Shadow Play (3 page)

His career to this point had gone very well indeed, and he was confident he could handle any crimes he found in Kota Bharu, which he expected to be of the lost goat variety, or maybe an exciting quarrel turned violent, where he could witness, and tame, the renowned Kelantanese temper. He hadn't counted on murder. There probably hadn't been a murder in this area for years, and now it had to happen to him. He looked morosely around the dried field and beaten dirt for a clue, the mark of a shoe, a scrap of cloth. Nothing. It was the end of the dry season, and the ground was baked to a hard finish.

He squatted together with Dollah, trying to get some background which might illuminate Ghani's murder. Using one of his juniors as an interpreter, it was painfully slow going, compounded by Dollah's reluctance to air Ghani's private affairs to the police.

“He played with me since he was a kid, maybe eight or nine,” Dollah reported to Rahman, the interpreter, darting an occasional look at Ghani. Dollah was a small man, even among Malays, with a large head and hands and a surprisingly deep voice. He looked to be in his forties, with slightly slanted eyes and a wide, heart-shaped face. Outside of the
panggung
, Dollah was soft-spoken and courteous, betraying nothing of the oversized personality he displayed as a
dalang.
Seeing him talk, it was hard to imagine him as famous, the centre of gossip and scandals surrounding successful performer. He seemed like any villager trying to say as little as possible.

“He played with me in the dry season, and went down to Singapore in the rainy season to work on construction jobs, so he wasn't here for about half the year.” Dollah thought about what to say next. “He's from Tawang, not too far on the other side of Kota Bharu; we're all from around there. His wife lives there and they have two children.” With
that, he appeared to be finished, and commenced looking at the sky.

“What's the wife's name?” Osman asked directly. It was a simple question, and he felt sure Dollah would understand him.

“Aisha.” Dollah did not look down from the sky.

“Did anyone go for her?” Osman asked, turning to the group of musicians talking behind him. One nodded. “Should be here soon,
Che
Osman.”

Maryam arrived home to find the investigation grinding to a halt. Osman seemed to have run out of questions, and Dollah had never intended to give any real answers. Maryam went to make coffee immediately, hoping to grease the wheels of police work and get them off her property as quickly as possible. It looked awful, a dead body, police everywhere, musicians milling around. “This kid can't handle it,” she whispered to Mamat in the kitchen. “He'll never find out what happened. He can't even talk to anyone! He can't understand us.” She shook her head ruefully. “I'd say it was horrible to have this happen at Yi's
sunat
, and, of course, it
is
horrible,” she added hastily, while Mamat smiled. “But Yi's going to think it's really exciting.”

“I know,” Mamat replied, watching Maryam add the syrupy milk to the coffee and mixing it. She loaded a tray with coffee and cups and handed it to him. “He'll never stop talking about it,” Mamat finished as he walked outside, Maryam following with a large collection of Rubiah's cakes she'd had the foresight to take from the market, and they set everything down on the porch.

The musicians talked animatedly among themselves, hoping to go home soon and leave this behind them. Osman wondered sulkily if he would ever learn much Kelantanese, or ever solve this crime, and then Aisha appeared, her pretty face blotched with red, her eyes puffy,
stepping out of the police car looking wildly around.

“Where is he?” she looked straight at Osman, who rose awkwardly and ducked his head.

“
Cik
Aisha. I am so sorry…”

“Where is he?” Her voice rose an octave, threatening to break glass on the next sentence. Maryam walked with her as Osman led them to Ghani's body, now covered with one of Mamat's
sarong.
Aisha's hands shook and though she controlled her tears, her lips trembled and she swayed slowly.

“Breathe!” Maryam urged, praying Aisha wouldn't faint. When Osman drew back the cloth, it was clear he had taken some pains to straighten out the body, and make it more decent for Aisha's view. It wasn't the best way to preserve clues, Maryam thought, but it was a nice touch for the widow.

Aisha stared hard at Ghani, biting her lips, unable to speak. Maryam murmured to her, comforting her as best she could, though there was really nothing to say. Aisha nodded finally, saying curtly,

“It's him.”

On the porch, with a coffee cup balanced in her hand, Aisha stared at Osman as he talked, as if unable to make sense of where she was and why he spoke to her. Maryam took over: someone had to, or she feared they might stay all night and she couldn't wait to have everyone leave.

“
Cik
Aisha,” she began with a significant look at Osman, “when did you last see your husband?”

Aisha saw Dollah, and tried to smile. “Saturday?” Dollah nodded.

“Did you come here to see him?” Maryam probed further. She really didn't need Osman to tell her what to ask: the questions seemed obvious.

“No.” She looked at Maryam as the silence grew longer. Finally she added, “I have two kids at home. Why would I come to visit him?” She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Can I go home now? I have so much to arrange….” Her eyes filled with tears, and Dollah took her arm.

“Can I take her home now,
Che
Osman? Look at her, she needs to get back.”

Osman agreed, looking preoccupied, and turned back to the corpse. As the new widow left, he squatted again by the corpse with one of his men. “What do you think made this wound?” he mused.

Rahman reached out a tentative hand, not quite touching Ghani's chest. “A
golok?
I mean a
parang.”
He smiled quickly at Osman in apology for using the Kelantanese word, and folded his arms across his knees. “This one, I'd say. And whoever did it wiped it clean with the towel and stuck it into the ground. I don't think we'll find anything about it.”

“I'm afraid you're right,” Osman said softly. The handle of the
parang
gleamed, and he had no doubt the blade would, too; the fact that it was sitting in the ground wouldn't help the search for fingerprints either.

“Everyone has one,” Rahman sighed. “It won't narrow the field down at all.”

“Whose is it though? Someone here?” He waved over some of the musicians. “Is this one of yours? Does it come from your stage?”

The other men stared silently, as though they had never seen one before, but the oldest among them nodded. “Well, all old
golok
look alike, they're nothing special. But we had a couple with us—we always do, we always need them—and this could be one of them.'

He turned to one of the younger men and instructed him rapidly. He left at a trot for the
panggung
and jumped up the ladder to go inside.

“He'll look,” he advised Osman. “Just wait a moment.” He smiled, and offered his hand.
“Pak Cik
Mahmud,” he introduced himself. Osman smiled and clasped his hand, each of them wrapping their two hands around the other's.

“
Che
Osman, Kota Bharu Chief of Police.” It sounded odd to his ears. “From Perak.”

“Ahh,” Mahmud smiled, as if this explained a great deal. The younger man returned and spoke volubly to Mahmud for a minute or so, while Osman waited. “It could be. We usually keep three or four around, and there are three there now. I wish I could swear to it,” he shrugged, “but all I can say, ‘It could be.' It's a beat-up
golok
, and one beat-up
golok
looks much like another.”

Osman thanked him, and became more depressed by the moment. “Take the knife away,” he ordered Rahman, “and make sure you keep the towel clean, too.” He himself turned to leave. Maryam was standing right behind him.

“I need to talk to you,” she informed him. “Come over here with me.” She motioned him to sit next to her on the high shaded porch with fresh coffee in front of them while the remaining musicians began disassembling the stage and the fence around the field.

By evening, there would be nothing left.

“
Che
Osman,” Maryam began, flicking the ashes from her cigarette through the floorboards. “I see you may have a problem. Now, don't be angry with me, I'm talking to you like your mother, which I could be, you know.”

Osman suddenly keenly missed his own mother far away on
the west coast. She was a strong-willed woman who brooked no opposition, and he was very close to her. He was relieved to be drawn into Maryam's orbit and receive unquestioned orders. He sat up straighter and listened attentively.

“Now, this has all taken place at my home, and I feel responsible for it. Not that I did it or anything like that.” She looked sternly at him to banish that thought from his mind. “But it was a performance I sponsored, and it's my land. I must see it solved.” She paused momentarily. She could not admit her sudden elation at the prospect of taking over an investigation. She'd be just like the detectives she watched on television, solving crimes and ordering around her subordinates, a particularly seductive aspect of the plan, and Maryam concentrated all her will on overcoming Osman's. “I'm going to help you, because I think you need help. You can't really ask anyone about this: you can't understand Kelantanese well enough and, besides, no one will tell you anything if they can help it. Me, though, they can talk to: I'm only a
Mak Cik
and everyone will talk to someone like me.”

Osman nodded automatically.

“So,” she continued, expertly flicking her cigarette butt onto the hard-swept ground below, “I'll go and ask the questions. You can tell me what you think I should ask,” she added graciously, since she didn't intend to let this kid ever tell her what to do, “and I'll let you know what I find out. Then you can do your police … stuff. I think that should move things along faster than if you try to do it yourself.” She smiled modestly at him. “I've got to talk to my daughter for help at the stall, but it shouldn't be a problem. And if I need a ride, I can always ask you, right?”

Osman automatically nodded again. Her personality and natural
command seemed to take over, and he tried manfully to shake it off. “Now,
Mak Cik,”
he began, determined to re-establish his authority, “It's nice of you to offer to help …”

“Offer to help?” Maryam echoed, expressing both sarcasm and disbelief, leavened with a touch of irritation. “Do you take me for some bored housewife with nothing else to do?”

In fact, Osman did just that, but he wisely refrained from admitting it. He began explaining himself, realizing immediately it was a mistake, but too late to change direction. “No, indeed. I meant only that we police, we have methods, and you know, it's my job to do this. Why, you could get hurt!”

“I think it's more likely for you to get hurt,
Che
Osman,” she retorted, staring at him with narrowed eyes. “I'm offering to help you when you need it most. Well …” She stood up and dusted off her
sarong
with sharp slaps. “If you don't need any help, I'll leave it to you. Good luck.” Disobeying all precepts of Malay courtesy, she turned and strode into her living room, leaving him alone on the porch.

He stood, looking disconsolately at the police hat he held in his hands. He'd corrected her attitude and warned her off the investigation. It was the right thing to do, he assured himself, but he'd offended her. That was bad enough; he was well brought up, and pained to think Maryam would think him rude, and he feared he might have lost a valuable ally. He began to leave, dragging his feet as he came down the steps, hoping to be called back and be convinced to accept her help.

He looked back hopefully while idling on the stairs, but the living room seemed empty, and no one called to him. He trudged slowly through the yard, head down, proud to have asserted his authority, anxious about having spurned such a perfect surrogate mother.

“
Che
Osman!” Mamat hailed him before he reached the road. Osman lifted his head hopefully.

“Good luck!” Mamat smiled at him. “It looks like a tough case, but I know you'll solve it.”

Osman's face fell. “I think I've insulted
Mak Cik
Maryam,” he admitted glumly. “She offered to help, but I, well, you know,” he stammered, “I can't let her take such chances.”

Mamat watched him quietly.

“It could be dangerous,” Osman continued, justifying himself. “I mean, how could I place a
Mak Cik
in danger, right?”

“Well,
Lebai berjanggut, kambing pun berjanggut juga
: a religious teacher has a beard, but so does a goat,” Mamat observed mildly. “She's a lot more than she seems. I mean, not just a
Mak Cik
who's never been outside her
kampong.
She's got a lot of know-how. But,” he clapped Osman familiarly on the shoulder, “you're the professional! I know you'll do well.”

Osman sighed deeply, but didn't walk away.

“You have work to do,
Che
Osman,” Mamat assured him. “I won't keep you any longer.” He turned and strolled back to the house, examining the chickens pecking at the ground near his feet as though he'd never noticed them before.

“
Pak Cik
Mamat,” Osman called after a few moments. “Wait a moment.”

Mamat turned with a bland smile. “Yes?”

“Perhaps I should talk to
Mak Cik
Maryam again. I mean, I wouldn't want her to be angry with me.”

“Ah, don't worry,
Che
Osman,” Mamat assured him. “She won't be angry—I know she'll understand. You're a professional, after all.
No, put that thought out of your mind. You have your work to do.”