A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul by Shamini Flint Page A

small kitchen table radio in her home in Sulawesi.
    She dragged her attention back to the meal, quietly ladling more rice onto Yusuf’s plate. Ramzi was still complaining about the food. She felt a sudden crashing wave of anger at her younger brother – doing his best to aggravate her, oblivious or indifferent to her suffering at the disappearance of Abdullah.
    Nuri stood up suddenly and left the table. She marched to the bedroom and slammed the door, the sharp crack causing all the men at the table to stare after her in surprise.
    Inside the dark dingy room lit with a single lightbulb, Nuri looked into the cracked mirror. A furtive creature, divided in two by the fractured mirror – as if the glass had the ability to reflect the truth in her heart – looked back at her.
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    Bronwyn stared at the inspector in disbelief. ‘You don’t mean that, do you?’

    Singh didn’t answer immediately. Instead he said, ‘Nyoman, what’s good to eat around here?’
    Nyoman grinned. ‘Do you want to go to a warung which is very cheap, just a few rupiah ? Or we can go to the Amandari – everything US dollars!’
    â€˜What’s a warung ?’
    It was Bronwyn who answered. ‘A food stall.’
    â€˜What sort of food?’
    â€˜Maybe like ikan bakar or nasi goreng ,’ said Nyoman.
    Singh asked Bronwyn, ‘You know Bali. Don’t you have somewhere to recommend?’
    â€˜Asian or Western?’
    â€˜Asian, of course,’ he said.
    Bronwyn said to Nyoman, ‘Take us to the Dirty Duck Diner!’
    Nyoman nodded enthusiastically.
    Singh said suspiciously, ‘Doesn’t sound very Asian …’
    â€˜No worries,’ said his Australian counterpart, ‘it’s the best place to try Ubud’s signature dish – duck – first stewed in local spices and then deep fried. Served with steamed rice and Indonesian vegetables.’
    Singh did not look convinced.
    Bronwyn laughed. ‘You look more suspicious now than when we met the widow! Do you always radiate such hostility to the recently bereaved?’
    Singh said, ‘Only when they are my only link to a murdered man. If she decides to tell us a pack of lies about their time in Bali, we have no practical way of finding out the truth.’
    Bronwyn said slowly, ‘I suppose they’ve not been here that long. There isn’t the usual network of friends, relatives and workmates to contradict or corroborate what suspects and witnesses choose to tell us …’

    â€˜Exactly,’ said Singh. ‘We’re operating in a vacuum.’
    Bronwyn was more optimistic. ‘The Balinese are inquisitive and observant. More than half the island works in the tourist trade.’ She corrected herself. ‘Or they did before the bombs anyway. They pass the time between being obsequious to foreign tourists by gossiping about them.’
    Singh nodded his great turbaned head thoughtfully. ‘You may be right. That young fellow Wayan had a bit to say.’ He slapped his knee hard in sudden frustration. ‘In fact, do you remember he was about to say something about Crouch’s friends when the widow turned up? I wonder whether she was listening somewhere …’
    Bronwyn interrupted. ‘The expats form cliques very quickly – even your reticent English types probably have a few mates on the island.’
    â€˜You may be right – I look forward to asking any new-found friends for the dirt on Sarah Crouch.’
    Bronwyn shook her head emphatically. ‘I can tell you once and for all she had nothing to do with it.’
    â€˜On what grounds?’ asked Singh.
    â€˜Women’s intuition,’ she replied and then burst into laughter at Singh’s disgusted expression.
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    The Dirty Duck met with Singh’s approval.
    He chewed his way through the flaky duck, drank two bottles of cold Bintang beer and said, ‘So where do we go from