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  Maryam rose to leave, and thanked Aziz. ‘We should be going now.’

  ‘Will you talk to Murad? You should. You might think very differently if you actually meet him.’

  Maryam was sure of it. ‘We certainly will.’

  Aziz looked troubled. ‘Murad’s sister lives in Kampong Tikat now. Maybe you should talk to her first, before you meet him. Noriah. Her husband is Musa.’

  ‘Why?’

  Aziz looked uncomfortable. ‘Find out more about him before you see him. I’m telling you, he can be difficult.’

  He nodded, and stood to escort them down the stairs, looking slightly, if not much more, relaxed than he had when they’d arrived. ‘Thanks for the laksa!’ he said as they walked slowly away.

  Chapter V

  Maryam squatted before a chopping board in her kitchen, while Rubiah sat on the steps pounding spices. Dinner waited for no one. Maryam’s two youngest children, Aliza and Yi, both in secondary school, were already finished with homework and were planted in front of the television.

  ‘He’s acting differently than I thought he would,’ Maryam advised Rubiah. ‘I wonder about this Murad. Could he really be so bad?’

  ‘I’ve never heard anyone pack so many sayings into a conversation,’ Rubiah observed. ‘More than our grandfather, and he was famous for it! I never knew them that well: do you think he talks like that all the time? Or were we just lucky?’

  ‘It might have driven Jamillah crazy,’ Maryam agreed. ‘I like quoting as much as anyone, but really …’

  The onions and garlic were sizzling, and the chicken ready to be added. Maryam began grinding coconut for the milk

  ‘We should meet this Noriah, although why we shouldn’t go straight to Murad I can’t imagine. Maybe it’ll be useful.’ She shrugged. ‘Or not.’ She was quiet for a moment.

  ‘You know who I think we should talk to? The bomoh from Bacok. He probably knows a lot more about Jamillah than anyone else right now. I mean, he did all this talking to prepare for the main puteri.

  Rubiah looked annoyed. ‘I thought it was just this interview,’ she objected. ‘We weren’t going to be part of the investigation, remember?’

  ‘I’m curious,’ Maryam replied, keeping her eyes carefully on the coconut so as not to meet Rubiah’s. ‘I know I said that, but now, there’s so much more to learn.’

  ‘I knew it. I really did. Even when you said it, I knew it.’

  ‘Well, cheer up,’ Maryam told her. ‘Aren’t you the least bit interested?’

  Aliza suddenly appeared at the door, lounging against the jamb behind Rubiah. ‘What have you found out, Mak?’

  ‘You shouldn’t get involved,’ her mother informed her flatly.

  ‘I’m not getting involved. I’m just asking. I’m curious.’

  Maryam gave her a sardonic look and continued her conversation with Rubiah. ‘So, Bacok tomorrow?’

  ‘Are you afraid, Mak?’ asked Aliza.

  ‘Afraid?’ Maryam scoffed. ‘Why should I be?’

  * * *

  Pak Nik Lah lived in a sprawling ‘urban’ kampong right outside the centre of Bacok, a coastal town and district capital. Even with such a grand designation, its downtown was no more than two blocks long, and chickens wandered the scuffed lawn outside the police station.

  Maryam and Rubiah stopped at a small stall selling a motley assortment of household necessities: budu (a much-loved local fish paste), matches, oil and salt. It all looked very haphazard, but there must have been some order to it, understood by its proprietor, a mak cik preparing coffee on a small gas burner. They hailed her, and she took the cigarette from between her lips and put her hands on her hips. ‘Eh?’ she asked, putting a complete questionnaire into that one syllable.

  ‘Is the coffee ready?’ Rubiah asked as one coffee stall owner to another.

  ‘Hor,’ the woman replied briefly; yes. Clearly, this was not a case of berteh dalam kuali, popped rice in a cooking pot, making incessant noise. She lifted an eyebrow to ask if they wanted any, and Rubiah nodded silently. The woman watched them with frank appraisal.

  ‘We’re from Kampong Penambang,’ Maryam said, answering her unasked question. ‘And we’re here looking for Pak Nik Lah. The bomoh?’

  The woman of few words nodded, but made no comment as to where he might be found. She simply poured their coffees into two cups, set them on the counter, whipped the dishcloth over her shoulder, and sat down, watching them. ‘Are you looking to hire him?’ she asked, finally.

  ‘Maybe,’ Maryam answered shortly. ‘We just want to meet him now.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Back there.’ She jerked a thumb in the direction of a group of houses perched over the sandy soil. ‘He’s there.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The woman lapsed back into silence, and watched them drink their coffee. When they paid and left, her eyes followed them all the way to the houses before she turned back to work.

  Pak Nik Lah was a big, bluff man who looked as though he could pick up a full-grown patient and hold him over his head. He also had the professional ease of a bomoh, accustomed to handling difficult people in difficult situations.

  He welcomed the two visitors into his house and had coffee in front of them before giving them an opportunity to state their business. He leaned across the low table and opened his large hands as if to envelop them. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked them, his eyes unthreatening but completely alert.

  ‘Pak Nik Lah,’ Maryam began, ‘we are here to help the police.’ He nodded as though this was something he heard all the time. ‘We are investigating a murder: Kak Jamillah, from Kampong Penambang. You held a main puteri for her a few days ago.’ He nodded again, and knit his brows.

  ‘A real shame,’ he pronounced sadly. ‘I heard about it. Murder?’

  ‘So it would seem. And we know, since you performed the main puteri, you must have spoken to many people about her.’As she paused for a moment, he nodded. ‘I hoped you might tell me anything that might help us find her killer,’ she said baldly.

  He considered this. ‘Are you really sure it was murder?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘How was she … killed?’

  ‘It seems she was smothered. Maybe with a pillow.’

  ‘In her own bed?’ He was shocked.

  Maryam nodded.

  ‘But that’s … well, it’s seems crazy, doesn’t it?’

  Maryam concurred; it seemed crazy to her, too. He shook his head. ‘In her own bed? In her own house? How could that happen?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Rubiah interjected, tapping her cigarette against the ashtray for emphasis.

  He leaned back against the cushion. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t seem possible even.’ He looked at them both. ‘I don’t even know where to start.’

  ‘Murad,’ Maryam prompted him. ‘Was he mentioned at all when you were looking into her problem?’

  ‘Ah.’ Pak Nik Lah took a long swig of coffee, and signalled his wife for refills. ‘I’m not sure I should really talk about this. Kak Jamillah was a patient.’

  ‘Abang, you can talk to us, two Kelantanese people just like you, who also knew Jamillah and want justice for her, or …’ she paused briefly, ‘you can speak to the police. If you prefer that.’ She looked at him demurely; she knew which she would pick.

  He smiled ruefully. ‘When you put it like that, Kakak …’ He thought for a moment, and then began to speak. ‘You know, Kak Jamillah was worried, she was upset, and, of course, because of that, she was easy prey for jinn. An unquiet soul, this can lead to all kinds of problems because you can’t defend yourself. You know, you’re open to any kind of influence.

  ‘She thought her husband no longer cared for her. He was moody and didn’t pay any attention to things. I thought he was as troubled as she, but he kept it in more. Men do, I think.’

  His audience nodded; it was well known. ‘But I didn
’t feel as if he didn’t care about his wife – I thought instead he had problems with someone else. And when I spoke to him about it, he told me about Murad and the boat. Have you heard?’

  ‘He told us, too.’

  ‘You see? It’s preying on his mind. He can’t think of anything else except how he’s been wronged here. And it’s turning his whole family upside down. Jamillah had no energy at all, pucat lesu macam ayam kena lengit. She was as pale and tired as a chicken plagued with ticks. But Aziz, he was seperti anjing disua antan. Like a dog poked with a stick. He was as sick as she, you know, but he didn’t look as bad.’

  ‘What did he tell you about Murad?’

  Pak Nik Lah sighed. ‘He hates him. He says he cheated him when the boat was sold. He was stingy, and mean, and supposedly kept a pelesit, which is how he got rich.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘About the pelesit?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I went to talk to this Murad. He is not a nice man. Not friendly, not warm. It was a very quick conversation, and when I talk to people about a sick person, one for whom we’re planning a main puteri, people usually want to help as much as they can. They want the sick one to get well–doesn’t everyone want to see a cure? Not this one.’ He took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘He was angry that I dared to see him! Insulted me, called me a disgrace.’

  ‘Do you think he killed Jamillah?’

  ‘He’s probably mean enough to have done it, but how could he get into the house like that? Did he send a pelesit? Maybe.’

  Maryam was thoroughly unsatisfied with a supernatural answer, and refused to countenance some pelesit – familiar spirit–as a murderer, though she was reluctant to argue this point with a bomoh, who might well take it as a personal affront. ‘Have you heard anything else?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Well, Jamillah’s younger daughter, Zaiton? I heard some talk about a marriage with Murad’s son.’

  Maryam opened her eyes wide. ‘What?’

  ‘Yes. Aziz wouldn’t hear of it. Jamillah, I’m not sure how she felt. Zaiton herself might have had another opinion.’

  ‘Might?’

  ‘You should ask her.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ Maryam assured him.

  Chapter VI

  For an interview with Murad’s sister, informality was out. Gold was much on display: heavy earrings, a heavy necklace and several bangles glittered from behind Maryam’s best head scarf. While songket would be overkill, the quality of the batik she wore was of the highest. They were dressed for combat.

  Kampong Tikat was actually walking distance from Kampong Penambang, though it was a long walk along the main road. Maryam and Rubiah preferred it; it gave you time to think and plan what you wanted to say. Besides, Maryam liked admiring Kelantan’s countryside and the lush greenery now that the planting season had begun. Rice paddies which had been just dry, cracked wastelands were now watered, with dark soil and bright green rice sprouts. It always raised her spirits to see the dry season end and the rains begin. Before the floods started, of course.

  The large bend in the road signalled the boundary of Kampong Tikat, which also marked the gradual transformation from thick brown soil to sand: from villages devoted to farming to those of fishermen. Right there stood a long, large house whose porch looked out onto the main road. A young girl swept the front yard, keeping it a bare, flat expanse of dry earth, while two others hung laundry.

  ‘Is this Musa’s house?’ Maryam asked pleasantly. The sweeper said yes, and smiled shyly.

  ‘Are you his daughter?’ she asked the girl. She nodded again.

  ‘Is your mother home?’

  She nodded once more and scampered up the steps, calling ‘Mak! Someone’s here to see you!’

  Moments later, a short, stocky woman bustled out from the house, looking like a general on campaign. She looked at Maryam and Rubiah with frank appraisal, taking in their bangles, necklaces and earrings in one glance and judging their value. Apparently they passed her test, for she ordered drinks and snacks to be delivered to her on the porch at once.

  ‘Come up, come up,’ she commanded them. ‘Get out of the sun. It’s too hot.’ Maryam was confident she’d correctly assessed the right amount and quality of jewellery to wear, but validation was always appreciated.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ the lady of the house asked. ‘By the way, I’m Noriah. And you?’ She waved at the coffee, inviting them to drink.

  ‘I’m Rubiah, and this is Maryam,’ Rubiah began. ‘We’re here helping the police …’

  ‘I’ve heard of you!’ Noriah exclaimed. ‘You investigated that murder, didn’t you? Well, you’re here to look into another death, right? It must be Jamillah,’ she guessed.

  ‘I am,’ Maryam was relieved to get right to the point. ‘We’re here to begin our investigation.’

  ‘Here?’ Noriah was surprised. ‘Why not start at her home? Why would I know anything?’

  ‘I was hoping you could give me some background first on your brother.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve heard about Murad, then.’ She smiled.

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Well,’ Noriah reasoned, ‘why are you starting here instead of just meeting him?’ She lit a cigarette and passed the pack around. Not home-rolled, but store-bought. ‘But you’ve heard he’s a fierce one, likely to snap your head off. People are frightened of him.’ She shrugged. ‘No need to be. Bukan harimau nak kerkah: He isn’t a tiger who wants to chew you up.’

  ‘I’m not frightened,’ Maryam answered mildly. ‘I just didn’t want to speak to him first.’

  ‘He’s a private man,’ his sister pronounced. ‘He’s a fair man, and he works hard, that’s all. Doesn’t fool around much. He’s always been that way, and it always made people think he was a little standoffish, you know. But he isn’t, just serious and hardworking.’ She leaned back against the wall of her house.

  ‘People seem reluctant to talk about it.’

  ‘And that’s as it should be!’ Noriah concluded. ‘People shouldn’t gossip; I think they respect Murad too much to talk about him. They look up to him,’ she continued, sipping her coffee, ‘they need someone to look up to. Villagers, I mean.’

  We’re all villagers here, all three of us, Maryam thought. Who was she talking about?

  ‘The fishermen on his crew, for instance. These people need a leader, and I think Murad is just such a one.’

  Maryam nodded silently, drawing on her cigarette. She let the quiet grow, waiting to see if Noriah would seek to fill it.

  ‘If people fear him, it’s because they are guilty themselves, and they think he’ll discover their secret. You know about his fight with Jamillah’s husband,’ she guessed shrewdly. ‘Someone who’s innocent has nothing to fear from him.’

  ‘Innocent of what?’

  ‘Of anything! I’m saying he will see through you if you’re a liar. Or a thief. But if you’re a good person, he’s kind and generous. But fair,’ she amended, lest Maryam think he was simply open-handed. ‘He’s a fair man.’

  ‘He was a ship’s captain, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Have some cakes, please! You haven’t touched anything. More coffee?’

  They begged her not to trouble herself. They were fine – indeed, cool where they now sat – but Noriah followed the precepts of Malay courtesy, refilling their coffee cups and urging cookies and cigarettes upon them. They were profuse in their thanks.

  ‘He was a ship’s captain, your brother?’ Maryam repeated after the flurry of politeness.

  ‘He was. For a long time. He was thrifty and worked hard.’ Thriftiness was not a virtue appreciated by most Malays; they perceived a short and slippery slope from frugal to downright stingy. Maryam was intrigued at the many ways Noriah inserted her brother’s exemplary parsimony into the conversation.

  ‘Did he start as a fisherman and work his way up?’ Maryam was prepared to be impressed.

  ‘Not really,’ Noriah sniffed, ‘our father owned the boat, and Murad took it
over. But there are plenty of men who would have lost it, you know. Spending money everywhere, mortgaging it,’ her expression told Maryam this would count as a mortal sin in Noriah’s world. ‘Even drinking and fooling around. But not my brother. He kept the money he was given and made it grow.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ Maryam murmured.

  ‘People here were suspicious of his accomplishments: but, as they say, untung ada, tuah tidak: there is success but not luck; it was all done with hard work. And therefore, they feared him.’

  She took a ladylike sip of coffee and the merest nibble of a rice cake. ‘He made plenty of money for Aziz, who didn’t lift a finger. Dapat pisang terkupas: he had his bananas already peeled. He didn’t do a thing.’ This was not a compliment.

  ‘And Pak Cik Murad’s son now has the boat.’

  ‘Why not? It’s his son. A fair man, like his father, like his uncle, like his grandfather before him. He looks towards the future.’ Maryam translated: doesn’t spend money.

  ‘He wants to have a family based on hard work and planning. To raise his children without spoiling them.’ Maryam had never actually heard of this happening in any family she knew. People loved indulging small children. ‘It’s the right thing to pass on the business to a boy like that.’

  Maryam smiled in agreement although it sounded cold and dull. Nothing like her own married daughter, whose husband adored her and whose small baby was treated like royalty everywhere she went.

  ‘Now I’m afraid I must ask you some questions which might upset you.’ Maryam began. ‘Jamillah. She worked near me you know, in the market. Can you think of anyone who was angry at her?’

  ‘Jamillah didn’t make people angry with her.’ Noriah stated flatly. ‘She worked hard.’ That again! ‘And she was an honest businesswoman.’

  Maryam moved closer. ‘I don’t know if what I heard is true, or just plain gossip.’ She lowered her voice as though discussing a most sensitive secret. ‘I understand there have been conversations about marriage.’