A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul (20 page)

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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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From the window, without turning around, he asked in a gruff voice that nevertheless had a thread of sympathy running through it, ‘You were in love with him?'
Bronwyn glanced at her fellow policeman sharply but he was still gazing out of the window. She turned to Nuri, watching her face as she wrestled for an answer.
When it came, it was blunt and to the point. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘I loved Richard.'
Bronwyn said gently, ‘Tell us about it.'
The streets were almost deserted. Puffs of pink-tinged cloud, like cotton candy at a fairground, filled the sky. Usually, the merry-makers would be out, getting started on what would be a long evening of drinking and dancing. Today and every day since the bombs, there were only a few morose shopkeepers, perched on stools beside their carved long-tailed wooden cats and dusty bamboo wind chimes. The crowds that had thronged the streets were gone.
Ghani kicked the ground impatiently as he walked, sending a stone skidding into a nearby drain. He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. The tension was taking its toll. He could feel his muscles bunched under the skin. The operation had not gone smoothly so far.
Ghani scratched his beard, which was itching in the evening humidity. He admitted to himself that he was afraid. It didn't bother him much. He had learnt to channel fear and make it work to his own advantage. Fear enhanced his concentration. It sharpened his eyesight and hearing. To walk down a street with fear sitting on his shoulder was
almost to have a companion, a second pair of eyes.
It had been the same in Afghanistan. He was forty-five years old and had already been for three tours of duty. Each time he stepped onto the parched earth of western Afghanistan, he felt as if he was coming home. His delight in the smell of red earth and gunpowder did not make him careless. Ghani was a
jihadist.
He would be delighted to lay down his life for the cause and be hailed in this life and the hereafter as a martyr – but he had an obligation to Allah to make sure that he did not throw his life away cheaply.
Ghani scowled. It was all a moot point if he could not identify an appropriate target.
He ambled idly towards a flyer pinned to a lamp post. He read it with growing interest. Ghani glanced at his digital Casio watch and then up and down the street. His heart was racing with excitement, its echo pounding in his ears, as he contemplated the enormity of his idea. His facial scars glowed pale in the half light as the rest of his face was suffused in hot blood. He tried to think coherently. It was a struggle. The plan had leapt into his head so fully formed that it was hard to analyse it objectively, to check for flaws and risks. Could it work? There were enormous difficulties. There was bound to be aggressive security. But in deserted Bali, the place would be full to the brim with potential victims.
Ghani hurried to the mosque he frequented in Bali. It was a small rundown building. The gold paint on the single onion dome had faded to a pale yellow. The decrepit condition of the building annoyed Ghani. There was not much money for mosques in Hindu Bali, he thought angrily – only for the hundreds of temples that littered the landscape. Ghani took off his sandals and washed his hands, feet and face under a tap on the outside wall of the mosque. It was a
ritual purification and he felt cleansed, both inside and out. He walked respectfully into the mosque, found the arrow indicating the direction of Mecca, knelt down and touched his forehead to the ground.
It was time to give thanks to Allah for showing him the target.
 
Nuri spoke and the police listened without interrupting. Her voice was low but steady, her tone even – almost monotonous – as if she was reading out a shopping list. Neither Singh nor Bronwyn had any difficulty identifying the passion beneath the surface. They recognised that Nuri could only communicate her story by distancing herself from it. She was trying to separate the narrator from the protagonist in the sorry tale she was unfolding.
‘I met Richard when Ramzi brought him here,' she said quietly in Indonesian. ‘I didn't know who he was. It seemed strange to me that my brothers had Western acquaintances but it was not my place to ask.'
Nuri re-tied the scarf around her head, pulling the knot tight. She continued, ‘I was curious about him. Partly, I suppose, because I was bored with the routine here. I did not go out much. My husband, Ghani, said that Bali was a very wicked place. The few times I went out, I could see that he was right. There was so much that was
haram
.' She pressed her hands to her cheeks like a Victorian maiden.
‘I did not speak to Richard – it would have been frowned upon by my husband and brothers. But I looked at him – he was so tall and pale and his eyes were blue – like the sky above my village on a bright day. I knew he was Moslem because they called him Abdullah. I was glad of that. He was foreign and different but he was also a brother.'
She knotted her fingers together and fell silent. Singh
wondered whether he would have to drag her back to the present. He was reluctant to do so. It would remind her to whom she was speaking – and undermine the honesty of her disclosures. At present, they were getting the complete story without exaggeration or omission. It was a policeman's dream. He shifted in his chair, undecided what to do and fidgeting in his uncertainty. The slight movement caught her attention and she opened her mouth to speak again.
‘I served him food and drink when he came to visit. Sometimes, when I glanced at him, I would find him looking at me. It was like we had a connection – our eyes were drawn to each other at the same time … and when our eyes met, I felt as if we had spoken about important things.'
She half-smiled. ‘Isn't that strange?'
Singh was reminded how young this girl was. In her early twenties. Married to an older man. She would have found the sudden physical attraction to Abdullah puzzling. In fact, Singh would wager that she hadn't even realised it was a physical attraction. Nuri was young and romantic. She probably thought they were mingling souls. He mentally sighed, a breath of thought clearing the cobwebs in his mind. The tragedy and appeal of youth were all wrapped up in this slight figure before him, hair escaping from under her scarf, swollen lip and visibly broken heart.
Nuri continued. ‘Often when he came, I was sent to wait in the room.'
Catching a glimpse of Bronwyn's startled look, she said simply, ‘The men had important matters to discuss. It was better for womenfolk not to be involved.'
Bronwyn, the feminist, nodded a fake understanding, anxious not to distract the girl from her story.
‘In the room, I would sit and think of Richard and wonder what it would be like if, when we looked at each other, he
smiled. Once or twice, I would hear him laugh. I saw him smile at my brothers a few times and I was so envious!'
Her voice had lightened, revealing delight and anticipation. Singh knew she was not just retelling the past but reliving it as well. A naïve fool presenting her husband to them as a suspect.
‘Ghani let me go out more often. I am not sure why. Probably because he and the others were too busy to do the shopping for
halal
food. Maybe he could see that I was growing impatient being in the apartment all the time. I guess he trusted me not to be influenced by the ungodly things I witnessed.'
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. Singh could not tell if she was dismissing her husband's faith in her or his earlier doubts.
‘One day when I was out, I bumped into Abdullah on the street.' She grinned. Her sudden burst of youthful exuberance filled the room like a sunburst. ‘I think,' she added in a confiding tone, ‘that maybe he followed me or waited for me? But at the time I thought it was a coincidence! We started to talk. He smiled at me like I was hoping he would. It was as if' – Nuri patted herself over the heart – ‘when he smiled, there was a thread from my heart to his and it got tight and painful but also very special.'
She gazed at them challengingly, as if daring them to disbelieve the bond she had felt with Crouch. Neither cop said anything. Singh felt old. This girl, walking them through her journey towards tragedy, was taking a toll on him. He found himself envying the intensity of her feelings. He was not sure he had ever felt that strongly about anyone, certainly not his wife. Was there someone out there waiting for him whose smile would tighten a bond with his soul? Singh almost laughed out loud. The image of himself as the
hero in some sort of grand romance was too comical for the cynic in him. But he could not shake the sliver of envy that had pierced his heart.
‘After that, we saw each other a lot. I did not ask him why he was always waiting for me. We only walked along and talked. He helped me with the shopping – he would carry the bags. When we were in the apartment with the others, we did not speak or tell the others we had met. I knew it was a secret and what I was doing was wrong – but it
felt
right and I didn't care anyway.'
Her defiance was threadbare but determined. Her audience was sympathetic – she did not suffer the criticism, express or implied, that she feared.
‘He was very unhappy in his marriage. His wife was an infidel who did not understand why he had converted to Islam.'
Singh was shocked to hear such strong, intolerant language from such a sweet-faced young thing. He reminded himself that he was dealing with a girl from a small village in Sulawesi. Even so, he, the least tactful person on the Singapore police force, found her language distasteful. He supposed it was because she was not being sarcastic or ironic or even intentionally offensive. The language of ‘them' and ‘us', of exclusion and membership, came naturally to her. It was part of her everyday vocabulary to speak of non-Moslems as infidels, to reduce them to dimensions less than human.
Unaware of Singh's discomfiture, the girl carried on her narrative. ‘Finally, one day he asked me to come away with him. He said he had a job to do – but after it was complete, I should join him. He would take me as his second wife. He did not want to divorce his first wife – he said he had a responsibility towards her.'
She fell silent again and Bronwyn asked quietly, ‘When was this?'
Nuri stared at her in genuine surprise. She had almost forgotten there were others in the room, so lost had she been in her memories. She said, ‘That is easy to remember because of the Bali bombs – it was the day before that.'
‘Did you agree to go away with him?'
‘Of course! I loved him. We belonged together. We were so happy that afternoon. We walked on the beach. He held my hand. We did not kiss or … anything – he said there was time enough when we were married. I regret that. It would have been wrong. But he is dead and I will never have the chance to be with him now.'
It was Singh's turn to ask a question. ‘Was that the last time you saw him?'
Her eyes were awash with tears. ‘Sort of – Ramzi saw us on the beach. He wanted to know what I was doing – he saw we were holding hands, you see. He was very angry.'
She closed her eyes. Singh could sense her fear of the hotheaded young man he had met briefly the previous night.
Nuri continued, ‘Richard said that he had no time to explain, it was already evening and there was something important he had to do.'
The girl's smooth forehead wrinkled with puzzlement. ‘Ramzi grabbed me and dragged me away. I had bruises up and down my arm the next day. Abdullah shouted to me not to worry, to go with Ramzi, he would sort it out later. Ramzi made me come back to the apartment with him. I asked him if he was going to tell Ghani. I was afraid of his reaction. I mean, it would have been all right if he had just divorced me – that was what Abdullah and I were planning anyway …' She trailed off and put her hand absent-mindedly on her bruised jaw.
Bronwyn noticed the gesture and asked, ‘You were afraid he would harm you? Beat you?'
‘I suppose so,' she said doubtfully. ‘He had not done it before but he was a soldier so I was a little afraid. Actually, I was probably more afraid of Ramzi.'
‘He was a soldier – I thought he worked in construction as a day labourer?' Singh was confused and annoyed about it. He didn't like getting his facts wrong.
Nuri did not meet his eyes but she said adamantly, ‘He was a soldier before.'
‘What happened when you got home?'
‘Did Ramzi tell Ghani?'
The questions were being fired at her from all directions. Nuri adopted an instinctively defensive posture, her arms across her chest. ‘We walked home. Ramzi told me he would deal with me later. I don't think he told Ghani …'
She sat up straight in her chair, squaring her skinny shoulders. ‘I waited for Richard to come for me and take me away. I couldn't understand why he didn't. I even wondered if perhaps he had been toying with me, just having a bit of fun. It bruised my soul. I was still waiting when you came in yesterday and told us he was dead.'
The dam broke. The young girl who had found a tenuous romantic love and lost it to violence put her head down on the arm of the chair and sobbed – great big, shoulder-shaking, muffled sounds.
Bronwyn fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat, distressed by the grief but uncertain how to assuage it.
Singh, on the other hand, was a happy man. He stood up, portly and satisfied, and beckoned imperiously for Bronwyn to come with him.
She gestured silently at the girl. Her question was implied but easily understood. How can we leave her like this?

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