Shadow Play by Barbara Ismail

drove her down to Kuala Krai and what day they did it. And if you can’t find a taxi driver, start on the bus drivers.”
    Rahman nodded glumly and walked over to the open square. He looked at the picture himself and found it unidentifiable: at certain angles, it looked like nothing more than blotches of black and gray. He squinted at it, trying to form the shapes into animals or perhaps trees. Finally, he tore himself away from his game and plunged into the crowd.
    He began with taxi drivers, identified by their routes painted on the side of their cars. He had found three so far, none of whom were anxious to talk to him and who took a long look at his damp paper and shook their heads. When he pressed them, they shrugged. Most of them were in their twenties and thirties, slightly older than Rahman himself, and they looked at him like amused older brothers watching him play pretend. This did not improve Rahman’s mood, and he made several promises to himself to remember these faces and make their lives hell when he moved up in the department.
    Finally, luck broke his way. Another driver was leaning back against his car, smoking a cigarette, looking bored and calling out without enthusiasm to passing passengers. “Kuala Krai, Kuala Krai, Kuala Krai: Jeram, Jeram, Kuala Krai.”
    Rahman reflected that when heard it said that quickly and that often, the syllables stopped making sense and sounded like gibberish. He broke through a knot of people bargaining for another taxi and leaned next to the driver, passing him the picture. “Know her?” heasked. He hoped the grainy photo would be more evocative to someone who’d actually seen her.
    The driver looked at it, moving it closer and farther from his eyes to focus it. “Not much of a picture,” he commented.
    â€œI know that. Do you recognize her, though?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œMaybe?”
    â€œIt could be.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œI took some people down to Kuala Krai a few days ago. This could be her.”
    Rahman’s heart leapt. “When?”
    â€œMonday morning.”
    He was disappointed. Faouda was supposed to have left on Friday. “Are you sure it wasn’t Friday?” he pressed.
    â€œOf course, I’m sure. It was first thing Monday morning. Really early, like 6:30. I was just about to go and get some coffee and they came over to me.”
    â€œThey?”
    â€œShe and a guy. They wanted to leave for Kuala Krai right away. That’s why I remember them, otherwise I wouldn’t. I don’t pay much attention to passengers, but it was so early, so I did.”
    â€œDid they say anything about what they were doing?”
    He shook his head. “No, they slept most of the way. Tired, I guess.”
    â€œThe guy, an older guy?”
    â€œNo, like me maybe. Not old.”
    â€œWere they married?”
    â€œHow would I know?” The driver was getting impatient now. “Iwas just driving them. I’m not the religious police. Why are you asking about this, anyway?”
    â€œWe’re trying to find her.”
    â€œWhat’s she done?”
    â€œNothing, we just want to find her.”
    â€œYou want to find her for nothing? Well, that’s a change.”
    â€œNever mind that. Thanks! You’ve been a great help.”
    â€œDo I get a reward or something? I mean, I did help you.”
    That was true enough: he should have known this was coming. He brought out his notebook and began copying the driver’s name and address. “I’ll ask my boss,” he said resignedly. “We’ll see. Thanks.” They shook hands, and Rahman trotted back to the station.
    Rahman burst into Osman’s office, brimming with success. He’d found the driver, identified the suspect and already shredded her alibi.
    â€œGreat work!” Osman congratulated him. “This is a big break. Monday, huh? So right after the murder: that