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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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Barton found what he was looking for. He walked over to them holding something in the palm of his hand.
It was a flat piece of bone, singed around the edges.
Singh asked, ‘Part of a skull?'
Dr Barton nodded. ‘Yes, I think so.' He tapped himself on the forehead. ‘Frontal plate.'
‘Why is it important?' The Sikh policeman was mystified.
‘Presumably you've got frontal plates and occipital plates and every other bone in that macabre collection of yours!'
Barton held up the piece so they could see it clearly. The others peered at it. The doctor slipped his index finger through a perfectly round hole in the centre of the cranial plate.
Inspector Singh sighed.
Bronwyn looked at him questioningly. She asked, ‘What is it?'
‘A bullet hole,' said the inspector from Singapore.
‘I don't understand!' exclaimed Bronwyn, clutching her thin hair with both hands. ‘Was this one of the bomb victims?'
Dr Barton nodded. ‘Yes, in the sense that the remains were recovered from the Sari Club. No, in that he was already dead when the bomb went off.'
‘But how is that possible? Surely the body would have been spotted? It was a crowded nightclub!' Singh made his doubts clear.
Atkinson said, ‘It
is
almost impossible to understand. But the Sari Club was completely destroyed. There's no way of knowing for sure if there were any store rooms or corners where a body might have been stashed.'
‘How certain are you it's a bullet hole? Couldn't it have been caused by shrapnel or nails or something like that?' Singh's tone was belligerent, instinctively treating the doctor like a witness whose story had to be tested under pressure.
Dr Barton remained composed. ‘It's a good theory, but the Sari Club bomb was not laced with the normal cocktail of metal objects.
And
– it's not conclusive – but I tested the
carbonated remains around the bullet hole' – he held up his bizarre trophy – ‘and, although one burnt-out piece of bone looks very much like another, there was gunpowder residue around this hole.'
Singh exhaled, blowing out his cheeks. He said, ‘So what you're saying is that in the midst of carnage, there's also been murder?'
‘Well, it's all murder,' retorted Barton.
Singh scowled at him, thick eyebrows almost meeting above his large nose. ‘You know what I mean – there was an individual murder in the midst of mass murder.'
‘The question is – does it matter?' Atkinson posed the question like an academic in an ivory tower.
‘What do you mean?' asked Bronwyn in a subdued voice.
‘We're dealing with an international investigation into a terrorist attack. Do we have the time and resources to look into a murder?'
‘Are you suggesting we
ignore
this?' Singh was angry.
‘I'm suggesting that maybe we
should
look away. Relative to the suicide bombings – this is a minor matter!' Atkinson, recognising that he was in a minority of one, was aggressive, his head thrust forward on his thick neck.
‘Why did you show this to us if you want to pretend it didn't happen?' asked Bronwyn.
Singh nodded his head to second the question. Bronwyn had the natural perspicuity that he always attributed to women. Atkinson's behaviour and opinion were not consistent.
‘It's my fault,' said Dr Barton. ‘I don't think we should disregard this poor bastard.'
‘That's why you're here,' said Atkinson, looking at the Sikh policeman and grinning suddenly, exposing a row of small, sharp teeth.
Singh had a suspicion he was not going to like what was coming next.
‘We heard that your government sent us a security expert without any expertise.'
Singh shrugged his fleshy shoulders. There was no point denying it.
‘So,' continued Atkinson, ‘we thought you could make yourself useful chasing down the murderer.'
Singh scratched his beard. ‘It's impossible. I'm out of my jurisdiction. I don't have a team.'
Atkinson said rudely, pointing a finger at the Australian policewoman, ‘You can have
her
.'
Bronwyn appeared startled but did not speak.
Singh was aghast. ‘I wouldn't know where to begin,' he said, almost pleadingly. ‘I mean, what do we have to go on – a piece of a skull with a hole in it? We don't even know who the victim is!'
Barton said in a smug tone, ‘Oh! Did I forget to mention? I've identified the body.' He held up his favourite prop, spinning the piece of skull around a finger stuck through the bullet hole. ‘Let me introduce you to Richard Crouch, resident of Bali these last six months.'
Atkinson said, ‘Good work!'
Barton turned to Singh and Bronwyn. ‘Look, I know this is going to be an almost impossible crime to solve. But I persuaded Atkinson that we owe it to this guy to have a go. It's not right that his killer is let off the hook because we happen to be busy.'
Atkinson added, ‘I'm not wasting the manpower I need for the terrorist investigation. Neither are the Balinese. But, I thought, as we have a top cop from Singapore who has a reputation for always getting his man but knows squat about terrorism, why not get him on board? Unless, that is, you're
just here for quality time on the beach?'
Singh didn't bother to respond to the blatant provocation. He was thinking hard, chewing on his plump lower lip with vigour. The bottom line was that he was not going back to Singapore any time soon. His superiors were determined that their contribution to the cause of Balinese security should stay on Bali. But he was sick and tired of being a fifth wheel on the investigative bandwagon, skulking behind his Australian babysitter, hoping – unsuccessfully as it turned out – that no one would notice that he didn't have a clue what he was doing. But murder was his expertise. And here was a murder that was at least as challenging as anything he had ever confronted before. No policeman worth his white sneakers could turn down such an offer.
Besides, the doctor was right. This Richard Crouch, whoever he was, deserved more – he deserved justice. And the pursuit of justice was Singh's favourite form of exercise.
He said gruffly, ‘I'll do it.'
 
‘We should go, love.'
Emily Greenwood ignored her husband. She wiped a trickle of wine off her chin with a well-manicured finger. The nail was painted a delicate shade of cherry. Her pink tongue darted out and licked the tip. She waved imperiously to a hovering waiter. He rushed over and poured more of the rich ruby liquid into her empty glass.
‘You've had enough, darling. Let's go home now.' Julian despised himself for the pleading note that crept into his nasal voice.
Emily sipped the wine and smiled at her husband, two large grey eyes looking at him with bleary amusement, unruly highlighted blonde tendrils escaping from her chignon. ‘Just one more for the road, love.'
Even in her drunken state, her tone had the rich plumminess and authority of someone born to privilege. Julian, knowing how hard he worked to maintain a similar accent, doing his best to disguise his ordinary London roots, felt a stab of intense jealousy.
Why had this woman been born with a silver spoon in her mouth? More like a silver bloody ladle, he thought crossly.
He had met Emily in Bali six months before, wooed her and married her, convinced it was his ticket to the good life. He had been disappointed in his expectations. Despite her intensely hedonistic lifestyle, devoted to the pleasures that Bali offered to pamper the wealthy, she had remained in firm control of the purse strings.
Julian stared at the small hand gripping the stem of her wine glass and wondered how he was going to prise some funds from that grasp.
The situation was urgent.
He had even asked that goody-two-shoes, Richard Crouch, for a loan. It was no use asking Tim Yardley, he was always skint. He remembered how Richard had looked at him sympathetically and explained that he did not feel able to help Julian with his debts. ‘I don't approve of gambling, you see,' he explained in his low, quiet voice. ‘Perhaps you should get some help with your addiction?'
Julian had felt like screaming at him, standing there, looking at him with an expression of gentle sympathy. He didn't have an addiction. He just enjoyed hanging out with the locals at the regular cockfighting contests. He had been unlucky with a few wagers. He didn't need therapy. He needed to find a way to avoid having his legs broken – or worse.
The tip of Julian's long patrician nose was red with aggravation. He wondered whether he should come clean with his
wife. Did he dare? Would she help him or leave him?
Julian looked at Emily, trying to recollect if he had ever felt any real affection for her. He had married her for her money, of course. But he had done so willingly. She was a small attractive woman with an exaggerated hourglass figure. In the early days of their relationship, her casual largesse had come in very useful. He had admired her effortless class – he had always been attracted to women who were further up the social ladder than him. He, with his thin long limbs and lean bony face, looked the part of an aristocrat. He enjoyed playing the role when he had enough ready cash to dryclean his cream linen suit and dress like a tropical gentleman. But he had none of the natural self-esteem that only money could buy. Emily had drifted into his life and presented him with an opportunity to turn his act into reality. He had grabbed it with both hands.
He had known that Emily drank when he married her but not thought that much about it. Most of the expatriates in Bali enjoyed their drink. After all, what else was there to do on an island paradise where all the daily chores were carried out by willing Balinese minions?
Julian recalled that he had even decided to abandon his beloved cockfighting until he was more certain of his bond with Emily and her affection for him. But he had been unable to withstand the temptation to have a flutter and now he was in desperate need of funds. He gazed across the table. A waft of expensive perfume tickled his nose. Emily rested her head against the pillow of two folded arms. She began to snore gently.
 
Dr Barton stood behind the ornate carved teak desk, inappropriate in both size and design for the tiny, cramped space. The other two tried to find a place to stand that did
not involve leaving muddy footprints on the piles of papers on the floor. Books propped each other up drunkenly on a large bookshelf. Singh noted that the titles were all work-related. Although the air-conditioning was running, the large window behind the desk was wide open. The policeman could feel a hot evening breeze wafting in. At the same time, the air-conditioning blew gusts of cold air onto the back of his neck. He sneezed. Barton scowled at him as he blew his nose on a large white handkerchief that he pulled neatly folded from his trouser pocket.
Singh edged forward but found himself too close to Bronwyn. She was at least six inches taller than him even in flat shoes, he thought irritably. At least she wasn't the sort to wear heels – he didn't need his lack of stature emphasised any further.
‘How did you identify the body?' asked Bronwyn as the inspector from Singapore continued to belie his reputation as a canny investigator by shuffling about the room looking uncomfortable.
‘Dental records,' said Barton. ‘Fortunately, the jaw was mostly intact – the rest are just fragments.'
Singh asked sharply, his interest caught, ‘Was it a conclusive identification?'
Barton adopted his most professional tone. ‘Well, considering the fragmentation, incineration and co-mingling, I would go as far as to say we have a positive identification. The ante-mortem and postmortem data match in sufficient detail, there are no unexplainable discrepancies, the dental work was not extensive but it was idiosyncratic. Considering some of the stuff we're relying on, this is good. Off the record – I'm pretty sure we have one Richard Crouch, Caucasian male, late thirties.'
Singh was not convinced. He asked, ‘But how can you be
sure the skull and jaw are from the same body? You said yourself that there was a lot of confusion after the bombs.'
Barton nodded. ‘You're right. But the DNA from the teeth and that piece of skull I showed you are a match.'
Singh was impressed by the bad-tempered doctor. His casual way with bones masked both integrity and an attention to detail which was remarkable in the circumstances.
He asked, ‘Dental records? That means there are next of kin?'
‘Yes. There's a wife. I should be clear that the other characteristics, age and race, I've based on a picture she provided. She came to the morgue looking for her husband after the bombs and seemed to think a photo might help with identification. '
‘Poor woman,' said Bronwyn.
Singh nodded in agreement. It was slightly comic, and very tragic, that the wife had thought there might be enough left of her husband for a visual identification from a photograph.
Singh asked, ‘You couldn't confirm race from skull shape?'
‘There isn't a single piece big enough to determine racial identity,' explained Barton impatiently. ‘Besides, the wife should know if her husband was white!'
Singh said carefully, ‘We have to take everything she says with a good dose of scepticism.'
‘Why?' demanded Bronwyn, offended on behalf of the unknown woman.
‘Because she's the only suspect we have right now.'
Met with silence, he asked, ‘Have you told her?'
Barton shook his head. ‘I've told the family nothing. I found the bullet hole some time back – so I've known there was a murder mixed up in this mess for a while. But we just discovered the dental match – and it took a while after that
to make sure the DNA samples from the teeth matched the skull. The widow doesn't even know that we've identified the body, let alone that her husband was shot in the head before being blown to smithereens.'

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