In spite of its setting in laid-back Ubud, Morain and Steward's murder mystery is pacy and entertaining, writes Astuti Aswadi.

Was it Putu in the paddy with a parang? Or Kadek in the kitchen with a cleaver? Or perhaps Bagus in the bedroom with the Baygon? Whodunnit? There's really nothing cosier than a nice murder whether it's set in the classic English country house (and you can bet it wasn't the butler who did it) or on the 'mean streets' of L.A. favoured by Chandler's Philip Marlowe. There are certain conventions; obviously a victim (or several) with a few skeletons in the closet; usually an ingenious or obscure method of despatch; a cast of furtive-acting suspects and plentiful red herrings along the way. And a good honest sleuth whose accurate perceptions penetrate even the most airtight alibi.

The Kris of Death transposes the genre to the 'fertile paradise' of Ubud. "A scream ripped the night," --hardly the most original opening line but at least we don't have to wait long for the first corpse to be uncovered. Mitch Hawkins, 'legendary explorer' and loud-mouthed drunkard is sprawled on his porch not simply dead drunk but decidedly dead. We soon discover that the obnoxious Mitch had recently bought a valuable kris, which his Balinese wife believes has evil powers. So we start with promising intimations of black magic. It's also abundantly clear that Mitch is hardly the flavour of the month among most of his aquaintances. Nigel, his boorish artist neighbour, is quick to announce "masses of suspects - a cast of thousands. Bloke what snuffed him is a bloody benefactor." All too true.

Enter Penelope and Thomas (Pen and T), two recently arrived travel writers who take it upon themselves to solve the case. An array of nutty or plain nasty potential perpetrators assemble. A paranoid writer, a debouched painter of naked Balinese maidens, a swarthy silver trader with a taste for vengeance, rich and ruthless developers to name but a few. You can only admire the writers' ability to portray practically every expatriate stereotype imaginable. The Kris of Death then proceeds to rip through the suspects at a breathless pace. Motives mutate and multiply; alibis accumulate and are abandonned. Suspects spill the beans with alacrity and don't hesitate to 'dob the other in' supplying Pen and T with numerous new leads.

Pen and T zip all over Bali following up obscure clues whilst delivering rather irritating homilies about Balinese culture and the usual 'evils of development' line. Pen, who has only been here three weeks is staggeringly fluent in Bahasa Indonesia and even has the local constabulary eating out of her hand thanks to her 'wealth of insights' into the culture. Thomas meanwhile enlists the help of some cute little street urchins whose foraging through the rice fields reveals the murder weapon and the murderer's disguise - a unique and therefore easily traceable mask. But, it would be churlish of me to criticise the plausibility of the plot, after all even Chandler himself admitted he had no idea of the outcome of "The Big Sleep". The murder mystery reader is prepared to suspend belief.

The Kris of Death is entertaining enough without causing goosebumps. The plot provides plenty of twists and turns and most readers probably won't finger the killer before Pen and T. The descriptions of "emerald-hued paddies" and "the real Bali of exquisite countryside" let us know we're in the familiar domain of literary brochure-speak. Balinese characters are largely peripheral and somewhat patronizingly portrayed; why do so many writers assume 'the natives' all speak Bahasa Tarzan - "House very big Ketut still scare" or "I'm cannot lie." (Oddly enough, the police inspector speaks a fluent if archaic English - "After a cursory examination of the scene, I will commence your interogation.") But none of this really detracts from the story - a fast-paced thriller that keeps you guessing.

Local residents might have fun identifying the models for some of the nastier characters. I doubt if Nigel Mason or Nick Blackbeard will be flattered by the portrayal of Dan Bordon, the vulgar and ruthless rafting magnate. There are plenty of identifiable locations and lashings of local colour.

Astuti has to admit to a weakness for the hard-boiled, hard-drinking and often morally flawed private eye. Hammett's Nick and Nora were never without a slug of bourbon and even Sherlock Holmes had his cocaine habit. So I do find Pen and T rather disappointingly wholesome with their Green Sands and wholemeal apple pie. I'd prefer a cynical sleuth to these smug ones. But that aside, The Kris of Death offers sufficient intrigue to keep you reading to the end.