Shadow Play (22 page)

“You know the saying about being a second wife?
Cuka diminum pagi hari:
vinegar drunk early in the morning?” Rubiah nodded. “The drink part.”

Rubiah was baffled.

“Poison in the drink! You know, the proverb means it's drinking bitterness,” she explained, slowly, as though to the simple-minded. “Rubiah, you know what people say. They say poison is the favorite weapon of second wives getting rid of their rivals.”

“That's true,” Rubiah nodded.

“So, that's what our proverbs are telling us! It's like poison drunk early in the morning, adding another wife, I mean.” She thought for a moment. “How would a second wife poison the first? In her drink.

“What if,” Maryam narrowed her eyes and looked at the wall, listening to an inner voice, “Aisha was poisoned by the second wife? Maybe it had nothing to do with Ghani's murder; maybe Faouda just wanted to get rid of her so she'd have Ghani all to herself.”

“I wonder,” she said softly, “maybe she had it all ready to get rid of –what's her name?—the wife we saw in Kuala Krai.”

“Um, wait. Maimunah!” Rubiah was pleased with her memory.

“Right. But then she decided she didn't care anymore. But she had the poison all prepared.” She shook her head disapprovingly.

“She didn't have any time,” Mamat said, though he liked the theory. It was straightforward and easily explained. “She only met Aisha once for a couple of hours. I just don't see how she could have …” He trailed off.

“Rubiah, remember when we went to see Aisha? Even though her husband had just been killed and she was living at her parents' house, she still apologized for not giving us anything to eat.” She turned
to Mamat. “She was still so polite. She would have given Faouda something to drink when she turned up.

“And Faouda poisoned her right there.” She breathed in abruptly, and put her hand to her mouth. “Do you remember?” she asked Rubiah urgently. “When we first met Aisha, she made us coffee, didn't she?”

Rubiah nodded, knowing now where this was leading.

“I think it was in the tea. We came so close to disaster!
Alamak
!”

She stood up now, aflame with her conclusions. She took one of Mamat's cigarettes and slowly, stiffly, began limping around the living room. “Where do you find
kecubong?”
She took a deep drag. “It's a jungle plant. And where's the jungle?”

Rubiah gasped. “Kuala Krai!
Alamak
! Maryam!” she jumped to her feet and hugged her.

Mamat took the opportunity to order Aliza to make some coffee. It was impossible to think with insufficient caffeine. The brain needed energy. .

“Could someone have added opium to her food afterward? Dollah, for one. I mean, he goes to Thailand too. I'm just thinking,” he apologized.

The two women stared at Mamat. Who would have thought? “Mamat,” Maryam said slowly, “I do believe you're right. Her mother said they'd both brought over food.”

Mamat cast down his eyes, accepting their praise. The three sat silently, drinking their coffee. Maryam's jaw was throbbing, and she couldn't speak any longer. Rubiah looked at her expectantly, but Maryam waved her away, and shook her head.

“We should ask Aisha's mother about the food,” Rubiah then decided. “Though I hate to bother her, all she's been through.”

“Her mind won't be on it,” Mamat pointed out. “You can't ask her to concentrate at a time like this.”

“We can go over tomorrow,” Rubiah countered, “Or go to the hospital. Maybe the doctors can tell us something.”

Maryam wondered whether the doctors would tell her anything. If not, Osman could request the information. They'd be duty bound to tell him; after all, he was the Chief of Police.

Chapter XXV

Osman leaned across the desk, his eyes alight. Maryam had applied her makeup with great care, covering the bruise on her face, and Osman did not seem to notice it. She sat back in her chair, drinking thick iced tea and picking through an assortment of cakes, taking a well deserved breather before finishing her explanation.

“So that's how I figured it out. Our own Malay proverbs, they give you so much wisdom if you only listen to them.” She nodded judiciously. “I never realized how much they really tell you about the world.”

Osman nodded. “We should go down to Kuala Krai and talk to Faouda.”

“Of course,” Maryam agreed, reluctantly. “I mean,” she said almost humbly, “It's a great theory, but we've got to prove it. And it still doesn't solve who killed Ghani.”

“But with Aisha, it could be just Faouda, right? Someone else didn't necessarily slip her some opium.” Osman still resisted the idea of two poisoners: he preferred to keep it simple.

“I think the most likely people would be Dollah and his troupe: Aisha's mother said they all brought food over for her, and they do travel to Thailand all the time. Hassan does also,” she added, “but I haven't heard of him bringing anything to Aisha's house. He really doesn't know her,” she added regretfully.

She much preferred Hassan as a suspect over anyone else, with the possible exception of Johan. Unfortunately, she couldn't connect him to Aisha no matter how convenient it would be.

She had not mentioned Johan's assault, and had no intention of doing so, but couldn't resist bringing him to Osman's attention. “When we go to see Faouda,” she advised him, “we should talk to Johan as well.”

“Why?” He wasn't objecting, merely requesting clarification.

Maryam tried to stay casual. “He's been in Thailand too, you know. And I always thought he might have killed Ghani, out of jealousy maybe.” She prayed he would agree without demanding further explanation.

He did. “Very good idea,
Mak Cik.
He has motive and opportunity, don't you think?

“Without doubt,” Maryam answered firmly. She hoped Osman noticed only her confidence, and not the fear underlying it. She dreaded facing Johan again: he might really kill her this time.

Osman was beaming, relief and anticipation emanating from him in equal quantities. He ordered his staff around with authority, arranging to speak to his suspects in Kuala Krai. He assumed Maryam would come with him, but she didn't want to lessen his glory in any way. Besides, she'd seen enough of Kuala Krai to last several lifetimes. He insisted. “I'll need you there to help with the questioning,” he advised. “Please.” She acquiesced with as much grace as she could muster, and then hoped for the monsoon to wash out the roads.

Osman bounded up the stairs to the Kuala Krai police station in great good humor. He pictured himself the young, vital chief of the Kota Bharu police: the man who'd cracked the case, a debonair yet intrepid figure from the big city. He was greeted by his colleagues with cries of congratulations, and warm slaps on the back, and plied with question about how he did it.

“It was mostly theoretical work,” he instructed them modestly. “We had very little in the way of hard evidence to go on.” They nodded attentively. “It was psychology,” he added. “You know, as a policeman, you're really got to understand the criminal mind and how it works. And of course, the local culture. Otherwise, how can you understand what they're doing?”

Osman wondered briefly if in his expansiveness he had gone too far. But his audience still seemed enthralled. “In this case, I had to think about how a second wife might feel. It wasn't easy, I'm not even a woman.” They laughed, and Osman was quietly rapturous. “But with psychology, you can put yourself in someone else's place and anticipate their next move.”

Maryam watched him with both amusement and pride. It's as though he's my son, she thought to herself: young and sometimes stupid, but I can see at last he's growing up.

Moments later, Osman and Maryam were ushered into the small interrogation room to meet with Faouda. She sat stonily in her seat, watching Osman from under beetling eyebrows. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I'm the police chief from Kota Bharu.”

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Aisha's death.”

“Aisha's dead?”

Osman thought her face had lost a little colour. “She died a few days ago. Poisoned.”

“Really?” She'd recovered her poise and her colour, and affected to be utterly disinterested in the information.

“You're in a difficult situation, Faouda.”

“Me? Why?”

“Well …” Osman floundered. The language defeated him. He worried if they ever got beyond monosyllables, he might not even understand her answers.

Maryam smoothly took over. “You were her husband's second
wife.”

“For a week, maybe.”

“Second wives have very difficult relationships with first wives.”

“I wouldn't know,” she replied airily. “I was only a second wife for such a short time,” she pointed out. “It's not like I had a whole life there, or had kids, or anything like that. It was just for fun.”

“For fun?” Maryam was appalled. “You wreck people's lives for fun?”

Faouda glared at her, and then silently accepted the cigarettes and tea served by a junior policeman. She leaned back, hanging her arm over the back of the chair. She said nothing, but her lower lip began to stick out. Maryam was tempted to slap her: Faouda and her husband aroused her desire to do so each time she'd seen them, and she wondered if everyone they met felt the same. She thought it likely. They were an unpleasant pair: sullen, selfish and snotty. Maryam remembered her own experience being hit, and knew it would be counterproductive, though extremely satisfying – to wipe the insolence from Faouda's face. .

“You planned to get rid of Aisha before you met her. You've caused a lot of misery. But as I was saying to my cousin Rubiah,” she took a ladylike sip of tea and flicked her ashes into a waiting dish, “taking a second wife is always a disaster for everyone. I don't really blame you; after all, you never forced Ghani to marry you. But after all
this is over, Ghani's dead, Aisha's dead, and it's all because of you.” She stayed quiet, as though deep in thought.

“I didn't kill anyone,” Faouda said nastily. “I certainly didn't kill Ghani. Or Aisha,” she made sure to add. She looked increasingly sulkier.

“I think even if you didn't kill Ghani, he still died because he married you.”

“That's what you think.”

“I know it.” Maryam drank her tea again. “If you'd stayed in Kuala Krai, Ghani and Aisha would still be alive, and you'd be
legally
married to Johan. Why did you come here?”

Faouda was becoming irritated. “Ghani asked me to marry him. This isn't my fault alone, you know.”

“Well, Ghani's dead now, so it's hard to blame him. And besides, he's a man! You know they don't think. If we women don't think, well,
guru kencing berdiri, anak murid kencing berlari:
if the teacher pees standing, the students will pee running. It all goes to hell.” She paused. “Like it did.”

“You know,” Faouda sounded increasingly aggrieved, “I don't like the way people are blaming me for what happened. I got hurt, too, you know. You forget,
Mak Cik:
I got thrown out of Ghani's house, and his grandmother's house. I got divorced the day after I got up here. What about me?”

“What about you?” Maryam snapped. “Are you dead, too?” Faouda just answered with a sneer.

“Be grown-up for once: If you hadn't come up to Kota Bharu to kill your rival – yes, your rival – ” Maryam insisted as she saw Faouda's face contort into a smirk, “Aisha would be here still, taking
care of her children. If you hadn't come up here, Ghani would still be alive. Don't you have any shame at all?” Maryam's frustration was growing by the moment: she really wanted to shake this girl. “You came here with your poison and gave it to Aisha the first and only night you were here at her house.”

“I never.” Faouda insisted flatly. “Never.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“Stop wasting my time. I hate it when you lie to me.”

“I'm not!” Faouda tried to conjure up an expression of injured innocence, but failed. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“Because you killed Aisha. You'll be tried for it, of course.”

Faouda leapt from her seat, knocking over the wooden chair. The noise brought Osman to his feet. “What are you doing?” he demanded of Faouda.

Maryam waved him away. “We're fine, thank you. A small accident.”

Faouda stood next to her fallen chair, her hands shaking. “This isn't right!”

“Why? Did you think you could kill someone and never be caught? Did you think after you've killed someone, we should speak carefully and politely to you?” Maryam leaned over the table. “Just for my own curiosity, had you already planned to kill
Mak Cik
Maimunah?”

“Oh, please,” Faouda scoffed. “I never wanted to kill Maimunah. I never wanted to kill anybody. And I never did.” She picked up her overturned chair and sat down with a flourish. She crossed her arms and looked pugnacious while Maryam regarded her with increasing distaste

“I know you used
kecubong
.” Maryam told her flatly.

“What?”

“You got it yourself in the jungle there, didn't you? Hard to find up here, but in Kuala Krai it's everywhere. Put it in her tea, did you?” This was a long shot, but Maryam thought it the most likely method.

Faouda's head snapped up to watch Maryam. She stayed silent.

Maryam kept her eyes on her
sarong
, slowly tracing out the design on her thigh, ignoring Faouda for the time being. After she felt the silence heavy enough, she turned to Faouda with a thin smile. “I think the police will just go ahead with this. After all, we know about the tea, and we know Aisha died of
kecubong
poisoning. It's clear enough.” Maryam stood slowly. “Goodbye, Faouda. Good luck. I'm sure the judge will be that much angrier with you to hear you never admitted what you've done.”