A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul

by Shamini Flint

  Bronwyn asked again, injecting an impatient note into her voice, ‘What now, boss?’

  He answered slowly, thinking his way through the labyrinth of suspects and clues. ‘Well, there are a few things we need to do – question the husband and brother, ask Sarah Crouch why she omitted to mention that her husband was Moslem and had a bit on the side …’

  Bronwyn nodded. ‘What do you want to do first?’

  ‘Not sure – go back this evening and talk to the brother and husband? Save Sarah Crouch for tomorrow?’

  ‘Could do – don’t forget I plan to go for this remembrance ceremony thing they’re having at the Sari Club.’

  Singh flared his nostrils in ill-disguised irritation. ‘I forgot about that. All right, I’ll see Sarah on my own. Have someone go up to Ubud first thing in the morning and bring her to the police station.’

  ‘She won’t want to come,’ warned Bronwyn.

  ‘Not my problem,’ said Singh brusquely. ‘If she makes trouble, tell them to arrest her.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I don’t really care. Murder, obstructing the police in the course of their inquiries, perjury …’

  ‘You don’t have reasonable grounds to suspect her of any of those things.’

  ‘My dear girl,’ he said, watching her nose wrinkle in disgust at the term of patronising endearment, ‘we’re in Indonesia right now. There are very few advantages to trying to solve a murder outside one’s own jurisdiction. One doesn’t know the society, the people, the culture – anything that might help a policeman understand a crime. But – when the jurisdiction is, how should I put it, not quite as concerned about due process as we might expect, we need to use that to our advantage and catch ourselves a murderer! So, tell one of your Balinese flunkeys that I want to see Sarah Crouch tomorrow morning. I really don’t care how they make it happen.’

  He settled back comfortably in the seat having delivered himself of his little diatribe and then sat bolt upright again. ‘In fact,’ he added, ‘I really don’t want to climb those filthy stairs and hang around that stinking apartment any more. Get someone to wait outside till those men get home and then bring them to me!’

  ‘Yessir!’ said Bronwyn smartly.

  Singh swivelled his great head and gazed at her suspiciously. Was she being sarcastic?

  She looked at him demurely and then began to laugh.

  It was infectious. Singh found himself guffawing as well. He deserved to be mocked, he supposed, issuing orders like some parade ground sergeant.

  Ramzi was on the red motorbike. He had ordered a fresh set of number plates from a small vehicle repair shop. He drove around Denpasar and Kuta, looking for a vehicle to steal. Ghani’s instructions had been clear. Ramzi was to identify a van and make sure it was indistinguishable in every way. He was to steal the vehicle, swap the number plates and drive around for a while to make sure that he was not followed. Ghani had stressed the importance of prudence. This was the endgame.

  Ramzi’s back ached from hunching over the bike and his eyes smarted from the dust. He revved the bike in irritation. He could hardly believe that the bomb-maker had been found with a bullet in his head. It was so unlikely. Ghani had dealt with the invasion of the police competently. His explanation for their interaction with Richard Crouch, pre-prepared, he assumed, had been plausible. The police – what an odd combination they had been, the short fat man in the turban and the large white woman – had not appeared to suspect anything out of the ordinary.

  Unfortunately, his sister had not done their cause any favours by first acknowledging that she, and they, knew Crouch and then by fainting so dramatically when news of his death was announced. Ramzi realised that he would have to be careful of the turbaned policeman. The man looked like a fool and Ramzi’s instinct was to dismiss him as one. But the way he had dropped his bombshell about Abdullah – crude and shocking – had produced results. Ramzi felt a stab of anger. They were within twenty-four hours of carrying out a successful attack. It would be devastating if his sister’s lack of control was the reason for their failure. He gritted his teeth and was tempted to accelerate, to leave his rage behind in a burst of speed. But it was a sure way of attracting attention. He needed to focus on finding a van. This was not the moment to be dwelling on Nuri’s iniquities.

  Ramzi decided to head out of town. A third of the way towards Ubud he spotted a small white van parked by a boarded-up shop. He stopped to have a look and saw a notice that the outlet was closed for a few days. Ramzi peered through the glass front, his hands cupped around his eyes to block the glare – it was an art gallery. He walked around the premises. The place was deserted. Balinese families often lived in buildings attached to their shops. But not this artist. There was no residential dwelling protruding out the back.

  Ramzi walked back to the vehicle. It was small, but there was enough space for the bomb. It had no windows in the back. The mudguards were caked with dirt. There were a few nicks and scratches along the sides – nothing extraordinary in a place like Bali where every road trip was an adventure.

  Ramzi opened his bag, took out a wire coat hanger and quickly twisted it into a hook. He used a pair of small pliers to rip the rubber lining off the window. He slid the coat hanger into the door directly under the lock. In a few seconds he had found the lever and yanked on it. The doorlock popped open. He put away his tools and climbed into the driver seat. Ramzi checked the glove compartment and sun visor for spare keys. There were none to be found. It did not bother him. He had not expected to get that lucky. He removed the panels around the ignition switch. He traced the two wires he needed, both red, removed the rubber cover and hotwired them. The ignition lights came on. He found the starter wires, stripped the ends and touched them together. The engine coughed into life. Ramzi grinned broadly. He hopped out, opened the back, dragged the motorbike in and shut the van door gently. He unscrewed the number plates, replaced them with the ones he had purchased and chucked the old plates into the bushes. Back in the driver’s seat, he shifted into first gear and drove out to the main road.

  Ghani was under arrest, hands cuffed in front of him. He was frog-marched to a waiting police car. They bundled him in firmly, but without rough treatment. Ghani hoped that meant he was not suspected of anything serious. If they knew he was part of a jihadi cell, they would not have been able to resist giving him a bit of treatment.

  The police had been waiting for him, two of them, in uniform, outside the door. He had not set foot inside the apartment. He had no idea what the situation was within. Where was Nuri? Had they searched the flat, found anything incriminating like their small cache of weapons? He tried to think, tried to stay calm. Most likely his detention had something to do with the bomb-maker’s killing. He could swear on the Quran he had nothing to do with that. But if they decided to keep him overnight, the game was up.

  Ghani stole a glance at the stolid policemen on either side of him. They were large men. He was tightly wedged between them, his arms sticky from the forced human contact.

  He screwed up the courage to ask, ‘What is this about?’

  There was no answer.

  Ghani asked again, ‘Why have you arrested me? I have done nothing.’

  One of the policemen hunched his shoulders, deciding, Ghani hoped, that there was no harm in talking to him. ‘No idea,’ he explained. ‘They don’t tell us anything. Just to arrest you when you came back.’

  ‘And the other one,’ added the second policeman.

  Typical Balinese, thought Ghani dismissively. They looked the part of professional policemen, well built and clean shaven with neatly pressed uniforms. But they could not resist the temptation to gossip.

  He asked in a friendly tone, ‘What other one?’

  ‘Your friend,’ explained the bigger of the two policemen. ‘Long hair, no beard, good looking.’

  They wanted Ramzi too. That did not bode well. Why would they want to see Ramzi? He could not have had anything to do with the murder of Ab
dullah.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ asked the policeman to Ghani’s right.

  Ghani shook his head adamantly. He had received a text message that Ramzi had stolen a van and was on his way to the safe house. He did not plan on sharing that piece of information.

  The same policeman murmured in an apologetic tone, ‘The colleagues we left to wait for him are hungry, you see. But they cannot leave their post till he turns up.’

  The police car drew up at the Denpasar police headquarters. The policemen escorted Ghani into the building. They led him to a small room with a table and two chairs. One of them unlocked the handcuffs. Ghani rubbed his wrists, which, chaffed by the restraints, were red. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He was ushered to a chair and told to sit down. The two policemen walked out, one of them with a friendly wave. Ghani heard the sound of the bolt. He was locked in. He sucked in a deep breath of stale air. He was terrified. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest – it felt like a wild animal trying to escape a cage. His hands were clammy. He wiped them on his trousers. What if they knew something? He would have failed his leaders and his God. He needed to be cool and composed and helpful to the police – an innocent man unexpectedly entangled in a police investigation.

  The door opened and the fat policeman in the turban and his female sidekick walked in. Ghani could have wept with relief. It was about Abdullah, the bomb-maker. Singh waddled over and sat down on the only other chair in the room. He faced Ghani across the small, scuffed table – two swarthy, bearded, stocky men with matching expressions of determination on their faces. Bronwyn leaned against the wall with her hands on her hips.

  Singh asked, with a superficial and highly unconvincing smile on his face, ‘Is there anything you would like to tell us about Abdullah’s death?’

  ‘I told you everything I know already.’

  Singh sensed that Ghani was relieved by his opening gambit. That was odd. What in the world had he been expecting that an implied accusation of murder should be welcome?

  He said, ‘Plead guilty, tell the judge your mitigating circumstances – I bet he won’t even send you to jail.’

  Ghani’s expression, which had been unconvincingly puzzled, now seemed more like the genuine article. He muttered, ‘I don’t understand.’

  Singh said, ‘We don’t blame you for killing Richard Crouch. Frankly, in your position I’d probably have done the same. But it would be much easier for everyone if you just confessed.’

  ‘But I did not kill him.’ The protest rang true. Was he that good an actor, wondered Singh.

  ‘But he was sleeping with your wife …’

  Ghani’s face drained of blood. His hands, which were laid flat on the table in front of him, bunched into fists. He sat there for a moment trying to regain control of his temper. It was a losing battle. He stood up and leaned forward, hands splayed, eyes popping like golf balls in the mud. He shouted, ‘Why do you speak such lies to me?’

  Singh was leaning back in his chair. He had not moved a muscle. Bronwyn was standing bolt upright, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet, ready to enter the fray if Ghani attacked the senior policeman. Singh hoped she knew a martial art.

  The inspector from Singapore took his courage in his hands and said nonchalantly, ‘You didn’t know – about your wife and Crouch?’

  Ghani slammed his fist on the table. Singh noticed for the first time that he had a long thin scar running up his forearm. It looked like a knife wound. Ghani shouted, ‘It’s not true!’

  It was Singh’s turn to stand up. He leaned forward and eyeballed Ghani. ‘Look, I’m not making this up. She told us herself.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who told you?’

  ‘Nuri,’ and he added helpfully, ‘your wife. We went to see her this afternoon. She told us that she and Crouch were planning to run away together. From the condition of her face, it looks like you don’t mind trying to resolve your marital problems with violence.’

  Ghani collapsed back into the chair and put his hands over his face, his elbows resting on his knees.

  Singh sat back down. He picked his nails, flicking any real or imagined dirt onto the floor. Singh was indifferent to the raging internal conflict of the man in front of him. He had decided reluctantly that he was not the killer of Richard Crouch. His shock at the affair between his wife and the dead man had been like another person in the room, so tangible was the emotion. This man was no longer a credible suspect. If he had not known about Nuri’s infatuation with Crouch, he had no motive. At most he was a witness – perhaps he would be able to give them some insights into Ramzi’s character.

  Again, Singh wondered why Ghani was afraid – if it was not of an accusation of murder.

  Ghani sat up. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry. He straightened his spine and pulled back his shoulders.

  Singh was reminded that he was a soldier.

  Ghani said calmly, ‘I had nothing to do with the death of Abdullah. I thought he was a friend. If what you say is true – I will question my wife – I do not regret his death.’

  Singh said in a friendly tone, ‘I believe you.’

  ‘Does that mean I can go?’

  ‘After you tell us if Ramzi killed Abdullah.’

  ‘Ramzi? Why would Ramzi kill him?’

  ‘Same reason. He knew about the affair. He might have been trying to protect the family honour.’

  ‘He knew? You are saying Ramzi knew about my wife … and that man?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’ said Singh, steepling his fingers and looking at the other man over the apex.

  The policeman from Singapore suspected that Ghani had rarely been told that his broad face was a mirror to his emotions. Under the weight of the revelations that Singh was flinging at him, it was possible to read his thoughts from the expressions flitting across it. There was shock that Ramzi might have known about Nuri and not told him, a brief flurry of disbelief and finally a sinking sensation that if Ramzi had known, it was not impossible that he had killed Richard Crouch.

  Singh was sure that Ghani had no real knowledge of Ramzi’s guilt. His fear that Ramzi was involved was based entirely on his intimate knowledge of the young man’s character. In their short encounter, Singh had put the young man down as a contrary young fool with a misplaced self-confidence. Looking at Ghani’s worried face, he knew that his assessment was correct.

  Singh stood up, held open the door to the interview room and said abruptly, ‘You can go now.’

  The prisoner who, a short a while earlier, would have made a dash for freedom if he had been given half a chance, walked slow and stooped towards the exit. He stole a sidelong glance at the policeman as he walked past, fearful of the comic figure who knew so many secrets.

  Bronwyn tossed a few words after him. ‘We don’t want any more attacks on your wife. Not unless you want to spend a lot of time in a Bali prison. And I promise you – I will make it happen.’

  Ghani had paused in mid-step as she spoke – now he continued on without looking back.

  Singh closed the door and leaned on it, looking across at his colleague. ‘What did you think of that?’

  ‘It was a bit mean of you to suggest that Nuri was actually sleeping with Crouch.’

  Singh grunted. ‘It would’ve been too dull to describe the love-struck shopping expeditions.’

  She asked, ‘Do you think he killed Richard Crouch?’

  Singh rubbed his forehead with thumb and forefinger. ‘No such luck.’

  Bronwyn whipped out her mobile phone and made a quick call. ‘The brother hasn’t come back to the flat yet,’ she explained, holding the phone away from her ear for a moment. ‘Do you want someone on Ghani’s tail?’

  ‘Nah, waste of manpower – he didn’t do it. We need to look elsewhere for the killer of our philandering Moslem.’

  Bronwyn laughed. ‘It is a bit of a contradiction, isn’t it?’

  ‘I told you that lusts of the flesh always trump God!’

&nb
sp; ‘It seems that you’re right. Do you think he’ll hurt Nuri? Should we send her some protection?’

  ‘He heard your warning.’

  Singh scratched his beard. He was troubled. He didn’t know why. He felt he was missing something. And he had no idea what it could be. It was disturbing because the investigation was going well. He was down to two suspects. Sarah, the wife, and Ramzi, the brother of the girlfriend. He didn’t really suspect either Tim Yardley or Julian Greenwood, despite their solid motives. Neither of them had the temperament to shoot a man in the head. He remembered Greenwood skulking nervously in the presence of his wife. He could imagine him attacking her in a fit of rage, but not Richard Crouch. Greenwood was a man to flee his troubles, not to confront them with violence. Besides, according to Agus, he still owed money to the gangster who was threatening retribution. Presumably if he had followed Crouch out of the bank and killed him, he would have had the sense to empty the dead man’s wallet and pay off his debts.

  As for Yardley, a clever, manipulative woman like Sarah Crouch might have persuaded him to murder a rival – she did remind him of Macbeth’s wife. But he suspected it would have taken longer than the few months they had known each other and would have involved a method slightly less bloody. Probably, Sarah would have had to guide him every step of the way and he had found no evidence of any careful planning between the pair.

  Richard’s death had come as a shock to Nuri so she was out of the running. Ghani had not appeared to know about his wife’s infidelity of the heart, if not of the body, so his motive was tenuous at best. For all sorts of practical reasons like access to weaponry and temperament he would have put his money on Ramzi being the killer. But he was not yet absolutely certain. He needed to see Sarah and Ramzi again. He was confident that once he confronted both of them with what he knew, it would become obvious who had murdered Richard Crouch.

  Bronwyn was sitting quietly across from him writing up the notes from their interview with Ghani. Her pen scurried across the page in orderly rows, like planting or ploughing, he thought. He wondered why he was indulging in agricultural metaphors – he who had lived in a city his whole life.