A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul (15 page)

Read A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul Online

Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
10.07Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
‘How do you know there's a
warung
across the street?' asked Bronwyn curiously, taken aback by this apparent omniscience.
‘Isn't there always?'
Bronwyn nodded. He was right, of course. It was part of the Balinese way of life to stop at a small stall and have a drink or a bite to eat and chat to friends and strangers. As a result, there was a
warung
every twenty yards.
She reached for a phone. In a moment, she was explaining Singh's instructions to Sergeant Agus.
She listened to the acknowledgement at the other end, said goodbye and hung up.
‘All done, boss,' she said cheerfully. ‘What next?'
Singh squinted as if they were outside in the bright Balinese light rather than in a small dingy room.
Bronwyn, watching him, thought it was the first time in the investigation that he had seemed at a loss. He had been in turns cynical, angry and amused – but never uncertain. She suspected it was not a state he found himself in very often and she wondered why he felt that way now.
She said briskly, ‘We're making progress!'
Singh looked even more perturbed. His brow creased in parallel lines.
Bronwyn asked, ‘What's bothering you?'
‘Usually, at this point in an investigation – I
know
who done it.'
‘You usually solve a murder in less than two weeks? I thought you said that only happened on television.'
Singh ignored the snide tone.
‘I might not have solved the crime in the sense of made an arrest. But I have a good idea of who the culprit is – it's just a question of finding enough evidence to make sure he or she swings.'
‘Are you ever wrong?' asked Bronwyn, unable to hide her irritation at this certitude.
Singh grinned. ‘It's been known to happen. But not often.'
His smile metamorphosed into a frown.
‘We're working in a vacuum. We don't know enough about the dead man. We know he was unhappy with his wife, he wasn't keen on her expat friends and
she
had a toy boy on the side. We know he made some friends amongst
the incomers – because his job as an engineer travelling the world meant he was unusually comfortable with “native” types. We know he had a fair bit of money and that he took a lot of it out in Bali – we don't know to what end. Did he buy a yacht? Did he have an expensive girlfriend? The thing that is really bothering me is that we have no sense of his history, no sense of his past. What was Richard Crouch actually like? Was he the sort of man to make enemies?'
‘Well, someone killed him,' pointed out Bronwyn.
‘But that's the wrong way of looking at things,' Singh said impatiently. ‘To find a murderer, you almost have to ignore the fact that the victim is dead. You need to understand their lives and their relationships and the sort of people they were – who were their friends and enemies, what were their personality traits. When you know everything there is to know about someone – and then he turns up dead – well, you're in a position to know who killed him.'
Bronwyn nodded slowly. ‘I see what you mean, I think.'
Her mobile phone rang and she flipped it open impatiently. She pushed the hair away from one ear and held the phone to it gingerly.
Singh could just make out an excited babbling on the line. He watched as Bronwyn's tired, crumpled face smoothed out. He waited, his growing impatience manifested in the vigour with which he drummed his foot on the stained synthetic carpet.
She snapped her phone shut and grinned broadly at the inspector. ‘That was Wayan.'
Singh's calf muscle was suddenly afflicted with cramp. He leapt to his feet, trying to stretch and groaning with pain. ‘Well? What did he say?'
‘He listened in on a telephone conversation between Sarah Crouch and Tim Yardley …'
‘“If Richard was out of the way, we'd be together.” That's what you said to the wife of one very dead man. Is there any reason I shouldn't arrest you for the murder of Richard Crouch right here and now?'
Tim Yardley sat in the same cell that had been occupied by Sarah Crouch the previous day. His comb-over had been the first thing to collapse under the pressure of a police interview. The carefully arranged strands were now hanging limply over one ear, the crown of his head as bare and smooth as an eggshell. The three legs of the cheap plastic stool were buckling under his weight, showing white where the major stresses were.
Singh wondered whether this man, who had through his own words been catapulted to the top of the suspects' list, was going to end up in a heap on the floor. Well, if that happened, he, Singh, wasn't going to help him get up. He'd slip a disc, for sure.
Yardley wiped his hands on his shorts. Moist streaks showed against the khaki. His crotch was damp as well,
Singh hoped with sweat. It was early in the interview for the man to wet himself.
‘Well?' demanded Singh.
‘I just meant that there was nothing to stand in the way of our being together – with Richard dead. I didn't have anything to do with his
murder
!' His words were of firm denial but his tone was that of an overtired child who did not expect to be believed when he insisted that it was not him who had put the cricket ball through the window.
‘Shall I tell you what I think?'
Tim recognised this as a rethorical question. He sat sullenly, his chins folded like an accordion against his chest.
‘Sarah wanted to get rid of her husband. She faked some affection for you. Told you a pack of lies. You killed Richard Crouch. She has her freedom and you're going to be hanged from the neck!'
‘It … it wasn't like that at all. Sarah and I fell in love. She was lonely because Richard never paid her any attention. He was always hanging around with some scruffy locals. I've not … been happy with my wife, Karri, for a while. We found each other.'
There was a pathetic dignity about a man asserting that, in his late middle age, he had discovered true love on a tropical island.
Singh felt sorry for Yardley. He hoped that his own disenchantment with marriage would not lead him to make such a fool of himself one day. He shook his head slightly to dislodge the irrelevant line of thought. This was not the time to feel pity for a suspect. This was the time to press home his advantage. He leaned forward aggressively. ‘So you killed Crouch for your happy ending!'
‘No! I swear to you – I won't pretend that I didn't want him out of the way – but I was shocked when he turned up
dead. I almost felt guilty – you know, as if I had
wished
death on the poor bastard.'
Singh realised that he almost believed Tim. He seemed such an unlikely character to have summoned up the gumption to buy a gun and shoot a man in the forehead. Still, Singh knew better than most not to judge by appearances. After all, wasn't he constantly underestimated by those who assumed that a fat man in shiny white shoes couldn't possibly be a detective out of the top drawer?
The inspector said thoughtfully, ‘Well, if it wasn't you, it must have been Sarah Crouch. Do you think she would have shot him herself or hired someone?'
Tim levered himself to his feet using the table between them as a support. He shouted, his face mottled red, ‘Sarah is a kind and gentle woman who would never hurt anyone!'
Singh looked thoughtful, as if he was seriously contemplating adopting this view of the widow's character. He suggested unhurriedly, ‘Perhaps she asked the
other
boyfriend to do it?'
The blood ebbed, leaving Tim's face waxy and pale. ‘What are you talking about?'
‘Come along, I'll show you!' said Singh cheerfully.
He led the man down a narrow corridor until they reached the holding cells. Greg the surfer, dressed in a pair of shorts and a vest with the Bintang logo on it, was lying on his thin cot looking bored. When Singh peered through the bars, he leapt to his feet. ‘You going to let me out, mate?'
Singh shook his head. ‘No, I just wanted to introduce you to someone.'
He turned to the man next to him. ‘Tim, this is Greg Howard, Sarah Crouch's lover.'
 
Wayan and Agus the policeman sat in a
warung
sipping tea,
listening to the gossip of their fellow patrons. In the not so distant past, the conversation would have been about local politics and village rivalries. The customers might have fretted about the weather and the rice crops. Now, it was all about the Bali bombings and the arrest of Amrozi.
The two men had their eyes fixed on the apartment block across the street. It was three storeys high and extremely run down. Paint was peeling away from the building in long strips, exposing the brick underneath like bed sores. The structure had the stamp of shoddy third world constructions – even the concrete seemed crumbly. Clothes were drying on poles protruding from windows. Some of the panes had curtains but many were bare. Seeing undressed windows was like looking into the eyes of the blind, thought Wayan. A few windows were boarded up with plywood. There was no elevator. Instead, there was a flight of stairs leading down to street level. Wayan concentrated his gaze on the entrance over the rim of his tea cup. All he could see was the small altar on the pavement by the staircase.
He asked, stretching his legs out under the table, ‘How do you know they are in there?'
‘I don't,' said Agus. ‘But I saw one of them come back to this block yesterday evening. On a red bike.'
‘Did you see which apartment he went in?'
‘No, I did not want to give myself away so I stayed out here. But it was definitely this building. I had a look later – there are only six apartments in there – so we should be able to track them down if we need to do it.'
‘I don't see a bike or anything,' complained Wayan, who was not happy about being dragged away from his increasingly tenuous job to spend a hot afternoon at a roadside stall.
‘They could be out,' suggested the policeman. ‘We did not get here that early.'
Wayan, stung by what he thought was an accusation, said, ‘That's not my fault.'
‘Nobody said it was. It is a long way here from Ubud. But if they have gone out, we just have to wait for them to come back.'
‘What about my job?'
‘This is police business. Your employers will understand.'
Wayan's nose wrinkled in disbelief at the naïve optimism of the policeman.
‘Are you sure you will recognise these men if you see them?'
Wayan looked doubtful and began to chew nervously on a fingernail. ‘I am not sure. I saw them a few times. But I did not look at them so carefully.'
‘I hope you do,' said the policeman. ‘Otherwise this will be a real waste of time!'
They both sipped their tea in silence, listening to the rumble of traffic and the hissing of gas flames as the
warung
owner fried noodles for his customers. A few birds were singing but their valiant efforts were drowned out by man-made noises.
‘What did he look like?'
‘Who?' asked the Balinese policeman, leaning forward and putting two brawny arms on the formica-topped table.
Wayan scowled at him. ‘The man on the red bike – who else?'
Agus glared back. ‘I did not get that close. I had to follow him all the way from Monkey Forest Road in Ubud. I was afraid of getting spotted.'
‘You must have some idea!'
‘He seemed good looking. Quite small-sized but he appeared strong. He had quite long hair.' The policeman put a hand up to his shoulder to indicate the length of his
quarry's hair. ‘He rode his motorbike very fast. I struggled to keep up with him and once or twice I was sure he was going to have an accident.'
‘Maybe it is the same man,' said Wayan optimistically.
‘Why? Does my description sound familiar?'
Wayan scratched a pimple on his nose. ‘No, not really, but I remember seeing him ride his bike out of the motel compound once – he was very fast.'
The policeman did not discount this as coincidence. Instead, he beamed. ‘I too think it might be the same man.'
Again the men lapsed into silence, each engrossed in his own thoughts. People came and went from the apartment block but whenever the policeman raised an inquiring eyebrow at the youth sitting sullenly opposite him, he received a firm shake of the head.
‘Do you know what these men have done?' asked the policeman at one point.
‘Don't you know? I thought you were the police!'
Sergeant Agus looked embarrassed. He blinked rapidly but said a little defiantly, ‘I was just told to follow the red bike. I ended up here. Next thing I knew, they asked me to fetch you and see whether you could confirm the ID.'
Wayan said knowingly, ‘That policeman from Singapore – he just tells people what to do. He never does anything himself!'
Agus contemplated the Sikh inspector – even in the absence of the looming presence of the fat man, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He said, wondering why he felt the need to defend the Singapore officer, ‘I am sure he is very busy also.'
Wayan said bitterly, ‘Their time is precious but I can sit here all day and lose my job.'
‘It is the way of the world, young man,' said the policeman
in an amused tone. ‘Are they drug traffickers, do you think, the owners of this famous red bike?'
Wayan shook his head, pleased to have some small advantage over the figure in authority. ‘They were friendly with some Englishman who stayed at the holiday villa where I work.'
‘So what?'
‘So, he is dead!'
‘How?'
‘Shot – and his body left at the Sari Club just before the bombs.'
‘Ayoh! Are these guys the murderers? Did you see them do it?'
Wayan was tempted to embellish his story – force the policeman to treat him with some respect – but he decided reluctantly that it was a tactic that could backfire spectacularly.
‘Not so exciting! That fat policeman just wants to ask them some questions.'
Agus hunched over in disappointment, his neck disappearing into his muscular shoulders. He had been sure that he was going to apprehend his first murderers. What a feather in his cap that would have been. He would have made a special trip to the Tanah Lot temple on Legian beach if the gods had been so bountiful.
He stared across the road. He spotted a bike cruising down the street. It was red. There were two men on it. The driver was the one he had tailed from Ubud the previous day. He had not seen the pillion rider before. The motorbike pulled up in front of the apartment block and the two men alighted. The older one glanced up and down the street but not across in their direction.
As the men disappeared into the stairwell, Wayan said, his
voice an excited whisper, ‘That's him. The younger one. He picked up Richard Crouch sometimes. The other one I do not recognise!'
The policeman broke into a broad smile. As they stared at the building, a light came on in one of the windows on the third floor.
He said, ‘And we know which flat they are in!'
Wayan nodded. ‘What now?' he asked.
‘We report success!' said Agus enthusiastically.
Wayan grinned. Perhaps it had been worth the long wait after all.
 
‘Where have you been?' demanded Singh crossly. ‘I had to interview Tim Yardley on my own.'
Bronwyn ignored his question and the petulantly pursed lips of her superior officer. She asked, ‘What did Yardley say? Do you think he did it?'
Singh sighed. ‘It would be a great solution, clean and neat. I have no doubt that Sarah Crouch was lining him up to remove her burden of a husband. But I wasn't convinced that Yardley has what it takes to make the transition from wishful thinking to action. He's one of life's spectators, eating cheese and onion crisps, drinking Coke and watching other men get the girls and win the lottery.'
His sidekick nodded so vigorously it caused her pendulous bosom to bob up and down like a boat on a fractious ocean. Singh averted his eyes.
She said, ‘When we met him the first time, I didn't cast him in the role of murderer either. He
was
acting peculiar though. Like he wasn't surprised by Richard Crouch's death.'
The inspector from Singapore muttered, ‘Yes, I noticed that too. At least, now we know why – Sarah Crouch had already told him that Richard was dead.'

Other books

Evacuee Boys by John E. Forbat
All Inclusive by Judy Astley
The Winston Affair by Howard Fast
Tiger by the Tail by Eric Walters
Torn by Dean Murray
Too Close to Resist by Nicole Helm
Vigilante Mine by Cera Daniels
Sacred Influence by Gary Thomas
Blueberry Muffin Murder by Fluke, Joanne