigations are painstaking and time-consuming.’

  He added, swivelling his chair and planting two large feet in their white sneakers lazily on the table, ‘And require a lot of leg work …’

  An off-duty policeman on his motorcycle pulled over. He debated whether he could be bothered to act on what he had seen – he was done for the day, after all. He sighed and got off his scooter, wriggling to unstick the trousers from his crotch. He had been told to look out for a red motorbike with a big engine, at least 250cc, and here was one parked on the street. He could not just carry on as if he hadn’t seen it, notwithstanding that he was already late for the temple.

  The bike was innocuous enough. A nice model – a red Yamaha. He was not sure why the police had been told to keep an eye out for it but he knew better than to question his instructions. He was just there to follow orders. He took out his radio and walked further along the road. He needed instructions on what he was to do next.

  His radio crackled with static and he whispered his find.

  His instructions were simple. He was to maintain surveillance of the bike until he was relieved by another policeman. If the owner returned, he was to follow the bike to its destination.

  In half an hour, Sergeant Agus arrived, breathless but determined. He was delighted that he was being given a fresh role in the investigation. His surveillance of that woman Sarah Crouch had given Singh confidence that he, Agus, was up to the task. His chest puffed out proudly. He could have leapt in the air and kicked his heels together. Intead, he sent the off-duty policeman smartly on his way – he was in charge now – and sat down under an acacia tree. He pulled a small black comb out of his back pocket, spat on it and quickly ran it through his hair. Just because he was out of uniform did not mean he should not be a credit to the force at all times. Agus lit a clove cigarette and inhaled the heady spicy fragrance. It reminded him of sandalwood and curry. He settled down to wait for the owner of the bike to return.

  ‘They’ve found the red bike!’ Bronwyn was red-faced with excitement.

  ‘They’ve found a red bike,’ murmured Singh.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Bronwyn, refusing to have her enthusiasm dampened. ‘We’ve had our eyes peeled. There’s hardly a brightly-coloured big bike to be seen. If someone’s spotted a red bike with a powerful engine, it’s the one.’

  ‘Well, I certainly hope you’re right.’

  ‘Why aren’t you more excited? This could be a huge breakthrough. If we can trace Crouch’s friends, we’ll soon find out if he had any enemies, anyone who wanted him dead on this small island.’

  ‘Other than his wife and the surfer boyfriend, you mean? Not to mention that gang of washed-up expats lurking in Sanur. It’s possible they’ve found the bike. But you’ll forgive a cynical old murder hack if he can’t get excited about a “breakthrough” until something has come of it.’

  ‘You’re a grumpy old bastard, aren’t you?’ said Bronwyn affectionately.

  Singh ignored both the express insult and the implied fondness. He asked instead, ‘Is the wife here yet?’

  Bronwyn nodded. ‘In the small interview room. I thought she could wait there a while and wonder why we’re anxious to see her again – and at the police station to boot.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Singh. ‘I like the way you’re thinking. The best way to solve a murder is to keep the suspects off balance.’

  He hauled himself to his feet using the table edge for leverage and stood very still for a moment, waiting for a bout of dizziness to pass. It appeared that it wasn’t only the suspects who were off balance. He really needed to lose some weight.

  The inspector continued thoughtfully, ‘In fact, why don’t you send someone to pick surfer boy up. We should drag him in as she’s leaving – that’ll give her something to think about.’

  Bronwyn said, ‘Sure thing.’

  She hurried out of the room and the policeman wondered why anyone with such a large posterior would wear her shirts tucked in.

  Singh walked slowly towards the interview room, considering his tactics. He was not sure how to deal with someone like Sarah Crouch. She seemed so cold and in control. But if she was in love with some twenty-something beach bum, there was a lot going on beneath the surface. He had not been able to crack the façade – harsh questioning was not a sufficiently powerful tool. Sarah was like a high-stakes poker player. Calm, very aware of the cards she’d been dealt, and determined to play them to her advantage. And so far the luck was running with her. How else could one explain having her husband’s death conveniently entangled in the randomness of the Bali bombings? The threads of this investigation were snarled up in the Gordian knot of a terrorist attack.

  Singh knew that it would be very difficult to bring the murderer of Richard Crouch to justice. Even if he could be certain, in his own mind, that Sarah – or someone else for that matter – was the killer, he would struggle to prove the case in a court of law. There would be too much uncertainty over the forensics.

  The pathologist, Dr Barton, had been convinced that the body was that of Richard Crouch and that he had been shot. Singh believed him. But any good defence lawyer would raise the possibility that, in the midst of so much bloodshed, the chain of evidence had been contaminated.

  And what in the world would they have to say about the body being caught up in the blasts?

  He could just imagine a judge asking in that dry, sarcastic voice they all had – it seemed to be a prerequisite for the job – ‘Surely it’s more likely, Mr, er, um, Singh, that Richard Crouch was killed in the blast and that piece of skull you’ve been waving about so enthusiastically was holed by accident?’

  Singh heard heavy footsteps behind him and turned to wait for his Australian sidekick.

  She said, ‘I’ve asked Sergeant Agus to arrest Greg.’

  Singh grunted his approval and the two walked down the corridor in silence, both deep in thought about their anticipated encounter with Sarah Crouch. Bronwyn Taylor was half a head taller than the man by her side. She had a pointy head and he had a pointy turban. They were dressed alike, dark slacks and tucked-in white shirts. From behind, there was a similarity in their gait. It was the waddle of the overweight, thighs brushing together and arms sticking out. But there
was a sense of purpose to their big strides which trumped the element of comedy.

  They opened the interview room door without ceremony. Sarah, lost in her own thoughts, jumped. Singh noted the slight start with approval. She was on the back foot. That was the advantage of leaving suspects to cool their heels for a while. Typically, a suspect would sit on the edge of his or her seat, all keyed up for the encounter with the police. He did not doubt that the widow had done just that. After a while, he guessed, she would have become cross at being kept waiting. She might have paced the room, stopping from time to time to stare out of the small window pane in the door to see if anyone was coming. Eventually, she would have sat back down and whiled away the time, perhaps by imagining romantic evenings on the beach with her young surfer. That was the point for the police to barge in. He and Bronwyn seemed to have timed it to perfection.

  Sarah was too tense to stay silent. She asked immediately, her voice a few notes higher than usual with tension, ‘Why have you asked me to come here? Have you found out anything? I don’t like being treated like a criminal. I haven’t done anything!’

  ‘Treating you like a criminal, eh? You’ve led a sheltered life, my dear woman, if you think this is being treated like a criminal.’

  Inspector Singh seemed much struck by her observation because he went on in a thoughtful voice, ‘No, no, this is not it at all. Being treated like a criminal involves handcuffs, sometimes police sirens. What do you think, Bronwyn?’

  Bronwyn opened her mouth and closed it again.

  Singh ignored her inability to contribute to his discourse and continued to muse, ‘And, of course, there would be thumbprints, photographs and holding cells with the Bali criminal fraternity. No, I don’t think we would class this as treating you like a criminal.’

  Sarah said sullenly, ‘I think you’re mad.’

  Singh noted Bronwyn’s guilty expression. She was probably in agreement with the widow. He wished for a moment that it was his sidekick who was suspected of a crime. Her face was a mirror to her thoughts unlike the tiresomely impassive mien of Sarah Crouch.