She looked up and held his gaze with her mild blue eyes. âI have no experience,' she said.
âExperience of what?'
âMurder!'
âWell, that's a good thing.'
She gave him a small smile but her heart wasn't in it. She said, âI have no experience of murder investigations.'
âI have plenty,' remarked Singh.
Bronwyn Taylor snapped, âI realise that. My point is that I'm not sure I'm going to be of much use.'
âThat's probably true,' Singh agreed cheerfully.
âSo, if you want me off the case, I'll understand.'
âWe haven't started yet and you're pulling out?'
âI'm not pulling out. I'm giving you the chance to find yourself a more able assistant.'
âWhere?'
âWhat do you mean, where?'
âWhere, in Bali, with every policeman on the island hunting terrorists, am I going to find a more able assistant?'
Bronwyn didn't say anything.
Singh asked suddenly, âWhat are you doing here anyway?'
She sighed and tugged at an earlobe. âI was supposed to help with communications. I speak Bahasa Indonesia and I volunteered to come out.'
âThat doesn't explain why you were assigned to look after me â¦'
âOne of the first questions I was asked by reporters was whether the Australian government should have done more to warn citizens to stay away.'
âAnd what did you say?'
âThat there had been background terrorist chatter about targeting Australians ⦠and specific mention of Bali.'
Singh stared at the woman half in admiration, half in shock.
âDidn't you realise how politically sensitive that would be?'
âI guess not. I was told to be honest â that it would keep everyone from flying off the handle. They didn't realise I had access to some of the high-level briefing memos.'
âI'm amazed you weren't put on the first flight back!'
âThey didn't want to turn it into a bigger story â you know, “brave policewoman who speaks the truth sent home in disgrace” headlines. So they gave me the job of squiring you about instead.'
âAnd you didn't kick up a fuss?'
âI didn't want to become part of the story â use up resources at the expense of the families.'
Singh nodded. He could understand that.
Bronwyn dimpled. âBut when this is over and I'm back in Oz â well, I might decide to talk about some of the things I saw and heard!'
âBut now,' said Singh, â
we
have a murder to solve.'
âYou're sure about that?'
The policeman from Singapore nodded. Anyone who was courageous or foolhardy enough to shine a bright light on secretive government activities deserved a bit of support. After all, he was from Singapore â no one knew better than him the heavy hand of the state.
Bronwyn selected a taxi, negotiated the price of the trip like a housewife on a tight budget, and waved Singh over with an imperious hand. He was standing under the tenuous shade of a frangipani tree, inhaling the spicy scent of its white flowers and regretting his impulse to involve Bronwyn in the case. She was not even going to allow him the choice of transport. Her inability to knuckle down in the face of authority was going to be a real pain. At her summons, however, he lumbered docilely over, walking around exposed manholes and stepping over uncovered drains. Singh wondered for a moment whether anyone in Bali ever walked in a straight line from point to point. He narrowly avoided stepping on a small offering, a square receptacle made of coconut leaves with flowers and a biscuit perched on it â Bali streets were littered with them â and clambered into the back seat of the Kijang.
As usual, despite its appearance of superfluous size, the inside was cramped. Singh's knees were bunched up uncomfortably. Bronwyn climbed in next to him and the vehicle
became claustrophobic. Singh felt around for his seatbelt, found the strap and discovered that there was no receptacle for the buckle.
He leaned forward, tapped the driver on the shoulder and said, âNo seatbelt?'
The man giggled. âBuckle broken already!'
Singh noticed that the driver was not wearing a seatbelt either although his appeared to be fully functioning. He scowled at Bronwyn. He didn't approve of chauffeurs who did not treat personal safety and the safety of their passengers as a first priority.
He asked, âSo how long will it take to get to Ubud?'
âAbout one hour â¦'
âI don't understand why Crouch's widow had to go and park herself in the middle of bloody nowhere,' grumbled Singh.
Bronwyn said, âYou'll like Ubud.' She leaned back against the imitation leather seat, slipped on a pair of enormous black shades, rested her head against the car door and shut her eyes.
The driver revved his engine. Singh gestured with a full, flat palm for him to stop. He got out of the car, walked around and hauled himself into the front passenger seat. The seatbelt was functioning and he put it on with a pleased look.
The driver looked at him inquiringly and Singh explained, âI want to see some of Bali.'
The driver nodded enthusiastically. His big grin emphasised the surgical scar of a repaired cleft upper lip. He said, âMy name is Nyoman. Where are you from?'
Singh ground his teeth.
Bronwyn said hurriedly, âI'm Australian and he's from Singapore.'
Nyoman said, âI will show you everything. You want to
stop to buy presents, yes â for your beautiful wife?' He jerked his head at Bronwyn. âYou tell me, ya. Then I stop the car for you.'
Singh said heavily, âShe is
not
my wife.'
Nyoman nodded, his enthusiasm undiminished. âYes â OK â we buy gift for your girlfriend. Bali has lot of beautiful things.'
Singh grunted and pulled out a map.
âIt doesn't look far but it takes so long to get there?' he asked.
âYes, boss. It is very busy road. Lots of handicrafts. Many tourists â except now not so many because of the bombs.'
If it wasn't for the breakneck speed and the close shaves with chickens, dogs, children and motorbikes, Singh would have been completely absorbed in the view. Instead, his right thigh muscle began to spasm from his instinctive, imaginary braking.
Outside Denpasar, stone statues lined the roads like petrified armies. There were multi-armed Hindu deities, Balinese mythological figures with goggle-eyes and curling tongues, placid, plump Buddhas and modern statuary, including, to Singh's amazement, a life-size garden gnome.
As he stared out of the window, Nyoman said, âThis is Batubulan village. Here many people do the stone carving.'
âYou don't say,' murmured Singh.
âThe statues are carved from compacted volcanic ash â they call it
paras
,' said Bronwyn from the back.
âI thought you were asleep.'
âToo much hooting and tooting,' she said wryly, pushing her sunglasses back onto her hair and revealing grey roots along her hairline.
âSo, the statues aren't really stone?'
âNo,
paras
decays in a human lifetime. Each generation
has to rebuild them in the temples and courtyards. It keeps the village carving traditions alive â some of these skills date back hundreds of years.'
Singh raised an eyebrow. âI just saw a Mickey Mouse.'
Bronwyn grinned. âOccasionally they cater for tasteless Westerners.'
Nyoman said, âYou want Mickey Mouse? My cousin in the village is very good carver. Can do any size that you like. I take you there, OK?'
Singh said, âNo thanks.'
The next village was a mere two miles away. The road between Batubulan and Celuk was packed with shops selling gold and silver jewellery.
Nyoman whispered, âYou want to buy something for your girlfriend, yes? I can get you very good price in Celuk.'
âShe is
not
my wife and she's
not
my girlfriend. She's a colleague,' said Singh categorically.
Nyoman's face fell. But then he brightened up again. âMaybe you take home present for your wife?'
Singh tried to remember if he had ever taken a gift back from any of his travels. His wife would disdain silver but she would love gold. As a traditional Indian woman she viewed gold both as a decorative item and as an investment for a rainy day. She had ropes of gold squirrelled away which she trotted out from time to time to wear at weddings.
Singh smiled. If he was to stop and buy her something, she would assume he was having an affair. She would never believe that a persuasive Balinese cab driver and a charming village had convinced him to break a habit of a lifetime.
He shook his head at Nyoman. âDrive on,' he said firmly.
The next village, Nyoman told them, was Sukawati.
âAnd what do they make there?' asked Singh, an edge of sarcasm to his voice.
âNot so much,' said Nyoman. âIt has many temples. It was part of great kingdom. Many famous
dalang
are here.'
â
Dalang
?'
âThe shadow puppet masters,' explained Nyoman.
Bronwyn said, âIt's quite remarkable actually. They use the puppets to cast shadows on a screen. The
dalang
tells a story, operates the puppets, sings and plays musical instruments â all at the same time. Remarkable multi-tasking for a mere man.'
âHow come you know so much about Bali?'
âI was here for a holiday a few years back. I've always been interested in Indonesia. I did Indonesian studies at university and learnt the language.'
Nyoman piped up, âThe
dalang
tells a story of good and evil. Evil always loses but can never be destroyed.'
Singh thought about the case for the first time on the drive. He had consciously avoided dwelling on it. The prospect of having to tell the widow that the body of her husband had been identified was bad enough. He would also have to break it to her that her husband had been murdered by someone
other
than the terrorists while keeping an open mind about the possibility that she was responsible for his death. Even for a detective as experienced as him, it was a fine line to walk.
Singh said heavily, âWell, let's hope life imitates art.'
âWhat do you mean?' asked Bronwyn.
âThat good triumphs over evil.'
Nyoman, latching on to Singh's reference to art, said excitedly, âYou want art? Next village is Batuan. Very famous Balinese artists are there!'
Singh stared out of the window. Sure enough, the narrow trunk road was now lined with little glass-fronted art galleries. There was an almost infinite variety of artistic
styles; black and white ink drawings, traditional paintings featuring daily life in the paddy fields as well as complex depictions from the Indian epic
Ramayana
with gods and demons battling for supremacy.
Singh's fancy was caught by a collection of lurid, hallucinogenic portrayals of Bali.
Nyoman said, âThat is the Balinese Young Artists' style â but now the young artists are old!' He guffawed loudly at his own joke.
They had been climbing steadily. Exquisite water-filled rice paddy terraces were staggered into the hills and surrounded by coconut trees. Small figures bent over their crops. Thin long flags hung vertically and fluttered in the breeze.
âTo chase the birds away,' explained Nyoman. âOr they eat the rice.'
Singh said, with genuine awe in his voice, the contrast to the highrise buildings and non-existent horizon of Singapore uppermost in his mind, âThis is a truly beautiful place.'
Nyoman said simply and with complete certainty, âIt is the Island of the Gods.'
They passed the woodcarving village of Mas with its intricate sandalwood, teak and ebony work. A row of life-sized wooden horses prancing by the side of the road did not elicit comment. The occupants of the Kijang were sated on Balinese artistry. Even Nyoman did not offer to take them to a particular shop, run by his cousin, the most famous and best woodcarver in the village, who would offer them a special price. Either discouraged by his passengers' reluctance to have a look at the shops
en route
or depressed by the realisation that the Gods had not protected their island playground of Bali, he was silent for the rest of the drive too.
Â
Â
Nyoman pulled up beside a small guest house. Chalets were scattered about its compound, tucked away from the road and protected by a large stone wall. He said, âWe are here now.' He continued hopefully, âI will wait for you, yes?'
The two officers hesitated for a moment, glanced at each other, and then Bronwyn jumped in. âYes, please. One of us will tell you if we don't need you any more.'
Nyoman said, â
No worries
, boss.'
Singh smiled a little to hear such an Australian expression on the lips of the Balinese man. Nyoman had obviously chauffeured his fair share of Aussies around over the years â he sounded like Bronwyn.
Singh walked in slowly, his heels brushing the floor with each step. He regretted spending so much time staring out of the Kijang window and talking to Nyoman. Bali, as it unfolded outside the windscreen, had fascinated him and distracted him. Now it was time to speak to the widow and Singh was not sure of the best approach.
They asked the young man at the front desk if Sarah Crouch was in. He nodded at once and said, âYes,
Pak
. She is here.' He added in a conspiratorial whisper, âShe has not found her husband yet â¦'
The desk jockey was a slight fellow with pimply skin, bushy hair and wide-spaced eyes. He looked no older than fifteen. The possibility of random death did not frighten him. He was young and still believed in his own immortality, thought Singh.
He asked, âWas Richard Crouch also staying here before the bombs?'
âYes. They have a long-term rent â already they are here for six months.'
âI wonder why they decided to move to Bali,' pondered Bronwyn.
âI thought maybe they have second honeymoon ⦠but they are not together very much â you know?' The young fellow winked at Singh and Bronwyn.
Singh was interested now. He asked, âThere seemed to be trouble between them?'
âI don't know what you mean â¦'
âThe husband and wife, they did not get along? They fight?'
âOh! Fighting not so much. But they don't do things together. When they have breakfast, they do not talk. He reads a book, always the same one with a green cover. She ⦠she looks far away even if she is staring at the wall.' And he put a flat hand in front of his face to indicate the blankness of Sarah Crouch's stare.
Singh wondered whether to read anything sinister into this marital disharmony.
As if reading his thoughts, Bronwyn murmured, âIt's suggestive.'
âActually, it sounds pretty much like breakfast at my home every morning.'
âBut you haven't caught a bullet,' pointed out Bronwyn.
âGive my wife time,' said Singh.
He turned his attention back to the young man. âWhat's your name?'
âWayan,
Pak
.'
âWayan, can you tell us anything else you noticed about the two of them?'
Wayan's young face took on a worried expression. He said, âI am not supposed to talk about the guests,
Pak
. Already I say too much.'