Killman (11 page)

From this relatively inauspicious start, he soon found his reputation growing in the enclosed world of Melanesian scholarship. Soon he was being passed on reverently from one overseas scholar to another like a family heirloom, treated as a source of all indigenous knowledge, as well as being a willing, skilled and apparently fearless bush scout and counsellor.

Less articulate fellow islanders had looked on with increasing awe and wonder as Wainoni had parlayed his linguistic fluency, ingratiating manner and total disregard for the truth into a one-man business. Thesis after published thesis in Australasia, the USA and even parts of Europe owed their inception to his practised guiding hand and utter indifference to reality. No matter how wild or outlandish the theory being pursued by the latest grant-aided university visitor to Malaita, the Gammon Man could be relied upon, for a suitable fee, to provide the so-called facts that would eventually substantiate it in an eighty-thousand-word volume designed to languish neglected in some sunless college library.

‘You wouldn’t be thinking of spoiling things for me, would you, Sergeant?’ asked Wainoni, smiling thinly.

‘Hardly,’ said Kella with genuine respect. ‘You’re probably the only Solomon Islander ever to make a decent living out of whitey without actually stealing from him. We’ve all got to admire real talent when we see it in action.’

Wainoni relaxed perceptibly. ‘In that case, how may I help you?’ he asked.

‘Your latest protégée, or victim, Dr Maddy, was there when Papa Noah was killed outside the ark. How did she get there, and what was she supposed to be doing?’

‘That’s easy,’ the Gammon Man said promptly. ‘Dr Maddy is a musicologist. She’s come to make a study of pidgin songs about the Second World War.’

‘But the Americans and the Japanese hardly touched Malaita,’ said Kella. ‘Most of the fighting in 1942 was done on Guadalcanal and in the west, hundreds of miles away.’

Wainoni regarded the policeman like a teacher dealing with an obtuse pupil. ‘You know that and I know that,’ he said. ‘Fortunately, Dr Maddy doesn’t know it – yet.’

‘But it’s a matter of record,’ Kella said, startled for once out of his equilibrium. ‘People have written whole books about the war in the islands.’

‘You mustn’t believe everything you read,’ said Wainoni sententiously. ‘That’s one of the first things I always tell my clients. Written history is bunk. The truth lies in industrious personal research on the part of conscientious scholars, preferably guided on a previously negotiated daily stipend by me.’

‘Of course,’ said Kella. ‘Forgive me for doubting you. I should have known that you would have given this matter deep and proper thought. So you’re helping this misguided young woman to conduct an investigation into something that never happened?’

‘Hardly. I’m helping Dr Maddy with her groundwork into the unknown. Isn’t that what scholarship is supposed to be about? Anyway, one or two Japanese are rumoured to have taken up residence in hiding on Malaita after the war.’

‘Perhaps, but I doubt very much if they had the time or the inclination to compose pidgin songs about their predicament.’

‘On the whole, I’m inclined to agree with you,’ said Wainoni judiciously, ‘but surely that’s the point of scientific investigation? Learned people must study these matters, and it is the duty of the less gifted among us to help and guide them according to our abilities.’

‘For a fee.’

‘Exactly, Sergeant Kella! The labourer is worthy of his hire. You display a unique gift for getting to the heart of a problem. I shall have to watch out. I sense a potential rival.’

‘Remind me never to buy Government House in Honiara from you, should you offer to sell it to me,’ said Kella. Negotiating with the Gammon Man was like wading through treacle. ‘All right, why did you arrange for Dr Maddy to attend the feast at the Lau Church of the Blessed Ark last week?’

The Gammon Man frowned. ‘That was a bit strange,’ he admitted. ‘Of course I had heard that the celebration was going to include a choir of virgins from the main island singing “Japani Ha Ha!”. People passing through the lagoon were talking of nothing else but the church choir practising the
tue tue
dance and then singing that stupid little pidgin song, but it never occurred to me to pass on the information to Dr Maddy.’

‘Probably that was because you couldn’t think of a way of making a profit out of the transaction. Go on, who
did
take her to the celebration?’

‘It was the Tikopian called Shem, the one who claims to be Papa Noah’s spiritual heir. Somehow he contacted her and invited her to the feast. I don’t know why. I told Dr Maddy that it would be an unprecedented opportunity for her to record “Japani Ha Ha!” and maybe other songs relating to the war. On the day of the ceremony, I took her over by canoe to the saltwater village and delivered her to Shem, who was waiting on the beach. I left them and he accompanied her up to the plateau. The next thing I know, a couple of women from Sulufou brought her back here late that same night. Dr Maddy was in a considerable state of shock, but all she would tell me was that there had been a dreadful accident at the feast. I imagine that she was referring to the death of Papa Noah.’

‘And then you washed your hands of her?’

‘She had no more call upon my services. I had fulfilled my contractual obligations to the letter,’ said Wainoni with dignity.

‘But you still did nothing to look after her in her distressed state?’

‘It’s not my job to protect her,’ said Wainoni indignantly. ‘I’m not her father!’ A spasm of genuine alarm fluttered his jowls. He put a beseeching hand on the other man’s arm. ‘Whatever you do, don’t frighten her away, Sergeant Kella. That woman is a humble businessman’s dream. She’s got half the dollars from her scholarship grant and weeks of trusting innocence left in her yet.’

‘Stop it!’ said Kella, rising. ‘If I listen to any more of your fraudulence, you’ll have me believing that you’re as pure as a Sikaiana maiden. Take me to this island for which you are probably charging Dr Maddy an extortionate rent.’

The Gammon Man leered at him. ‘It’s only fifty yards away,’ he said mischievously. ‘Why do you need me?’

Kella hoped that his face was expressionless. ‘The last time Dr Maddy and I met, it was under slightly unfortunate circumstances.’

Wainoni grinned lasciviously. ‘Yes, she told me about that,’ he chuckled. ‘It’s all right, Sergeant Kella. I assured her that to the best of my knowledge you were not a peeping Tom. Indeed, I know for a fact that you have always adopted a more hands-on approach with the ladies. When it comes to sexual encounters, you waste more chances than I’ve ever had.’

‘Are you going to take me over or not?’ asked Kella, standing up.

Wainoni looked at his watch. ‘She won’t be there,’ he said triumphantly. ‘She said that she was going to Tabuna village at first light this morning to record some pidgin songs from a man who worked for the Americans unloading cargo during the war.’ He saw the expression on Kella’s face. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Don’t you know anything?’ asked Kella, heading for the door. ‘The men of Tabuna are the laziest on Malaita and a bunch of thieving villains into the bargain. None of them would risk breaking into a sweat unloading cargo, and as sure as your corrupt soul is bound to rot in the deepest pit of hell at Ano Gwou, where it will be condemned eternally to eat the ghosts of your ancestors, not one of them ever went near the war!’

‘Is that so?’ sighed Wainoni smugly. ‘There is so much duplicity around these days. My trouble is that I’m too trusting. Why, sometimes in my darker moments I fancy that some of my informants even lie to me.’

Kella walked back to his canoe, shaking his head resignedly. Think what you liked of Wainoni, you had to admit that he was good at what he did. As he untied his dugout, the sergeant noticed that a small lean-to hut on the island was full of green bananas. For some reason Wainoni had recently started ploughing some of his profits into this usually unprofitable trading venture. He was buying bananas from the bush people and transporting them to the market in Honiara. It was a shrewd enough move, thought Kella. After rice, wheat and corn, bananas provided the most lucrative cash crop in the South Pacific. The only problem lay in the fact that it was proving difficult to export them to overseas markets before they ripened. Perhaps the Gammon Man was planning for the future, the sergeant thought. One day, when Lau had become sated with academics and finally there were no more abstruse subjects to be twisted out of shape and put into books, the venal Wainoni might have to look for a real job.

Later Sister Conchita assured herself vehemently that she had not meant to eavesdrop on Father Kuyper’s conversation with the recumbent Father Pierre in the latter’s bedroom that morning. She would have done better to stay well away. As it turned out, events were to be even more frightening than the visiting priest’s predictions.

She had been about to enter the room to take the old priest’s temperature when she heard the august visitor to the mission conversing with the invalid in an unhurried undertone. She paused in the half-open doorway. Father Kuyper was sitting by the side of the bed, talking as much to himself as to the elderly man lying there. Father Pierre’s eyes were closed and he was breathing regularly but shallowly.

Sister Conchita was concerned. As far as she could tell, from the occasional snatch of conversation she had caught, for the past few days the Dutch priest had been telling Father Pierre everything about the troubles forming like storm clouds outside the mission. Several times she had heard him discussing the unexplained killings in the district. How much of it Father Pierre was taking in, the nun could not be sure.

‘Difficult times, old friend,’ murmured Kuyper, his hand clasped over that of the veteran priest. ‘There are big changes in store. Pope John says he wants to open the windows of the church to allow in fresh air. Let us hope that he does not throw them open too wide and admit a tempest! They’re already forming commissions to prepare for the Second Vatican Council. How that will affect us in these islands, so far from the centre of things, heaven only knows – literally. One thing is certain, Father Pierre. Whatever happens at these meetings, the Catholic faith as we know it will never be the same again. We must guard the pass – if only we can ascertain where it is situated and with what weapons we have been issued.’

The bishop’s inspector looked up to see the nun hovering uncertainly in the doorway. His face betrayed no feeling, although Conchita suspected that he was disconcerted to have displayed such uncharacteristic vulnerability in his recently concluded monologue.

‘Come in, Sister,’ he said, rising, in control of his emotions again. ‘You have your duties to carry out. Don’t let me stop you.’

He walked out without looking back. Sister Conchita took the old priest’s temperature and smoothed his pillow before leaving. Father Kuyper was standing at the lounge window when she entered the room. ‘What is your diagnosis?’ he asked.

‘Father Pierre has a temperature and is tired, that’s all,’ said the nun.

‘I hope so,’ said Father Kuyper abstractedly, without turning round. ‘He’s not a young man any more.’

‘He’s fine,’ said Sister Conchita in a tone that brooked no contradiction. ‘He will soon be ready to resume charge of the mission again, I assure you, Father.’

Father Kuyper almost smiled at the spirited response. He was a slight, silent man in his forties, with a head of cropped yellow hair. He was not given to shows of emotion and maintained a watchful, almost disapproving air to those few aspects of the world that seemed to interest him. He was the principal of a small teacher-training college a few miles outside Honiara. Every six months, forty or fifty students would arrive from rural senior primary schools to undergo a rudimentary course intended to send them back to their home areas as unqualified grade-four teachers. Officially his educational establishment was called Bethlehem, but conditions there were so bleak that it was known as Bush College. Only Father Kuyper’s sheer determination and force of will had kept it struggling along for the past few years.

‘If you say so, Sister,’ he murmured, returning his attention to the compound. He seemed reluctant to leave his vantage point at the window, as if he was waiting for someone. Sister Conchita had noticed the priest operating the mission’s two-way radio on several occasions since his arrival.

‘This is getting out of hand,’ Kuyper said, staring out of the window at the rain sweeping across the ground. Several hundred islanders were huddling for shelter in makeshift windbreaks and hastily constructed canvas tents. Inside the mission house, women and children were camping in every available recess. The noise was indescribable. In the kitchen, half a dozen local sisters were working relentlessly around the clock to provide a steady supply of food for the hordes of visitors now descending in increasing numbers upon Ruvabi. Only this lounge, at Father Kuyper’s insistence, had been set aside as a final refuge for the staff of the mission.

‘We can hardly turn people away,’ said Sister Conchita, again speaking with more emphasis than she had intended. ‘They’ve come here to seek the protection of the church.’

‘They’ve come here because they’ve been scared by this spate of senseless killings,’ said the slight priest. ‘Perhaps that’s what the deaths are intended to do.’

‘Do you mean that someone is murdering people just to frighten everyone?’ asked the nun with a shudder. ‘That’s a horrible thought.’

‘It could be worse than that,’ said Father Kuyper, knocking the dottle out of his pipe on the lounge table. ‘Have you thought that this could be part of a plan to make your parishioners lose faith in the church itself? Indeed, could the murder of Papa Noah have been intended as some sort of a catalyst?’

For once Sister Conchita did not know what to say. In the few days he had been at the station, the bishop’s inspector had not conformed to her expectations in any way. For a start, the notoriously direct and energetic Father Kuyper had seemed distracted, as if his mind was on something else. Almost automatically he had collected in her housekeeping accounts and started to study the daily timetable of the mission, but his heart had not seemed to be in either investigation.