A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul (21 page)

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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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Singh was indifferent. He felt sorry for the girl but she was young, she would recover. He, Singh, had only one concern – who had killed Richard Crouch? The list of suspects was lengthening, not narrowing, but Singh didn't mind, he didn't mind in the least. A picture was forming – of the dead man and his life – and that was the only certain way to find a murderer.
‘Why are we leaving in such a hurry?'
‘Got everything we need,' answered Singh, huffing and puffing although they were going downstairs this time.
‘And what is everything?'
‘More suspects!'
‘The husband?'
‘Yes – and the brother.'
‘Surely not … I know he was annoyed about finding her with the boyfriend – but murder?'
‘I wouldn't usually think a brother a likely suspect,' admitted Singh. ‘But you heard some of the language she used. These chaps are pretty committed Moslems – family dishonour by a sister would be taken seriously.'
‘You might have a point,' agreed Bronwyn. They reached the street and made the mad dash across. ‘I haven't actually heard anyone referred to as an “infidel” in conversation before …'
‘I can't stand nutters of any stripe,' complained Singh, conveniently forgetting his earlier sympathy for the girl.
Nyoman drew up in the Kijang. Bronwyn hopped in and Singh clambered aboard more slowly, carefully navigating his belly through the door, which could not be opened fully as Nyoman had drawn up next to a row of parked cars.
Inside, car doors slammed shut, air-conditioning a welcome relief from the stuffy flat and the hot dusty street, Bronwyn was upbeat. ‘My money's on the husband.'
‘Ghani?' asked Singh thoughtfully. ‘You may be right – according to Nuri he was in the military before. He would know how to handle a firearm.' He fell silent, nibbling on a fingernail.
‘What's up?' asked Bronwyn.
‘He seemed genuinely surprised when we told him Crouch was dead – and really puzzled that his wife had inside information on the man.'
‘Could have been acting!'
‘Could have been acting … but that sort of man, repressed, middle-aged, with limited imagination, ex-soldier – I just don't see him being that convincing an actor.'
‘All right,' said Bronwyn with undiluted good humour. ‘The brother then.'
Singh scowled at his partner. ‘Why are you in such a good mood anyway?' he asked, not trying to hide his aggravation.
Bronwyn laughed and patted the Sikh policeman on the shoulder – a gesture of camaraderie that surprised him and moved him a little. ‘I don't know. For some reason, I'm having fun. A murder investigation is fascinating work!'
They sat in uninterrupted companionable silence for a while.
Singh pondered the fact that he had grown quite fond of this woman. She was still annoying. But he was willing to concede that she had strengths as well. She was patient, competent and hardworking. Her ability to remain good-tempered
in the face of his snappy temper and abrupt manner was quite a talent. In his working career to date, such characters had been exceedingly rare.
‘What now, boss?'
Singh did not object to the title. He was not her boss in any strict sense but he was more experienced than her and had taken the lead in the investigation. She had shown no resentment over his assuming command. Instead, she carried out his various instructions cheerfully, including tasks that another police officer might have refused or sulked about having to do.
Singh considered telling Bronwyn that she was doing a good job. He guessed that, for all her surface indifference, she was insecure about her future as a policewoman. She had only found a temporary refuge from her perceived insubordination. Her ill-timed comments were sure to dog her career in Australia. If he told her she was performing well it was bound to make her feel better.
The inspector leaned back against the car seat and locked his fingers as they rested on his belly. He decided against saying anything complimentary. He didn't want anyone who worked for him to get cocky.
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 Abdullah.
‘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.

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