Devil-Devil (15 page)

As he ate he thought about Peter Oro and his grandfather Senda Iabuli. What could the pair of them have been doing that led to them both being killed? What connection, apart from the ties of blood, could there have been between an old saltwater villager and a promising young schoolboy?

Was the bushman Pazabosi the link that led to their murder? If so, why had the discovery of the bones of Lofty Herman sparked off their deaths and led to the attempt on the life of Sister Conchita? And where did Professor Mallory, the anthropologist, come into the equation? Could the American have been kidnapped, or even slain by the old Kwaio bush chieftain?

Night was falling as Kella left his hut and walked back into Honiara. He turned right past the bridge and entered the noisy, lively street that housed Chinatown. There were several dozen stores and bars crammed into Quonset huts and corrugated iron edifices, backed by ramshackle wooden dwelling houses, hand-constructed in many different styles, all running along the banks of the river at a right angle to Mendana Avenue. Even this early in the evening the stores were doing good business among the hundreds of Melanesians jostling up and down the street. Men and women were crowding into Joy Biscuits, Sweeties, Wong Pew, Ho Kee and the other colourful shops, each selling its jumbled, high-piled mixture of tinned food from Taiwan, rice, bottled beer, bread, tin plates, decorated china mugs, clothing and fishing tackle.

Kella pushed his way to the end of the street and entered the Everlasting Delight Bar. Despite its aspirational title it resembled most closely a tropical version of a Wild West spit-and-sawdust saloon of the 1880s. The room's entire length was occupied by a beer-slopped bar. The shelves behind were loaded with small brown bottles of 4X beer. There were a few plastic tables and chairs scattered about the room, but most of the occupants were lining the bar, three-deep.

The place was crowded with those Melanesian workers who still had a few dollars of their pay left this late in the week. They were drinking in island coteries, men from Malaita, Santa Isabel, Guadalcanal, Choiseul, Ugi, the Shortlands, and others. The air was filled with the sound of a dozen different dialects being spoken at a high volume. Between each group was a small but definable gap. Later that night a truculent drunk might spill over into the wrong throng, and then the brawling would start.

Kella stood on the edge of the Malaitan party and ordered a beer from one of the sweating barmen. He was served by Joe Dontate, a flat-nosed Roviana former boxer in his thirties.

A decade earlier he had reached the finals of the South Pacific Games middleweight championships in Suva. A savvy Australian manager had persuaded him to turn professional with enticing stories of the glittering prizes available to supporting contest fighters at the Sydney Stadium. Altogether Dontate had survived thirty bouts, in which he had been over-matched in only a couple, before returning to the Solomons with some scar tissue around his eyes, a perforated eardrum and enough money to open a trading store at Munda, which was now being run for him by his relations.

The ex-fighter had been unable to adapt back to village life and was apparently contentedly enough serving as a bouncer-barman for his Chinese employers. He was a watchful, philosophical character, with all the spontaneous aggression long since punched out of him, but still with enough steel in him to be able to control a tough bar like this one.

‘You going to stay late and spoil the fighting?' he grinned, as he pushed the bottle across the counter and scooped up Kella's coins.

‘I'll be gone inside the hour,' Kella promised.

‘I'll hold you to that, sergeant.' Unhurriedly Dontate moved farther along the bar. He was still smiling but there was a definite edge to his attitude. He had made his point and he knew that the other man had taken it.

Kella sipped the lukewarm beer. He exchanged nods with some of the Lau men in the nearest group. They left him alone, knowing that he would edge closer into the crowd if he wanted company.

Kella remained where he was for half an hour, his eyes constantly flickering around the room. This was the most popular bar in the capital for the islanders. Expatriates mostly drank at the Mendana Hotel or in the whites-only clubs in the town.

Michael Rapasia did not arrive. Kella sighed and pushed his empty bottle back across the bar. When he emerged, the main Chinatown street was more crowded than ever. He looked in different stores and eating-houses without success. By the time he had finished his search he had reached the beach. It was quieter here. For the first time he was able to hear the footsteps of the men he had sensed for some time had been following him. He whirled round, clenching his fists.

‘Easy, sergeant,' said Joe Dontate, coming forward, so that Kella could see his face. Accompanying the barman were two scowling Guadalcanal men.

‘Business so bad you're throwing customers into the bar, instead of out?' asked Kella casually.

‘Mr Cho wants to see you,' said Dontate. ‘In fact he sent us to fetch you.'

‘Which Mr Cho?'

‘The boy.'

‘What does he want?'

‘How the hell would I know?' asked the barman. ‘Do you think he tells me anything?'

Kella hesitated. He had no idea what the Chinaman wanted of him. When he did not respond immediately the two Guadalcanal men shuffled their feet restlessly. Kella ignored them. Even a former pro fighter like Dontate would not want to start trouble so near the main street. News would soon reach the Lau drinkers in the bar that the
aofia
was being roughed up. That would lead to a mass fracas that would greatly displease the influential Chinese store-owners.

On the other hand, thought Kella, he had nothing to lose. Perhaps Cho could aid him in unravelling part of the problem. It would be nice if somebody could.

‘I'll come with you if you'll help me out with something,' he informed Dontate. ‘I'm looking for Michael Rapasia. They tell me he's a serious drinker these days, so I expect you know where he is. Tell me how to find him and I'll come quietly.'

Dontate summed up the police sergeant unsmilingly. He walked closer to Kella. The Guadalcanal men moved to cut off any possible avenue of escape for the sergeant. Kella wondered if he had misjudged their mood. Dontate started to talk in an undertone.

‘I sometimes wonder how long you'd last against me,' he said speculatively, as if discussing an algebraic problem.

‘Must help pass the long evenings when you're watering the drinks,' agreed Kella. ‘Maybe we'll find out some day. Just now we're both busy. Well?'

Dontate thought the matter through and then nodded. ‘Crown and anchor game behind Jimmy Fat's,' he said, stepping back a pace. ‘Rapasia will be there as long as he's got any money left.'

‘Thank you,' said Kella. ‘That wasn't so hard, was it? Now let's go and see young Mr Cho.'

20

LABOUR LINES

Sister Conchita came out of the chapel after evening service and joined the throng on its way to the refectory to eat. If she skipped the meal she would have several hours before she would have to take the older sisters to the beach for the blessing of the fishing boats. No one would miss her for that amount of time. The headquarters building was not run on the same lines of discipline as the mission stations. Too many itinerant priests and nuns were constantly coming and going on their way to postings out of the Solomons or to different areas of the island. Some stayed only a few nights before catching a ship or aircraft to their destinations.

Before leaving the house she hurried out to the back yard to examine the batttered Bedford faded red van that had been placed in her charge since her arrival in the Solomons. She had done her best to bring it up to scratch, but it was being held together largely by faith and rust. She hoped that it would survive long enough for her to be able to take her consignment of elderly sisters on their long-anticipated evening expedition.

For a moment she wondered if she dared appropriate the vehicle to take her on the immediate journey she had planned that evening. Firmly Sister Conchita put the thought out of her mind. She had been greeted with concern and sympathy upon her enforced return to Honiara but all the same she felt that she was being regarded with suspicion by the mission hierarchy. Too many inexplicable things had been occurring at Ruvabi mission lately for the peace of mind of the mission administrators, who were trying to pursue a policy of masterly inactivity. No one would tell her anything about Father Pierre and she had been emphatically denied access to the radio sked to talk to the old priest.

In that case, she decided as she slipped out of the side door into the gathering gloom of the evening, she would just have to use the bush telegraph instead.

Sister Conchita hurried down to Mendana Avenue where the stores and shops were mostly closed this late. She crossed the Matanikau Bridge over the river. Here there were no lights. She reached the Labour Lines, the long breeze-block buildings in which itinerant workers were housed. There were a dozen of these constructions, each one reserved for the workers of a different island. They were situated well apart from one another.

Sister Conchita headed for the block in which the Malaita men stayed when they were working in the capital. Shadowy figures glided about the dormitory buildings and she was aware of many eyes on her, but no one challenged the authority of her habit.

She approached a group of Malaitans huddled around a fire in the compound. In her halting pidgin she asked if she could see the latest arrivals from Ruvabi mission station. Without a word one of the men stood up and walked into the building. He returned a few moments later with a slight, grey-haired figure wearing a long green
lap-lap
and smoking a clay pipe. With relief the sister recognized him as Matthew Dauara. He was a deck hand on one of the Chinese trading boats that circumnavigated Malaita regularly. He was in his sixties, old for a seaman, but his knowledge of the reefs and tides around the coast made him a valuable relief wheelman on voyages. He also spoke English, a fact for which Sister Conchita was grateful.

‘Sister Conchita,' said Dauara with surprise.

‘I'm sorry to bother you, Matthew,' said the nun, shaking the man's hand, ‘but have you seen Father Pierre lately? I'm worried about him.'

‘We put in to Ruvabi two days ago,' said Dauara. ‘I saw the father then.' He took her by the arm and guided her to a pile of logs stacked outside the concrete building, gesturing to her to sit down.

‘How was he?' asked the sister anxiously.

Dauara hesitated. ‘Sad,' he said finally. ‘Father Pierre is unhappy. He does not want to come to Honiara.'

‘I don't blame him,' said Sister Conchita. ‘Is that why he is unhappy?'

‘I think there is something else.'

‘What?'

‘It is about the time before.'

‘The time before? Oh, you mean something that has happened in the past?'

Dauara hesitated, choosing his words carefully. ‘The old men on the station say that he is sad too much because of the death of the big beachcomber.'

‘Lofty Herman? I didn't think that Father Pierre knew him that well.'

‘Oh yes. I visited Ruvabi many times before the war. Herman and the father were good friends. They did many things together. Some of the old people say that Father Pierre is blaming himself for the beachcomber's death.'

21

NIGHT TIDE

When Kella and Dontate arrived, John Cho was sitting behind a desk in a neat, uncluttered office at the back of the Happy Gardens general store. A pair of slim, discontented-looking Chinese youths were sitting on the floor, with their backs to a wall. They seemed terminally bored. Martial arts experts, Kella guessed. Joe Dontate could probably blow them apart without breaking into a sweat. The trouble was, Dontate was on their side.

The youths ignored Kella and scowled at the barman, as if their capabilities were being questioned by his presence. Dontate surveyed them and then leant against a wall, as far away from the youths as he could get. It looked as if Cho's bodyguards were not entirely one big happy family.

‘Ah, Sergeant Kella,' said John Cho. ‘So good of you to come. Please sit down.'

‘I'm only here because Dontate gave me some information I needed,' Kella told him.

‘Sure, whatever,' said Cho, flapping an impatient hand in the direction of a chair.

Kella nodded and took the seat opposite Cho. The Chinaman was in his twenties, wearing an expensive lightweight suit. On one wrist was a gold Rolex. He was slim and good-looking, with thick black hair brushed straight back over his head. His father, David Cho, was regarded as the most influential man in the Chinese community. A remote, shadowy figure, he was seldom seen outside Chinatown now that he was growing old. The rumours were that John was eager to take over from his father as soon as he decently could, but that he was a little short of the requisite weight for the job.

‘I've been looking forward to meeting you, sergeant,' said Cho, flashing a mechanical smile. ‘We should have got together a long time ago.'

It was all a little too pat and fluent. To Kella it seemed as if the young Chinese man was modelling his behaviour on one of the old black and white gangster films so often shown at the Point Cruz cinema. His father, on his rare public appearances, never struck attitudes. He had no need to.

‘Why's that?' asked Kella.

Cho spread his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘We're the two coming men,' he smiled, exaggerating an American accent. ‘As it happens, I am assuming a little more responsibility in my father's various business affairs here in Honiara. You are commonly regarded as the leader of the Lau community. The Lau men are the hardest in the Solomons, that is common knowledge.'

Joe Dontate stopped leaning against the wall. One of the Chinese, who presumably understood English, translated to his companion, who grinned, revealing broken teeth. For a second, Dontate transferred his glowering attention to the first youth, before returning it to John Cho. The Chinaman continued to pay no attention to the islander.

‘A lot of people would disagree with that,' said Kella.

Cho was not interested in what a lot of people, Dontate included, would disagree with. He leant forward eagerly across his desk.

‘There are big changes coming up in the Solomons, Sergeant Kella,' he said smoothly. ‘Big opportunities too. A smart man like you should be able to take advantage of the situation. Especially if you've got the right friends.'

‘Like you?'

Cho shrugged modestly. ‘Maybe. I've got influence and connections.'

And an influential father, thought Kella. Aloud he said, ‘I've already got a job in the police force.'

‘For how much longer, Sergeant Kella? It's a commonly accepted fact that the top brass among the Brits aren't going to give you a chance until you've grown a long grey beard. You're just their token Melanesian.'

‘White blackman,' sneered Dontate.

‘I wouldn't put up with it, if I were you,' urged the Chinaman. ‘On the other hand, I respect your talents and ability. We could do a great deal together. You could retain your police job, and you'd still become Commissioner of Police when independence comes. Only by then you'd be a wealthy man.'

‘What would I have to do?' asked Kella, too amused to be annoyed. After the subtle and elaborate manoeuvrings of old David Cho, the approach of his son seemed almost manic in its intensity.

‘Just become a personal friend,' pounced John Cho. ‘Pass on information about stake-outs, lose the occasional file, keep me in touch with what's going on at police headquarters, don't interfere too much. In general, become a friend at court. Is that too much to ask? As a matter of fact, there's one particular matter you can help me with straight away.'

‘What's that?' asked Kella, suddenly alert.

‘I'll tell you when we've agreed terms. I'll start you at a thousand dollars Australian a month. That's big money for a police sergeant.'

The young man was pushing altogether too hard. In the Solomons, everyone practised patience, especially the criminal fraternity. Cho was badly in need of advice. Only a very ignorant and naive man would attempt to bribe the
aofia
and treat a Roviana man like Dontate with contempt at the same short meeting. Kella knew that he ought to play the Chinaman along and find out what was bothering him enough to send for a police officer in this way, but he did not have the stomach for it. He stood up.

‘Very big money,' he agreed. ‘Now I'm going. You're wasting your time. Good evening, Mr Cho.'

John Cho went red. The two youths scrambled to their feet. Dontate had already stepped forward to stand in front of Kella before the pair of hired hands had had time to sort themselves out.

‘Shall I slap him, Mr Cho?' asked the bartender.

‘Don't be silly, Dontate,' snapped Cho. ‘You're just a messenger boy.' He looked venomously at Kella. ‘You're making a big mistake, sergeant. I was going to invite you in on a very good deal; one that you're already inadvertently involved in. You could have made a significant and lucrative contribution to the matter.'

Dontate was still standing close to Kella. The Roviana man had been made to lose face twice at the meeting. The former fighter would be resenting that. Kella decided to exacerbate the situation as best he could. It might serve his purpose to deepen the wedge between the two men.

‘Tell your messenger boy to get out of my way,' he said, stressing the description.

‘Stop interfering, Dontate,' snarled Cho, waving the glowering Melanesian away. ‘You have made a bad decision, Kella; one you might later regret.'

‘How do you like working for the Chinaman as an errand boy?' asked Kella as he and Dontate came out of the store into the noisy, garish night.

‘I suppose about as much as you enjoy working for the Brits,' said the Roviana man. His mind seemed far away.

‘Is John Cho always in such a hurry?'

‘Not that much,' admitted Dontate. ‘Someone must have shoved a thorn up his arse to make him hammer away at you so obviously.'

‘That's what I thought,' said Kella. ‘Almost like I was getting close to something.' He eyed the bartender. ‘I don't suppose you're going to tell me what this deal is that Cho was inviting me in on?'

‘What do you think?' asked Dontate contemptuously. ‘I'll tell you this for nothing though. You pissed the Chinaman off in there, and he ain't used to that. He's not a patch on his daddy, but he's got some say-so and a pot of cash. You be careful, Kella. I wouldn't like to see his hatchet men having a go at you before I get my chance.'

‘You're all heart,' Kella told him.

He found the crown and anchor game lit by lanterns on poles in full spate on a patch of wasteland running down to the river behind Jimmy Fat's store. Twenty or thirty Melanesians were jostling around the large flat board divided into squares bearing different inscriptions. The banker, a Chinaman, with two watchful Guadalcanal minders, was throwing the three dice. The gamblers were thrusting notes on to different squares and greeting the results of the throws with cheers or groans.

Kella stood quietly in the background until he had made out Michael Rapasia. His old schoolteacher was on his knees in front of the board, squabbling with the other punters as he threw down his banknotes from the thin wad in his hand.

At first Kella could hardly recognize the man. The quiet, dignified figure who had taught him many years earlier had been replaced by an unkempt, snarling gambler, fighting for his place at the board. Rapasia was a slight, grey-haired man in frayed shorts and an old Hawaiian beach shirt.

He was not having any luck with his bets. Kella saw the last of the former teacher's money scooped up from the board by one of the Guadalcanal men. Rapasia stood up and slouched away from the game. Kella stepped forward.

‘Good evening, Mr Rapasia,' he said. His old teacher stared blankly at him. ‘It's Kella, sir. You used to teach me at Ruvabi.'

‘Kella,' said the old man vaguely. He scrutinized the other man with dull eyes. ‘Oh, yes,' he said. ‘You became a policeman and sent a missionary and Peter Oro to the killing ground.'

‘It wasn't quite like that, Mr Rapasia,' said Kella. He tried not to let the casual, offhand insult affect him. ‘It's Peter Oro I wanted to talk to you about. Do you remember him?'

‘Of course I remember him,' snapped Rapasia. ‘I remember you all, even the killers.'

‘I'm trying to find out who might want to murder him,' said Kella. ‘Have you any idea who might have disliked him that much?'

‘He was just an ordinary boy,' shrugged Rapasia. ‘Brighter than some, and ambitious.' He tried to brush past the police sergeant. ‘Anyway, I don't want to talk about the school. Did you know they have sent me away?'

‘I heard that you had retired,' said Kella tactfully.

‘Sent away!' repeated Rapasia vehemently. ‘Dismissed! I was too old and ignorant for the bright young headmaster there.' He stared angrily at Kella. ‘Do you remember the Lau incantation for an old man left alone and helpless, begging the younger men to fetch wood for his fire?'

‘
Tutu taa'I nay. Ngwane ku aarai na
,' said Kella. It had been years since he had last heard the phrase. He was surprised that he could remember it. He translated. ‘I am all by myself. I am an old man.'

‘Precisely,' said Rapasia. ‘Well, that's me now, thrown on the scrap-heap and left to fend for myself.'

He started walking away. Kella fell into step beside him, ignoring the old teacher's blatant hostility.

‘What puzzles me', he said, ‘is the partnership between Peter Oro and his grandfather Senda Iabuli, if there was one. On the one hand, you have an ordinary old uneducated saltwater villager, while on the other, there's a clever young schoolboy who's left village life behind him and will soon be off to secondary education and then an overseas university. What could the pair have in common?'

Rapasia stopped, his anger erupting again. ‘Even the old and the ignorant can still teach the young,' he said.

‘I know,' said Kella hastily, ‘but in this case—'

‘As a matter of fact,' said Rapasia triumphantly, as if producing a winning card, ‘there was something between those two.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I know for a fact that Iabuli came to the school at Ruvabi several times before he died. I don't suppose the other teachers noticed. One villager looks just like another to those
graduate
teachers.' The old man invested a lifetime of resentment into the adjective.

‘But as you can see,' he went on with heavy sarcasm, ‘I'm just a peasant myself. I noticed. Iabuli visited the mission school several times in the evenings during the last week of his life. On each occasion, he talked to his grandson down by the river. It seemed odd at the time; that's why I remember it. Iabuli certainly wasn't a Christian. I don't think he'd ever been to the mission before.'

‘Did he talk to anyone else there?' asked Kella.

‘Not that I saw.'

The police sergeant persisted with his questioning but Michael Rapasia either knew no more or was not prepared to divulge what he did know. Finally Kella nodded and took a five-dollar note from his wallet.

‘Right,' he said. ‘Thank you. Have another go on the board, on me.'

The old teacher looked at the note thrust into his hand. For a moment the sergeant thought he was going to refuse it. Then Rapasia's shoulders hunched. Without a word he turned and walked back towards the crown and anchor game. He rejoined the crowd and was lost to Kella's sight among the noisy, heaving mass of the gamblers.

Kella looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. The tide would turn in a couple of hours. There was just time to get to the wharf and have a word with John Deacon before the Australian sailed back to Malaita. Before he left, Kella wanted to know why Sister Conchita had seemed to freeze the previous day when the Australian's name had been mentioned.

He walked along the deserted beach towards the wharf, wishing that he had approached Michael Rapasia in a more appropriate manner. During his questioning he had treated the former schoolmaster as an equal, which was right. However, once he had offered the old man money he had insulted him. Worse, Rapasia had demeaned himself by taking the five dollars. He would try to make things right with the Guadalcanal man the next time they met.

The only lights in the area came from the Yacht Club, where a dance seemed to be in progress. The music from the record player drifted over the sand and Kella could hear the shuffling feet of the dancers. He skirted the club building and resumed his journey along the beach towards the dark outlines of the vessels moored in the harbour.

He was only a few hundred yards from the silent wharf when rough hands grabbed at him and pulled him backwards. He snatched himself free and turned, but his feet slipped on the wet sand and he fell on his back, winded. He half rose but a callused bare foot crashed into his chest and sent him spinning back again.

Strong hands seized his arms and pinioned them behind his back, twisting them viciously, until tears of pain filled his eyes. The same bare foot drove again and again into his body. There were three men, one holding the police sergeant, and the other two punching and kicking him with sickening force.