Shadow Play (25 page)

“Tea,” she said, and fixed her eyes on Osman. With an effort she asked, “What happened?” It seemed to her she'd been asking this ceaselessly, and hadn't yet had a satisfying answer.

Mamat slipped away to find tea, and Osman drew up a chair next to her, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at the floor. “Mak Cik,” he began, “I can't tell you how sorry I am.” Maryam gave him a look she hoped he'd interpret as an order to start on his story. Apparently, he did. He cleared his throat.

“So, someone actually saw Zurainah push you. It was the middle of the day, but still there were people around and she didn't do anything to cover up what she was doing. She just walked up behind you and shoved.” He looked up at her. “Not very subtle, is it, but I think it was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. She won't admit anything, won't talk at all. Her husband Arifin came in to see her, but he said nothing either. She won't even explain why she'd do such a thing.

“I have her in custody, of course: it's attempted murder. I'm trying to put it together myself though, and I think you're getting very close to the truth here and she's threatened by it.” He looked at Maryam, but she didn't respond.

“Arifin was there at the murder, though I can't prove he held the knife. But there must be something to it: Zurainah isn't going to push
you into a car for no good reason. It isn't just meanness.”

“It could be,” murmured Maryam. “What about the
jampi?”

He shook his head regretfully. “No, nothing yet.
Mak Cik
Rubiah thinks it's Zurainah, and it would make sense, but I don't know yet.

Maryam considered him silently. He seemed to have grown up a little, grown into his job. Maybe all he needed was her encouragement and guidance, and then she needed to get out of his way.

As though he heard her thoughts, he said, “I'm trying only to keep things ready for you,
Mak Cik
, when you get back to work. I can't let the case grow cold while I wait for you.” He smiled sweetly, and Maryam laughed at his flattery.

“You've really taken this over now, haven't you,
Cik
Osman?” Such a long sentence made her head ache again. “You don't need me at all.”

“How can you say that? I'm lost without you!” He stood up. “You need your rest,
Mak Cik.
I'll leave you to sleep for a while.”

She was already asleep. He passed Mamat in the hall as he left. Mamat carried a plastic bag with sweet iced tea, “Leaving already,
Cik
Osman?”

“I'll be back,” he promised. “She needs her rest now.”

Chapter XXX

Maryam held Rubiah's arm as they walked into Osman's office. Even the short walk from the car seemed unending, and both Osman and Rahman were assisting her. “Let's sit down. I'm exhausted. So much misery.” She sighed.

“How are you?” Rubiah asked anxiously. “Are you too tired to be out here?” Rubiah was already looking toward the nearest chair, planning the shortest route to it.

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” Maryam assured her, although she was not so sure herself. She felt increasingly fragile these days.

Osman placed her carefully in her seat, and arranged the room fans around her.

“Sit down,” Rubiah ordered. “I'm getting some coffee.”

“It's done,” Rahman assured her, as Maryam stared moodily around the room. She was depressed by Aisha's death more than she could express.

“What are you thinking about?” Osman softly interrupted her reverie. “Here, drink this.”

Maryam took a sip of coffee. “About Aisha. Her husband as good as killed her himself.”

“That's a little harsh,” Rubiah commented.

“It is,” Maryam agreed, “but it's the way I feel. Ghani helped kill
her himself.” She put down the cup. “But who killed Ghani?” She paused for effect. “It's Arifin,” she announced. “I'm really beginning to think it is.”

“Of course, it certainly would explain what happened, but,” Osman held up a finger, “let's just think first. Did she push you because she put the jampi under your house? Or was she protecting her husband?”

Mayam looked at him sharply. “Both,” she answered, and looked at her coffee as though the answer was written in it. “Think about the shadows,” she instructed. “Only the performing troupe sleeps in the panggung, no one else goes in after it's all over. There isn't enough room for anyone else, and they'd be thrown out anyway.”

Osman nodded. Rahman listened raptly.

“Only Dollah and Arifin could have been shadows. And if they were up, I think they could have followed Ghani outside.”

“Couldn't Johan have been there also? He could have been sitting in the gloom, waiting, like a spider,” Rubiah suggested.

“He could have, but I think they'd already left. Aisha would never talk in front of Faouda. How humiliating would it be? Dia tak berlaga angin: they can't even breathe the same air! It's impossible to imagine.”

Rubiah grudgingly agreed. “I guess she wouldn't.”

Maryam made a face of disbelief. “You guess? Aisha must have been sure Faouda wasn't around.”

“OK, I agree.”

“So the only people left are Dollah and Arifin,” Maryam's logic was inexorable. “And after what Zurainah's done, it's Arifin. I'd swear to it.

“Haven't you already spoken to Arifin,
Mak Cik
?” Osman asked.

“I spoke to all of them,” Maryam answered crisply, “and heard
nothing but lies. I wasn't sure he had anything worth hearing, but now I think he's the killer.”

“I'd have to agree. Why else would Zurainah try to kill you?” He lit a cigarette. “
Alhamdulillah.”
He beamed at Maryam. “I'll pick him up right away and we can get his confession.”

“One minute, Osman!” She began to waver, “Maybe it isn't him. Maybe Dollah was the one …

Osman stood behind his desk, clutching his hat to his chest. “Well, at least we have it down to two suspects. Now we have to find out which one is the killer.” He waited for a brief moment. “I think we're done.”

On his own, not surrounded by friends, Arifin was visibly nervous. Maryam confronted him sitting at the table in the room she took for her own, playing with his tea, lighting a second cigarette before he'd finished the first. He was awed by the police station and officialdom in general, and his portrayal of earlier profound repentance was nowhere in evidence.

She let him feel the strain of silence while Osman sat quietly next to her, watching. She deliberately positioned her tea and her cigarettes, put the curry puffs on a plate, and even unpacked a few of Rubiah's sweet cakes. At last, satisfied with the arrangement, she looked up at Arifin with a smile both regretful and understanding.

“So, here we are again,
Che
Arifin,” she began. “I'm sorry this had to happen, but I didn't think we got very far in our last talk.” She waited to see if he had anything to say, but there was only silence. “I wish you'd been more honest with me before, but maybe you didn't feel you could with
Pak Cik
Dollah there. Was that a problem? I'm sorry if it was.” She paused. Arifin stared at his lap and fidgeted with
his cigarette. “Was your wife angry at you for talking to me?”

He looked frightened when she asked a question. “Um, no.” He fidgeted for a moment. “She's sorry, you know,
Mak Cik.
She didn't mean to hurt you.”

“No? That's good! I'd hate to think she did this on purpose. Can you explain why she might have done it?” She paused, but Arifin sat staring at the floor “You're really in love with your wife, aren't you?”

He looked puzzled. Maryam laughed at him. “Don't look so confused! It's a wonderful thing for a husband to love his wife. It doesn't happen often enough, I think,” she congratulated him. “I just got the feeling, you know, talking to you and talking to her, you two are so close. And so in love.” She smiled approvingly.

“I guess,” he mumbled.

“A bit jealous, too” she teased him. “I can see that, too.”

He nodded. He was wary, unsure of where this was going, but positive she hadn't called him here to tell him how much she admired his marriage.

“Now Ghani, he was a good-looking man. I'm old enough to be his mother, and I could still see how good-looking he was. Just the kind of looks women go for. You grew up in the same
kampong:
you must have seen it all your life: the girls going for Ghani. Is that the way it was?”

He shrugged.

“Did he ever court your wife, Zurainah? When they were younger, I mean, before either was married, of course.”

He spoke carefully. “Ghani flirted with all the girls. I don't think he courted her, no.”

“I think it's something you should know. A man prone to jealousy
often forgets what his wife is really like. He's jealous so he thinks she's provoking him. I'm telling you: Zurainah isn't doing that at all. You ought to appreciate it.” She swallowed hard to prevent herself saying what she really thought about Zurainah. There would be nothing gained by it.

He nodded.

“Have you?” She asked him, speaking in a near whisper. “Have you appreciated it?”

He twisted his hands together in his lap, afraid to speak, afraid to stay silent. “I, I haven't trusted her as much as maybe I should have.” His voice was tense and tight. “I was suspicious of Ghani. That's why we argued a lot. But you didn't know Ghani: he'd never say anything like ‘I'm not interested in Ainah, or ‘She isn't interested in me.' He always pushed it. ‘Your wife's really pretty, great figure,' he would say. Or, ‘I saw her at the market, looking terrific. She's so easy to talk to.' He used to say things like that all the time when we were performing.”

She shook her head disapprovingly. “That isn't right for a married man, or any man, to say about a decent married woman. It just isn't right. I doubt Ainah gave him the time of day.” Maryam leaned back in her chair and watched Arifin. “Did you fight with her about Ghani?”

He nodded. “Sometimes.”

“And you really suspected her with Ghani?'

“Yes and no,” he answered, now ready to talk. “If I thought about it, I could see she wasn't unfaithful. You know, she was never gone where I couldn't find her, she never stayed out late, she took good care of the house and our children. I've heard when women are fooling around, these are the signs. My mother talked to me about it: she said if anyone suspected a daughter-in-law, it would be a mother-in-law, and
she thought Zurainah was a good wife and good mother.”

”Absolutely!” Maryam agreed. “If there was anything wrong going on, your mother would be the first to see it. If your mother didn't even believe it, it's because there was nothing happening.”

“I know.” He looked close to tears. “I know. But sometimes I just couldn't help myself. I'd suspect something, and when I did, Ghani was always there to make it worse.”

“He was just teasing you,” Maryam said firmly.

“Maybe.”

“The two of you acted like you were still in Standard Two,” she said, becoming exasperated with him. “You react, so he teases you. Really, for two grown men…”

Arifin lit another cigarette. “Maybe,” he answered morosely.

“Did you have a fight with Zurainah before you started performing at my house?” she asked gently.

He sat smoking for a long moment. Maryam feared he'd forgotten where he was.

“Arifin?”

He didn't answer. He took a long drink of his tea, and continued smoking silently. She sat back to wait it out. He stood up. “I'd better go home,” he said. “Not yet,” Maryam advised him. “You aren't finished here.”

“I am.”

“No!” Maryam ordered him.

Before Osman could stop him, he'd fled out the door and past the shocked policemen.

“Catch him!” Maryam screamed at them, “Hurry!”

Two police piled into a car, but Rahman and Osman took off after
Arifin, running after him on Jalan Ibrahim, threading the busy sidewalk and outrunning the stalled traffic. Arifin ran like a man possessed, but Rahman stayed close behind. The siren blared as the police Land Rover tried to get past afternoon traffic at the circle, and cars tried unsuccessfully to move out of the way. Osman stopped finally, his hands on his knees, gasping for air. His head was pounding, he thought he'd faint on the street. He watched Rahman run with undisguised admiration.

Rahman chased Arifin as he ran toward the market and the thicket of taxis and trishaws around it. The crowd would make it impossible for the police car to get near him in time: it was up to Rahman alone to catch him. He wanted to call out to passersby to stop Arifin, but he didn't have enough wind to do it while running, and if he stopped, he'd lose him. Arifin seemed to fly though the streets. He ran straight toward the market and cut through the fishmonger's area in the middle of the building. It would bring him to the other side of the
pasar
, beyond the ability of the car to make it, and if he could make it to the
kampong
on the other side of Kota Bharu, he could hide in the sprawl and get away.

The floor was wet and slippery, and Arifin missed his footing, sailing into a stall head first, scattering fish and ice everywhere. He lay for one paralyzed second on the floor, festooned with silver scales. Rahman made a flying leap at him, landing across his legs, holding on to his ankles. In a moment, Arifin kicked Rahman off him, hitting him hard in the temple, knocking his head on the concrete floor.

Arifin scrambled frantically to his feet, wiping his shirt as he did, leaping across the street on the other side of the market, onto the hood of a passing car. He tumbled off the other side of the car: Rahman stood up, determined to keep running even after his head had taken such
a beating: he couldn't see clearly, but lurched in the direction Arifin had taken. He never saw the car: he hit it shoulder first, head down, bringing the full force of his body as he slammed against it. The pain was excruciating, and he collapsed against the tire, unable to breathe or even remember where he was.