My Island Homicide (2 page)

‘I think so. No, what are those things, the clothes in bags and children's books?'

‘Oh, those. Jack collects donations for Rotary. They get sent to coastal villages in New Guinea to those poor people who have nothing. Mick let Jack store the stuff here till it's ready to be packed and sent off.'

‘Now that you mention Mick, he was supposed to be meeting me for handover an hour ago. Do you know where he is?'

‘Don't speak so fast. This is TI. You'll have to take it slow now,
gabadan
. As for Mick . . .' she looked at her watch, ‘. . . he should be boarding the flight to Cairns. Didn't he tell you? He said he'd ring you, the bugger.'

‘Tell me what?'

‘He changed his flight and left this morning.' She held her hands out in surrender, like the situation was beyond her control. ‘That's Mick for you. It won't take you long to work everything else out.'

Chapter 3

Based on my first impressions, life on TI was pretty simple and most of the people I had met so far were friendly. Yesterday, when I boarded the ferry at Horn Island, the skipper gave me a bottle of chilled water because he thought I needed it, and I did. The heat was melting me. After Jack and the homeless dog, Joey, dropped me off and I'd unpacked my suitcase, I walked two blocks to the supermarket, IBIS. I must have looked puzzled standing at the fresh food displays and wondering why there were boxes of rotting baby spinach and mouldy rockmelons for prices that required the customer to sell an organ on the black market to finance the purchase.

A grey-haired woman, five feet tall if she was lucky, nudged me out of my musings. ‘What are you after?'

‘Well, a rockmelon and spinach would have been nice.'

‘You must be new.' I nodded. She handed me her shoulder bag. ‘Watch and learn.'

She walked to a massive fridge door that took all her strength to slide open. She disappeared and a few moments later she came out with a box, staggering under the weight.

‘Now, put the rotten box on the floor,' she said, her voice straining, ‘and this fresh one on the shelf.'

She went into the cold room several times till I had replaced all the rotten produce with fresh – bananas, broccoli, baby spinach, capsicum, roma tomatoes and continental cucumbers. It was my first experience as a shelf stacker.

‘It saves IBIS wages if customers stock the shelves themselves. Enjoy,' she said, holding out her hand. I shook it, in shock. She kept her hand out. ‘My bag. I gave you my bag.'

Of course, her bag. I handed it to her.

‘You'll get used to it. I'll see you around.'

I managed a weak goodbye. I paid for the fresh salad vegetables, small tins of tuna and rice crackers. I then grabbed a Billabong ice-cream for a treat, which I ate while sitting on the retaining wall at Front Beach. I sucked lazily on the creamy chocolate and gazed around the small harbour, watching the aluminium dinghies come and go, and children splashing in the shallows, squealing as they fell over each other. A couple walking along the shore were throwing a ball for a boxer pup. They waved at me as they passed. I watched people walk along the waterfront verge, with a slow and casual gait. Nothing like the pace in Cairns. At the shopping centres, in the city, even along the Esplanade, people raced, as though they had deadlines.

My phone rang and I checked the number. It was Mark, my ex . . . ex what? Ex-liability. I pressed the red button to end the call. He hadn't called me for a week because I had told him to ‘fuck off, please' when he turned up at my work, wanting to take me for a coffee. I'd never told anyone to fuck off. It felt really good. I smiled and sucked on the last of my ice-cream.

So, even though I'd been on the island less than 24 hours, I knew life really was laid-back on this tiny isle and the people were friendly. It was no wonder there was only a handful of employees at the station. I needed to buy a sarong and a toe ring to go with the hibiscus I intended to wear. I'd be oozing calm.

Just before eleven, Jack Lakoko dumped a huge file on my chipboard desk, which almost collapsed under the weight.

‘I've got JP court on and can't yarn, but this one's interesting. We call it the molester of Millman Hill.'

‘Hang on. Is this the one that was reported in Crime Stoppers?'

‘Yeah, that one. He's done it again, on Tuesday. He attacked the girl I've just started seeing, Kelly.'

He was pretty calm about it. ‘Is she okay?'

‘Yeah, he tried to grab her and she slogged him one. She used to be a boxer, you know? She reckons he'd be in a bit of pain. I've got my family asking questions and keeping an eye out and I've been hanging around Millman Hill since then after hours, but nothing. We have to find this guy. Anyway, I really gotta go.'

‘Jack?'

He backed up through the doorway.

‘One question. Do you know about the missing person's report?'

‘Yeah. They say it's
maydh
. I really have to go.'

‘Hang on. Who's Arthur Garipati?'

‘That's two questions.' Jack laughed. ‘You've been reading the Letters to the Editor?' I nodded. ‘Arthur Garipati, Chief Mamoose, “mamoose” is the word for “island chief”, from old days,
wat
. I think, anyway. Uncle Arthur writes to the paper all the time, stirring up people against the bureaucracy and public servants.'

‘Like us?'

‘No, just white ones.'

‘At least half of me won't attract criticism.'

‘Or a quarter of me,' he said, chuckling. ‘My great-grandfather was Japanese. Wait, is that a quarter? I'm no good at maths.'

‘It doesn't matter. These letters are pretty full on.'

‘No-one believes he actually writes them. The word is his wife puts it all together. Hey, Lency.' She had appeared at my door with a folder. ‘Tell Thea about Arthur Garipati and his letters. I'm going. The JP cracks up if police are late.'

‘His wife writes them,' said Lency. ‘Everyone knows that.'

‘Okay, then, what about this missing person's report?'

‘You mean Melissa Ramu? No-one has ever gone missing before, apart from SARs, search and rescues at sea.'

‘Are you serious? Not even a teenager running away or someone with dementia wandering off?'

‘It's a small island – you can't pick your nose without someone seeing you. And telling half the island about it. Kids take off all the time, but someone always sees them and drags them back by the collar. One old woman in hospital with Alzheimer's disappeared last month and the police were out looking for her. She'd gone to sleep on the verandah of one of the doctor's places, a short walk from the hospital. That's the sort of missing person's reports we get and it took three hours to solve, two and a half longer than it should have. But that Melissa Ramu, she's a funny one. She'll turn up. If she ever went missing in the first place.'

‘So, it's not an April Fools' joke?'

‘April Fools' Day? I didn't realise. No, it's not a joke.' She handed me a file. ‘Here, staff birthday file and info about the Christmas fund. Oh, you might want to put in for our World Vision child in Kenya. That was Jack's idea.'

Out of nowhere came a throbbing, pervasive drone that had woken me twice during the night.

‘Lency, what is that? It sounds like a helicopter.'

‘It is. They land at the hospital. Medivacs. It should have been part of your induction. It happens a lot and soon you won't even notice the noise.'

Shay, Jack, and now Lency regarded the missing person's report without any concern. I dug out the report and skimmed Jack's handwritten notes.

Melissa Ramu, European, 33, of 2 Summers Street, went out last night, 31 March, weekly Country Women's Association meeting. Mr Ramu, migraine, went to bed, separate room. Woke 07:00 hours. No wife. No problem. She walks the dog each morning. 08:00 hours husband realises dog still there. Still no wife. Husband's mother there. Backs him up. Neither mother nor husband know if Melissa came home during the night. Probably not. Bed not slept in.

I phoned Shay and asked her to make an appointment for Mr Ramu to come in.

‘Jack thinks she could be another molester victim,' said Shay.

‘Why?' I asked.

‘Because she lives on the street near Millman Hill, where the other assaults were. And she walks her dog a lot.'

‘Well, I'll talk to Mr Ramu and work out what to do. Let me know the appointment time.'

I turned to the molester file and my sense of the macabre was piqued. Two days earlier, on Tuesday morning, the molester of Millman Hill had attacked a nurse, Kelly Keenan, who had been exercising after her night shift. Jack had taken a statement from the woman while she was being treated in hospital for cuts, bruises and two crushed knuckles on her right hand. I identified similar threads woven through the five other incidents: all victims were professional European women, all were sexually assaulted, there had been moderate violence and money and/or mobiles and iPods stolen, all incidents occurred on or around Millman Hill.

I figured this guy had done his homework. From each of the victim's statements, it was clear the two nurses had been on short-term contracts and the remaining three had not been on the island for longer than two months. None of the women would have recognised him.

Kelly stated that she had been a champion light-weight boxer in her teens and had gone on to coach for a few years. When the offender reached for her, she laid into his face, but since she was out of practice and terrified, she ran like hell when he grabbed his jaw and she didn't look back.

This was not good. I'd have to talk to Jack about another Crime Stoppers article. Shay emailed to let me know Mr Ramu would attend at midday.

I pulled another folder from the pile and just as I focused on the first page, a tubby red-headed woman, mid-thirties, marched into my office. She put two white paper bags on my desk and sat down.

‘Go on, open them,' she said. She had red spots on her face, like hives, that rose from the constellation of freckles. ‘They're good.' I eyed her and her name tag, Detective Sergeant Jenny Hallard.

I pulled a bag towards me and opened it with the skill of a bomb disposal expert. ‘It's a cake,' I said.

Jenny's green eyes twinkled. ‘It's not just a cake. It's a cream lamington. The best from Shiba's Kiosk at the hospital. Does great kebabs, too.' Jenny pulled the other paper bag towards her. She caught me looking at the red lumps on the backs of her hands. ‘Oh, I was drilled by mozzies and sandflies on my days off. My fella, Fred, he's a crayfisherman and took me camping.'

‘I'll have it for lunch,' I said. ‘I'd better do some work.'

I was starting to think I'd never get on top of the pile of folders. However, over the next hour as I went through Mick Buckrell's aged admin files and tossed anything older than two years, I was confident I'd soon get things under control.

Mark rang my mobile again. I pressed the end call button. For a barrister, he wasn't very bright, calling my mobile from an unblocked number. Three months after I busted him horizontally dictating correspondence to his assistant in our bed, I considered a reconciliation. We met in neutral places to ‘start again'. He was so handsome with the unusual combination of olive skin, blonde hair and dark, dark eyes. And I found myself drawn to the renewed attention he paid me. Then he suggested a weekend trip to Magnetic Island. He was trying so hard to win me back and I relished this modicum of power over him. I agreed, foolishly thinking we could reignite the passion from early in our relationship. As luck would have it I read in
The Cairns Post
about a two-day yoga intensive starting the next day, the day we were due to leave, and I had an epiphany. Why was I going back to his toxic bullshit when I could be doing something good for myself instead? I enrolled, then emailed Mark telling him I wasn't going to Magnetic Island and turned off my phone. Late on Sunday, when I switched my phone back on, I discovered Mark had left 16 messages. I immediately deleted them all.

Shay was at my door. ‘Mr Ramu's here. He's really upset about his wife.'

‘Bring him in.'

The first thing that struck me about Mr Ramu was that although he was dark-skinned, he was grey. It was the same grey skin all grieving people have and I've never worked out exactly how it happens. I can say, after dealing with too many heartbroken relatives following the disappearances or deaths of loved ones, that grief brings everyone to the same level and with it comes waxy-grey skin. Early on in my career, I termed the colour ‘grieving grey'.

Mr Ramu was carrying a caramel-coloured child. He extricated an arm and we shook hands. ‘Robby,' he said. ‘And this is my son, Alby.'

Since I took this job partly to connect with my culture, I attempted a little Broken English, which I'd practised with Mum before leaving. She'd never spoken it to me or my brothers when we were growing up and the little I'd learnt was from visiting relatives. The few times I did answer Mum in Broken English, she issued the terse command, ‘Ebithea, speak English.' When I accepted this position, she backflipped and was happy to give me lessons.

‘
I proper sorry one for yu.
' Perhaps it should have been just
proper sorry for yu.

‘It's important my son masters English. I never speak Broken English around him.'

‘I'm sorry. Please, take a seat. Actually, our conversation might be distressing to Alby. Perhaps he could . . .' I was flustered. I didn't know what I was asking Robby to do!

‘He won't go to anyone, not even my mother. Please continue.'

I hesitated. ‘Okay, do you know where Melissa may have gone if she didn't go to the meeting?'

‘This is so out of character for her. She's never spent a night away from Alby before. We live at the bottom of Millman Hill. Do you think she could be another molester victim?'

Robby's cultured accent was a sure sign he was highly educated. An Islander who spoke the Queen's English and wouldn't speak Broken English to his own child, well, he could've been the male version of my mother.

‘At this point, we have to consider the possibility that Melissa could be another victim. However, I need to know whether Melissa has been herself lately, or if something has happened to change her behaviour.'

My words hung between us in the hot heavy silence, broken shortly by Robby's long sad sigh. I knew I was onto something.