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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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He paused for a moment. ‘I guess it's just as well a person can only die once.' Barton grabbed a folder from the top of his desk and held it up. He asked, ‘So, you're going to take the case?'
‘I really think I am,' said Singh.
He held out a grubby hand and the doctor handed the file over.
Singh remarked, ‘This murderer almost got away.'
‘What do you mean?' asked Bronwyn.
‘Well, if the doctor hadn't found that skull fragment with the bullet hole – he'd have got away with murder. It's not every day that terrorists conspire to get a killer off the hook.'
Bronwyn asked, ‘There is no way of knowing, I suppose, when Crouch was killed?' She looked at the doctor inquiringly and he shook his head.
‘There's not enough left of him for any fancy analysis of time of death. I didn't find any trace of decomposition in what was left but I'm not sure what that proves. He probably wasn't dead a huge amount of time before the bombings. But that's just my best guess – could be that any signs of decomposition were incinerated.'
Bronwyn continued, ‘I suppose that means it's conceivable that the perpetrator died in the bombings too?'
‘Shot the guy and then was blown up? It's possible, I guess.'
Singh was disappointed. His jowls drooped. He wanted to find a murderer, not identify another corpse.
Bronwyn noticed this and said cheerfully, the dimple putting in a fresh appearance, ‘Probably the killer is lying
under a beach umbrella, watching the sunset, sipping a pina colada and thinking how lucky he – or she – is.'
Singh's face brightened. He said, ‘I certainly hope so!'
 
Tim Yardley sat under a thatched umbrella, leaning back against its sturdy wooden trunk. He was shirtless and a stiff breeze ruffled the hair that blanketed his belly. His breasts drooped over his stomach.
A low full moon, hanging like a paper lantern in the sky, provided the only light. The sea waters were ebony against a midnight-blue sky. Only the frothy wave tops reflected the moonlight, each strand racing the others to shore, occasionally colliding in a wheeling eddy. It was peaceful.
Tim did his best to forget the hurtful things his wife had said to him. Karri was becoming more unpleasant by the day, playing with his emotions with the capriciousness of a young child pulling the wings off a butterfly. Indeed, she had used her spiteful tongue with good effect throughout the course of their marriage, mocking his weaknesses, insisting her maliciousness was just humour – that he was being too sensitive in taking it all to heart.
They had been married almost fifteen years now. He had met her in a Bali hotel, the sort that catered to Taiwanese package tours and low-budget corporate retreats. She had spotted him balanced precariously on a bar stool, sipping a Bintang and waiting for his colleagues from the engineers' conference to put in an appearance. With her usual self-confidence, she had sidled over and begun a conversation. He remembered being bowled over by the energetic skinny woman with the exotic hairstyle.
Half an hour later, he had abandoned his fellow engineers to perch on the back of Karri's rented scooter, holding on to her flat stomach gingerly. She took him on a tour of rowdy
bars and strobe-lit nightclubs where he sipped a beer and watched her dance, proud that he was there as her escort. They had ended up in his hotel room, the first time he had had sex with a woman he had not paid for upfront.
Tim remembered how certain he was that he could not let this vibrant creature out of his life. He had been terrified of being left to his old sedate existence and regular job in Canberra, no one to come home to except his old mother who relied on him and despised him at the same time.
In desperation, he had blurted out a proposal of marriage and then cringed at the thought of her horrified response. Karri had rolled over, her hair tousled. She had gripped his naked belly, already starting to protrude, in a firm hand. He had felt ashamed of his physique, flabby and untoned, compared to her brown wiry muscularity.
To his amazement, she had burst into loud laughter and said, ‘Why not?'
Tim had immediately faxed his resignation to the Canberra head office from his hotel, his hands tremulous with anticipation as he gave the scribbled letter to the desk clerk. He was a new man, embarking on a new life. He had married Karri wearing the suit he had brought for the conference but was determined to burn it right after the ceremony – a symbolic rejection of the regimentation and tedium of his previous life. He would dress in cotton vests and comfortable surfer shorts, knock himself into shape jogging on the beach and get a tan. Tim remembered how he had peered into a mirror just before the ceremony, looking at his high forehead and wondering whether there was a Balinese potion that would magically restore his hairline. For a short while, he had truly believed in miracles.
When he arrived at the registry office, he found Karri waiting for him. She was dressed in Bali's famous white
Uluwatu lace. He thought she looked beautiful. The best man was a co-worker from the office who was also at the conference
.
Tim had roped him in at the last moment. He was determined to provide his bride, a woman who disdained the formalities and mocked the conventions, with the accoutrements of a traditional wedding.
A week later, he had found his new wife and the best man in bed together.
He remembered how his bowels had loosened with shock when he had happened upon them. His broader despair had been subsumed into a small narrow panic that he would soil his brand new beach shorts.
Karri had seemed genuinely surprised that he expected her to be faithful. He shook his head. Even now, the memory of her words was like a knife twisting in his gut. She had said, as his colleague hurriedly left the room wrapped in bedclothes, grabbing his pants on the way out as if he were a character in some sort of staged bedroom farce, ‘Tim, I might have married you – but you don't own me and you can't tell me how to live my life.'
The following morning, Inspector Singh gazed out to sea. The blue-green surface sparkled as the sunlight caught the tops of rippling waves. It seemed as if a generous deity had caused it to rain diamonds onto the ocean. It was the final touch to raise Bali from the perfect to the sublime.
It was still early and the sun was a low orb on the horizon. Although bright and determined, it had not yet succeeded in turning the fresh, cool morning into a sultry Balinese day.
Inspector Singh had sand in his shoes, between his toes and under his soles. Sand chafed his heels as well. Bali sand, at least on this particular beach, was a coarse yellow. Scratchy. Not the coral white powder he had been expecting.
At least the beach was clean. The cleanliness had mystified Singh. It was no mean feat considering that it was facing the South China Sea, rubbish dump of Asia. The previous morning, an explanation for the minor miracle had been forthcoming. Coming down to gaze over the waters earlier than usual after a sleepless night, Inspector Singh had seen a large tractor trundling up and down, scooping up the top
layer of sand together with all the human detritus that the oceans had chucked up overnight. Driven by a morbid curiosity, Singh had walked forward until he was close enough to look into the tractor's square, metal jaw. Empty plastic bottles, limp condoms, broken glass, much of it the toxic green that signalled the remnants of a bottle of Bintang beer, a leather shoe covered in mould, a syringe – Singh stopped looking.
He wondered idly where the garbage was dumped. On some other beach less frequented by foreign tourists? Did they throw out the sand too? Surely the beach would soon be excavated bare? After all, it took millions of years for the rocks and stones of the coastline to be whittled down to the grains of sand getting into his shoes.
Tourists, those few hardy souls who had refused to be driven away by the Bali bombings, were starting to appear, drawn to the beach by the sun. Seasoned sunbathers had baked their skin to dark leather. Others were golden brown – looking good until the skin cancer set in, thought Singh grimly. He glanced at his own arms, covered in a starched, long-sleeved white cotton shirt, with approval.
Singh's attention was drawn to a large man, bright red all over except for his bum cheeks. These, exposed in a pair of thong swimming trunks, were a flaccid white. As he watched, the man spread a large striped bath towel on the sand and lowered himself onto it gingerly. He levered a panama hat onto his inflamed bald head and rolled over. His pristine bottom needed colour too.
A few Balinese were making their way in a leisurely fashion towards the tourists. A small nut-brown boy was assembling kites. In a few minutes he had a selection, from traditional diamond shapes to intricately painted birds of prey, tethered to a bamboo construction. The kites bobbed
and danced in the sky. Singh's favourite was a kite of primary colours in the shape of a ship. Its sails billowed in the wind as it tugged insistently at its anchor, anxious to be on its way.
Two middle-aged Balinese women with wrinkled, kindly faces squatted on the beach in bright-coloured
sarongs
and
kebaya
. They beckoned to the tourists, offering cheap massages in cackling tones, their teeth rotten and stained from chewing betel nuts wrapped in the peppery leaves of the
sirih
plant. Their prices dropped as their quarry moved further away. Singh caught a whiff of jasmine and coconut oil from the tray of jars on the sand.
The inspector realised he was attracting a good deal of suspicious interest. A fully-clothed, turbaned man, standing statue-like and contemplative on a Bali beach, was not a sight to reassure. There were very few Westerners, thought Singh, who could tell a Sikh from a headgear-wearing Moslem – and in Bali, since the bombs, every Moslem was assumed to be a potential terrorist.
Singh retreated slowly up the beach. He reached the hotel and flopped down on an intricately carved wooden bench. Everything in Bali was intricately carved, he thought crossly – it made it damned uncomfortable. He rubbed his back, kicked off his shoes and, puffing slightly from bending over, peeled the socks off his feet, exposing toes sprinkled with sand, tufts of grey hair growing between the joints.
The policeman turned his white sneakers over and dusted them out. He slapped his socks against his foot, trying to shake the sand loose. An obsequious Balinese man dressed in a white bush jacket, tan
sarong
and slippers, the uniform of the hotel staff, rushed over to offer his assistance.
‘I can do it myself,' said Singh brusquely.
He noticed the square bulge in the man's pocket. Singh held up two fingers, mimicking holding a cigarette. The
Balinese was delighted to be of service. He extricated the packet and tapped it expertly on his palm, offering Singh the protruding fags. Singh took one and slipped it between his thin upper lip and full pink lower lip. The man whipped out a lighter and held the flame to the cigarette. Singh inhaled deeply. He smiled. Cultural differences were papered over by their mutual addiction to tobacco.
Singh leaned forward and squinted at the file he had tucked under his arm as he walked along the beach. Ash from his cigarette fell on the cover and he brushed it away with the back of his hand. He had wasted enough time staring out to sea, trying to come to terms with his new assignment. It was time for him to knuckle down and do what he did best – hunt down a murderer.
 
Julian Greenwood jumped on his motorbike. He could have taken the car with its docile Balinese chauffeur but Emily would almost certainly find out where he had gone. The staff knew very well who signed the cheques every month.
He weaved between traffic. An old Bali hand, the narrow roads and erratic driving held no fears for him. He was not wearing a helmet and his thin brown hair was swept back from his high forehead by the wind. Strands of his drooping moustache were getting into his mouth.
He stayed on the main road. Telegraph poles festooned with wires measured out his journey until he was past Seminyak with its upmarket boutiques and restaurants. He turned onto a dirt track a few miles after the Oberoi junction. He followed a path flanked by paddy fields, weaving between fetid puddles. After a few minutes, he reached his destination. A collection of motorcycles, dusty from their journey, rested beside scrubby trees. He could hear raucous shouts
interspersed with whistles and cheers. He made his way to a little dip in the terrain.
Julian felt the blood pump through his veins like a highpowered hose. He squeezed between the hordes of sweating, screaming men. The scent of hundreds of clove cigarettes made him feel lightheaded. This was the Bali he loved. Not the smooth servile surface but these sudden outbursts of energy and passion that sprung through the cracks of society like bubbling geysers. A female vendor tried to sell him a snack but he shook his head impatiently. He was not there to eat.
The arena was circular and surrounded by a low woven temporary fence. Two cocks were held at separate ends of the enclosure. One was red and white and the other speckled green and black, both with long plumes for tails and flared ruffs. Their owners had tied on the
taji
, a small steel dagger about four inches long, to the legs of their respective fighting birds. They were priming the birds for the fight now, ruffling their feathers, plucking their combs and kneading their muscles. The crowd was almost hysterical, shouting out their favourites, taking side bets by gesticulating across the crowded arena and offering odds.
Julian felt in his shirt pocket and pulled out a ten thousand
rupiah
note that he had stolen from his wife's handbag. He had not dared take more in case she noticed. He took a deep breath and jumped into the fray.
The handlers released the cocks which charged at each other with single-minded fury. They attacked in a flurry of feathers and flying claws, trying hard to slash at the opposing bird with their spurs, enhanced by the vicious
taji.
In a few seconds, one of the birds was injured, the blood splashing onto the sandy pitch, its white feathers turning red. The referee blew his whistle and the handlers dashed in to
separate the birds. The owner of the injured bird looked at the referee and shook his head. The cock would not fight again. He put the bird in a portable woven basket of green leaves and slung the long string handle over his shoulder. His day was over, his cock defeated in its first fight.
There was an exchange of bundles of notes from hand to hand. Small wads of cash were tossed across crowds to the winners. Julian had doubled his money and a slow smile spread across his face. Maybe his luck was turning.
A hand reached out and snatched the grimy notes from his unsuspecting fingers. He whirled around angrily but stopped short when he saw who it was.
The Balinese man, his unbuttoned shirt exposing a hairless chest, said, ‘Very good, I also backed the
buik,
the green and black cock. Now you owe me two million
rupiah
less this,' and he waved Julian's winnings under his long nose.
Julian thrust out his chin, trying to look confident. He said, ‘I will get you the money soon.'
The Balinese smiled, exposing the large gap between his two front teeth. ‘Better you do that – you have only one more week.'
 
The first few pages consisted of the forensic dental investigation that had identified the deceased as Richard Crouch. Singh noted that the dental records provided were from England. That meant that the records were reliable and also that Crouch was probably English. He would confirm that with the wife later in the day.
A photograph slipped out of the file into Singh's ample lap. He picked it up and gazed at the smiling young man leaning against a car, light brown hair curling around his collar, scraggy beard a couple of shades darker. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans frayed at the knees.
His arms were crossed in front of him. There was a date in the corner. The photo had been taken almost two years ago. Singh wondered why the wife had not provided something more recent. They were in Bali. Surely they must have taken some shots?
There was not much else in the folder. DNA test results confirmed that the various remains belonged to one and the same person. Photos of the charred body parts, taken individually next to a ruler, gave a sense of their dimensions. Singh noticed the long femur – the young man had been tall.
He gazed at the pictures side by side – one of vibrant life, the other of blackened remnants – then slumped back in his chair.
Bronwyn Taylor's voice, foghorn loud, interrupted his contemplation.
She said, ‘Geez. I thought you'd given up the evil weed?'
Singh sucked in a lungful of nictotine and decided he really disliked hefty women with fleshy arms and large thighs in badly cut trousers. He noted the silhouette of her overhanging tummy against the soft cotton T-shirt she was wearing. The top was at least two sizes too small. He realised shamefacedly, looking down at his own large gut, that his mental rant constituted a good description of himself. He decided he needed a good kick on his generous posterior for agreeing to have this woman on his team. He preferred the people who worked for him to be timid, quiet and competent. Bronwyn's bouncy exuberance made him feel like lying down in a dark room with a wet towel over his eyes.
Singh tried to remember how he had got entangled with Taylor in the first place. When he had arrived in Bali he had reported to the joint Balinese – Australian investigative team. Once it had become apparent that he had no useful skills, he had been fobbed off on Taylor. Singh had suspected at the
time that Bronwyn had annoyed her superiors. Why else would they waste manpower providing him with an escort?
He stood up and became conscious that he was in bare feet with his socks in his hands. He felt as undressed as the man in the g-string on the beach.
Bronwyn Taylor, her volume only slightly adjusted for proximity, said, ‘Been for a walk on the beach, eh? I've been out too – swum for miles, lovely sea this morning. You should try it – although I can't imagine you in a pair of budgie smugglers!' She grinned. ‘Or maybe I can!'
Taking Singh's horrified silence in her stride, she poked him in the stomach with a long fleshy finger, reddened around the knuckles as if she had been in a fistfight. She said, ‘I'm sorry to say it doesn't look like you get much exercise, mate!'
Singh sat down and pulled on his sandy socks, his cigarette clenched between small, brown-stained teeth. He put on his white sneakers and tied the laces in a double knot.
Bronwyn Taylor asked, ‘Have you finished with the file yet? I'm keen to have a look when you're done. Today, I hope!'
Singh took a deep breath. He was not surprised that her superiors had sidelined this woman from the main terrorist investigation. He slid the folder across the table.
She sat down heavily on a cushioned wicker chair and started flicking through, stopping as he had done to look at the picture of the laughing young man. Singh saw her round shoulders sag and guessed she was feeling the same pity he had felt for Richard Crouch, a vital young man reduced to fragments.
As he pondered the woman in front of him, he sensed she had ceased to concentrate on the contents of the file and was instead contemplating something unrelated. It caused her
high forehead to furrow. The neat, parallel worry lines reminded him of the tractor trail he had seen that morning on the beach.

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