‘No-one said anything about you killing Melissa.’
She tried to straighten. ‘I’m not talking to youse without one of them lawyer people Teddy always has.’
I told her I would be more than happy to take her to the station to be formally interviewed in the presence of a lawyer from the legal service.
The self-assurance drained from her face and she scratched at cigarette burns, like melanomas, on the tabletop. One of the children cried out from inside, ‘Fuck ya.’
‘Shuddup,’ she yelled back and then continued in a whisper, ‘I wouldn’t hurt anyone. I’m not stupid. I know youse lot would be onto me.’
‘You assaulted a bar attendant at the Railway Hotel last year.’
‘It’s not like that.’ She looked at me; her full jowls made deep canyons down her face, turning her lips downwards. ‘I did go to the Railway to take Moses home before he spent the last of the family allowance but the barmaid told me to piss off and to leave him alone. I got wild.’ I saw hopelessness and helplessness in every fold, crease and pore of her face.
‘What exactly did you say to Melissa?’
‘I just told her I would . . . kill her. I wanted to scare her, make her feel nathakind, bad, like the way Mikey did when Melissa been drill em.’ She went back to scratching at the cigarette burns. ‘I got nothing. Melissa, em got everything: clever husband, nice house, plenty money.’ She looked up. ‘Em act the good wife but em not. You know?’
‘Know what?’
‘She’s been getting it on with the principal of the primary school, Mr Dave, visiting him when his wife’s away. Em got island wife, Leilani Isi. If Melissa been go, em probably been go into hiding. Leilani, em one for maydh. Yu ilan woman, yu mas sabe?’
I nodded, not letting on that I had no idea about maydh. I thanked Mrs Bintu for her time.
Just as we drove off, Lency rang to say Georgia Finucane had phoned the station wanting to talk to me. I jotted her number in my notebook and called her back.
‘I remembered something. I am not sure if it’s important,’ she said in a slow drawl.
‘Is it about Melissa and the principal of the primary school?’
There was a pause. ‘No.’
‘Is it a matter of urgency?’
‘No, it’s not urgent at all.’
‘We’ll be over tomorrow morning, 9.30am.’
‘Okay,’ she said in a faraway voice.
I slipped the phone into my shirt pocket. ‘Georgia can have the night to think about anything else she has forgotten or failed to mention.’
‘Cool. I love a mystery. Work can be a bit boring.’ Shay broke into song, something about a fun house and evil crowns. Perhaps she meant queens. ‘Do you like Pink?’
‘No, I prefer earthy tones.’ I chuckled and pointed at my shirt. ‘I don’t mind lime-green, either.’
‘What are you talking about?’ She was staring at me with sheer incomprehension.
‘Watch the road,’ I shrieked as she veered towards the edge.
‘Chillax,’ she said.
By the time I worked out what ‘chillax’ meant, her eyes were back on the road. ‘You asked me if I liked pink. I don’t and never have, even as a little girl.’ Shay started tapping the steering wheel, impatiently. She could just wait till I finished answering her question. ‘I prefer browns and ochres. Red is quite nice, which is close to pink, you could say.’
‘No,’ she said, with a good-natured roll of her eyes. ‘I meant Pink, the singer.’
Oh. I didn’t know how to wriggle out of that one without sounding middle-aged and out of touch. ‘You know, once I started working 60 hours a week, I stopped listening to music so that’s been the better part of ten years. Your Pink, whoever she or he is, was probably in primary school then.’
‘Oh, right.’ Her tone suggested I was a lost cause. ‘Hey, I might download you some music so you can relax. You obviously put too much time into your work and not enough into yourself.’ I’d pegged Shay for a space cadet, but that statement cut like a razor. ‘There’s a great hairdresser here who does massage and beauty therapy. It’s not a crime, you know, to treat yourself to something nice.’
Shay, despite her youth and naïveté, had worked me out.
‘Well, come on,’ she said, jumping out of the car. ‘I’ve got an appointment with the beautician.’ She winked. ‘Isaac’s coming over tonight.’
‘Isaac?’
‘The guy I’m dating.’
Before I could deliver that lecture about dangerous men making heart-fluttering promises, her bloody phone beeped.
Chapter 7
The station was silent and I debated whether to work or go home. I was on call so anyone ringing the station number would be diverted to Cairns and then I’d be contacted in an emergency. Shay’s advice was playing in my head. Treat yourself to something nice.
‘Fancy a walk?’ Jenny appeared in shorts and a T-shirt.
‘Now?’ I searched my database of excuses. ‘It’s only 5.30.’
‘Do me a favour, please.’ She patted her belly. ‘I had a medical this afternoon and . . . the outcome, the upshot is . . . I . . .’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Yes. I am too fat. I have to lose at least 15 kilos and need to start exercising. I went home and changed and then thought you might like to join me. I’ll show you Millman Hill.’
I didn’t have anything better to do. ‘All right.’
‘I’ve got my car so I’ll drop you home and wait while you get changed.’
I grabbed my new Asics joggers, which I pulled on as we headed to Millman Hill. The exercise wouldn’t hurt and I could do with losing a few kilos. As we drove down the main street, past the Royal Hotel, the black and white dog appeared from nowhere and raced along with us. I leaned over to check the speedo.
‘That dog’s doing 30 kays.’
‘He’s a fast bastard. I’ve clocked him at 35 for over a kay.’
‘Shouldn’t he be behind a fence or picked up by the dog catcher?’
‘Sweetheart,’ said Jenny, ‘this is TI. Council rarely enforces dog laws. When they have impounded dogs, the owners have broken into the compound at night and got their dogs out.’
‘No way!’
‘Yes way. And while we’re on the subject it’s a frigging struggle, half the time, trying to enforce the Queensland Criminal Code when we’re up against sorcery, apathy and alcohol-induced memory loss. The only way to stay sane is to laugh about it.’
As we passed the Torres Shire Council building, I had to laugh. A skinny white dog was sitting at the entrance.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You’d think the one place council would remove stray dogs is from their front door.’
‘I know that dog. People sit on the benches outside the council chambers to eat lunch so the dog hangs around for the food.’
‘It can’t be doing too well if it’s that skinny.’
‘Yeah, the other strays have worked things out.’
Jenny pulled up at a dead-end road and announced we were in Summers Street.
‘That’s the track we take.’ She pointed up to Millman Hill, covered in dry rainforest and thick stringy grass that almost obscured the track.
‘Doesn’t Melissa live in this street?’
She pointed to the last dwelling. ‘Right there.’
The highset government house was similar to many of the highset government houses I’d seen in my short time on TI: fibro exterior, steel posts, small front verandah and downstairs storeroom, all in pastel shades. There was nothing personal about this building or the one next to it or the one next to that. There was a dinghy and a dark blue four-wheel drive under the Ramu house. The yard was well mowed but devoid of trees or a garden.
‘The houses here look the same,’ I said, ‘without pers
onality, without gardens.’
‘Yeah, it’s a government-owned island, federal, state and local.’ She pointed to the houses on Robby’s side of the road and named the government department that owned each one. ‘I won’t even bother going through the other side of the street.’ We started along the track up Millman Hill. ‘Housing is offered as an incentive to get skilled people like us to work here. What isn’t for people like us is housing commission. There aren’t many properties owned privately.’
‘Why can’t we find our own accommodation and pay rent like we’d do anywhere else?’
‘Hell,’ Jenny said, ‘a three-bedroom house rents for a minimum of 1,500 dollars. No-one would pay that out of their own pocket.’
‘That’s not even 400 a week.’
‘Fifteen hundred a week, not month.’
‘I see. Lots of people, not enough homes.’ We pushed uphill through long grass and the smell of warm, damp earth. As we rounded a bend, I caught sight of the shimmering blue sea far below. ‘Do people come here much?’
‘Not at all. A few exercise freaks, but other than that, it’s a good place to hide something, like stolen goods or drugs.’
‘Have you found stuff here?’
‘Only bikes. Thieves are usually kind to us and we find the stuff in cars, dinghies and houses. Mostly, the dickheads have the stolen property in their possession because they don’t think before they act. Like the American backpacker who stole food from the IBIS supermarket, but didn’t think about all the security cameras filming him. Or the high-school kid who raided the class fundraising kitty for the school camp when the teacher went to the loo. But he was the only one in the class at that time and had the bucks in his pocket. Nah. All credit, though, to those young offenders who bury contraband, but that’s usually in backyards. I’d never heard of burying stolen goods till I came to TI.’ Jenny paused and looked up the steep hill. ‘I wouldn’t be so fat if I had to search out here on a regular basis. It almost killed me today.’
We settled into an easy pace, trying to avoid the huge puddles full of tadpoles. My joggers were already soaking and stained. I should have worn my double pluggers instead. A group of children was standing around a giant pool of water, with ice-cream containers and buckets by their feet. They bent, scooped with strainers, picked out the tadpoles and dropped them into the buckets of dark brown water.
‘Look, miss,’ said one chocolate-brown cherub to me, holding out a black blob the size of a small grape. ‘Em got legs.’
‘Tadpole and rice, matha nice,’ said Jenny.
The children shrieked with disgust.
We walked on. Small waterfalls trickled down the rocky contours of the high side of the hill that faced Horn Island across the channel. A small plane, a white cross against the rich green, was lining up to land.
Jenny and I were on the edge of a series of large puddles linked by small canals when we were approached by two women walking with a muck-coloured poodle and two large brindle dogs. The three dogs raced towards us and the women screamed their names. I knew what was coming, but was paralysed by the sight of a large dog flying through the air, an engaging portrait of canine aerodynamics. I was splashed with dark sludge as the massive creature dive-bombed the swampy water. And a second time when the other giant mutt landed in the slime.
‘Harry,’ bellowed one of the women, who I couldn’t see for the mud in my eyes. ‘Jack.’
‘Bluebell,’ said the other woman and I guessed she was talking to the poodle. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Jenny and I could do nothing but laugh and swipe the rotting muck off our legs and sodden shoes. The dogs were sitting in the water, lapping the surface. Bluebell’s owner started chatting to Jenny, who introduced me to the women. We said goodbye and they simply waded through the ankle-deep swamp in their Crocs. Within seconds, the dogs had dive-bombed another puddle and were racing towards the children.
‘Come on,’ said Jenny.
I was looking up at a brass plaque, next to a lush mango tree, on an embankment.
‘The plaque is in honour of the community work done by an elder, now deceased. Also, there’s a well up there. It’s a local historical site, that no one visits because it’s so far out of the way. Fred says that it was used by Islanders who came to TI after the war, when the travel restrictions on the outer Islanders were lifted. Can you believe there were restrictions on Islanders coming to TI?’
My eye caught a small shiny white object resting on the sloping grass below the brass plaque.
‘Look.’ I picked up the object, a small island drum, the length of a matchbox, carved of pearl shell, the skin made of black coral. It was attached to some dress elastic so I twisted it around my ponytail. ‘If I find the owner, they can have it back.’
‘Come on,’ Jenny said, jogging on the spot. ‘I am supposed to elevate my heart rate for 20 minutes.’
We passed some small bunkers, which Jenny explained were built during World War II. We stopped at a larger and more decrepit bunker, painted the brightest blue, its concrete rotting and its rusted steel structure exposed. ‘This bunker is called Lyons Lookout,’ she said.
But I was distracted by the stunning panorama: a rich blue ocean, like a millpond, dotted by green islands.
‘Not a bad view, is it?’ added Jenny.
‘TI is an amazing place,’ I said. ‘This sort of scene could be in a travel magazine and have people flocking to see it.’
‘How come you know so little about this place if your mother was from here?’ She smiled. ‘You can tell me to shut up. Fred tells me I am matha paipa, straightforward, that I ask too many questions.’
‘I grew up down south.’
‘Ah-ha. There are two sorts of Islanders. Those who grew up down south, who are not to be confused with those who grew up here.’
‘Well, Mum left before I was born.’ The sea seemed like a giant, solid, shiny floor and suddenly I felt very insignificant. ‘One of the reasons I came here was to find out about Mum’s part of the world.’
‘Don’t stay too long.’
‘Is the bunker going to collapse?’ I moved away.
‘No, I mean don’t stay too long on TI. It’ll do your head in like it has me.’ She stopped jogging on the spot.
‘You seem fine.’
‘Oh, no. It’s the politics, the culture, the way things can’t be said like they should.’ Jenny faced the expanse of water. ‘You might get to belong here, but I never will.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Five years. And it feels like forever, but the more I learn about the culture the less I understand.’ She kept staring out to sea. I took in the profane graffiti, complete with graphic images of stick men and women copulating, drawn onto the bunker wall. A bike had been tossed down the slope of the bush, along with a backpack, beer cans, smashed bottles and silver cask bladders.
‘You must have an advantage being with Fred, a local who can help you understand things.’
‘Fred? He’s as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike.’ She smiled. ‘Standing here is making me very nervous. I am not quite sure how this bunker is staying together. Let’s keep going.’
We made light chat as we continued along the track and past what Jenny said was the old dam. She said the island’s water supply now came from Horn Island through undersea piping. A group of kids sped past on bikes, the clips of their helmets hanging by their ears.
‘What’s with the unclipped helmets?’
‘God, don’t look. We tear our hair out trying to get them to do them up. It took three years to get them to actually put the helmets on, so we are making progress.’ We passed an Olympic-sized swimming pool, crossed the primary school oval and somehow found ourselves back in Summers Street where we’d started.
‘We’ve just done a full lap of Millman Hill. I have a dreadful feeling I will be doing that every d
ay from now on.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I said. ‘I need to lose a few too. And get fit.’
‘You? Come on. I’d ditch the big T-shirt and show off my figure if I was you.’
‘Stop it. I’ve gained five kilos in less than a year.’
‘You must have been skinny before. That was nice today. Thank you. I don’t know why I keep avoiding exercise.’
‘Because exercise is hard work and humans tend to avoid hard work. That’s why I took the job.’ I gave a satisfied smile.
Chapter 8
I spent a riveting Thursday night unpacking while listening to the ABC AM radio. There was no sign of my iron. I doubted I’d find a vendor of irons on TI and made a note to ask Mum to send one up.
At work the next morning, there were two CDs on my desk, burnt copies. One was labelled ‘Pink, im not dead’ and the other was ‘Fergie, The Dutchess’. Shay’s punctuation and spelling was atrocious. I wasn’t surprised about Fergie having an album though. She’d been a duchess, mistress of a man who’d sucked her toes, children’s author, ambassador for Weight Watchers and, now, a rock singer.
I checked my desk calendar, hoping for something pleasantly prophetic.
All great deeds and all great thoughts have a ridiculous beginning. That was from Albert Camus. I had read The Outsider, about a man who is found guilty of murder, mainly because he didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral and was therefore capable of killing a man. I had thought Camus was quite a brilliant writer, but that quote was ridiculous.
Shay bounced in. ‘Ready for Dr Carla Dimaggio? Did you get those CDs?’
I thanked her, even though I doubted I would like them. Or listen to them. ‘Fergie. Is that the Duchess of York?’
‘You’re a crack-up. Hey, I found out about Stella Maine and Paulina Ambrose, Georgia’s friends. They’re both off the island: Stella at a hair show in Brisbane and Paulina flew out on Wednesday as the school rep for a P and C conference.’
‘Okay. Are you ready to go?’
‘I’ll meet you out the front with the car.’
My Island Homicide Page 5