A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul by Shamini Flint Page A

letting me make a fool of you – all these years.’
    Tim was stung into a response. He said, ‘Maybe I won’t have to make it on my own!’
    Karri laughed, a genuine guffaw of amusement at the idea that her overweight spouse with his careful comb-over would have a substitute in the wings.

    Her husband came to the painful realisation that he actually hated the woman standing a couple of feet away from him on a dusty Bali street. The gulf between them was a chasm with his shattered hopes and dreams scattered across the bottom.
    He said again, trying to inject firmness into his voice, make her understand that he meant what he was saying, ‘I want a divorce.’
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    Legian Road had reopened to pedestrian traffic.
    Singh and Bronwyn walked down the narrow street. It was late evening and they had just returned from Ubud. It was Bronwyn who had suggested they make a detour to the bomb site. They stared at the destruction in shock – even the usually garrulous policewoman was stunned into silence. Buildings up and down the street had had their windows blown out. All that were left were jagged shards of glass forming the sharp teeth around square open jaws. There were burnt-out vehicle wrecks along the road.
    The debris-strewn thoroughfare was lined with pieces of white cloth on which people – passers-by, relatives of the dead, Balinese mourners and tourists – had left messages. There were flowers and wreaths, some old, some freshly laid, their bright colours discordant against the blackened background. As the two approached the site, the piles of flowers grew higher until there were small mountains of blossoms commemorating the dead.
    In the immediate vicinity of the bombs, there were photos of victims stuck to makeshift memorial pillars. Some had been placed there as tokens of remembrance, but many were frantic entreaties from relatives asking if anyone knew the whereabouts of the persons in the photo – they had been missing since the bombings.

    As they reached the entrance of what had once been the Sari Club, opposite the road from Paddy’s Bar, they could see the huge bomb crater, a few feet deep, right in front of what was left of the building – heaps of rubble, a few concrete stumps and melted, twisted metal pieces. It was impossible to guess the provenance of the metal without expert forensic help.
    The policemen toting machine guns in front of the shell of the Sari Club were unimpressed with their identity cards. It was only when a senior AFP member walked past and was hailed by Bronwyn that the guards were persuaded to let them in.
    â€˜Just make sure you don’t touch or take anything,’ said the AFP man.
    â€˜Of course not,’ said Singh. ‘But haven’t you finished the site examination?’
    â€˜Yes, but there’s so much information to sift through – so many samples to examine. We’re just concerned that we might have to scrape up more evidence with a teaspoon if they find anything odd.’
    Singh nodded. Looking around at the destruction, it was impossible to know where the clues, if any, could be hiding.
    â€˜Do you know how it happened?’ asked Singh, his voice subdued.
    â€˜As far as we can piece together,’ the AFP officer told them, ‘a suicide bomber detonated a bomb inside Paddy’s Bar. As the crowds ran down the street, a van drew up in front of the Sari Club. The vehicle exploded. It killed visitors to the Club – and some of those escaping the chaos at Paddy’s.’
    Singh was standing at the edge of the crater, peering in.
    He said, ‘There wasn’t much left of Richard Crouch. He must have been pretty close to the eye of the storm. Anyone around him could’ve been killed too.’

    Bronwyn asked, raising one eyebrow, ‘That means the killer was likely one of the victims?’
    â€˜It’s quite possible. But we should keep sniffing around.’
    â€˜Do you