Free A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul by Shamini Flint Page B

but not in the bombings.’

    â€˜But how can that be? You just said there was not much of him left! Where was he found?’
    Singh realised how difficult the case was going to be. The coincidence of murder and mass murder was too much for the widow to take in. How was he to find the thread that led to the murderer in the tangled skein of the terrorist offence?
    The policeman explained, ‘He was at the Sari Club. But he was killed beforehand.’
    Sarah said, ‘But, but … that’s impossible.’
    Singh said, ‘Improbable, I grant you. But the forensic investigation was conclusive. Your husband was shot in the head with a small-calibre weapon. His body was in or around the Sari Club at the time of the bomb and was caught up in the explosion.’
    When this met with no response from the widow, he continued, ‘So, I’m afraid you are part of a murder investigation. If you don’t mind, I’d like to have your passport … and Richard’s.’
    â€˜You think I might have done it?’ The disbelief in her voice was convincing.
    Bronwyn put out a hand in an instinctive gesture of denial and said, ‘No, of course not. But I’m sure you can see that we have to investigate this very thoroughly. It would be a dereliction of our duty not to consider you a suspect … and ask you to stay in Bali.’
    Singh was tempted to smile. If that did not lull his only suspect into a false sense of security, nothing would. Bronwyn might be quite useful after all with her over-developed sense of empathy and misplaced sense of pity.
    â€˜Of course,’ said Sarah, ‘I do understand. It’s just been such a shock.’
    Singh stood up. ‘Right, we’ll leave you your privacy and meet back here this afternoon at three o’clock.’

    Bronwyn and the widow wore matching expressions of surprise.
    Singh pretended not to notice. He turned sharply on his heel – his rotund shape and small feet made him look like a spinning top – and marched out.
    He could hear Bronwyn thanking the woman for her time. Her footsteps beat a sharp staccato on the stone floors as she hastened to catch up with him.
    Nyoman was waiting for them in front of the guest house. They clambered into the back of the vehicle.
    Bronwyn said, ‘I know why you did that!’
    â€˜Did what?’
    â€˜Walked out just then – you want to keep her off balance because you think you might get better information that way. Isn’t that right?’
    â€˜Nonsense,’ said Singh. ‘It’s lunch time and I’m hungry.’
    Â 
    Ghani walked in.
    Nuri thought she had rarely seen such as unassuming creature as this man she had married. Ghani was of medium height. He wore a nondescript pair of unbranded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. His hairline was receding. What was left formed a neat semi-circle running around the back of his head from ear to ear. His most prominent feature was his florid nose. His lips were obscured by a grizzled beard and moustache. His lids were heavy. It gave him a superficially sleepy look but the pupils that gazed out were black pinpoints of engagement with the world around him.
    He looked like a good-natured sort of uncle, she decided, the type who brought sweets and thought childish mischief was amusing.
    Her husband took off his shoes and socks and placed them neatly by the door. He looked approvingly at the table where
lunch was laid out. He said, ‘This looks good, wife. Let us eat.’
    Nuri nodded her thanks.
    Ghani looked around and asked, an irritable note creeping into his gruff voice, ‘Where is Yusuf?’
    Nuri had noticed that all the men found Yusuf annoying. She often wondered why they had brought him along to Bali from their village in Sulawesi. He was not learned in the scriptures like her older brother, Abu Bakr. He did not have Ramzi’s ability to attract young men to their proposed school. He was just