My Island Homicide (7 page)

‘Oh, it's what the women do, as if to say, “What do you want?” But it can also show they're a bit pissed off.'

‘I've never seen anything like it.'

‘It's an island thing.'

Chapter 10

As we walked into the station, Jack bounded up in a fitted V-neck T-shirt and belted pants, perfect for a Calvin Klein ad. ‘Guess what?'

‘Melissa's turned up?' I said, hopeful.

‘Melissa? No. But there's a cyclone in the gulf,' he said with great enthusiasm. ‘The weather bureau thinks it will be a category five.'

‘Really?'

I carried the backpack containing potential evidence into my office, listening to Jack's speech about global warming, more severe cyclones and rising sea levels threatening the Torres Strait.

‘Jack, what about alien invasion and the earth tilting on its polar axis?' said Jenny, punching him good-naturedly on the arm. ‘It's a public holiday. Why are you here?'

‘Well, there's a fundraiser for the school kids who got picked for the peninsula trials. Want to win a meat tray?' He pulled out a butt of tickets from a snap-lock bag. ‘Only two dollars a ticket, but there's a great deal, three tickets for five dollars.'

Jenny groaned. ‘Not again. Last time it was a drive for the Flying Doctors.' She turned to me. ‘The time before it was for the firies on TI to get a new hose.'

‘Gotta sell all these before Salome comes back to work and sells damper,' said Jack. ‘No-one ever spends money on raffle tickets when Salome's selling damper.'

I already had my purse out and handed Jack a twenty. ‘What's that about?' I asked.

‘Salome sells her mum's damper,' said Jenny, ‘a few loaves every so often. It's the best. Jack gets cut because staff and anyone coming in – offenders getting charged, people renewing their licences, people reporting on probation – well, they'd rather spend their money on damper than raffle tickets for another bloody meat tray or 50 litres of fuel from the servo.' She grinned at Jack.

‘Speaking of fuel, there won't be any this week cos the barge from Cairns is cancelled cos of the cyclone. It won't come till next week. So you need to get down to the servo if you need fuel and to IBIS to buy milk and vegies before they sell out.' Jack handed me the raffle tickets. ‘Awesome. I'm heading there now to catch the rush.'

‘Hang on, Jack.' I pointed to the bags of clothes and boxes of stuff for the New Guineans. ‘It's a noble cause and everything, but this needs to find another home. Perhaps the kitchen?'

‘There's already stuff under the table. I'm waiting for the next Customs patrol to the border. It'll be gone within a month. Scout's honour.'

‘One month, no longer. Now, Jenny, we need to see Franz ASAP.'

While she phoned the hospital, I checked my emails. Mark had sent me a one-liner: ‘Thinking of you xx'. I deleted it. Robby had sent a photo of Melissa. I opened the attachment. She was an ordinarily pretty woman: pleasant face, proportioned features and artificially blonde hair. She wore a low-necked singlet, which revealed the tattoo of a bat above her left breast. That was novel. Women tended to favour roses, butterflies, dragonflies, birds (especially swans), their fella's name and their kids' names for tatts. I liked the bat.

Shay emailed that Melissa's alleged lover, Dave Garland, would meet me at the primary school tomorrow at nine. He left TI yesterday morning for a principals' meeting on Darnley Island and arrived back on TI this morning. ‘He's chucking up his guts,' she wrote, ‘and can't meet today.'

‘You can see Dr Simpson now,' said Jenny, poking her head around my office door. ‘As in right now. He's got a patient with a snakebite coming in the chopper from Boigu. Go, go, go.'

I ran to the hospital, punching into the strong wind. I tried to catch my breath as a nurse led me through to Dr Simpson. I was taken aback by the small office; there was no room for a second chair. Dr Simpson pulled a camping stool from under his desk for me to sit on.

‘Be prepared,' he said with a salute.

I explained Melissa's case and the connection with Franz.

‘Good Lord,' he said, running his fingers through thin, greying hair. ‘My wife and I escaped urban chaos for the tranquillity of the tropics, but I've been working 14-hour days and been on call every second. Now a missing person. What next?'

‘Dare I say a mute who may hold the key to the mystery?'

‘Well, you won't get anything out of Franz. He has a brain injury resulting from hypoxia during birth.' I must have looked confused. ‘He didn't get enough oxygen while his mother was in labour.'

‘How did he come to be admitted to hospital?'

‘His brother-in-law brought him in early yesterday, saying he cut his face when he'd come home at dawn. As expected, I couldn't engage him, although he did sit quietly while I sutured three deep lacerations to his face, two on his right cheek and one on his left. I kept him in to monitor his behaviour and give the wounds a chance to heal. His sister, who is his registered carer, doesn't want him home earlier than Monday.'

I asked if Franz had a history of mental illness and Dr Simpson tapped a file in front of him. ‘There is nothing on file. He's a remarkably healthy man. He hasn't been to a doctor for 18 months and that last visit was for an infected foot. He'd trodden on broken glass.'

‘Could someone have cut his face?'

‘Like his sister if she was fed up with caring for him? You'd have to ask a forensic pathologist, but I would expect he'd put up a struggle so he'd have some bruising or scratching. I'll take you to see him.'

I followed Dr Simpson down a busy corridor. Nurses raced past. A domestic pushed a trolley with trays of food. A teenage girl with a bandaged head leaned against a wall, laughing to herself as she texted on her phone. Two short dark-skinned women with drawn faces were standing outside the children's ward. I could tell from their hard, broad facial features they were not Islanders. Dr Simpson saw me taking in the bare feet and gaunt frames, the desperation.

‘They're New Guineans,' he said when we were out of earshot. ‘They suffer terribly. There is no health care or welfare system up there, let alone any medical posts. The lucky ones who live on the coast closest to Australia might get to Saibai Island after a week of travelling in a dug-out canoe. If they haven't bled to death or died from septicaemia in the meantime, they are flown to TI. They suffer from diseases unheard of in Australia today. Terrible.' He gestured me towards a room.

Franz sat cross-legged on the bed in the isolation unit, with his hands limp in his lap. He was staring at the TV, his face wrapped in a gauze bandage. A re-run of
All Saints
was playing at top volume. At the centre of the screen, a handsome doctor was performing CPR on a bloodied patient.

‘Franz looks empty,' I said.

‘He's been like that since yesterday morning and hasn't made any attempt to communicate.'

‘Stand back,' shouted the doctor on TV. The patient jerked and the trace on the ECG machine came to life.

The high volume was jarring. Dr Simpson said he had spoken to the psychiatrist at Cairns Base Hospital, but she could not shed light on Franz's behaviour. We retreated to talk in a small, quiet room lined with shelves of bandages, boxes of gloves and plastic bottles.

‘He's been traumatised by something but he can't talk so we don't know. Humans are, for the most part, predictable, but not Franz. If nothing transpires, he'll be discharged on Monday.'

Dr Simpson's voice was lost to an unsettling drone. My eyes darted around in expectation, waiting for the bottles and boxes to topple from the shelves.

‘Don't worry. It's the chopper from Boigu with my snakebite patient. I'd better go.' He was swallowed up by the busy corridor.

As I walked through the emergency ward towards the exit, I caught a weather warning on TV: ‘Cyclone Pearl in the Gulf of Carpentaria has intensified to a category five. Communities in the lower Gulf of . . .' The sound was drowned out by a rush of wind as I opened the door. I hesitated and decided to call Jenny for a lift. Her mobile went to message bank, so I braved the gale and was blown back to the station by a strong tailwind.

Jenny met me at the door and said she was heading off. Walking was out this afternoon as Fred had called to say he needed Jenny to help him look after two of his grandchildren. We agreed she'd pick me up before nine tomorrow for our meeting with Dave Garland.

I phoned the regional crime coordinator in Cairns to organise a thorough search of the island, which would mean flying up additional officers. Cairns airport had been closed after receiving 400 millimetres of rain and the police Air Wing wouldn't be able to leave till the rain and wind eased and the airport reopened.

I spent a couple of hours working and then treated myself to reading the last of the
Torres News
, checking the Crime Stoppers columns and, of course, the Letters to the Editor. I loved the complaint from the man whose wine order of four boxes, sent registered post, went missing. ‘Ordinarily,' he wrote, ‘registered post items need to be signed for by the addressee, who must produce identification. I appealed to the post office staff only to learn it had been collected, signed by one, P. Baloni.' He was appealing to Mr or Ms Baloni to return his wine.

One writer was very disappointed to hear both her children's teachers were two of the people who moved the heritage-listed anchor from the former cargo ship, MV
Latifah
, from the garden at the Boating and Fisheries building to the ANZAC Park nearby. It ended, ‘Shame on you people coming to our community to teach our children and behaving badly when you get drunk. You should be setting an example for our children.' Good point, but I was curious as to why anyone would want to move an old and presumably very heavy anchor.

There was a complaint about ‘pigs' partying on the waterfront and leaving rubbish around. ‘How you get your snouts around the bottles and cans is a mystery!'

Of course, Chief Mamoose of the Torres Straits, Mr Arthur Garipati, had written in, this time accusing white public servants of sucking the
ilan man
dry of their righteous funding, of being ‘leeches on our community'. Well, I think that's what he was saying.

The remaining columns outlined only minor offending except one report from January. There had been a sudden rise in the theft of electronic gear from dwellings and a warning to people to lock their houses. Organised crime? Watch this space!

It was after five when I noticed the fronds of the coconut palms were being whipped horizontally. The green mangroves of Horn Island were hidden behind the misty gloom like something out of a horror movie. Rain was coming. I popped some admin files to work on, as well as Shay's CDs into two plastic shopping bags and set off for home.

At 50 knots, the light drizzle was like a thousand pin pricks. As I rounded the bend towards Back Beach, the wind took on an icy edge, which signalled an impending squall. I was about to double back to the station when the heavens opened and I was assaulted by bullets of rain. I huddled over, desperately trying to protect the files. I was over halfway and could only stumble the last few metres and smile at my foolishness.

Out of nowhere, a tall man appeared. He grabbed the bags from me and told me to run. As he raced off, I noticed the giant ponytail. It was the man I was stalking yesterday. I followed him to my unit, where he placed the bags at the front door, under the awning. His pale shirt was soaking and stuck to his torso.

‘There you go,' he said, smiling. I was speechless and stood staring into his wide open face. ‘Will you be all right?'

I wanted to reach out and wipe the droplets of water that were caught in his ringlets, but I managed to nod dumbly and then he was gone. I watched him bolt into the silver streaks of rain and run to the last house at Back Beach. Without meaning to, I slapped my palm to my chest. Why couldn't I have insisted he come up for a hot drink? I could have at least introduced myself or said thank you.

Then I wondered how did he know where I lived?

That must mean he had noticed me. I realised I was grinning.

Chapter 11

As I reached for my towel at the end of the bed, I caught my reflection in the ginormous wardrobe mirrors. What purpose do mirrored robes serve other than to invoke despair in women of a certain age? I don't know what horrified me more: my neglected body or the poor excuse for underwear. I could not think of a colour to describe my baggy undies. Pale greywater? Rag-cloth fawn? Thin grey filaments of elastic sprouted from the waistband and I wondered how it held together. The state of my bra was just as bad. I remembered a time when I wore the sporty sets that always matched and I never kept anything past its prime.

I wasn't used to seeing myself so exposed and could not help wincing. I was a long lump, a little thicker around the middle and hips thanks to those extra kilos. And probably my two score years.

I'd bemoaned my weight gain to Gio just before I left Cairns.

‘You're too hard on yourself,' she scoffed. ‘It's only a few kilos. Besides men prefer curvy women – you can trust me on that one.' She laughed wickedly and I changed the subject.

But it was just me standing in front of the mirror and I couldn't change the subject. I had money to spend on underwear, if not attractive, at least new and functional. I thought of Shay and Georgia and the hours and money they put into their appearances. I wondered why I had found such perverse satisfaction in rejecting any pursuit of attractiveness.

Mark always took great care with his appearance. His hair was never out of place, thanks to product and a blow dryer, and he only ever wore designer clothes. He was forever wanting me to wear make-up, get my hair done and wear tighter, sexier clothes. Out of defiance, I turned to baggy T-shirts and shorts.

Camus's quote suddenly didn't seem so off-base. I was ridiculous, standing there in old, sagging underwear, a ridiculous beginning of something. Yes, the beginning of online shopping. I was certain there'd be nothing decent for sale on the island. But that didn't help much because shopping online was a shocking and time-consuming experience. I decided to avoid anything with the words ‘baby-doll', ‘holiday panties' and ‘angel fantasies'. Did I mention ‘pasties'? Best leave that or I'd start feeling old and prudish.

The task spanned several hours, although I spent a good chunk of time raising my eyebrows, gasping and blushing. It wasn't so much my hunger that drove me to make dinner of tuna, crackers and salad vegetables, as the need to take a break from the provocative stares of barely clad women. When I resumed shopping, I chose the Express Post option on every purchase, which raised the price somewhat. By all accounts, I should have my new purchases, proper bras and undies, within two business days, so Wednesday at the latest. Thursday Island? Yeah right. Maybe Friday if I was lucky.

It was just after nine and inspired by my daring purchases, I decided to brave Shay's CDs. I slipped Pink into the computer. My first thought was,
Oh dear, not rock
. I listened to the first few tracks, wincing, the music too harsh, but then, I'd hardly listened to music in the last ten years. The title track caught my attention.
I'm not dead
. I giggled to myself. I'm not dead yet, but that music nearly did the job.

I wasn't game to try Fergie. Time to call it a night.

I woke gasping for breath, the sheets covering my face. My mobile displayed 4.37am. I'd dreamed about Rena Stanowski, a missing person from 12 years back when I was a senior constable. Her photo, the one that made national news and papers, was clearly etched on my brain: her great smile, executive shirt and string of pearls. The wife and mother went missing one evening on her way home from work. All evidence pointed to suicide: she was being treated for depression and had disclosed to her counsellor that she'd considered suicide. She had recently made a will, seemed less depressed in the fortnight before her disappearance, and had made contact with old friends, which all suggested she had come to terms with ending her life. My boss wasn't satisfied with the suicide angle, but had no other leads. Within a few months of the search being called off, her husband started seeing another woman and my boss became suspicious, but it went nowhere. The husband claimed that he missed Rena and said the new woman reminded him of her. Two years later, the burnt-out shell of Rena's executive sedan was discovered by a bushwalker in dense forest. Her husband was convicted of murder, his lover an accessory.

Melissa's case was doing my head in.

I feared the aluminium roof would open at any moment to the angry, wet sky. I made a cup of tea and drank it by the sliding glass door, watching as sheets of rain, illuminated by the exterior sensor light, flew horizontally. I shivered as the cold wind curled and swirled through the gaps in the door's aluminium frame. With nothing else to do, I went back to bed and stared at the dark ceiling until my fatigue was overwhelming.

By the time I looked at the clock again, I had only five minutes to shower and dress before Jenny arrived. The rain was still bucketing down. By the time I ran from my front door to the car, the back of my shirt was soaked. As Jenny reversed out, Maggie from next door waved from her front step. I waved back. She dropped a bag of rubbish into the wheelie bin under the awning.

‘You've still got
bollum
in your eye,' said Jenny as I rubbed my eyes.

‘
Bollum
?'

‘Sleep. And you've yawned three times.'

I told her about my dream, omitting names.

‘The Stanowski case? You were on the Stanowski case?'

‘You know it?'

‘That case made headlines.' She shook her head. ‘This will make headlines too if Melissa is not found soon, dead or alive. Not the best way to start a job.'

‘I keep hoping someone will tell me it's an April Fools' joke.'

Jenny chuckled. ‘You create your own reality.'

‘That sounds cosmic. Did you make it up?'

‘I read it on your desk calendar when I went to answer the phone. Nothing important, just a wrong number. Want to know about Melissa's lover, Dave Garland?' I nodded. ‘European, 49, married to a local woman, Leilani Isi, two daughters. Arrived '83, first teaching post on TI, three years later made principal of the high school. Two years ago transferred to the primary school to fix up a range of problems – poor outcomes, attendance, behaviour. He turned the school around within two years. Can you believe it?' She looked at me. ‘Never been done before. Just this Australia Day, he was awarded an OAM for his service to education in the Torres Strait.'

I was impressed. I'd read reports in
The
Cairns Post
about poor educational outcomes in the Torres Strait without paying too much attention. It was a case of same old, same old, poor outcomes for Indigenous people in education, health, employment and criminal justice. I'd skimmed stuff in the papers about a new style of teaching in the Torres Strait that was supposed to work wonders. My mother and father, both retired teachers, always had their two cents to say about each article or documentary. Education was one of the few topics they still spoke to each other about.

‘Masalgi, do you remember that report in the late sixties?' said Dad to Mum, while reading one such article last year. ‘Forty years on and nothing has changed.'

Mum cursed the lowering of standards and Dad said something about reinventing the wheel. They could have been talking about any Indigenous issue.

As Jenny pulled into an undercover area, I figured that Dave Garland had achieved an admirable result and good on him. Indigenous kids deserved the best and, finally, someone had made it happen.

The undercover area didn't provide any relief from the rain that flew in sideways with the wind. I followed Jenny along a maze of paths and we ended up in the staffroom, face to face with the solid-featured Dave Garland, whose eyes were the same pale grey as his crew cut. Age had been very kind to Mr Garland. He introduced himself with a handshake of steel, apparently well recovered from his gastro wog.

He and Jenny chatted about fishing and Fred losing the last three pool comps to Jonah, who I think Shay had mentioned.

I apologised for disrupting his Easter but he said he always came in on weekends to catch up on work. He had charisma, presence, whatever you call it, directing all his attention to me when he spoke in a deep, convincing voice. I bet he had done several personal development courses, like how to win friends and influence people. And probably one on how to charm younger, vulnerable women. Oh, supremely suspicious one, Thea.

I mimed writing on my hand so Jenny would take notes.

‘I didn't sleep last night after hearing about Melissa,' he said. ‘Please, take a seat.' He motioned to some lounge chairs. ‘I know why you're here. I'll be honest,' he said as he held his hands up in surrender. I bet he also learnt in those personal development courses to admit defeat to a lesser wrong to slither out of the really bad shit. ‘We were having an affair, but I have no idea where she is. Her husband told you about the affair?'

‘No.'

‘But she told him a month ago.'

‘She told you she told him? When did you last see her?'

‘Wednesday night. She came to my house because my wife and daughters were away. She would have told her husband she was going to the CWA meeting.' He forced a laugh. ‘It was very deceitful, as affairs are, and I was never comfortable with the dishonesty.'

‘Can you tell us what happened? How was her mood?'

‘We shared a bottle of wine, a 2008 chardonnay I'd bought especially for her, and she left to walk home at about 11pm. Maybe later, I'm not sure. I had to be up early to catch the first ferry to Horn for the annual Easter principals' meeting on Darnley Island.'

‘When did the affair start?'

Dave shot me a look of muffled irritation and then relaxed his face. ‘Mid last year. I was working on a funding application to send some of the special needs students on an excursion to Cairns with their carers. It was the first program of its kind. As the teacher aide in the special education unit, Melissa offered to help. Due to the complexity of the project, the planning took longer than expected and we met some evenings.' Dave alternated between leaning forward and then sitting up straight and stretching out, as if conscious that he needed to appear calm. When he leaned forward, the point of what appeared to be a deep red cut protruded above the V of his polo shirt.

‘And the affair evolved from there?'

‘Yes,' he said, drawing out the word.

‘Melissa was diagnosed with depression five months ago. Did she say anything about how she was feeling?'

Dave was either genuinely surprised or very good at faking it. The only thing he claimed to remember was her saying something about her husband neglecting her. Dave went on to explain that he and his wife had drifted apart some time ago since she was consumed by family and cultural commitments. And, of course, he was flattered by Melissa's attention.

‘In hindsight, we were attracted to each other because my wife and Melissa's husband had other priorities, his being his work.' His lips formed a weak smile. ‘This must sound so corny.'

‘Not at all,' I lied, thinking he was in a position of authority over Melissa as her employer, mentor and much-older lover.

‘Wednesday was an emotional night. She wanted to end our relationship, saying she was sick of the secret meetings.' He sighed and stretched out again. ‘I offered to leave my wife so we could start afresh on the mainland. She said she wanted to leave her husband but couldn't do it to Alby. Melissa had this fragility about her that made me want to look after her, be with her, protect her. I guess I'll have to break this to my wife when she returns from visiting her family in Cairns. I'd prefer the school doesn't learn of the affair though.'

‘Our priority is to find Melissa. What do you know about Franz Josef?'

‘Good bloke. He was one of the first special needs students when the unit was set up almost 20 years ago.'

‘Any propensity to violence?'

‘Not at all. He's a big softie. Wouldn't hurt a flea.'

‘How long have you been on the island?'

‘Twenty-seven years.'

‘Have you got all that, Jenny?' She nodded. I turned back to Dave. ‘You would have worked with Melissa's husband, Robby Ramu, wouldn't you?'

‘We were both first-year teachers at the high school. We were good mates . . .' he paused, ‘. . . in the beginning.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘We served on the management committee of an education organisation. He stole funds and was jailed.'

‘How is he still employed by the department?'

‘He's the head of curriculum and doesn't handle money. He's very good at what he does and it's important to have Islanders in key positions.'

‘Did he plead guilty or was there a trial?'

‘That's a little technical, but he tried to blame me and other committee members. What's this got to do with Melissa?'

‘I'm not sure, but we need to know the background of relationships in case this goes further.'

‘I just hope Melissa is found safe.'

‘I noticed you have a nasty scratch there, Dave,' I said. ‘How did you get it?'

‘Oh, this.' He pulled on the collar of his shirt, exposing a few inches of his sternum and two parallel scratches about five centimetres long. ‘I was walking along the edge of the dam a couple of days ago. I went off track to look at a bird by the edge of the water and walked into a broken tree branch.' He smiled. ‘The damn bird flew off.'

‘What time was this?'

‘About 6pm.' He held his hands up in surrender again. ‘I'm not hiding anything. I passed Joe Robson and two nurses, I think, from the aged-care home. I often pass them there. One of them has really red curly hair, sounds Irish. You can check it out.'