by Jacob Ross
‘Something else been bothering me, Missa Digger. Remember first time I come here with you, they tell me Amos mother run off to Trinidad? They tell me she left a coupla months before Nathan disappear. I don’t believe Miss Alice run off nowhere. I got reason to believe somefing happen to her.’
The Mother appeared from behind the building. She floated across the stones with an open coconut in her hand. I studied her face, the broad serenity of it, as if her husband hadn’t died this morning, shot by the woman sitting beside me. The Mother caught me staring and a small change came over her demeanour. She held out the coconut to Miss Stanislaus.
‘Drink,’ she said. ‘Good for the blood.’
Miss Stanislaus smiled at her. ‘Me an Missa Digger jus’ decide to take some breeze. Mebbe when we come back?’
Miss Stanislaus rose carefully – as if testing the reliability of her limbs. I reached out to help her to her feet. She took my hand. ‘Come wiv me.’
‘Couple hours ago you shoot her husband,’ I said. ‘Now she offering you a drink.’
Miss Stanislaus’s footsteps slowed, but she did not look back.
We were on the mud track heading deeper into the mangrove.
She raised an arm at an incline to the right of us. ‘Up there,’ she said.
A flat boulder capped the hill. It overlooked the swamp beyond which were the whispering waters of the inlet where sharks and barracudas came in on the evening tide to feed on dead and rotting things.
Miss Stanislaus sat, then patted the space beside her. I shook my head and made a point of looking at my watch.
‘Somebody been talking to you,’ I said. ‘Who?’
‘I work out most ov it myself.’
‘About the children belonging to Bello, yes. But the information about Nathan and Miss Alice – that had to come from somebody. I asking who it is. I asking for clarity, that’s what I want right now.’
‘Missa Digger, I can’t tell you because…’
‘Okay, Miss Lady! Keep it to yourself. Choke on it till it kill you. Lemme tell you what I think: y’all sign and seal Bello’ death warrant before y’all got to Sadie Bay. I dunno if you put them up to it, or the other way around. But there is not one woman in that church who didn’t know what was going to happen.’
She sat perfectly still, her head cocked in the air.
‘Miss Stanislaus, no matter how loud you shout that Bello jump them little girls and breed them… it don’t explain or justify what happened in Sadie Bay this morning. Now, for the Alice person you mentioned – the one that run away.’
‘She didn’t run away.’ Miss Stanislaus shoved a hand into her purse and pulled out a cell phone. It was covered with a white rubber case, a glittering marijuana leaf embossed on the back. She dropped it in the hammock of her dress. ‘Couple days ago one of the Sisters give this to me.’
‘Which Sister?’
Miss Stanislaus shook her head.
‘Miss Stanislaus, if you don’t start talking to me straight, I walk out of here and leave you in your shit.’
‘Missa Digger!’
‘Don’t “Missa Digger” me! You either talk to me or you don’t. I asking you again, what’s the Sister’ name!’
She turned bright defiant eyes on me, then softened. ‘The – The Modder. She gimme this phone quiet as if she know all along why I there. Phone was wrap up in a grocery bag. I take it, but I was careless. Lil Amos see it. “Dat’s mammy phone,” he say. Bello almost run out de church. He stan-up in front de door long time, like if he tendin to God business, then he walk back inside.’
Miss Stanislaus blinked at me, ‘You should see how frighten de Modder look when Bello come out de church, because she hear Amos words too.’ She bounced the phone in her hand as if she were hefting it. ‘Commonsense tell me dat same way Nathan wouldn leave his bag behind, ain got no way Miss Alice going leave dis phone. I see how young people love-up dis ting. Dey dress it up an feed it with every penny they got. Sometimes the way they hold it and look at it, a pusson believe they praying to the ting. Miss Alice might run off and leave she one boychile, but she not goin leave she phone.’
I held out my hand. Miss Stanislaus hesitated. Then she passed it over. The handset wouldn’t switch on. “I’ll check it out,” I said.
She nodded absent-mindedly. ‘Missa Digger, I believe Nathan did know dat Bello kill dat girl; he might’ve even seen it.’
‘All the evidence pointed to Nathan boyfriend, Simday.’
She sucked her teeth. ‘Why Simday goin hide Nathan body just a lil way from his house? He got a car; he got a boat. Why he didn take Nathan to the ocean where nobody goin find him? Where’s the sense in buryin him nex door?’
She rose to her feet. ‘Bello kill im while he kneelin down to pray for forgiveness.’
‘Forgiveness for what?’
‘For he an Missa Simday secret. Bello know dat secret too. Is why he take Nathan up dere an drop im near Simday house. He figure if anybody ever find Nathan, de whitefella get de blame. And that’s eggzackly what y’all do.
‘Besides, Missa Digger,’ she dabbed at her face, ‘if I wrong about Bello killin Nathan, is your fault.’
The woman was almost pouting with the accusation. ‘People kill de same way – that’s what you say. You tell me they can’t help it because is habit. That’s what come in mind this morning when I see how Bello baptise people. He don’t turn your face up to the sky an push you back in the water to baptise you, like all dem other preacher in the worl does do. Nuh! He grab your neck and push your face in first. Dat’s what happen to Nathan. Only, the concrete floor ov dat church is not no water. Dat’s why Nathan face mash up. Like you tell me, it was habit.’
Miss Stanislaus looked perfectly at ease and very sure of herself.
‘What I wondering now, Miss Stanislaus, is why you didn’t say all of this to Malan? It might’ve…’
‘He didn giv me a chance to talk,’ she snapped. ‘He was too busy tryin to force word outta me. And no fowl-cock ov a man goin manage dat, y’unnerstan?’
The evening sun had begun to lose its sting. There was a hint of copper on the water down below. It had been a long day and I was tired.
‘None of that explains what happen on the beach,’ I said. ‘And I know for sure that I can’t help you if I dunno what really happen in Sadie Bay this morning.’
What I didn’t tell her was that come tomorrow, Monday, when the island emerged from its weekend stupor, rumours of Deacon Bello’s death would break. Tongues would amplify the story. The newspapers would begin digging. There were men in government who visited Bello for their bush-bath, their secret potions of voodoo-luck and remedies for impotence. They would be asking questions. Malan and the Commissioner would always put the Department first. Not even Chilman could protect Miss Stanislaus.
I brought my face close to hers. ‘Which is true, Miss Stanislaus: that you honestly can’t tell me, or you won’t because you just don’t give a damn about the consequences?’
Miss Stanislaus fixed me with a level, moist-eyed stare. ‘Is de wimmen dat I don’t want no more trouble for. They go through nuff already. Is time for all ov dis to stop, y’unnerstan? An even if Bello got to dead a couple more times to make tings right, I not goin turn my back on them. Dat’s all I have to say.’
On the way back Miss Stanislaus walked a step ahead of me. I was aware of the shift of her shoulders, the padding of her sandals on the damp earth, her fingers tensed around the mouth of her handbag.
She halted at the beginning of the stone-path that led up to the churchyard. For a moment she searched my face, then Miss Stanislaus raised her hand. I felt the soft grate of her knuckles against my jawline.
‘Miss Stanislaus, I thinking about your daughter.’
‘My girlchile goin be awright, Missa Digger. Is I that bring she up. I know she going be awright.’ Her eyes were sparking when she said it, and there was murder in her tone.
She turned abruptly and began walking up the path.
>
I watched The Mother, Iona and another – slim and supple as a bamboo shoot – come to stand beside her. They’d lowered their heads and had their backs to me. All four dressed in blue and so tightly huddled, I could barely distinguish Miss Stanislaus from the other three.
Somewhere at the back of my mind, just beyond reach – was something Miss Stanislaus had just said – a nagging little dissonance in the way she’d strung together her words. I closed my eyes, trying to locate it. I decided to leave it alone.
I was out of the tunnel of flamboyant trees, turning onto the main road when the words came: If Bello have to dead a couple more times… I stepped on the brakes so abruptly, I almost wrecked my car.
24
I called DS Chilman and told him I would see him around eight-thirty.
‘Why so late?’
‘Late by whose standards, Sir?’
‘Okay, Digson, so you in a bad mood. Make it eight.’ Chilman hung up.
I phoned the mortuary. ‘Lucille, DC Digson here. Daryl in tonight?’
‘Hold on – yes, he is. You want to leave a message?’
‘Nuh. Around what time he starting work?
‘The usual – from seven.’
‘Thanks Lucille, how you?’
‘I good. Missa Digger, I pregnant. When you coming home to tell my mother about me and you?’
‘Wha?’
Lucille burst out laughing. ‘Eh-heh! I thought you say nothing could surprise you.’ Another belly-laugh and the weekend receptionist at Otter’s Sanctuary hung up.
Dusk had begun to powder the Kalivini hills when I swung my car towards San Andrews. A bluish light seeped from a sky choked with strato-cumulus clouds. I took the quiet road south to the mortuary in San Andrews – a sprawling white concrete building that followed the incline of the steepest hill in the town. Otter’s Sanctuary was owned by brothers whose family name was synonymous with the thriving business of death. It was always open. I tapped my keys against the metal grid of the gate.
My agitation was not just because Miss Stanislaus was involved and I could not bear thinking about the consequences. Fact was I’d failed.
I was about to do what I should’ve done the moment I saw Deacon Bello lying in the sand at Sadie Bay. Despite Malan’s temper, despite the shock of an action I least expected from Miss Stanislaus, I should have secured the scene, examined Bello’s body in detail, collected whatever evidence there was and taken as much time over it as I needed to make sense of his murder. I would never allow myself to be pushed by anyone again – not even by DS Chilman – to abandon the work I was meant to do.
I tapped my keys harder on the gate. A young man trotted out of the building wearing yellow elbow-length Neoprene gloves. Big serious eyes.
‘Missa Digger, you workin tonight?’
‘Daryl,’ I said, ‘anybody else in there with you?’
He nodded, ‘Seven ov us. Anodder one comin in tonight. She pass away dis mornin.’
That made me laugh.
He unlocked the gate. ‘Somebody you come to check out?’
‘Deacon Bello.’ I said. I waited for his reaction and sure enough Daryl stopped. He looked startled.
‘You mean Bello the…’
‘Yeh!’ I said. ‘How come you dunno that?’
‘I check in less than five minutes ago. Peter tell me we got seven residents – that’s all.’
I followed Daryl into a corridor past a large reception built along the lines of a chapel. Blue fluorescent lights bathed the space. The chemical sweetness in the air flared my nostrils. Already my skin began to prickle with the cold.
Daryl went to a small desk in the corner and took up a green folder. He flipped it open and ran a finger down the first page. ‘He come in this afternoon. Eighteen minutes past one… Missa Digger, I could ask you a question?’
‘Another time, Daryl.’ I winked at him and smiled. ‘How’s the family?’
‘They awright. Rack Five, third shelf down.’ He glanced at the paper again before replacing it. Daryl took me through to a white storage unit and pulled open the heavy door. Bello was one rung up from the lowest shelf. I could see the sense in that. He was a heavy man. Less work to manoeuvre him in and out.
Daryl handed me a pair of gloves. I dropped a hand on his shoulder. ‘You learning fast,’ I said. I’d gotten him the job four months ago.
They’d pushed in Bello feet first, his toes facing the ceiling of course. That meant not much disturbance on my part. I took out my LED, lifted the drape that covered him and lay flat on the floor directly under the body. I scrolled the beam along its full length, then more slowly from the nape of the neck, up toward the head, stopping at the bloody contusion at the junction of the jawline and the ear. Daryl watched me closely as I took some swabs and placed them in small canisters of formalin.
I stood up and allowed myself to breathe. The beginnings of an idea had begun to take shape in my mind.
Tomorrow, the old English pathologist we nicknamed, Rumcake would do a more thorough examination. Me – I needed answers now. The bullet had entered Bello’s left shoulder blade at an angle, exiting through the shoulder muscle. I kept my torch on the wound for a long time.
‘Missa Digger… I could ask you a question?’
With the fluorescent lights directly overhead, Daryl’s was a blue-sculpted face.
‘Daryl,’ I said. ‘You want to be a good mortician?’
He flapped a wrist and grunted.
‘Well, Starboy, a mortician is like a lawyer or mebbe a doctor. They don’t ask questions, yunno, unless is necessary. They just do their job.’
Daryl didn’t look convinced. My example didn’t convince me either, but it would have to do.
‘How’s your father, Daryl?’
‘He awright.’
‘And yuh mother?’
‘She awright too.’ He was still working his lips around the question he knew I was sidestepping.
‘Tell them I say hello.’ I dropped the gloves in the bin. ‘Another thing – nobody don’t have to know that I been here, y’unnerstan?’
‘Awright,’ he said.
At the gate Daryl threw me a worried look. I took out the cell phone I’d taken from Miss Stanislaus. I’d plugged it into the charger in my car on the way down. The handset had come alive but it was passworded.
‘Daryl, I got reason to believe you know how to break into these?’
He stared at the phone, than rested wary eyes on my face. I thought he was going to deny it, but he took the handset from me.
‘What’s it not doin?’
‘I can’t get past the password.’
‘You want the password off?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Pick it up tomorrow.’ He pocketed the phone.
‘How you do that?’
‘Root it, then secure shell, then back-door.’
‘That a new language?’
Daryl ignored the question, jerked his head in the direction of the building. ‘Missa Digger, what happm? Ah mean…’
‘Next coupla days the whole island will be asking that, Daryl. Is why I looking for answers now.’
He sucked his teeth, grunted his exasperation.
I left him standing at the gate.
A soft drizzle was glossing the tarmac when I turned onto the West Coast Road.
I realised I hadn’t eaten since morning.
I stopped off at Beau Sejour – a small village on the edge of the mangrove swamps where, thirty-one years before, US Marines had left the bodies of five local militia boys burning by the roadside. On my right, a scattering of board houses; above them, the Belvedere Mountain Chain, purple in the draining light.
Women stood behind rows of coal-pots and curtains of rolling smoke, selling anything from stewed lambi, saltfish-cake, fried bakes to blood-pudding and roasted corn.
Beyond them was the black pebble beach with a row of twenty-footer fishing boats bobbing on the water, nets draped along their length. Among them
, and barely noticeable, I spotted a couple of grey, pug-nosed crafts, their sterns broad enough for two engines.
I felt eyes on me.
Four young men stood shoulder to shoulder observing me observe the boats. Expensive canvas shoes, heavy watches, American baseball caps turned back-to-front. A Subaru jeep with darkened windows was parked on the grass verge a couple of feet from them.
The tallest of the bunch waved a long muscled arm at me.
‘Digger!’
‘Mister Digson to you,’ I said.
A chuckle rumbled out of him. ‘You don’ remember me, man?’
‘Yep! Lazar Wilkinson. Friday August 5th last year. Queen’s Park. Arrested and charged for attempted assault and affray and possession of a lethal weapon. Three months!’ I jerked my chin at the sprint-boats. ‘I see you got promoted.’
I tossed the rest of the fishcake over the seawall and ambled towards my car. I opened the door, waved at him. ‘Catch you later, Lazar. And when I catch you next time, it not going to be three months, it going to be years.’
I heard a burst of laughter from the stalls as I triggered the engine and pulled out. In my rear-view mirror, I glimpsed his contorted face. Two fingers rigid in the air. I pushed out my arm and returned the compliment.
25
Chilman was out on the road, waiting – even more of a scarecrow of a man than usual – dressed in loose brown shorts and an old string vest, his toes splayed like ten brown mice in his ancient leather sandals.
‘My house, Digson.’
A racket greeted us when we entered the yard – an agitated scattering of dark-winged creatures that sounded inconsolable.
‘Wozzat?’ I said, my body tensed for a quick sprint back to the road.
‘Guinea fowls,’ he said. ‘Better than dog. Besides, you could eat their arse when they fret you. Keep that in mind, Digson. Is good advice. Mavis, shut them up!’