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examining the chickens pecking at the ground near his feet as though he’d never noticed them before.
    â€œ Pak Cik Mamat,” Osman called after a few moments. “Wait a moment.”
    Mamat turned with a bland smile. “Yes?”
    â€œPerhaps I should talk to Mak Cik Maryam again. I mean, I wouldn’t want her to be angry with me.”
    â€œAh, don’t worry, Che Osman,” Mamat assured him. “She won’t be angry—I know she’ll understand. You’re a professional, after all.No, put that thought out of your mind. You have your work to do.”
    Osman began to sweat slightly in the hot sun: he turned his hat around in his hands. “You know, it might be a generous offer. I mean, it might be helpful. She could go and talk to people …”
    â€œDo you want to come upstairs and talk to her again?” Mamat asked him kindly.
    Osman nodded, more like a schoolboy than ever.
    â€œCome on,” Mamat invited him up the stairs and sat him back on the porch.
    Maryam was in the kitchen. “He’s back.” Mamat leaned in over the stairs. “Come out front and talk to him.”
    â€œWhy?” Maryam asked innocently. “Hasn’t he got to get moving on this case? Why’s he hanging around here? Siku bersimpai , are his elbows tied together?” She sniffed in irritation.
    â€œHe’s just a kid. He’s afraid to make a mistake. Come on, Yam, go back in. He’s really dying for you to help him.”
    Maryam got up slowly, holding her hip as she did so. “You know, I have a pain right here. I should rest, really, not run around trying to solve other people’s crimes. Especially,” she grumbled, “for ungrateful policemen who can’t even speak Kelantanese.”
    She gave Mamat a sudden grin of pure joy. She’d not only gotten just what she wanted, she was about to be begged to take it. She walked slowly and majestically out to the porch, where Osman sat ready to plead for her help.

Chapter III
    He just let you take over like that?” Rubiah was incredulous. “I mean, after all, they are the police.”
    â€œHe’s a kid,” Maryam replied, somewhat dismissively. “Believe me – he was happy enough to have some help. He’s in over his head here.”
    Maryam seemed slightly irritated to be questioned on this topic: she’d already made her views on Osman perfectly clear and expected Rubiah to share them on general principle. Rubiah, drawing on vast experience with Maryam, retreated, and silently lit her cigarette, waiting for her orders to be issued: they were sure to come within moments. She was not disappointed.
    â€œThis Ghani had a second wife,” Maryam resumed. “We ought to go to Tawang to see the first wife, at least. It’s going to be awkward asking her about any others.”
    â€œCan’t be helped,” Rubiah answered briskly. “If you’re going to ask anyone about this, the wives have to be first. Who’s more likely to kill him?”
    â€œTrue,” Maryam agreed immediately. “I could see killing Mamat if he took a second wife. Alhamdulillah , I haven’t had to deal with that.”
    â€œI know, poor thing. There could be others reasons to kill him, Iguess, but he’s just a young musician: why else would anyone hate him?”
    Maryam shrugged while studying a plate of Rubiah’s rice cakes before her. Kelantan boasted a profusion of local specialties, and Rubiah was an expert in nearly all of them. They were chewy and sweet and rich, redolent of coconut milk, and most were brightly coloured with hues not found in nature. Maryam chose a fluorescent, layered rectangle topped with coconut cream and chewed it ruminatively. “This is going to be a mess, I can see it now.” She prepared to rise from the porch. “We might as well get going,” she informed Rubiah. “We aren’t solving anything by