My Island Homicide

by Catherine Titasey

  ‘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.

  Chapter 4

  Robby kissed the top of Alby’s head. I rotated the ends of the pen between my fingers while I waited for him to start talking.

  ‘Alby was an IVF baby and Melissa reacted really badly to the hormones. She is desperate for another baby, but I didn’t want her to go through the mood swings or further miscarriages. We’ve been trying naturally for three years but last weekend, I finally agreed to see the specialist about treatment.’

  ‘When did Melissa arrive on the island?’

  ‘Eight years ago. She had some issues in Cairns and came here to have some time out.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘She’d got in with a bad crowd and needed to get away.’

  I knew what was coming – a violent relationship, prostitution or substance abuse. ‘What do you mean by “bad crowd” and “needed to get away”?’

  ‘Melissa was not in a good space and had turned to drugs. Coming here was her way of starting a new life. She did well, stayed clean.’

  ‘What sort of drugs?’

  ‘Cocaine.’

  ‘Tell me about Melissa’s work and social life.’

  Melissa worked as a teacher aide at the primary school Monday to Wednesday and was studying her final year of primary education at James Cook University Thursday and Friday. She had been attending CWA meetings for about six months, keen to meet other mothers.

  ‘She does spend a bit of time with Georgia Finucane, a fellow student. She’s not a good influence.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve heard Georgia hates living on the island and that she’s a drinker. When Melissa comes home from seeing her, she’s often argumentative, bringing up old issues. A different person, really.’

  When I’d drawn all I could from him, I told him we’d conduct searches of the Millman Hill area and check her medical file.

  ‘What do I do now?’ he asked in a plaintive voice. I felt a stab of sympathy for him, worse when Alby looked up at me with huge brown eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry but you will just have to sit it out. Do you have a recent photo of Melissa?’ I handed him my card. ‘Email it if it’s easier.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I thought of Christine Romario, who’d caught a flight from Sydney to Brisbane in 1994, then vanished after collecting her luggage. One of her shoes and her purse were found on Kingsford Smith Drive. She was 24, the same age as me at the time. I was a constable and it was my first experience of a missing person. I took a long time to stop thinking about Christine Romario.

  On a positive note, vanishing on tiny Thursday Island was out of the question. I hoped Melissa had had a big night and was sleeping it off somewhere or was depressed and had done a runner.

  Shay barged in, finishing a text on her phone. ‘Choice. We’re in for some excitement. No-one has ever gone missing for real on TI before!’

  Typical Gen Y. The monotony of everyday policing was too much for a generation exposed to TV shows that portray policing as exhilarating and mysterious. I handed her a pen and my notes.

  ‘No excitement. Melissa doesn’t fit the molester profile, but she may be depressed and may have left the island. Now, after you type up mine and Jack’s notes, can you contact the hospital and arrange to see her doctor?’ Shay made to leave. ‘Hang on. We need to meet with someone from the CWA and Georgia Finucane.’

  ‘How do you spell Fin . . .?’

  That was another problem with the Gen Y set. Too much texting had ruined the spelling capacity of an entire generation. Oh, listen to me, angry middle-aged woman. I spelled out Finucane.

  ‘And organise a search of Millman Hill.’

  While Shay and Jenny doorknocked the area and did a cursory search of Millman Hill, I ate lunch in my office: a tin of sun-dried tomato tuna and some of the salad I’d bought yesterday. I phoned QantasLink and the commercial airlines servicing the outer islands, and Peddells, the ferry service to the mainland. No good. If Melissa had left TI, it wasn’t by any commercial route. My phone rang, a private number this time, so I answered.

  ‘Thea, it’s Mark. I’ve been trying to call you.’

  I was shaking with sudden anger. ‘Don’t call me again.’ I slammed my phone down and managed to spill some tuna on my shirt. It left a bright orange trail that, within 15 minutes, smelled like rotting fish. I walked home to change.

  I dug around and found only unironed work shirts, but the iron was somewhere in the nine boxes that I’d planned to unpack this afternoon. I found a smorgasbord of promotional polos: Federation Street Auto Repairs, Recovery 2006 Cyclone Larry, Ohm Yoga Academy, Australian Art Framers and Bridget’s Bookshop Cafe. I settled on a collared button-up shirt, a lime-green synthetic thing Mum had bought at a Salvation Army store, claiming it was a good brand and the colour suited me. I figured it was kind of tropical.

  The view from my verandah stole my attention. The early afternoon sun reflected off the silver dinghies anchored in the cove of Back Beach. Three young barefooted, baggy-clothed men walked past, music blaring from a phone. Two women pushed prams to a playground covered by a large green shade cloth and their children ran for the slide. Nearby the hibiscus bushes were laden with red, orange and pink blossoms. I could pick one on the way back to work, for my hair. I reminded myself about the sarong and toe ring.

  Towards the end of the beach, a tall, dark shirtless man with a thick ponytail cut the engine on a dinghy and threw the anchor as the boat glided over the high tide. He got out holding a cast net, a bucket and fuel drum, which he placed beyond the water’s edge. He lifted a fat brown dog onto the shore and pointed. The dog hung its head and waddled up the beach to the shade of a sea almond tree. After carefully arranging the net over his shoulder, the man walked with slow, deliberate steps through the shin-deep water and stopped still, like a statue. In a split second the net had fanned out like a giant spider’s web and settled on the surface. My eyes were drawn to his toned torso as he hauled in the net. He pulled out a few small fish and put them in the bucket. Then he carried the bucket and fuel drum across the road to the last house before Greenhill. The dog followed him. I craned my neck and watched him walk up the short staircase to the verandah. A quick stroll to the hibiscus bushes might allow me another glance. Shit, I felt like a stalker. I considered section 359C of the Queensland Criminal Code: stalking involves, among other things, loitering near or watching a person on more than one occasion or one very long occasion. I promised myself that, while picking the hibiscus, I would loiter and watch this man only once and just for a very short time. My fantasy was shattered when a chopper appeared, like an airborne jackhammer, and hovered onto a steel heli
pad near the hospital. By the time I turned back to the man, he was gone.

  Back at the station, with a hibiscus behind my ear (sadly, without further sightings of the dark mariner), I ran into Jenny in the tearoom. Her hair was matted to her head and dark patches of sweat stained her underarms.

  ‘How did the search go?’ I asked.

  She heaped three teaspoons of sugar in her coffee, then took two Orange Creams and two Monte Carlos from the jar.

  ‘Shay and I searched along the track up Millman Hill and down to Sadies Beach. The only find was six bikes dumped in the bushes, presumed stolen. Lency is checking missing bike complaints now.’ She checked her watch. ‘I have a work medical in an hour. Anyway, follow me.’ So I did, to the back of the station, where her office was. ‘I’ve spoken to my fella, Fred, about this disappearance and he reckons someone has maydh Melissa.’ She laughed.

  ‘What exactly is maydh? I thought it was sorcery, black magic, voodoo, pouri pouri, that sort of stuff?’

  ‘Well, I think it is. Fred says traditionally it was used by Islanders to make fish appear and bad weather come good, that sort of thing. Then it was driven underground when white people arrived and now it’s used to make people sick or to make them fall in love. But it also seems to be used to explain things that don’t really have explanations, like Jacky Witt disappearing or Nula Benton dying, even though doctors said she had cirrhosis of the liver.’

  ‘Well, people can believe in sorcery if they want to,’ I said, ‘but I really don’t think Melissa is a victim.’

  ‘Neither do I. Fred’s not happy I don’t believe in maydh. It’s big carry yarn already.’

  ‘Does she have a “reputation”?’ I made air quotes.

  ‘Well, she keeps to herself and Fred’s heard rumours of her having an affair, but I can’t get anything else out of him. She’s a babe, Melissa, small, blonde and cute. I’ve always thought her and Robby were a weird couple.’

  Shouts of abuse sounded nearby and I stiffened.

  ‘Calm down. It’s only Jackson Taurus in the watch house.’ Jenny tapped at a keyboard and brought up a criminal history. ‘Jackson is the molester of Millman Hill. Jack brought him in and charged him while you were on lunch.’

  By a strange twist of fate that could only occur in a small community, a man presented at the Horn Island health centre this morning with a swollen jaw. The nurse suspected a fracture and tried to arrange a transfer to the hospital on TI for an X-ray. When he became agitated and left, claiming he was fine, the nurse became suspicious and rang the hospital and then the police. Jack arrested him at midday. He had an undisplaced fracture of the mandible that didn’t require wiring. He was given painkillers and released into the luxury of the watch house.

  I skimmed his criminal history. He was only 19 and had started his offending pattern with assaults and last year pleaded guilty to the sexual assault of a teacher. He was now facing a further five charges relating to these molester offences.

  ‘We’ll object to bail,’ said Jenny, ‘and he’ll be remanded to Cairns.’

  ‘Check his alibi re Melissa.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  More abuse rang out from the watch house.

  ‘Well, that was easy,’ I said.

  ‘Most stuff is.’

  I anticipated solving Melissa’s matter by close of business tomorrow at the latest.

  I noticed Shay was back at her desk. Her hair was wet and loose, like the coarse glassy tresses on the Barbie dolls my mother bought me, which I never wanted nor played with.

  ‘It was so hot I had to go home and change,’ she said, before I could ask. She smoothed her hair. ‘I’ll probably end up with skin cancer from all the sun today.’

  I asked her about Melissa’s medical file.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, searching through some papers, careful to keep her nails away from the paper and desk. ‘Okay, Melissa has been seeing Dr Carla Dimaggio. She’s out at the doctor’s clinic on Saibai Island and won’t be back till late today. You can meet her at 8.30 tomorrow morning. She’s on call.’ Shay looked up at me with heavily blackened lashes. ‘You know tomorrow is Good Friday.’

  ‘Yes, but we can’t suspend a missing person’s investigation just because it’s a day of religious significance.’

  ‘Ah, okay. And you can meet Georgia Fin— Fina— Georgia at three o’clock at her flat opposite the Railway Hotel. And here is the best bit.’ I was hopeful of a breakthrough. ‘I finally tracked down someone who was at the CWA meeting last night.’

  ‘Give me some good news, Shay. It’s a small island.’

  She held up her hand, fingers splayed. ‘Five people. That’s how many I had to call before I found the treasurer. And guess what?’

  ‘Melissa has disappeared with a million dollars from last month’s cake stall?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about a cake stall, but Melissa isn’t a member of the CWA. She’s never even been to a meeting. The last woman I spoke to said Melissa probably wouldn’t share the vision of the CWA. Whatever that means.’

  ‘Great. I’ll finish this coffee and grab you in 15 minutes to visit Ms Fin-u-cane.’

  Shay went to grab the car keys but I pulled rank and insisted on walking. ‘Georgia lives 300 metres away, 400 tops.’

  ‘My mascara will run.’

  ‘Get a tissue.’

  We crossed the road and walked down to the esplanade, into a gentle south-easterly breeze.

  ‘God, I hate this weather. It’s so hot.’

  ‘Wear a hat.’

  ‘I’ve got 50-plus foundation on.’ I imagined a brand of make-up for older women, then realised she was referring to sunscreen factor. ‘Oh, I can’t stand the humidity.’

  ‘We are ten degrees from the equator. It has to be humid and hot.’ A quick glance told me her mascara was holding up but not her attention. She was fanning her face with her pocket-sized notepad. ‘Look, Shay, some Torres Strait pigeons, returning home after the wet season.’ The only reason I knew was because Mum had told me about them before I left. ‘Look out for the goeynaw,’ she’d said.

  ‘You make them sound like the Torres Strait mafia,’ I’d replied.

  ‘Oh, Ebithea,’ she said, only ever using my full name when she was exasperated, ‘if your tongue was any sharper, you’d cut your mouth.’

  ‘I thought they were seagulls.’ Shay stopped and turned to face me. ‘Are you from here or something?’

  ‘My mother’s from Warral, the language name for Hawkesbury Island. By the late fifties, her entire family had left Warral to find work on TI. There wasn’t much so they went down south. Mum stayed and met my dad here in 1960 when he was teaching at the high school. They had my two brothers and then moved to Cairns and never returned.’

  ‘So, your dad’s like white?’

  ‘And Mum is dark even though her great-grandfather came from Japan to dive for pearl shell. Where are you from?’

  Shay was straight out of the academy and wanted a job on the Sunshine Coast, her home. Human Resources assured her that 12 months in a remote posting would help her chances of a permanent position on the coast.

  ‘I didn’t like it at first but I do now.’ She turned to me with an expression of satisfaction; a cat who had just caught a native bird. ‘I’ve met a guy.’

  Just as I was going to warn Shay about men and the perilous journey ahead, she motioned to cross the road. ‘This is where Georgia lives.’

  Chapter 5

  We entered a unit complex with a grassy courtyard at its centre. There was a plastic playground set and a large green plastic scallop paddling pool. The yard was littered with colourful plastic toys.

  I followed Shay to unit one and the door was answered by a woman, about my age, wearing a mini-skirt. ‘Hi, I’m Georgia,’ she said.

  She could have been the It Girl for a surf brand’s over-35
range. I didn’t know much about fashion but I knew Billabong was a company that made surf clothes. It helped that Georgia’s chocolate brown ribbed singlet had Billabong plastered on the front in white letters and, when she turned around, on the back of her camel-coloured skirt. Lucky woman: shapely, smooth legs; skin the colour of burnt honey and a thick mane of golden hair. Shay and I introduced ourselves as we followed her into the icy unit. After the warm air, the air-conditioning stung my throat.

  Georgia asked us to sit down as she floated, like a princess, into a chair. I flopped down, suddenly self-conscious about my appearance. I found myself tucking my lank hair behind my ears, thinking about how a stranger would describe me: Thea had a thick girth and slouched to conceal her great height. She gave the impression of one who had neither the time nor the inclination to improve her appearance. There were patches of moisture under the armpits of her lime-green shirt, popular circa the 1970s, and a limp flower behind her left ear.

  Then I noted with a sense of victory that Georgia’s hair was coloured. Strands of grey sprouted close to her temples.

  ‘We are hoping you can shed some light on Melissa Ramu’s whereabouts.’

  Georgia rose and glided to the fridge.

  I shivered and faced the tropical sea beyond the windows. A grey-haired man sat on a plastic chair in the shade of a sea almond tree and two women, wearing colourful island dresses, fished in the aquamarine shallows. There was something unsettling about watching the grey-haired man mop his sweaty forehead with a handtowel while I froze in the arctic air-conditioning.

  ‘Water? Chardonnay?’

  Georgia put a large Mexican wine glass and a bottle of wine on the table in between the jumble of foolscap paper and textbooks. Educational Inclusivity in the Twenty-First Century and Inquiry-Based Learning P-10: A Practical Guide. Such monotonous-sounding titles made me want a drink.

  ‘Water’s fine,’ I said.