A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul

by Shamini Flint

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ said Abu Bakr doubtfully. ‘But he seems to have done his job well. The bombs exploded. That is all you can ask of a bomb-maker.’

  Ramzi was enjoying speculating. ‘Or perhaps it was the wife …’

  ‘There was a wife?’ asked Ghani in surprise.

  The others nodded.

  ‘He brought her for cover. So that it would look like he was just another expatriate in Bali. But she was not a Moslem,’ explained Abu Bakr.

  Ghani said rudely, ‘Oh? Then it was probably her!’

  Tim Yardley was chewing on his fingernails. The television in the small villa was on. He stared at the screen. He was mesmerised by the black and white film – it was a tale of courage and loyalty, love and sacrifice. The hero was large and broad-shouldered, with a crooked grin. The woman was pretty and feisty – and devoted to her man. Was it only on television that happy endings were possible, he wondered. Or perhaps events only ended well for those who were tall and good looking with the bodies of athletes.

  He had married Karri hastily. He acknowledged that to himself. He had not known her well enough – not known her at all, really – before he had begged her to be his wife. It had seemed like such a bold, grand gesture – sweeping the girl off her feet – just like in the movies.

  The television cowboy was riding off into the sunset, the girl perched sidesaddle in front of him with his muscular arm around her waist. Perhaps they got home, got married and it turned out he had wed a harpy with a cruel tongue. Maybe that was why the old films hardly ever had sequels.

  He had made a mistake with Karri – but he had been convinced that life was giving him a second chance. He remembered meeting Sarah for the first time. His first thought was that he liked the way she wore her hair. The sleek blonde bob was so restrained and dignified compared to his wife’s wild efforts. He had admired the quiet way she spoke, her natural poise. He had felt sympathy and fellow feeling as it became obvious that all was not well in the Crouch marriage. Richard and Sarah were distant from each other, the failure of their relationship manifested in coldness rather than cruelty. He had thought Richard a fool for failing to appreciate his wife.

  But he would never have thought he had a chance with her – would never have had the courage or the ego to believe that she had an interest in him – if Sarah had not dropped a hundred subtle hints. Their movie was playing in his head now, a silent reel of quiet smiles and brushing hands. Eventually, she had started confiding in him, telling him how she longed for her freedom, for a fresh start with a good man who would treat her with kindness and consideration. She would look at him from under her eyelashes when she said this, just like that woman in the film. Perhaps he should have realised that it was all just acting – men like him never got the girl. He had asked her why she did not divorce Richard. A single tear had coursed down her cheek – Richard wouldn’t give her a divorce – he was determined to punish her for wanting to leave him. She was becoming afraid of him – he was behaving more and more peculiarly – unbalanced even – never in public, of course.

  Tim was only too willing to believe her – she wanted an ordinary loving man, one just like him – but she also needed a hero, and perhaps he could be that man too.

  He had never told her, but he had confronted Richard. It was the morning of the bombings. In many ways, for him, the blasts had just been the exclamation mark at the end of that day.

  He remembered that Richard had turned and waited when he had called to him from further down the street. His expression had been courteous but mildly impatient. Tim had found it almost impossible to begin. It was only when Richard had said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ that he blurted out, ‘I want to talk about Sarah!’

  Crouch had looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Yes – why won’t you give her a divorce? She’s desperately unhappy with you!’

  Crouch shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea what my wife has been telling you – but I wouldn’t rely on it too much.’

  ‘You’ll give her a divorce?’

  ‘No.’

  Richard had turned and walked away.

  Tim the hero had stumbled after him, determined to say his piece, to get his concerns off his chest, to protect Sarah.

  Yardley got to his feet and walked slowly to a mirror. A rheumy-eyed man, his belly pushing the elastic band of his shorts to the limit and flabby arms exposed in a cheap cotton singlet, stared back at him.

  His mind flew to the image he had been avoiding all day – of the young man with the brawny tanned arms – just like the guy on television – and sunkissed hair, propping himself up on one elbow and staring intently through the prison bars with bright blue eyes.

  Tim closed his hand into a fist and slammed it against the glass. Shards fell to the ground like knives. Blood from his knuckles trickled down his hand and dripped onto the broken mirror.

  Ghani went in to confront his wife. He needed to know what was going on. How had she known that Richard Crouch was Abdullah?

  She was lying on the bed, her back to the door – and to him.

  He said roughly, ‘I want to talk to you.’

  There was no response from the still figure and he wondered whether she had fainted again.

  He said once more, ‘I want to talk to you.’

  Nuri stirred but did not turn around. He waited, feeling his wrath grow within him. The small flickering flame was threatening to consume him.

  He walked around to her side of the bed and stared down at the prone form. She knew he was there, he saw her eyelids flutter. But still she would not look at him, her husband.

  He grabbed the covers with a clenched fist and flicked them off her.

  As the thin blanket came away, Nuri opened her long-lashed eyes and gazed at him. He was shocked by the despair he saw within them but also angered.

  He shouted, ‘What is the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘How can you say there is nothing the matter? You are not doing your duties as a wife. You smell disgusting.’

  ‘I am not feeling well, that’s all. Are good Moslem wives not allowed to fall ill?’

  Ghani realised with a shock that she appeared to hate him. He could not understand it. She had seemed happy, at least content, until they came to Bali.

  ‘How did you know what Abdullah’s name was?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘You spoke to each other?’

  She shrugged, a careless gesture expressing complete indifference to his opinion. ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters!’ He spat the words at her. ‘As your husband, I want to know in what circumstances you would talk to this man.’

  Nuri sat up in the bed. She leaned back against the headboard and looked at Ghani. Again, he sensed her dislike. It hurt him.

  She said, ‘We were friends.’

  ‘That is nonsense. There is no friendship between a man and a woman. Men are lustful creatures. They have to be kept at a distance! Are you telling me you failed to do that?’

  She did not answer. Her head dropped and the long hair, usually hidden under her hijab, fell over her face.

  Ghani remembered that she had come out of the room to see the police without covering up, not even a scarf. She had appeared before a non-Moslem male without any modesty in her clothing.

  He shouted, ‘What is the matter with you? Why have you forgotten your duties as a Moslem?’

  Nuri said clearly and coldly, looking at him without fear, ‘You are nothing to me.’

  He hit her. With an open, calloused hand, he struck her across the face with all the force he could muster. She turned her head and jerked back as she saw the blow coming but there was no escaping his all-consuming rage. Nuri fell sideways on the bed, holding her cheek and jaw. He hit her again and, when she whimpered in pain, again. Instead of relieving his feelings, each blow seemed to make him angrie
r.

  At last, when his wife was a small ball on the bed, no longer even trying to ward off the blows with her thin arms, he found it in himself to stop.

  Ghani saw that there was blood. He had split her lip. If he had closed his fist, she would have lost teeth. He guessed that her body would be marked by the outpouring of his rage. Hot angry tears were welling up in her eyes and coursing down her cheeks like an overflowing monsoon drain.

  Ghani stared at the wreck that was his wife and contemplated the ruin of his marriage. His heart was heavy. He had convinced himself that he was picking a wife that met his various practical criteria; a devout Moslem girl from a religious family with connections to the network so that he could cement the ties between families. But the truth was he had seen this girl, the gentle young sister of Abu Bakr and Ramzi, and married her for love, for that sense of peace and respite she gave him from his life as a soldier.

  Ghani wondered why he was being tested in this way by his God. He looked at Nuri again – lying there in the bed, blood oozing from her mouth, uncaring about his power over her. She seemed to relish the physical pain as a distraction from her mental anguish.

  Ghani walked out of the room. He moved slowly, like a landlubber on the deck of a ship trying to find his sea legs.

  The others were valiantly keeping themselves occupied. Yusuf was squatting against a wall, reading his Quran, his finger tracing the lines as he recited the passages to himself.

  Abu Bakr washed the dishes with much clumsy clattering.

  Ramzi was slumped on the couch watching the Bali investigation progress reports on television.

  Ghani suspected, notwithstanding the hive of activity in the small apartment, his colleagues had been listening hard to see if they could figure out what was going on between him and Nuri.

  Abu Bakr asked, wiping his hands as he finished the last plate, ‘Is everything all right?’

  Ghani said clearly and loudly, ‘Yes, everything is fine.’

  The flickering television screen showed the Bali bombers being paraded before the media. The men turned as if of one mind to watch the news.

  Abu Bakr nodded at the screen. ‘Those are men of courage,’ he said. ‘Insha Allah, God willing, we will emulate them.’

  Ghani felt a rush of cold sweet adrenaline course through his veins. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the spine-tingling sensation. It was as if Allah was pumping courage directly into his body. He felt strong and able, the time was right, the plans were made. Ghani said exultantly, ‘We are almost there, men. Show courage and determination and we will strike a blow that the world will never forget.’

  Fourteen

  Julian Greenwood’s drooping moustache quivered. He had his hands gripped tightly together. He sat very upright on a chair in the living room of the luxurious villa he shared with his wife. Singh stood over him. If it had been a social occasion, his physical proximity to Greenwood would have been inappropriate, an encroachment into his personal space. In the circumstances, having demanded to see Greenwood and intimated that he had questions about Richard Crouch that could not wait, Singh was merely intimidating.

  Julian queried, and Singh noted that, under pressure, his accent was less upstairs than downstairs, ‘What … what did you want to ask me?’ As he spoke, his eyes flickered to the door.

  Singh did not appear to hear the question. He glanced around the room. ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ he said approvingly, taking in the rich furnishings, sea view from the patio and fresh lilies in crystal vases that gave the room a rich heady atmosphere.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Julian and then reverted to a tense silence. He unclasped his hands and placed them on knees that were pressed together with virginal enthusiasm.

  ‘So why don’t you sell some of this stuff – I’d bet that painting is worth a lot.’ Singh nodded at a complex painting of Balinese deities in rich colours.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ asked Julian.

  ‘To pay off your gambling debts, of course. I hear you’re within a few days of having your legs broken …’

  Julian was not given an opportunity to deny that he had debts, gambling or otherwise.

  A voice from the door said, ‘He can’t sell any of it because it all belongs to me …’

  Emily Greenwood sauntered into the room, her bedroom slippers – fluffy pink rabbits with floppy ears – the reason for her quiet approach.

  Singh was all smiling politeness. ‘Mrs Greenwood, it’s nice to see you again.’

  ‘Likewise,’ she responded and sat down on a comfortable sofa. She invited Singh to do the same with a lofty wave of her hand. He complied and found himself sinking into the plush sofa like an elephant in quicksand. He struggled for a bit to sit upright and then abandoned the battle. He suspected he looked a little like a beetle on its back, desperately trying to right itself. He made a note to himself that Emily was a smart woman. He, Singh, standing upright and angry, had thoroughly demoralised Julian. Sunk into the cushions, he was a figure of fun.

  Emily asked, ‘What has my dear husband done now?’

  Singh put on his most formal tone. ‘As you know, we are making preliminary inquiries into the murder of Richard Crouch. We have reason to suspect that your husband might have been involved.’

  ‘Nothing he does would really surprise me – but kill Richard – why would he do that?’

  Singh opened his eyes wide. There was to be no instinctive support from a loving spouse. He tried to sit up a little straighter to show his interest but it was impossible to defy gravity and he sank back down. Singh glanced at Julian, wondering whether he was going to say anything in his own defence. He seemed mesmerised by his wife, staring at her as a snake might look at a mongoose, waiting for her to go for the jugular.

  ‘Robbery!’ snapped Singh.

  ‘Did Richard have money?’ Her tone was that of the very wealthy, mild surprise that anyone else might have a few dollars tucked away.

  ‘He was carrying ten thousand US dollars when your husband followed him out of a bank – the day before his body was recovered from the Sari Club.’

  Singh thought that he had very rarely, if ever, interviewed a murder suspect who sat silently by while his wife did the talking. Julian’s lips were pursed shut as if words were as valuable to him as money.

  Emily addressed her husband directly for the first time. ‘That would have been a useful sum to you, Julian.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him …’

  ‘You had motive and opportunity,’ pointed out Singh. ‘In my experience, that usually indicates guilt!’

  ‘You have to believe me – I didn’t kill him. I happened to be at the bank’ – he looked at the other two pleadingly – ‘trying to get a loan if you must know. I saw Richard – it was just a coincidence. I didn’t know he was going to be there. He withdrew a large sum of money. I had no idea he was flush … I followed him … and asked him if I could borrow a few dollars.’

  Julian fell silent, unable to complete the tale.

  Singh noted that Julian was directing his excuses at both his own wife and the policeman. If anything, he seemed to fear the judgement of his spouse more than the suspicions of the police. It was an interesting departure from the normal priorities. Controlling the purse strings had given Emily a degree of influence over her husband that most women could only dream of – except for his own wife, of course. Singh was distracted momentarily by a memory of the woman who dictated his leisure hours and nagged him about his absent ones.

  Emily took up the questioning with natural poise. ‘What did Richard say when you asked him for money?’

  Singh turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

  Julian did not seem to notice that the cross-examination was now being conducted by his wife. He answered in a quiet voice, ‘That he could not approve of my gambling habit – and the money was needed for a project he was working on.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought that Richard Crouch was such a sensible man,’ remarked Emily to no
one in particular.

  Agus, watching the apartment, reported that the men had left. Two of them had ridden away on the red motorbike. The other two had walked down the street. They might have caught a taxi around the corner, he wasn’t sure. There was no sign of any woman so he was fairly sure their quarry was still in the apartment.

  Singh and Bronwyn hailed Nyoman and set out for the dingy flat. Nyoman drove quickly and quietly, still sulking from Bronwyn’s suggestion the previous evening that he vacuum the back of the taxi. The two cops were relieved. Nyoman’s constant prattle had started to wear them down. Singh knew it was the Balinese way to be friendly. Whether it was a natural disposition or a skill well-honed by the exigencies of the tourist trade, he was not sure. He imagined that a tourist meeting such good cheer and polite interest in the minutiae of their lives would find it very attractive. They would return to their homes talking with genuine enthusiasm of the cultured island and its gracious people.

  He, Singh, felt that he’d had quite enough friendliness and nosiness. He had given up maintaining a stony silence in the face of Nyoman’s curiosity. Curt, monosyllabic answers hadn’t worked either. Now he just grunted.

  Bronwyn was more civil than him. She had started out by answering Nyoman’s questions fully. As a result, thought Singh, he, the reluctant eavesdropper, knew far more about Bronwyn than he needed for the purposes of a functioning working relationship. He really did not want to know that she had decided against a third child because her marriage was on the rocks or that she disliked her younger son’s girlfriend. He was pleased to note that Bronwyn was resorting to shorter and shorter responses to Nyoman’s incessant chatter. Even she had her limits.

  Singh stared at the traffic beyond the window. It was the morning rush hour Bali style, with motorbikes and four-wheel drives competing for road position with beat-up minivans and cars with ‘go faster’ stripes.