A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul Read Online Free PDF Page A

his forehead, this was a man at the end of his tether.
    â€˜I’m Dr Alex Barton. I’m in charge of the collection of burnt-out body parts we have here.’
    â€˜Lucky you!’ muttered Singh as he shook hands with the man, noticing that the skin on his palm was dry and rough. He still had no idea why he was at the morgue. He hoped there wasn’t something that needed doing for which he had no expertise – God only knew what his superiors had told the Balinese about his skill set. He wouldn’t have put it past his Singapore bosses to assure them that he was a forensics expert.
    The doctor looked like he wanted to say something but was not sure how to proceed. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his white coat, glanced at Singh, changed his mind and stared down at the policeman’s white plimsolls, a perplexed expression on his face. He said abruptly, ‘Why don’t you come with me.’
    Intrigued by this air of mystery, Singh trotted after the doctor, taking two steps for every one of the other man. Bronwyn had no trouble keeping pace in her soft-soled shoes that were worn down around the heels. She was almost as tall as the pathologist. Bronwyn was being reticent by her standards. Singh wondered about it for a moment. Did she know
something she was not telling him? He abandoned the mental task of second-guessing Bronwyn in favour of the physical task of keeping up with the others.
    Alex Barton did not stop until he reached a large steel freezer. He opened the door and gestured for them to look inside. Singh peered in reluctantly. His disinclination was vindicated by the sight of small piles of charred limbs and other human remains.
    He looked inquiringly at the Australian doctor. ‘Having trouble identifying these victims?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes. But it’s early days yet. We’re still waiting for DNA samples, dental records, information on identifying marks, you know, scars, tattoos, that sort of thing.’
    â€˜Tough job,’ said Bronwyn sympathetically.
    â€˜It wasn’t helped by the cock-ups after the bombs,’ complained the doctor bitterly.
    Inspector Singh asked in his gravelly voice, ‘What do you mean?’
    â€˜There wasn’t enough space here – at the morgue, I mean. The freezer was only designed for ten bodies. We had over two hundred. The remains were left in bags in the garden. They were so burnt, decomposition was faster than normal. I’ve been in war zones that weren’t as bad. But the worst part’ – he shook his head in disbelief – ‘anyone and everyone was allowed to wander in looking for missing relatives. People claimed bodies based on visual identification – hopeless in the circumstances.’
    Bronwyn asked in horrified tones, ‘Do you mean families claimed the wrong bodies?’
    â€˜That’s not the least of it,’ said the doctor, sighing. ‘Some of the volunteers who came in to help – they didn’t have any training – they mixed remains. There’s a lot of cross-contamination of DNA samples.’

    â€˜But that means there are victims who might never be identified!’ exclaimed Bronwyn.
    The doctor nodded, his face crumpled with lines of worry and fatigue.
    There was silence.
    Singh broke it. He asked, ‘But what do you want me for?’ He continued, ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any expertise on the forensics side.’
    Before Dr Barton could continue, they were joined by another man. Short, squat and with a big square head, he looked like a Caucasian version of Inspector Singh – except without the turban. The newcomer shook hands with Barton, turned to the policeman and asked, ‘You’re Singh?’
    Singh was getting a little tired of dealing with brusque Australians. He said, not bothering to keep the note of irritation out of his voice, ‘Yes, who’s asking?’
    â€˜I’m Chief Atkinson –