Shadow Play Read Online Free Page A

Ghani’s chest. “A golok? I mean a parang.” He smiled quickly at Osman in apology for using the Kelantanese word, and folded his arms across his knees. “This one, I’d say. And whoever did it wiped it clean with the towel and stuck it into the ground. I don’t think we’ll find anything about it.”
    â€œI’m afraid you’re right,” Osman said softly. The handle of the parang gleamed, and he had no doubt the blade would, too; the fact that it was sitting in the ground wouldn’t help the search for fingerprints either.
    â€œEveryone has one,” Rahman sighed. “It won’t narrow the field down at all.”
    â€œWhose is it though? Someone here?” He waved over some of the musicians. “Is this one of yours? Does it come from your stage?”
    The other men stared silently, as though they had never seen one before, but the oldest among them nodded. “Well, all old golok look alike, they’re nothing special. But we had a couple with us—we always do, we always need them—and this could be one of them.’
    He turned to one of the younger men and instructed him rapidly. He left at a trot for the panggung and jumped up the ladder to go inside.
    â€œHe’ll look,” he advised Osman. “Just wait a moment.” He smiled, and offered his hand. “Pak Cik Mahmud,” he introduced himself. Osman smiled and clasped his hand, each of them wrapping their two hands around the other’s.
    â€œ Che Osman, Kota Bharu Chief of Police.” It sounded odd to his ears. “From Perak.”
    â€œAhh,” Mahmud smiled, as if this explained a great deal. The younger man returned and spoke volubly to Mahmud for a minute or so, while Osman waited. “It could be. We usually keep three or four around, and there are three there now. I wish I could swear to it,” he shrugged, “but all I can say, ‘It could be.’ It’s a beat-up golok , and one beat-up golok looks much like another.”
    Osman thanked him, and became more depressed by the moment. “Take the knife away,” he ordered Rahman, “and make sure you keep the towel clean, too.” He himself turned to leave. Maryam was standing right behind him.
    â€œI need to talk to you,” she informed him. “Come over here with me.” She motioned him to sit next to her on the high shaded porch with fresh coffee in front of them while the remaining musicians began disassembling the stage and the fence around the field.
    By evening, there would be nothing left.
    â€œ Che Osman,” Maryam began, flicking the ashes from her cigarette through the floorboards. “I see you may have a problem. Now, don’t be angry with me, I’m talking to you like your mother, which I could be, you know.”
    Osman suddenly keenly missed his own mother far away onthe west coast. She was a strong-willed woman who brooked no opposition, and he was very close to her. He was relieved to be drawn into Maryam’s orbit and receive unquestioned orders. He sat up straighter and listened attentively.
    â€œNow, this has all taken place at my home, and I feel responsible for it. Not that I did it or anything like that.” She looked sternly at him to banish that thought from his mind. “But it was a performance I sponsored, and it’s my land. I must see it solved.” She paused momentarily. She could not admit her sudden elation at the prospect of taking over an investigation. She’d be just like the detectives she watched on television, solving crimes and ordering around her subordinates, a particularly seductive aspect of the plan, and Maryam concentrated all her will on overcoming Osman’s. “I’m going to help you, because I think you need help. You can’t really ask anyone about this: you can’t understand Kelantanese well enough and, besides, no one will tell you anything if they can help it. Me,