by Ian Cook
“So what happens now?” Syreeta persisted.
“Jim’s just off to Easter Island. He’s going to check out the murders in the South Pacific and let me know.”
“Oh no! Don’t tell me. Now you’re thinking of going to Easter Island?”
“Why not, if that’s where it’s all happening?” Rebecca replied.
“Yes, but how much is all this travelling going to cost you? It’s quite an investment you’re making. What happens if there isn’t a story? Say nobody takes it?”
“I’ll check with Charles first.”
“But won’t it be dangerous? With your red hair, I mean? Why don’t you wear a wig?”
“You’re joking. I’ll just have to be careful, won’t I. Anyway, there are bound to be some tourists around with red hair, as well as me.”
She sat down in front of her computer to check her emails. She skimmed through them and jumped when she saw one headed ‘Easter Island’:
Hi Rebecca,
Yes, you’re right about the redhead murders on Easter Island. Four here, and now more in other parts of the South Pacific. Three on the island of Tanna in Vanuatu and three in Tahiti. Dig going well. Fascinating place. You’d like it. See you in Aberdeen?
Jim.
Rebecca grabbed the newspaper with her story in it and strode purposefully to Charles’ office. He looked slightly taken aback when she rapped on the glass and walked straight in.
“Yes, well done,” he said, seeing the paper. “Nice piece. The editor’s very pleased. He wants you to follow up the redhead angle.” He reached for a print-out and handed it to her. “There’ve been two more murders in Egypt – near Edfu. Redheads again, they were stabbed through the heart. Can you get on to it?”
“You mean go there?” said Rebecca.
“Up to you, but the editor’s very keen on this story.”
“I’ve just had an email in from Dr Cavendish on Easter Island. There’ve been four more murders there – and some on other islands, too.”
Charles sat back abruptly. “Easter Island! You’re not thinking of going there, are you? That’s a bit off the map for our readers.”
“The point is, I’ve got a very good contact there. Someone who could help me get a really good story.”
Charles looked doubtful, but Rebecca looked very determined. He picked up a pile of papers, and leafed through them until he found what he wanted.
“Here you are. Report on murders of redheads in Easter Island – from Juan Perez, our stringer in Santiago.”
He handed it to her, got up and went to a map on the wall. His finger moved over the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean and stopped. “Easter Island, also known as Rapa Nui. It’s a long way away.”
“Just one thing,” said Rebecca. “These murder victims – are they Westerners?”
“No – locals. There are lots of redheaded people in the Pacific.” He turned away from the map. “Isn’t there a famous painting by Gauguin of a redhead in Tahiti or somewhere?”
“I didn’t realise we got around so much,” said Rebecca.
“Just about everywhere by now, I should think. But if you’re thinking of going to Easter Island, you’d better take care. They’re having quite a bad time. Four murdered over the past year – two just last week. And nobody seems to know why. At least, nobody’s talking. It could be a local vendetta. Come to think of it, Easter Island’s got a history of tribal warfare.”
“How about the stringer in Santiago – Juan Perez? Could I use him?”
“I think Perez has got his own contact on Easter Island, a local man. See if he could help.”
“Okay. I’ll speak to Perez,” Rebecca said, walking to the door.
Charles looked after her. “I’m not at all sure we should be letting you go,” he said. “Perez could easily handle it.”
“Not as well as me, if you see what I mean. Anyway, I’m big enough to look after myself. As long as there aren’t any snakes.”
As she left his office, she tossed her hair. “As they say, better red than dead.”
CHAPTER 20
The garden of the Hotel Vinapu in Hanga-roa, the capital of Easter Island, was the pride and joy of its proprietor, Señor Pakarati. A keen gardener, he was acutely aware of the destruction of the island’s natural flora over the years, largely by sheep-grazing, which had left wide expanses of rough grass and the now ubiquitous Eucalyptus trees.
Partly as a feature for his guests, but mostly for his own interest, he had collected many plant species native to the island and distributed these among the more common and attractive garden plants. The indigenous plants were all carefully labelled with their botanical and common names in the local language of Rapa Nui, as well as in Spanish and English, too, if they had an English name.
Rebecca’s attention had been drawn to several banana trees growing along one side of the garden. Señor Pakarati had planted different varieties of banana to act as conversation pieces; bunches of small red bananas competed for attention with green plantains and tempting, large yellow varieties.
Jim was examining an unusual, yellow-flowered shrub. The flowers resembled tiny yellow chicks, bursting out of egg-like buds.
“See here, Rebecca,” he called out, as he read the label. “It’s a toromiro tree.” Rebecca joined him, and he handed her a flower. “This used to grow only on Easter Island. Even today, it’s only found in a few botanical gardens around the world.”
When Jim had met Rebecca at the airport, he had seemed surprised, even slightly shocked, to hear that she had been prepared to travel so far for a story. But, despite the misgivings he had expressed about a redhead visiting the island under the present circumstances, he had seemed delighted to see her. Tired from the final leg of the journey from Chile, and disorientated by a completely different culture, she now found Jim’s presence comforting and reassuring.
Alone in the garden, they sat down in deep wicker chairs at a table where Jim had left his beer. Rebecca took a sip of freshly-squeezed orange juice and leaned back to enjoy the warmth of the evening sun.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something a bit stronger?” asked Jim. “A glass of wine?”
“No thanks,” she said. “I don’t really drink.”
At first, they discussed Rebecca’s forthcoming programme. She had arranged to meet Pablo Rapu the next day and start her investigations.
Jim found himself consciously suppressing a natural urge to overwhelm her with facts and figures about the island and its history.
According to her guidebook, the air here was said to be filled with certain mystical vibrations. So whether it was due to this, or merely the inclination of travellers in unfamiliar places to seek common ground, their conversation drifted, quite naturally, to talking about themselves.
As Rebecca told him about the loss of her parents, he listened attentively, and she quickly found herself going on to tell him about her break-up with Hamish. She had the impression that Jim, whilst sympathising with her, was quite pleased that she was not yet in a new relationship. She suspected he was naturally reticent about his personal life, and yet, before she knew it, he was telling her about his failed marriage and the pain it had caused him.
As they sat there, Rebecca conscious that they were beginning to sound like two sad, lost souls, a sweet scent drifted over towards them.
Jim nodded towards the white, trumpet-shaped flowers, hanging down among the leaves of a tall shrub. “Datura,” he said.
“Otherwise known as ‘Angels’ Trumpets’. They contain hallucinogenic chemicals. They were supposed to have been used in witches’ brews. Love potions, as well.”
Hesitantly, he reached out and touched her hand. “I’m glad you came,” he said, almost blurting out the words. “I didn’t really think you’d make it.”
Rebecca, taken by surprise, was wondering how she should react, when an elderly couple wandered into the garden, dispelling the quiet moment.
Jim looked up at the darkening sky, took hi
s hand away and checked his watch. “Oh dear,” he said. “You’re going to have to excuse me. Larry’s up at the dig by himself. I’d better get back there – he’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.”
“Yes, I’m supposed to be here to do a job, myself,” Rebecca said, smiling. “I still have to make final plans for tomorrow.”
“I’m so pleased you’re here,” he said.
As they both stood up, he put his arm around her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Why not get your colleague to bring you up to the dig? It’s at Orongo. Larry will be able to give you lots of information about Easter Island – and redheads, too. He knows the history of this place inside out.”
With that, he took his arm away and, with a wave, disappeared into the hotel. A minute later, she heard a car start and drive away.
As she sat down again, the scent of Angels’ Trumpets engulfed her. Different emotions spun around in her head, and she felt intoxicated and out of control. Maybe the guidebook was right. It was almost as if the island did indeed have mysterious powers. And it felt as if they were taking over her life.
CHAPTER 21
Of course, she had read all about them, and seen them in photographs and documentaries. And yet nothing had prepared Rebecca for the sheer wonder of standing, dwarfed, before these four strange Easter Island statues towering over twenty feet into the sky.
She gazed up at their heads, each one capped with a huge redcoloured stone cylinder. Their sightless eyes stared over her, far into the distance. White, puffy clouds sped over the sky, so that the statues seemed to be moving, like a ship on the ocean.
She felt happy and, buoyed by her blossoming relationship with Jim, she found the imminent prospect of covering a series of murder cases more and more exciting. This was something she could never have hoped to attempt back in the UK; at the Metropolitan, the story would have automatically been covered by Bill Green, the chief crime correspondent. If she managed it well, this story could get her a good by-line, perhaps with a photo.
Pablo Rapu had met her at the hotel as arranged, and she had actually enjoyed riding pillion on his small Japanese motorbike. Pablo was proud of his Easter Island heritage. Like Rebecca, he was in his mid-twenties, and his dark good looks added to his South Seas warmth. Although his main job was with the Tourist Office, he was occasionally called on to help out Juan Perez with local stories.
Rebecca, impressed by the sheer size of the giant statues and to be standing so close to them, was happy to play the tourist asking the usual questions.
“They’re amazing, Pablo. Who do you think made them? I’ve heard all sorts of theories.”
Pablo took obvious pleasure in showing off his knowledge and his English. “Our ancestors made them. The statues are called moai, and the platform they stand on is called an ahu. You can see that the moai look inland – they protect us. They are representations of our ancient chiefs – the ariki.” He pointed to the carved hands. “Look at their long nails. This is a sign that the ariki didn’t do any physical work.” He pointed upwards. “One group here used to stretch their ears, as you can see on the statue. They were called the long-ears. The others were the short-ears.”
“Were they actually from different tribes or races?” Rebecca asked.
“It is not certain,” Pablo replied. “One legend says that two kings came from the east, and there’s only South America to the east. The first king was called Machaa. Then there was Hotu Matua – he was the first king of the long-ears. Later, there was Tuu-ko-ihu, but he was from the west – that’s Polynesia. But there are many legends.”
Pablo checked the position of the sun and pointed in a general westerly direction. “Tuu-ko-ihu was a short-ear. The long-ears ruled the short-ears, and they forced them to build the moai.”
“I’ve heard that they were carved out of solid rock in a quarry, and dragged across the island,” said Rebecca.
“Yeah, maybe that’s why the short-ears got fed-up. There was a terrible war, just before your Captain Cook arrived. Most of the long-ears were killed by the short-ears.” He dropped his voice. “People say there was even some cannibalism.”
“What about the blocks on top of their heads?” asked Rebecca.
Pablo looked uncertain. “They are called pukao. But nobody really knows what they are.”
Then Rebecca asked the question she had been holding back since she saw the stone blocks.
“Why are they red?”
Pablo thought for a bit. “Perhaps because red is a sacred colour in Polynesia. We also have gods with red skins, who wear hats made out of red feathers. They are very powerful gods.” He smirked a little. “They say here that the colour red is very sexy.” Rebecca ignored the comment and turned away. Pablo quickly stopped smiling.
“Some people say that the long-ear chiefs had red hair, and that the pukao are like top-knots. That was the way we used to do our hair.”
Rebecca turned back to him. “Listen, Pablo. That’s really why I’m here – red hair. What’s going on here? Four people with red hair murdered in a year.” Rebecca guessed what he was thinking. “Do you think it’s safe for me here?”
“Sure. Just stay with me,” he said.
Then his expression changed. “You know, I do find it a bit scary. It’s just like the tribal wars are starting again.” He started to walk to his motorbike. “Come on. I should take you to see the Chief of Police next. He can tell you what’s been going on.”
“Do you know him?” asked Rebecca.
“Everybody here knows everybody,” said Pablo. “Vamos.”
He got on his bike and started it up. Rebecca clambered on behind him, with as much dignity as she could muster in the pencil slim skirt, which she thought appropriate before she knew that she would be travelling by motorbike. Pablo let the clutch out quickly and revved the engine so that the front wheel lifted off the ground. Rebecca could only stop herself falling off by lightly placing her arms around his waist.
As they raced away, a large brown bird silently flew down, perched on top of the highest statue and watched them as they sped towards Hanga-roa.
The bird was a hawk.
CHAPTER 22
Diego Garcia, Chief of Police, was in his small office, busily occupied with a pile of papers on his desk. More papers and buffcoloured files were heaped on every available surface: filing cabinets, on top of two fragile-looking chairs and even on the floor against the walls, from which the paint was peeling. A fan above him creaked slowly round, lifting the papers on his desk a little with each revolution.
He was in his mid-forties, and his thinning hair, for which he compensated with a thick black moustache, was swept back to his neck. There it formed ringlets, wet with sweat, just above the collar of his limp white shirt. He was a decent man who valued his normal, quiet, controlled existence. But now his life had been thrown into disarray by unwanted attention.
When Pablo walked into his office accompanied by Rebecca, he jumped to his feet.
“Hola, Pablo. ¿Que tal?” he said, with a slightly forced smile, as he took in the sight of Rebecca.
Pablo drew himself up and smiled broadly. “Buen dia, Señor Garcia. May I introduce Señorita Burns from the Metropolitan newspaper in London. Our problems are making us famous. She asks to know all about the murders.”
Garcia rapidly cleared the papers from a chair and beckoned Rebecca to sit down. “Encantado, señorita. Welcome to Rapa Nui. It would be more pleasant if you had come in better times. This sort of thing does not exactly help our tourist trade, and without that we certainly do not have much else.” He stood up. “One moment, please.”
Putting his hand on Pablo’s arm, he gently but firmly manoeuvred him to one side. Garcia turned his face away from Rebecca and spoke to Pablo in rapid Spanish, with obvious frustration.
Pablo looked put out for a moment. “No sabía que fuera pelirroja.” He then smiled enquiringly, raising his eyebrows. “¿Pero, es muy linda, no?”
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bsp; Garcia looked unimpressed for a moment, then noticeably relaxed. They didn’t appreciate that Rebecca had understood every word they had said. Garcia was clearly exasperated with Pablo for turning up with an inquisitive, red-haired foreigner. Pablo had tried to defuse the situation by jokingly drawing attention to Rebecca’s good looks, despite her being a potential liability.
She blushed, partly with embarrassment, partly with irritation. Garcia turned to her, smiling. “I’m sorry señorita. We were just discussing the best way to help you.”
Don’t lie, thought Rebecca. “Gracias, no quisiera causarles ninguna molestia. I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble, but if you want to help me, you could start by telling me what’s been going on.”
Garcia glanced at Pablo as if to say, why didn’t you tell me? Pablo shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly.
Garcia lowered his head. “I’m sorry. Not many of our tourists speak Spanish,” he said. “Normally it is very quiet in Rapa Nui. Usually people behave well. Sometimes there’s a little bit of pilfering, or maybe a fight when someone gets drunk, but nothing much. That’s why the murders are so shocking for us.”
“But four of them? In a year?”
His face fell. “Five, I’m afraid. We’ve just had another one reported.”
Rebecca knew the answer already, but asked anyway. “Redhead?”
Garcia nodded and raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“But why redheads? What’s the motive?”
Garcia looked genuinely bewildered. “That’s the odd thing. If you had asked me two hundred and fifty years ago, I would have put it down to tribal feuding. Short-ears murdering long-ears.”
“Because long-ears had red hair?” Rebecca prompted.
Garcia seemed relieved to share his burden a little. “Or just because they were different. At that time, most of the long-ears were killed. Only very few, direct descendants remain.”