My Island Homicide

by Catherine Titasey

  ‘It’s too rough.’

  ‘Come on. I’ve had a crappy week and all I’ve thought about is getting over to Friday Island.’ I kissed him. ‘With you.’

  ‘It’s not a good idea.’

  ‘Please. I’ll make it worth your while.’

  He gave me a long look. ‘Okay.’

  We threw some clothes and food together and headed to Yenah’s to meet with Jack and Gapu. The dog might have been old and disabled, but he bounded up the stairs on three legs like a mountain goat.

  ‘Mr Gapu,’ said Yenah turning to Jonah and Jack. ‘I knew bala Lorio. Me and sister blong em same age.’

  ‘Aunty Yenah,’ said Jack, ‘Athe Lorio go rest in his grave knowing Gapu got good home.’

  ‘Kai kai here, Mum,’ said Jonah. ‘We go go Friday Island.’

  ‘But it’s boxing tide,’ said Jack. ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘And it’s blowing 30 knots,’ said Jonah, gesturing to me, ‘but em wanna go.’

  ‘We’re only going across the channel,’ I said. ‘Honestly, I can almost see the cottage from here.’

  Jack looked at me, then Jonah. Both of them shrugged their shoulders.

  After farewelling Yenah and Jack, we set off for Friday Island. I soon learnt that dinghy travel in a boxing tide during strong wind involves flying above the water and smashing into waves made of steel again and again, incurring a kidney injury as the wind wails like a siren. I was scared, very scared. Teachers like my mother call that experiential learning. I closed my eyes till we arrived safely. Jonah and the dogs were unfazed.

  ‘Okay, I believe you,’ I fessed up as Jonah anchored the dinghy close to the shore on the high tide. It was only when I was back on solid ground that calm descended on me like a cast net of the finest silk.

  I achieved nothing between Friday afternoon and Monday morning apart from collecting firewood, digging up cassava, sorry, maniotha, and catching a fish so big it needed filleting. And I had strange, fleeting thoughts about wishing I could have a baby. They were fleeting because I didn’t want to have them, the thoughts, that was. Instead I distracted myself with all the wonderful things about my life with Jonah in the now. Who knew what was in the future, especially since before I met Jonah, I had finally resigned myself to life as a spinster.

  Chapter 28

  As soon as Jonah and I anchored the dinghy on Monday morning and walked across the road to the unit, Maggie called out from her verandah. ‘Thank you. Robby took two kittens for his adorable little boy. Two kittens to go.’

  I returned to work determined to find a link between Melissa’s alleged dealing and her murder. There was nothing further to implicate Dave as the killer. We received copies of bank statements from an account in her name into which her teacher aide wages were paid. She’d been making cash deposits to the National Bank on TI and the balance was a little over 18,000 big ones. Okay, she wasn’t about to buy a Ferrari, but she could afford a Suzuki Swift or a Hyundai Getz. She was dealing. Allegedly. There was nothing incriminating on her laptop and we were still waiting to receive Melissa’s mobile phone records from Telstra following the issue of a subpoena. Her mobile phone was still missing.

  Apart from the unsolved murder hanging over my head, the policing life I originally imagined on TI began to materialise over the next month or so. I gave a presentation at a school assembly about stranger danger, bullying and wearing helmets (as in clipping them up, not just placing them on heads). I also gave talks to the year eleven and twelve legal studies classes about the latest family violence strategy. And some terse warnings about keeping out of trouble. The deputy principal asked if I would consider having a stall at the careers market during the cultural festival in September to promote the Queensland Police Service. My pleasure entirely.

  A husband was charged with attempted arson after allegedly trying to burn the family home, a housing commission rental. He succeeded in melting a downpipe and charring some of the fibro panels.

  A drunken fight on the waterfront early one Saturday morning almost resulted in affray charges being laid against the most active participants. However, because they dispersed (well, staggered away) when police arrived, the remainder were charged only with public nuisance.

  And, of course, Dave Garland’s fraud matter was in the system.

  One matter touched me. A young man, Tyko, smashed a window at the Railway Hotel. Jack responded to the triple zero call and explained to me why he believed Tyko shouldn’t be charged.

  Tyko had been keen on a girl and they planned, by text, to ‘look each other’ at the Railway. When Tyko’s uncle saw him kissing the girl in the corner of the bar, he rushed over and pulled him aside. The uncle told Tyko he couldn’t have a relationship with the girl because she was his half-sister. But it got worse. While the Railway was throbbing with the tinny sounds of The Boys from Badu, Tyko then learnt that his parents were not actually his parents: they were unable to bear biological children and he had been traditionally adopted to them. That also meant that his four siblings were not his biological siblings. His biological mother was the mother of the girl he had kissed. Tyko screamed and smashed his hand through the window.

  ‘You’ve heard about traditional island adoptions?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know much, just that it’s a cultural practice.’

  ‘Well, a true traditional adoption is where the child never knows the truth, but these days, there are problems with that. For starters, some kids find out they’re adopted when kids at school, who do know, tease them. And a common situation is when the adopted kid is applying for Abstudy and sees their birth certificate for the first time and notices their surname and their parents’ surnames are different. Or like Tyko, falling for the wrong girl.’

  When Tyko smashed the window, the bar manager assumed there had been a drunken fight and called the police, insisting Tyko be charged. Jack followed the matter up the next day and after he explained the situation, the manager withdrew the complaint.

  We handled all these matters easily and without delays. Melissa’s case was the one thorn in my side.

  Examination of her mobile phone records revealed she had 83 phone conversations with Dave Garland in the month before her death and had sent and received 147 texts. None of the numbers listed corresponded to the Eagle Express landline. There was no luck on the phone tap on Eagle Express. No suspicious or oft-repeated numbers came up, except industry contacts and a greasy spoon place called The Muddy Crab in Cairns. Jenny did a company search of Eagle Express and learnt that the two owners were brothers.

  ‘Names, addresses and criminal histories?’ I asked her.

  ‘Richard David Bax, Cairns, nil history. James William Bax, Horn Island, nil history.’

  ‘Bugger. Find out where they were the night Melissa died. The crew at the Horn Island station might know something.’

  I was further amazed by the range of products for sale at the newsagency. I found the sewing section and bought some red thread to restitch the strap of my ruby-coloured lace bra. It became detached one evening after Jonah returned on the last ferry from a two-day work trip on the outer islands. I’d never sewed and my attempt was not convincing. So I figured I needed some backup lingerie and searched online. I bought three essential diamante plunge push-up bra and matching bikini sets in ‘merlot’, ‘chardonnay’ and ‘rose’. My curiosity got the better of me when I also chose an animal-print flyaway baby-doll and an angel fantasies bustier and boyleg set. And one bow tie for good measure.

  Jonah and I continued to spend weekends on Friday Island. If there was a boxing tide on the Friday afternoon, Jonah and I did not head over till Saturday, even when he assured me there wasn’t a strong wind warning. I finally made it to the markets and was impressed by the talent of the local craftspeople. One artist made intricate lino prints of traditional icons such as dugongs, turtles and dari headdresses. I bought one eac
h for my father and brothers. One woman made jewellery from thongs she’d found washed up on the beaches and called her range Louis Vuit-thong. I bought Gio a necklace and matching earrings. Another woman made peg bags shaped like little island dresses, perfect for my sisters-in-law and Karen Jane Wakeham. For Mum I bought a screen-printed bag from Maggie, and I treated myself to a single gold pearl pendant and chain, which I thought would match my chardonnay lingerie. As I was about to leave, I spied a woman selling screen-printed wall hangings. I could not resist the red material covered in kibbim, blackfish. Perfect for Jonah, perfect for our lounge room.

  Yet I spent most of my waking hours at the station – such was the life of an operational OIC in a small community. There were some breaks. First of all, Jenny learnt that Richard David Bax was in Cairns on the night of Melissa’s murder. Secondly, Sergeant Selena Webster of the Horn Island station had a detailed recollection of the night in question but, unfortunately, James William Bax had a rock-solid alibi.

  ‘James William Bax,’ said Selena in a 40-a-day voice, ‘looks more like a movie star than a freight operator. He was in two locations the night your deceased passed over to heavenly realms. First, James was in the house he shares with some pilots on Horn Island, specifically in bed with Natalie Schwartz, the ticketing chick at the airport.’

  ‘Okay, so he got lucky and has an alibi.’

  ‘Natalie is also the wife of the refueller at the airport.’

  I had to wait while she gave a hacking cough. ‘Is this relevant to his second location?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Same old? Husband beats up lover, yes?’

  ‘Let me elaborate.’

  Natalie’s husband stormed in to James’s room to retrieve his much-loved wife, pulled the naked James to standing and delivered several blows to his head. Selena attended the alleged assault and then had to keep Natalie’s husband at the station till he’d sobered up and agreed not to further ‘bash the fuckin’ shit’ out of James, whose scalp wound was sutured at the Horn Island Health Centre. So James William Bax was not implicated in Melissa’s murder, only in the alleged supply of drugs to her.

  I called Jack, Jenny and Shay in. Jenny twirled before me in her new uniform. She’d dropped two dress sizes.

  ‘Where’s Shay?’ I asked. ‘She needs to be here.’

  ‘She’s on two days’ sick leave,’ said Jenny.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Em got man trouble,’ said Jack.

  Shay learnt yesterday she wasn’t the only girl seeing Isaac after hearing he had spent the night at the Railway Hotel with one of the barmaids. She wrote herself off and then confronted him last night. So she needed a couple of mental health days. That sorted, I turned my attention back to Melissa’s matter. ‘Okay, we need to search Dave’s place. I’ve talked to Cairns.’

  I ran through the evidence against Dave. ‘We all know he has been charged with fraud and it’s looking like Melissa threatened to expose him. That in itself isn’t enough except that she was full of his semen and her nails full of his skin which suggests the scratches on his chest he claims to have got from walking into a tree might have been from Melissa struggling against him. Her leather necklace had been stretched to breaking point. Plus, Dave’s cap was found at the scene (although a cap is a useless accessory at midnight). I’ve liaised with the RCC and it’s time to search. Jack, please prepare the warrant, and we’ll move tomorrow morning. Be ready at seven.’

  Chapter 29

  It was dark when I climbed the stairs, enveloped by a rich, spicy cloud that sent my tastebuds somersaulting. I almost went somersaulting over the thousand cardboard boxes strewn across the lounge room floor. The unit looked like it had been burgled.

  ‘Don’t you hurt my Woolies order,’ said Jonah.

  ‘What Woolies order?’

  ‘The one that delivered me the delicious spices bubbling away.’ He gestured to two pots on the stove. ‘And we’ve got basmati rice and pappadams. At half the cost of buying here.’

  ‘You could buy the generic brand, you know.’ I clambered through the obstacles.

  ‘You can’t buy Black and Gold basmati rice or pappadams or any of this stuff. I could only get the dry stuff today. I’ll pick up the boxes of chiller tomorrow when the fridge container is unloaded, organic milk and yoghurt. And look at this.’ He held up a full bottle of oil and kissed it. ‘Truffle oil.’

  ‘Never had it.’

  ‘I put the last bit I had in the risotto the other night and you said it was like eating silk. What about this little beauty?’

  ‘It’s a milk frother.’

  ‘It’s for cappuccinos.’

  The table was covered in jars and packets and bottles and a tower of Lindt chocolate. Crumpled newspaper covered the floor. I smiled at the mess, the product of Jonah’s love of fine food. I kissed him and peered into the two saucepans.

  ‘This is a fish curry with that mackerel you filleted and that’s a sweet lamb curry. I’ve also made banana and coconut side dishes. But a jar of mango and lime chutney arrived today. It’s not mango season till October and then I’ll make the real stuff. You’ll be so sick of mango chutney.’

  ‘Well, I am happy to accept mango ice-cream, mango sorbet, mango pudding, mango puree and . . .’

  ‘And you can have it all,’ he said, holding a spoonful of the lamb to my lips.

  This was all too perfect. ‘Jonah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know how we got together and we’ve just sort of stayed together. Well, I was thinking maybe we should talk . . .’

  He kissed me and placed a finger on my lips. ‘No more think. Just be.’

  ‘I can’t think when you kiss me.’ He kissed me again. ‘Stop it.’

  It was only after Jonah had dished out the meal that I registered that the corner of the dining room was a strange place for a saucer of milk. Then a small striped orange creature emerged from behind the boxes.

  ‘Jonah, there’s a cat.’

  ‘She’s a kitten. Female orange cats are very rare so she’s special.’

  ‘I don’t care if it’s as rare as a unicorn. What is it doing here?’

  ‘A unicorn? Are they them horses with wings or the horn or the body blong to a man?’

  I couldn’t concentrate on a kitten and folklore and a handsome man, hands on hips, waiting for my answer, all at the same time. ‘Um, there’s the horse that’s got a man’s body. That’s Pegasus, I think. Then the one with the wings is a centaur, or maybe it’s the other way around, so the unicorn must be the one with the horn.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought so. That whiteman story stuff always confuses me.’

  ‘Jonah, don’t try and get me off track. This doesn’t look like one of Chook’s kittens.’

  She rubbed against my leg and I bent down to pat her. She was so soft.

  ‘It’s not one of Chook’s.’ Jonah chewed a bit of meat, held it out to her and she took it tentatively. ‘Her name is Phoebe.’

  ‘Phoebe? Strange name for an island cat. Oh, she’s so cute. Jonah?’ I eyed him with suspicion. ‘If it’s not Chook’s, did Jack put you up to this?’

  ‘Sort of. Phoebe’s mother was killed by a dog, so Jack and Kelly need to find a home for her and her two brothers.’

  ‘But we’re not giving her a home?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said too fast, the way suspects do when they deny something initially and end up pleading guilty. ‘Jack asked if I could take her for a fortnight, just to help him, you sabe, for my bala Jack.’

  ‘Well, just for a fortnight.’ She lifted her head as I stroked under her chin. ‘Not a minute longer.’

  Jonah carried our plates to the table. ‘No, the table’s a mess. Let’s eat on the lounge.’

  The food was heavenly, although the basmati rice tasted just like ordinary white rice. And
, even with a fluffy kitten gnawing on a piece of fish at my feet, the prospect of Dave’s house being searched tomorrow loomed in my mind. I wondered if Jonah knew Robby well and whether he could help me understand him, an Islander who swam against the current. He chose education, he married a white woman, and he was a loner, by choice, it seemed. I suspected this last fact made him less than popular with his own people. But something niggled at me. It was like people criticised him because they feared his education and his autonomy. Islanders are a close-knit community. Down south, in Cairns and Brisbane, they tend to socialise together, in the same way other minority or migrant groups do. An Islander in Brisbane had explained to me the crabs-in-the-bucket syndrome. Each time one of the island crabs in the bucket tries to crawl out, another island crab pulls it back. However, Robby had crawled out of the bucket and was on his own. I chanced it and asked Jonah.

  ‘Yeah, I knew Robby,’ he said softly, staring ahead. ‘He is the same age as my sister, Flora, four years above me. She talked about him all the time, that he was more smarter than them kole kids, that they paid him to help with their work. Were you asking cos of Melissa?’

  ‘Sort of. He’s a bit of a mystery.’

  ‘He got on with everyone but he was teased by the black kids for acting like them kole people.’ He shook his head. ‘His own people mocked him.’

  Jonah pointed out matter-of-factly that in the seventies Europeans ‘ran the place’. High school ended at grade ten and the white children had the privilege of attending boarding school. The Islander kids had no options apart from starting apprenticeships or working on cargo boats. The girls got jobs in shops or at the hospital as domestics and the lucky ones found clerical work in the European-managed government departments. Robby’s situation was exceptional. A teacher recognised his potential and helped him get a scholarship to attend boarding school and later to go to uni.