A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul

by Shamini Flint

  Bronwyn interrupted his train of thought. ‘Holiday cancellations are falling in Bali …’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Apparently the speed with which the police have arrested the bombers has reassured tourists.’

  The progress in the investigation had been fantastic, thought Singh. Many commentators were describing the terrorist organisation as having been crippled. Some were insistent that the Bali bombings had been a one-off. The terrorists had got lucky. It suggested to Singh that a fresh complacency was developing.

  Singh muttered, ‘I hope they’re not going to play down the danger.’

  As a policeman, he knew how easy it was to launch an attack like the Bali bombings. As long as there were young men, and perhaps women, indoctrinated from an early age into jihadi philosophy at one of the madrasahs and pesanterens , there was no difficulty in procuring the materials and making a bomb. He had read in the newspapers that the potassium chlorate used to make the Bali bomb had been purchased from a chemical shop in Surabaya, ostensibly to be used as fertiliser. It was not even necessary to risk buying explosives on the black market or from a crooked army officer.

  He wondered again at his role investigating a solitary murder when all around him were dealing with the after-math of mass murder. He sighed. He could only do his best. He didn’t have the skills to pursue terrorists. Catching terrorists was about forensic analysis and infiltrating networks. It was about security operations at airports and at docks. There was nothing personal in the hunt because a terrorist’s anger was non-specific. He did not care whom he killed. The usual means of tracking down a killer by examining the life of his victim was of no use. That, Singh thought, was his speciality – to let the dead speak. But the dead in the Bali bombings did not know and had nothing to say about their killers.

  Singh looked at the woman next to him. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line and the wrinkles around her mouth were deeply engraved. She appeared older.

  He asked, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ she replied. ‘I just have this over-whelming sense of worry, I don’t know why.’

  ‘Probably something you ate,’ suggested Singh and was rewarded by an angry glare and then a sudden open-throated laugh.

  ‘You’re right, of course. I’m being silly.’ She shook herself, like a dog caught in a rain shower, trying to physically dislodge her sense of foreboding.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Nyoman coldly.

  Singh and Bronwyn exchanged a glance and then a smile. It was a moment of fellow feeling. Bronwyn was a good sort, the inspector decided. Just a little bit large and opinionated for him to feel entirely at ease.

  Bronwyn opened the door and asked, as she levered herself out, ‘So do we have any tactics or are we just going to wing it?’

  Did he detect a note of sarcasm, wondered Singh. He replied coolly, ‘We will develop a strategy on the ground based on an ongoing analysis of the witness and her attitude to questioning.’

  ‘So we’re going to wing it then,’ said Bronwyn and shut the car door smartly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sarah.’

  The woman sitting on a large multi-coloured towel on the beach did not look like she’d heard the muttered apology.

  She was staring out to sea. Storm clouds were gathering on the horizon. It made a peculiar contrast, the extreme blue over their heads versus the thick accumulating blackness in the distance. The wind was blowing in from the ocean so the storm would be upon them relatively soon. She thought it was apposite, if a little theatrical, that the weather should be reflecting her life – it reminded her of the low-budget tactics that a third-rate movie might use to set the mood.

  She remembered that the whole time she had been looking for Richard, the weather had been sublime. She had to give Richard some credit, she thought. He had shown more loyalty and commitment to their marriage than she had done. After all, it was he who had suggested coming to Bali to try and repair the damage that his burgeoning religiosity had caused in their relationship. She, on the other hand, had been swept up in her grand romance with the young Australian surfer and not spared a thought for her husband.

  She looked at the surfer lying on the sand in his boardshorts, propping himself up with an elbow to look at her, the fine sand peppering the golden hair on his chest. His surfboard was lying on the beach a little further down.

  She had agreed to meet him on the beach at his request. She had brought a champagne breakfast that she had packed with her own hands, imagining a romantic morning that would ease the knots in her shoulders and mark the beginning of her new life with Greg. She had sensed his withdrawal when she tried to embrace him. He had not wrapped his arms around her as he had done so many times in the past. He had let her hug him until she had stepped back and asked, ‘What’s the matter, Greg? Is anything wrong?’

  He had refused to meet her eyes, gazing over her shoulder, out to sea, anywhere except at her. Finally, he had flung himself down on the sand like some character from a daytime soap and said, ‘It’s over.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sarah was amazed she could articulate words – she felt painfully out of breath, as if she had run a mile on the soft sand.

  ‘Look, mate – this was great, you and me. I really admire you. But – you know – with the trouble with the police and stuff – well, I want out.’

  ‘Out?’

  ‘Yes.’ This time he looked at her. ‘I’m ending our relationship. ’ And then, as if she was incapable of understanding his simple words, he continued, ‘I don’t want to see you any more.’

  When she remained silent he had uttered the meaningless, facetious words, ‘I’m sorry, Sarah.’

  Sarah glanced at his surfboard again. If she had thought there was any hope of changing his mind, the sight of that sleek board with its wave motif would have destroyed it. This man whom she loved with the heady passion of a teenager had brought his surfboard along so that he could hit the waves the minute he had dealt with the unplesantness of evicting her from his life. In his eyes, she did not even amount to a holiday romance, just a meal ticket – come to think of it, a surf ticket as well. She was quite sure she had paid for the shiny new equipment.

  She wondered for a moment why she was not yelling, demanding that he change his mind, begging him to love her, persuading him somehow to stay in her life. The sheer enormity of her naivety was acting like insulation from the shock and the pain. She knew she would feel it soon but this brief moment of respite was a blessing. She stared at the storm clouds again. They were much closer. Greg probably wouldn’t get in much surfing. She got to her feet slowly, feeling like an old woman. She picked up her towel and wrapped it modestly around her thin body. She walked up the beach, narrow feet sinking into the coarse sand. She did not look back. Sarah Crouch knew that her future was now in her past.

  Abu Bakr asked, ‘Yusuf, are you ready to go?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The bomb factory, of course. Where do you think?’

  Abu Bakr was immediately sorry for snapping at Yusuf. He said in a kinder tone, ‘Come on – let’s go.’

  Yusuf followed him obediently to the door. Abu Bakr wondered whether he should send him back for a shower; the man reeked of dried sweat and fear. He saw that Yusuf’s fingernails were filthy and his clothes were food-stained. He frowned. He had seen it before with young men under his command. Sometimes, if the certain knowledge of death became a burden too great to carry, young soldiers started to abandon the ordinary routine of life. Cleanliness, he had noticed, was always the first to go. It was a mistake, he sometimes explained to his men. In a complex, changing world with unknown threats and dangerous missions, routine was the last thing that should be allowed to lapse. That was what kept the fear at bay – the distraction of the ordinary. He would have to give Yusuf the lecture. He didn’t have too long to hang on but Abu Bakr didn’t want the wheels coming off before then.

  The bomb factory was a secluded bungalow set well b
ack from the road with high stone walls all around. It was not far from the main drag through Sanur with its usual Balinese mix of five-star hotels, tacky tourist shops, cheap backpacker motels and roadside stalls. Abu Bakr and Yusuf caught a taxi to the street but stopped a few hundred yards from the main door. This was no time to show potential witnesses an incriminating destination.

  Abu Bakr opened the door slowly and cautiously. The house smelt musty. No one had been in for a while. The doors and windows were fastened tight. There was a thin layer of dust on every surface.

  Yusuf followed him in and asked in a whisper, ‘Where is the … you know, the bomb things?’

  Abu Bakr walked slowly across the hall, unfurnished and with bare walls and floor, towards an arched entrance that led to the rest of the house.

  If he was given to haram analogies, thought Abu Bakr, he would have said that he hit the jackpot. He stood aside so that Yusuf could peer in.

  Yusuf asked, his mouth opening and closing like that of a goldfish in a bowl, his voice crackling with tension, ‘What is all that?’

  Abu Bakr understood Yusuf’s bemusement. There was an assortment of boxes, wires, cigarette cases and empty plastic filing cabinets in a neat heap in the middle of the room.

  He took a penknife out of his pocket and slit open one of the cardboard boxes. There were small drums of fuel oil packed neatly within. He looked in another box. Coiled wires, timers, crocodile clips and a couple of brand new mobile phones were arranged within.

  He said to Yusuf, ‘This is all we need to make a bomb!’

  Yusuf said rather wistfully, ‘I hope we find a good target. I don’t really want to kill Moslems or anyone except the Americans.’

  Abu Bakr eyed him cautiously. ‘You must remember, Yusuf – Moslems who are not committed to jihad as it is written in the Holy Book are also infidels.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’ asked Yusuf, trying to change the subject.

  Abu Bakr was rolling out a cable, leaving it snaking across the floor in his wake. ‘This wire will be attached to the bomb. I will add some sort of trigger to the wire for detonation, ’ he explained.

  Yusuf fell silent. He knew whose job it was to pull the trigger. He realised that he was not looking forward to it. It was one thing to reap a deserved reward in heaven. But he had to blow himself to smithereens first and that did not sound like it was going to be very pleasant.

  Besides, he would miss Nuri.

  They told Nyoman to wait and crossed the road. It was the usual mad dash across a dusty street, narrowly avoiding motorbikes and stray dogs. Singh was panting by the time he reached the other side. He leaned against the grimy wall and put a hand on his heart. He could feel it hammering against his chest. His was not a physique that allowed for sudden sprints.

  Bronwyn asked, a look of concern on her face, ‘Are you all right?’

  He nodded but couldn’t speak for a moment.

  She waited while he caught his breath and then said pointedly, ‘You need to get in better shape. Not much use avoiding the traffic if you’re just going to have a heart attack on the opposite side.’

  Singh scowled and marched into the apartment block purposefully. He looked at the steep flight of stairs and turned to Bronwyn, a rueful expression on his face. ‘You might be right.’

  He started up slowly, holding the bannister for support.

  The block of flats was even more decrepit in the day than at night. The paint on the walls was stained and peeling. There were small piles of rubbish, plastic bags and plastic bottles mostly, tucked away in the corners. A gecko lay dead on a step, its corpse covered in small black ants. The stairwell smelt of mould, death and piss. That stink and the climb combined were making Singh light-headed.

  He wheezed, ‘She’d better be in.’

  Bronwyn said reassuringly, ‘I’m sure she is. Sergeant Agus said only the men had left. He was quite clear about that.’

  Singh decided not to expend precious energy on a sceptical response. He concentrated on the last flight of stairs. Perspiration stung his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to soothe the smarting with tears. He wondered why he had found it easier the previous night. The difference between the cool night air and the sweltering heat of day in the claustrophobic confines of the stairwell, he supposed.

  Bronwyn, who had followed meekly behind him for two flights but then overtaken him, was waiting outside the door. Singh noticed that there was no peephole. That was good. Nuri would not be able to refuse to see them without opening the door first. And once the door was ajar, Singh thought to himself smugly, he was a past master at inserting a big, sneaker-clad foot into the crack and preventing any hasty door slamming.

  Bronwyn raised a hand to knock and looked inquiringly at the inspector. He nodded assent. It was time to confront the young woman about her relationship with the Englishman whose body parts were at the mortuary with the remains of those whose deaths had involved less personal animosity on the part of the killer.

  Bronwyn rapped on the door. Singh approved of her style. It was a mildly authoritative knock. It was the request for entry of a meter reader or a census taker rather than a policewoman. It might entice a young woman alone to open the door. But there was no response. Singh, concentrating hard, could not hear any sound from within the apartment. Bronwyn knocked again, more firmly this time. This knock conveyed bureaucratic urgency. The inspector placed a large hairy ear to the door and shut his eyes to the world. He still could not hear anything within.

  Singh took matters into his own hands. It was time to be threatening. He raised a heavy fist and thumped loudly on the wood, shouting, ‘Police! Open this door!’ When this did not elicit a response, he hammered and shouted again. Singh continued to do this intermittently for a few minutes and then, with one last frustrated thump, gave it up as a lost cause.

  He started hunting in his pockets.

  Bronwyn asked, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Looking for something to pick the lock with …’

  ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘Watch me,’ said Singh with his usual robust disregard for police protocol.

  Bronwyn put her mouth close to the door and yelled, ‘Nuri! We know you’re in there. We just want to ask you some questions about Richard Crouch. There’s nothing to be afraid of – you’re not in any trouble.’

  Singh spoke in an undertone but the sarcasm was still audible. He said, ‘It’s OK to lie to a witness but not OK to break into a house where you suspect the commission of an offence?’

  Bronwyn whispered back, ‘We do not suspect her of anything.’

  ‘I do!’

  Their argument was interrupted by the sound of a bolt being drawn.

  The door opened a fraction and the small, heart-shaped face of the Indonesian girl peered out. She stared at them fearfully and then made up her mind. The door was pulled open and she stepped aside to let them in.

  Nuri ushered them into the small living room and gestured for them to sit down. She slipped into a room and reappeared a few moments later with a scarf tied loosely around her hair.

  The cut on her lip was visible to both police personnel – a red gash, the clotted blood forming a jagged line across top and bottom lip. There was bruising around her jaw as well, the delicate skin was tinted red and orange.

  Singh asked, holding his own jaw to indicate what he was talking about, ‘What happened?’

  Nuri was not interested in discussing her injuries. She said in a painful whisper, her mouth moving awkwardly, ‘What happened to Abdullah?’

  ‘He was killed – shot by someone – through the head.’

  Singh’s brutal delivery of the facts had an impact. She drew in, wrapped her arms around her knees and bowed her head for a moment. When she looked up again, the bruising was stark against the pallor of her skin and her eyes were filled with tears. But she did not break down.

  Singh had rarely seen such a conscious physical effort to rein in emotion. He acknowledged to himself that th
e girl was tough. She was labouring under an immense burden but still able to function – albeit only to achieve her limited goals – which right now appeared to be information.

  Nuri asked, ‘Who did it? Who killed him?’

  Singh said bluntly, ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

  She appeared to think for a while, trying to decide what to do or ask. Singh let her contemplate her next step. This was not a witness to badger or bully. Not yet anyway.

  She said, her voice clear and firm, ‘You must find out who did this to him.’

  Singh cracked his knuckles and she flinched slightly. The assault that had left her cradling her jaw had also made her nervy. He asked, ‘Can you help us?’

  ‘What can I do? I do not know who killed him.’

  ‘Tell us everything you knew about him. We have very little background – it makes it difficult to hunt the murderer because we do not know who Richard Crouch’s enemies were.’

  ‘I did not know him very well …’

  Singh leaned forward, compressing his large belly against the broad platform of his thighs. He said, sounding asthmatic, ‘You knew him better than the others – your husband and your brothers. They didn’t even know that his name was Richard Crouch.’

  Nuri changed the subject abruptly. She turned to Bronwyn and asked, ‘Do you have that picture?’

  Bronwyn was perplexed. Her face creased into a questioning expression and Nuri replied to the implied query, ‘That picture you showed us yesterday – of Abdullah.’

  Bronwyn reached into the folder and brought out the blown-up passport photo. The smiling young man with watery blue eyes stared back at her and she remembered that all she had ever seen of him was a singed piece of skull with a bullet hole in it.

  Nuri snatched the picture from her hand almost before Bronwyn had an opportunity to hold it out to her. She asked, ‘Can I keep this?’

  Singh asked, ‘Why do you want it?’

  Her eyes were still locked on the picture with a schoolgirl’s intensity over the poster of a rock star. She responded in a whisper, ‘I have nothing else.’