Darius knew the precise moment he decided to become a policeman. It was the first Sunday after his tenth birthday and his parents were preparing for Church. Darius knew something was wrong, horribly wrong. All the adults in his village, most of whom were uncles and aunts, had been tense for weeks. Every night his parents would engage in hushed conversations after sending him into another room. The easy laughter which had characterized his village and his childhood on Ambon had been replaced by grim faces and an aura of fear. Darius tried to ask his parents what was happening but he was told not to worry and to be a good boy. Now as they were about to leave for the Church there was a loud commotion outside followed by screaming. His mother grabbed him and pushed him through a trap door in the floor into a small area beneath the house where the family kept its valuables. He never saw his parents again. After three days under the house with only the water his mother had pushed in the hole after him, Darius was driven out of his hiding place by hunger. The village, or what was left of it, was deserted, the houses trashed and the church had been burnt down. Darius wandered out calling for his parents and the names of his neighbours and friends. No reply came. At the edge of the village sat a solitary policeman, keeping guard over the destruction. The policeman smiled at him and took Darius in his arms. It was then Darius decided he too would become a policeman.
Looking back now, as the plane banked on its approach into Solo airport, becoming a policeman was in many ways the least logical response to the horrors of Ambon's religious wars. Darius had often wondered why his response to the terrible events that Sunday had been to seek law and order rather than joining some of his cousins in Christian militancy. Was it the kindness of the Muslim policeman who found him or was it something inate within him which craved order out of the chaos? His adoptive parents in Jakarta had given him the best education they could afford and he graduated from the University of Indonesia in Law. But to his new family's disappointment he chose the police force over the practice of Law and now, 15 years later, he was a Police Major attached to the Densus 88 anti-terrorist squad.
Densus 88 was a schizophrenic organization, but somehow it worked. Its members were the best and brightest of the force, and most of them were Muslim. For the more devout among them, there was an inevitable tension between their loyalty to the force and their responsibilities as policemen on one hand, and their sympathy for the causes the theologians of the terrorist causes espoused on the other. But in the five years Darius had spent in the squad he had never had reason to doubt the loyalty and conscientiousness of his colleagues and their raids always came as a complete surprises to the hapless plotters.
The Garuda plane had finished its circumnavigation of Solo and came into land. Solo was an International airport, with direct flights from Singapore and Kuala Lumpur but until recently that grand title belied the humble buildings at the end of the runway and the simple set of stairs which would be rolled into place against the forward door of each aircraft. But with the death of President Soeharto all that changed. He was to be buried near Solo and to accommodate the guests a new terminal building had been quickly constructed with modern boarding ramps. Despite the ramp, as the door opened the intense heat of Central Java quickly invaded the plane and Darius was glad to get into the terminal where the new air conditioning was doing its job.
"Major Darius"
The man asking wore the uniform of a police brigadier.
"I am Hartono"
Having established Darius had no checked luggage Hartono waved him into an unmarked car pulled up immediately in front of the terminal and they were soon on their way.
Solo, or Surakarta as it used to be known, is a huge city by global standards with several million people. But it is a low rise, rural city and only a couple of buildings boast elevators. The palace of the Javanese Kings – the Kraton – in the center of the city which should be its jewel is a dilapidated and overgrown group of buildings reflecting the poverty of the current Sultan and the disinterest of both the Muslim majority and the wealthy Chinese minority. This decay also infects Solo's infrastructure and the car moved slowly through the heavy traffic of motorcycles and trucks on the narrow roads. They were headed for Karanganyar north east of Solo where Hartono was police chief and since the airport was in the south they had to traverse the entire city.
There was no real border between Solo and Karanganyar. The suburban sprawl of both had long since merged into a single mass of humanity. Hartono was silent on the journey, having told Darius that they would discuss matters at this office.
"I am not sure why you are here." It wasn't hostile but it wasn't particularly friendly either.
"Well sir, we thought there were sufficient unusual aspects to the case to warrant our involvement."
Darius was glad the modest office was at least air conditioned. Working in Jakarta had made him soft and Central Java was markedly hotter than the northern coast.
"Those unusual aspects, as you call them, the locals attribute to the fact that the guy was killed by a hantu air.
���A river ghost?"
"According to local legend there is a ghost in that river who scours the countryside looking for men and boys to replace her lost sons. The spot on the riverbed where the body was found has seen other deaths and disappearances in the past and the local people are all convinced the deaths are attributable to the hantu."
"I am not sure I would keep my job for very long if I returned to Jakarta and announced the murderer was a ghost".
"You can make fun of it if you like, but I wouldn't do so too loudly around here. We all have too many experiences with ghosts to doubt their existence."
Darius was dumbfounded. He looked for a hint of humour or irony but found none. The corpulent Hartono just sat behind his desk impassively, staring directly at Darius with no hint of emotion. He couldn't decide whether Hartono was serious. Best to change the subject.
"I would like to visit the scene and see the body. May I have use of a car?"
"We only have one car and that's mine. But you can have a motorcycle. The body is here. You may want to start with that."
At the rear of the police compound was the morgue. There was only space for one body so the attendant was anxious for the inspection to be completed so he could dispose of the body. As the initial report filed with Jakarta had stated, the hands had been cut off and were missing and the face had been bashed in so thoroughly as to remove any chance of identification. The body was of a man about 1m6 tall and perhaps 100 kgs. He really had been enormously fat. The feet suggested he had not been brought up barefoot and the skin was not that of a Javanese nor of any Asian race. Darius had brought a DNA kit and took a sample but not with any hope of early results or matching given Jakarta's limited lab and data base.
He inspected the clothes piled up beside the body piece by piece. All were of good quality material and well tailored. Certainly not local. At first glance it seemed that someone had quite crudely ripped out all of the labels. On closer inspection, however, Darius noticed that the rather loud Hawaiian style shirt had a brand on the washing instruction label which the killer had missed. 'Capel.' Darius had never heard of it, but Google would soon fix that.
The inspection completed he reluctantly authorized the attendant to dispose of the body and went outside to collect the motorcycle. It was clear from the map Hartono had given him that Pendem where the body was found was not far away – maybe a half one hour on these roads – but he decided to take his overnight bag against the possibility he might find somewhere to stay in the area. In Darius' experience you learnt far more from a few nights spent in a village than you could ever learn from an inspection of the murder site.
Once clear of the Karanganyar suburbs it was a beautiful ride to Pendem. The road wound its way up the foothills of Mount Lawu through postcard perfect terraced rice fields, new dry stubble for the most part with a few already planted with the sparse yellow stalks of next reasons crop. As Darius climbed it became cooler and the countryside ever more beautiful. He stopped in the town of Mojogedong to buy a drink and get his bearings. It was a typical small Javanese town with a market at the center and large numbers of men lounging around with apparently nothing to do. He asked directions to Pendem and was soon on his way along a narrow paved road running along a ridge with rice terraces on either side and hamlets every few hundred meters. The district was Pendem but the particular village he was seeking was Gombel, where the body had been found, and he soon saw the sign for his destination.
Hartono had given Darius a letter of introduction to Pak Harto who was the Kepala Kampung (village head) of Gombel. It was evening when he arrived and as Darius hoped might happen Pak Harto, with typical Javanese hospitality invited him to dinner and to stay the night. Dinner was elaborate by village standards for, in addition to the rice, vegetables and sweet tea Darius had expected, his host had killed a chicken which had been deep fried in the delicious manner typical of Central Java. Pak Harto was of course aware of the murder. He explained to Darius that the river had been the scene of a number of mysterious events over the years and most villagers avoided going down to its banks. There was a widely held belief that ghosts inhabited the river. Beyond these comments Pak Haarto disclaimed all knowledge of the incident or what might have transpired and said he did not personally go down to the river to inspect the corpse.
Darius learned over dinner that the Pak Harto's eldest daughter was married to a police brigadier in Irian Jaya and another daughter was married to a banker in Singapore. In all there were nine children the rest of whom all lived in the family compound or nearby. A car, a truck and a rice mill were testament to the prosperity of the family as was the only fixed line telephone in the village. Despite the presence of electricity, the routine of village life follows the sun and it was early to bed. Darius was offered an air-conditioned bedroom in the Singapore daughter's home in the compound, for which he was deeply grateful. After a quick splash in the kamar mandi he was soon fast asleep.