A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul by Shamini Flint Read Free Book Online Page B

he had a selection, from traditional diamond shapes to intricately painted birds of prey, tethered to a bamboo construction. The kites bobbed
and danced in the sky. Singh’s favourite was a kite of primary colours in the shape of a ship. Its sails billowed in the wind as it tugged insistently at its anchor, anxious to be on its way.
    Two middle-aged Balinese women with wrinkled, kindly faces squatted on the beach in bright-coloured sarongs and kebaya . They beckoned to the tourists, offering cheap massages in cackling tones, their teeth rotten and stained from chewing betel nuts wrapped in the peppery leaves of the sirih plant. Their prices dropped as their quarry moved further away. Singh caught a whiff of jasmine and coconut oil from the tray of jars on the sand.
    The inspector realised he was attracting a good deal of suspicious interest. A fully-clothed, turbaned man, standing statue-like and contemplative on a Bali beach, was not a sight to reassure. There were very few Westerners, thought Singh, who could tell a Sikh from a headgear-wearing Moslem – and in Bali, since the bombs, every Moslem was assumed to be a potential terrorist.
    Singh retreated slowly up the beach. He reached the hotel and flopped down on an intricately carved wooden bench. Everything in Bali was intricately carved, he thought crossly – it made it damned uncomfortable. He rubbed his back, kicked off his shoes and, puffing slightly from bending over, peeled the socks off his feet, exposing toes sprinkled with sand, tufts of grey hair growing between the joints.
    The policeman turned his white sneakers over and dusted them out. He slapped his socks against his foot, trying to shake the sand loose. An obsequious Balinese man dressed in a white bush jacket, tan sarong and slippers, the uniform of the hotel staff, rushed over to offer his assistance.
    â€˜I can do it myself,’ said Singh brusquely.
    He noticed the square bulge in the man’s pocket. Singh held up two fingers, mimicking holding a cigarette. The
Balinese was delighted to be of service. He extricated the packet and tapped it expertly on his palm, offering Singh the protruding fags. Singh took one and slipped it between his thin upper lip and full pink lower lip. The man whipped out a lighter and held the flame to the cigarette. Singh inhaled deeply. He smiled. Cultural differences were papered over by their mutual addiction to tobacco.
    Singh leaned forward and squinted at the file he had tucked under his arm as he walked along the beach. Ash from his cigarette fell on the cover and he brushed it away with the back of his hand. He had wasted enough time staring out to sea, trying to come to terms with his new assignment. It was time for him to knuckle down and do what he did best – hunt down a murderer.
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    Julian Greenwood jumped on his motorbike. He could have taken the car with its docile Balinese chauffeur but Emily would almost certainly find out where he had gone. The staff knew very well who signed the cheques every month.
    He weaved between traffic. An old Bali hand, the narrow roads and erratic driving held no fears for him. He was not wearing a helmet and his thin brown hair was swept back from his high forehead by the wind. Strands of his drooping moustache were getting into his mouth.
    He stayed on the main road. Telegraph poles festooned with wires measured out his journey until he was past Seminyak with its upmarket boutiques and restaurants. He turned onto a dirt track a few miles after the Oberoi junction. He followed a path flanked by paddy fields, weaving between fetid puddles. After a few minutes, he reached his destination. A collection of motorcycles, dusty from their journey, rested beside scrubby trees. He could hear raucous shouts
interspersed with whistles and cheers. He made his way to a little dip in the terrain.
    Julian felt the blood pump through his veins like a highpowered hose. He squeezed between the hordes of sweating,