My Island Homicide (8 page)

‘I know Joe Robson, Thea, and the red-haired nurse is Niamh,' said Jenny.

‘Thank you for your time, Dave.'

Jenny stopped at the newsagency to collect yesterday's papers. ‘The plane won't make it with today's papers in this weather so I'll make do with yesterday's news. Have a look around. This place has everything you could possibly want to buy.' She turned to me with a cheeky grin. ‘I challenge you to think of something that is not there. I do this to all the new officers and I've never been caught out.'

‘That means the odds of you getting caught out increase.'

‘Whatever. Prepare to concede.'

Jenny collected the papers and said she was heading next door for some battered wings from Triple F and to read the papers. I gave her a terse look.

‘Okay, the grilled wings.'

I wandered around the aisles, initially in awe of the range of products. I could have bought an entire wardrobe of clothes, not to mention simple, functional bras and undies. In fact, I could have bought a wardrobe and every other item of household furniture and kitchen apparel: cutlery, crockery and baking goods. After doubling back and picking out two sarongs, I continued looking. There were photo frames, watches, jewellery (I asked an assistant to open the glass cabinet so I could choose a toe ring, simple silver), baby gear including cots and walkers, stationery, books, shoes, toys, gift wrapping paper, art supplies and even scrapbooking paraphernalia. Not that I had a crafty bone in my body. I was an officer and right now I was looking for evidence. Just when I was thinking there were no cameras, computers, mobile phones or electrical appliances, I found a Retravision section. Bugger. It looked like I would need to concede defeat to Jenny's challenge. I went to pay for my purchases. Georgia and her blonde daughters were at the opposite checkout. She was wearing a sixties-style dress with retro patterns. She paid for three packets of cigarettes and left without seeing me.

‘I am proud of myself. I only had a coffee,' said Jenny as we drove off. ‘Oh, ready to concede?'

‘An aqua-jet foot massage machine.' One of my brothers gave Dad one last Christmas to soothe his arthritic feet.

‘Oh, come on. They'll order it in.'

‘Doesn't matter. Right now, I can't buy everything.' I gave her a friendly poke in the arm.

Chapter 12

There was no reprieve from the rain and Jenny crawled through the deserted streets at a snail's pace, her face close to the windscreen. ‘It always rains at Easter and Cyclone Pearl has made things worse,' she said. ‘Dave's a nice bloke, isn't he?'

‘He's very in control of himself and to my mind he used his position to have an affair with a young, beautiful and fragile woman.' Jenny turned to me, with a look of surprise. ‘He's a bit full of himself. And watch the road.'

‘He's a top bloke who's done great things for young Islander students. No other white guy has stayed that long working for the good of the community.'

‘He might be a top bloke, but he can also be arrogant. Don't you think he's more worried about the school finding out about the affair than about Melissa?'

‘Well, people don't want affairs to get out.'

‘Of course not.'

I wasn't a paragon of virtue when it came to married men. When I was 30, I got into a relationship with an older guy, Aaron, 45. He was charming and worldly and I was completely swept off my feet. But he only ever wanted to meet at my flat. I became suspicious because he wouldn't go out for coffee, dinner or even a walk. He always claimed he was exhausted from work. Instead he'd bring over food and cook for me. Sometimes he'd call at lunch and I'd race home to meet him. I felt alive, daring. But it was during one of these lunchtime trysts that he got a phone call. From his wife. His daughter had broken her arm at school and she needed surgery.

While he slipped his clothes back on, I, naturally, drilled him with questions: Why didn't you tell me you were married? How could you do this to me? Does your wife know? Do you have other children?

‘Don't interrogate me,' he said as he left. ‘Anyway, we're in the process of separating. We'll talk later when you're out of work mode.'

Even though I was pissed off, I didn't stop him coming over. If anything, the sex became more intense and desperate and I couldn't break it off. I was working in forensics at the time. It was all death and violence and the affair helped me lose myself and not think about how a young woman could be strangled to death or a child drowned by his father as revenge on his ex-wife during a bitter custody dispute. I wrestled with the guilt of my fling with Aaron until I finally broke it off three months later when he still hadn't separated.

‘Dave's very community-minded,' said Jenny. ‘He coaches the men's basketball team and he catches fish and gives them away to old people and single mums who can't go fishing.'

‘It doesn't stop him from being up himself,' I said. For me, men like Dave, Aaron and Mark were all the same. ‘Can you get onto Joe Robson and the two nurses and see if they can back up his story about the scratch?'

‘Sure, but you won't get anything on Dave,' she said as she pulled into the station carport.

‘We need to do a thorough search of the dam,' I said when we got into my office. ‘Is there a map?'

Jenny rushed off without a word and returned with a framed poster-sized satellite photograph of the island. ‘It's on the wall down my end if you ever need it.'

She pointed out Robby's house and where we had walked. She tapped the expanse of sapphire-blue dam water. ‘It won't look like that now. More like a latte.'

‘Shit,' I said. I did a visual on me standing at the edge of the dam in a raincoat and umbrella, coordinating the search.

‘I haven't had breakfast. How about I grab us a couple of counter meals from the Railway Hotel? No chips, I know.'

‘As long as it's not vegan.'

While Jenny got the food, I checked the weather bureau. Cyclone Pearl had crossed an uninhabited part of the west coast of Cape York an hour ago, which meant the winds should ease over the next few hours. I phoned the regional crime coordinator in Cairns again. Tomorrow morning, the police Air Wing would fly up police divers. Next, I phoned the on-call council engineer. He bemoaned the weather and said if ‘bloody Pearl' hadn't blown up, he'd be fishing. I explained the need for a search of the dam.

‘It'll be like diving in iced coffee,' he said, laughing, ‘minus the ice-cream.'

I picked up the phone to call Robby to arrange a meeting. I had to speak with him about Melissa's affair. I replaced the handpiece. I needed some food before I could think.

One of the sergeants from Cairns called to confirm two divers and three additional officers would arrive at Horn Island on the Air Wing ETA 10:00 hours tomorrow. I had to organise accommodation for them at the Railway Hotel.

Finally, Jenny walked in with two plates covered in aluminium foil, and the room was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of grilled steak.

While we ate, I asked Jenny how she came to be on TI. She was keen to live on an island, that simple. Shortly after she arrived, she met Fred at the Railway Hotel. She'd been with him ever since. That was almost five years ago. She wants a baby, but Fred has four grown children to a woman who took up with another man ten years ago.

‘He doesn't want any more kids.'

‘What are you going to do?'

‘I don't know. I just want one brown baby. But,' and she paused, ‘it seems he doesn't mind my company or living in my police accommodation with free air-conditioning or me helping out with his grandkids or his father's tombstone unveiling. He knows he's onto a good thing. But he's not that serious about our relationship.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Well, for starters, he doesn't like talking about love and being together and the future. When I do, like the two times my contract has come up for renewal, he says things like, “You white people can talk about relationships but us black people don't need to” and that's the end of it.'

‘Have you ever said you'll leave?'

‘Yes, and he says it's my decision. No matter what, he doesn't want another baby, he's too old.'

‘When is your contract up for renewal next?'

‘End of this year. But I love him, I really do. He's as funny as all get-out and he's faithful and not violent. So, I'm stuck.'

I told her not to ask me for advice since I'd just ended a three-year relationship on bad terms. I tapped the desk calendar. ‘There was a quote in February, when I learnt I'd got this job, something about sad endings being the start of every new romance.'

‘That doesn't make me feel any better,' said Jenny, picking up the plates. ‘Don't forget to call Robby.'

Robby answered on the sixth ring. His hello was flat and far away. I said I needed to discuss a sensitive issue and could come over right away.

‘No, just tell me,' he said.

‘I really should see you in person.' Jenny paused at the door, listening.

‘I know she's not coming back.' As much as I pressured him, he insisted I break the news to him. ‘I don't feel like seeing anyone. Just tell me.'

‘I met with David Garland this morning. He advised that he has been having an affair with Melissa.' There was silence. ‘Robby?'

‘I'm here.'

‘Did you know about the affair?'

‘No. I have to go.' He hung up.

‘He didn't know,' I said to Jenny.

‘Well, what did he say? He must have thought something was up? Or be a bit pissed off, surely, that his missing wife has been rooting another man?'

‘He's grieving and people handle grief in different ways. Our job is to investigate, not judge.'

‘Fair enough. Hey, do you want to walk this afternoon? The weather should be cleared by then. And afterwards you could come over for fish
zura.
Fred makes the best
zura
with mackerel heads.'

‘Raincheck? I need to get on top of some work.' What I didn't say was that slurping up
zura
, a salty broth made from boiling a fish head, just didn't do it for me. It's one of the national dishes of the Torres Strait, but I prefer canned fish or fish fingers, definitely no heads.

After Jenny left, I was determined to dismantle the skyscrapers of folders on my desk and either deal with any outstanding issues or delegate.

Outside, the rain had eased and the fronds of a coconut palm on the waterfront were flapping about. I love bad weather. I have found it deters offenders or keeps them indoors. I took the file on the top of the first tower.

Many files Mick Buckrell had handled were a mess: briefs not completed, witness statements missing, witness statements that failed to address relevant criteria, criminal histories missing, photos in the wrong file. I tagged all the files needing attention with fluorescent stick-on notes and piled them to my right for Shay to follow up. After four hours, just one file still graced my desk.

It was an assault matter, run-of-the-mill. A woman, Nora, punched another woman, Dallina, because Dallina ‘looked cheeky one' at her. A good old tussle ensued at the Railway, with both women trying to tear the clothes off the other. The patrons gathered in a circle and were encouraging them to ‘fight, fight, fight'. Once Nora was half-naked, the fight was all over and she ran from the pub in shame. (Note to self: wear good matching undies when fighting.) Nora made a complaint of assault against Dallina. The file contained letters between the legal service and prosecution about witnesses, provocation and court-ordered mediation. That much I understood. What confused me was the sky-blue stick-on note in Mick Buckrell's handwriting with the words:
silver, suspicious man, drugs, don't trust, follow up.
I scoured the file but could find no connection between the note and the pub brawl, or any other file.

Chapter 13

I decided to throw in the towel. A walk was in order if the rain had stopped. My toes were burning with pins and needles and my back ached. And I was busting for the toilet. When I returned to tidy the desk, I checked my weather vane: the coconut palm on the waterfront. The fronds were flapping less violently and, to my great surprise, I could see the bare outline of Horn Island across the channel.

At home, I pulled on my damp joggers, having decided to explore a bit more of my new island home. I headed along the main drag that was devoid of life except for an emaciated brown dog outside the Royal Hotel. Across the road was the black and white dog, pacing the footpath, hungry, I imagined, for a car to chase. I was very concerned about being chased myself so I stuck to the left side and approached the brown dog slowly. I was close enough to see its bones jutting from its spine, hips and shoulders as it sat sphinx-like at the foot of the stairs. It saw me and dragged its bony tail back and forth across the cement as if a proper wag was too much effort. It gazed at me with big, sad eyes. It didn't look threatening, not with hip bones jutting out like arrowheads.

I checked to see if the Royal Hotel was open. A chalkboard at the entrance stipulated the dress code: no visible underarm hair, no thongs, no dogs. There was a sudden rush of deep, pulsing music as the door opened and two men stumbled out, holding cans of XXXX. Both men wore singlets and their feet were bare. The dog, frightened by their raucous laughter, jumped up. The men staggered across the road, their speech slurred as they talked about ‘such a ho' and ‘wouldn't fuck her anyway'. I didn't want to take issue with their drinking in public, even though it was an offence. The dog watched me through long pale lashes, then got up and followed me as I walked off. I assumed she would eventually go home but she was at my heels when I got to the top of Blackall Street. I looked around, wondering where to go. I saw the cemetery.

I walked and she followed. I stopped and she stopped, her coarse fur scratching the skin of my legs. I couldn't help but admire the ornate marble headstones, chipped and mouldy, and the rusty iron borders and intricately carved epitaphs of European names: Edward James McNeal, Marjory Joan Huddleston, Albert Richard Battersby. Their deaths, late eighteenth century, early nineteenth, were premature: at 13 years, 22, 49. Little baby Edith Frances Ratcliff was two months old when she was ‘prematurely called into the arms of God'. I had an image of her distraught mother cradling the tiny Edith as she coughed, trying to suck down a breath into fluid-filled lungs, her body burning with fever.

I thought of my own death. With one white parent and one Indigenous, would I die midway between the two life expectancies? Would my death be from a chronic disease or other cultural condition, perhaps travelling in a crowded dinghy in rough seas between islands? Or would I simply stop breathing at 96 in my sleep, like my father's mother five years ago? I felt the dog's bony rib cage as she pushed against my leg.

‘All a bit morbid, isn't it?' I said and she looked up at me, I swear, with a half-smile. ‘Come on, let's keep going.' She followed me down the hill, past the aged concrete headstones bearing unfamiliar script to the dirty, pitted graves of Japanese deceased. I guessed they were pearl divers, like my grandfather and great-grandfather, but these men had likely died from ‘diving sickness', the bends. I thought of my mother's father, Athe Willy, whose ashes were safely entombed in a blue and white vase in my mother's lounge room.

It was not until the ground levelled that I came upon the graves of recently departed Islanders. Islanders, like my mother and her family, were not permitted by the Department of Native Affairs to be on Thursday Island, without authority, till after World War II, which is why Islander graves are only dated from the late forties.

I recognised some Islander names, including Tamala, Bintu and Banes, on the family plots. I walked between graves, searching out names, looking at dates of death and gazing at the photos of the deceased. I marvelled at the artwork on contemporary stones: coloured tiles and overlay enamel designs of turtles, a dugong, an anchor and a ship's wheel. There were also flowers, a XXXX beer can, a Broncos cap, things held dear to the deceased. The plot of Nula Benton, Jack's cousin who died of liver failure, was a wooden cross bearing her name stencilled in black paint. A cap with the Bundaberg Rum motif was nailed to the cross. I came upon the Ramu family plot, bordered by frangipani bushes in full pink and yellow bloom.

It was getting dark. I'd spent an hour grave-gazing. The dog was still at my feet. I had an urge to take her home and feed her. She wasn't big like Joey and hadn't farted once.

‘Come on, we'd better get home,' I said, patting her head. ‘We'll need to give you a name if you stay.' I looked around for inspiration as I wove my way to the road. I saw another small grave, another senseless loss of new life. Worse, it was a grave for twins. My heart split with sadness, although I had never heard of the family name, Tuttle. ‘Bala and Sissy Tuttle, born 16th October 2004, died 16th October 2004.' I imagined their mother, her body wracked with contractions as she pushed in silence, knowing she was delivering stillborn babies, the father standing beside her, lost for words.

‘What's say we call you Sissy, in memory of little Sissy here?' She wiggled her tail. I bent down to take her face in my hands. ‘Sissy it is.' For the first time, she gave her tail a serious shake.

Sissy and I continued on the ring road.

I became aware of a distant rumble like thunder, then singing. Under a highset house a group of people were seated in a circle, some on coconut mats, some in chairs. A man beat a massive wooden drum, several men strummed guitars and the women sang, their haunting wails floating in the still air. I broke out in goosebumps, feeling the melody in my chest. One of the women waved so I waved back and hurried off.

After about ten minutes I realised I was at the far end of Back Beach. The clouds were patchy and the sun glowed defiantly on the horizon, making a weak golden reflection in the puddles of the exposed reef. Silhouettes of children moved along the edge of the reef, searching the hollows of coral for squid and octopus to take home for dinner. At least, I guessed that's what they were doing. Once I told Mum I was going for this job, she started to talk about her early life on Warral
and said they did a lot of walking on the reef, looking for sea creatures to eat.

Walking from the last house at Back Beach was the man with the ponytail and his fat dog. My heart started thudding as I gazed in his direction, hoping he'd see me so I could . . . could what, wave? As he crossed the road, he turned in our direction to check for traffic and smiled. I smiled back and overcome by shyness, watched him, from the corner of my eye, as he got into a dinghy and sped off towards Friday Island.

As we reached the unit, car horns sounded and Sissy backed into my legs. Three white late-model four-wheel drives decorated with white ribbons led a procession of cars, each blaring its horn. A white wedding, Torres Strait-style.

Maggie waved from her verandah. ‘You've found a furry friend?' she said.

‘Meet Sissy.'

‘Consider desexing her otherwise you'll end up with six little Sissys.'

‘Good point,' I said and ruffled Sissy's head, thinking how easy it was to part with three hundred bucks.

After showering, I slipped on my new sarong and toe ring and felt the part, although my orange McAuley Street Autowreckers polo shirt did clash with the pink sarong fabric.

The only food for Sissy's dinner was tins of flavoured tuna, crackers and salad. I rang Jenny for advice about dog food for my new friend. She suggested I order some battered, grilled or crumbed fish, depending on Sissy's tastes, with some rice from Triple F, which did home deliveries. ‘And make sure you get some soy sauce. Sissy will like that with her rice.' Jenny knew the number by heart.

While I knocked up a salad and waited for Triple F to deliver, I turned on the radio, the local ABC AM, hoping to hear the weather report. The cyclone had passed without devastation to life or dwelling, some basketball team beat another basketball team ‘convincingly', and this Easter was panning out to be the wettest in the Far North for 20 years. I heard a musical-sounding horn. Our food had arrived, delivered in a small car with a big smiling plastic fish on the roof, no less. I was still only half-listening to the news as I handfed Sissy pieces of battered fish, but my attention clicked into gear when I heard, ‘… 33, missing on Thursday Island since Wednesday night. There are concerns for her safety and police urge anyone who has information as to her whereabouts to come forward.'

For a couple of hours, I had managed not to think about Melissa. Now I knew, somehow, she was dead.

Sissy and I had a cup of tea on the verandah but a squadron of mosquitoes drove us inside and I could think of nothing else to do but sleep. I folded several towels on the floor for Sissy to cushion her hip bones as she slept.

It was still night when I woke in a terrified sweat to the sound of voices, thinking I was the victim of a home invasion. I relaxed when I realised it was just a group of drunks gathered in the playground across the road. They sang a series of rap songs out of tune, before moving onto songs I recognised, such as Michael Jackson's classics ‘Thriller' and ‘Billy Jean'. Things were harmonious until a fight broke out over whether Michael Jackson was gay or not.

‘He was a poofter,' said a male voice.

‘
Bala,
how come?
Em
got three kids.'

‘Fuck you,' said someone and the voices faded into the distance till all I could hear was Sissy's gentle breaths. I fell asleep on my stomach with my right arm hanging over the side of the bed, my fingertips resting in the deep hollows between her shoulder blades.