My Island Homicide (20 page)

Yenah flicked the
sweater
back over her shoulder. ‘Rosie.
E
been too long.'

Rosie? I never knew my mother had another name! I wasn't game to look at Mum's face, but a shiny trail coursed from each of Yenah's eyes and she sucked her lips into her mouth. They moved to each other and hugged, Mum towering over Yenah. My eyes and nose were streaming, but I didn't want to sniff or move. From the corner of my eye, I saw Jonah make a hand sign and we slipped away to give them a moment alone.

Chapter 34

We took the dogs for a swim at the beach while Mum and Yenah caught up. I was still feeling a bit wasted from my recently acquired lurgy so I sat on the sand while Jonah threw sticks for the dogs. I figured Mum would call me if she wanted us to come over.

Jonah defrosted some pesto and tossed it through the Barilla pasta, no other brand would do. As much as the pesto looked like slimy mould, it was delicious. I ate, thinking how lucky I was to be with Jonah. I was washing up and Jonah was leafing through a cookbook when Mum walked in a few hours later. She was smiling, her eyes red. She carried two enamel bowls, one on top of the other. ‘Lily says sorry. Here is your coconut curry whitefish. And rice.'

Jonah lifted the lid of one container and sniffed. ‘She didn't put any lemongrass in. I gave her a plant.'

‘Maybe she doesn't like it,' I said.

‘No-one could not like lemongrass. We can take this to work tomorrow for lunch, but I'll give you some lemongrass to stick in before you heat it up.'

‘He's like an old woman,' I said to Mum and she giggled. ‘So what happened?'

Before I could even offer Mum a cup of tea, she had started talking.

‘We were best friends and people called us the Flower Girls: Lily, Iris and Rosie. As I told you Iris finally had a baby, but she became unhappy. It was like she didn't want to be a mother because she couldn't go to dances and parties. I realise now it was post-natal depression, but this was the mid-sixties. No-one knew then.'

After Mum found Iris's husband with her niece, who was only 13, she and Yenah agonised over whether to tell Iris. Kaigus told them it was not their business.

‘Your father is such a practical man. He asked me, “What would you want Iris to do if she found me with your niece?
”
'

Mum decided she would want her best friend to be honest with her. So she told Iris, three days before she was due to move to Cairns. ‘Afterwards, she became very formal. She thanked me for being honest and said she had to go. And that was the last time I saw her.' Mum held out her hands as if lost. ‘She wrote a letter to her sister and put the letter at the bottom of Coral's nappy bag. Iris asked her sister to look after Coral while she went shopping. Then Iris went home and hung herself and her husband found her when he got home later that day.'

Jonah and I looked at each other in horror. I turned to Mum and she was wiping her eyes.

‘What was in the letter?' I asked.

‘About what her husband had done to the young girl, that she wanted her sister to raise her daughter so her husband couldn't do it to her, that she was a terrible mother and couldn't stop the black in her mind.'

‘Why didn't you talk to Yenah?'

‘When I found out about Iris I could hardly breathe. I blamed myself. I thought Lily wouldn't want to talk to me because it was all my fault. I couldn't deal with it. We left before the funeral.' She had an expression of benign resignation. ‘It became bigger than me and, of course, it was my fault. She wouldn't have killed herself if I hadn't told her. I tried to forget about Iris and pretend she'd just gone away. And it was easier to forget because I was in Cairns. I was looking after the boys and you and any spare time I spent studying or working and not thinking about Iris or Lily.' She let out a great sigh. ‘But Lily doesn't blame me and Iris's niece was safe after that. Lily and I have a lot to catch up on. I'm going over for breakfast so I'd better go to bed.' She kissed each of us on our foreheads. ‘It's so good to be home.'

The next night we were all back at Yenah's for dinner. Jonah had made a chicken curry complete with a great knot of lemongrass leaves that made my eyes water whenever he lifted the lid off the pot. Mum and Yenah refused to eat it, claiming real curry shouldn't contain lemongrass. They had made tinned meat stew with diamond-shaped scones fried to the colour of the setting sun. It smelled heavenly. Jonah had gone
overmark
with the lemongrass in his curry, which I felt obliged to eat. I would have preferred tinned meat stew and the crunchy-skinned golden scones, dipped into the salty soup
.

Dinner with the girls was like attending a theatre restaurant. They screeched and laughed, switching between Broken English, traditional language and English without warning. I had trouble following them. They mentioned names I'd never heard of and told anecdotes that had them both in stitches. Jonah and I left at nine when they started talking about their hospital days and the topic of bedpans came up.

Within a week of arriving, Mum acquired a selection of island dresses. Gone were the tailored clothes I was used to seeing. She took to wearing a frangipani or hibiscus in her hair and painting her nails in a vivid red lacquer. I would have been worried that she was having a late-life crisis, except she spent most of her time laughing with Yenah.

She slipped easily into our lives and spent most of her time at Yenah's. She was ‘Mum' to me and ‘Aunty' to Jonah. To Yenah she was ‘Rosie' or ‘Sissy', and Yenah was ‘Lily' or ‘Sissy'. Jonah was ‘Kibbim' or ‘my boy' to Mum and Yenah. I was ‘Thea' to Mum when she wasn't growling at me or ‘Ebithea' when she was. Yenah always called me ‘my
gel
'. It took me a fortnight to work this out and another fortnight to accept it without thinking. A couple of nights each week, Jonah and I ate with ‘the girls', which is what they were: young girls in old women's bodies, catching up on a lifetime of lost laughter, gossip and serious yarning. They went walking in the afternoons, attended Home and Community Care meetings with other aged people and tidied Iris's grave each week, covering it with hibiscus and frangipani.

I had no dramas with Mum except the time she was looking for the marinated goat feta and a meat with an unpronounceable name. I finally remembered shoving packets of stuff in the freezer because there had been no room in the fridge. She rolled her eyes as I handed her the frozen parcels. ‘You've got the tastebuds of a truck driver,' she said.

The week after Mum arrived, Sissy and Phoebe and her brothers were desexed. The ‘surgery' was a dining table on the back porch of the nurses' group share accommodation. Kelly's sister was the vet and the assistants were Kelly and two medical students. Jonah stayed with the animals while they were operated on. He returned with a drugged and limp Sissy who I laid on towels in the lounge so I could keep an eye on her. When Jonah walked in from dropping Pheobe and her brothers back to Yenah and Mum, he was holding an enamel bowl and smiling.

‘Mum made
zura
for us. She said you'll like the trevally head better than the mackerel.' I suddenly felt drugged.

This virus was hanging around and I felt like I'd been anaesthetised. It wasn't bad enough to stop me doing too much, but I had fallen into a mild physical funk. I thought it might have been glandular fever, which, according to a Google search, I'd need to ride out for eight to ten weeks. Or maybe it was low iron levels, but I kept forgetting to buy iron tablets.

Mum's last night rolled around. I got home from work while Jonah was making a dry deer curry for dinner. Jonah's cousin Emerson, the one who lives on P.O.W., had gone bow-hunting and shot a five-pointer, a stag with five points on each antler. It was a large beast, which is why the cuts were shared out. Jonah had the whole kit and caboodle of spices set out on the bench and was adding them at different stages. When the curry was finished, we carried it over to Yenah's place. Yenah and Mum had cooked the rice and made fried scones.

Jonah sized up the fried scone. ‘Mum, I said you don't need fried scone with this curry.'

‘
Mas
have fried scone with curry.'

Jonah shook his head.

Yenah dipped her finger into the sauce to taste it. ‘Pah. You didn't use Keen's curry powder,' she said.

‘No. It's a real curry and Indians never use Keen's.'

‘Not proper island curry. Lucky I been make them scone. And lucky you been leave out the lemongrass.'

We all laughed and then sat down to eat. Jonah said he really enjoyed Mum's visit and hoped she'd come again soon.

‘I'll really miss you, Mum.'

‘No, you won't,' she said and the girls grinned at each other. ‘I'm packing up and coming back after a fortnight. I'll be doing some tutoring at James Cook Uni.'

‘But, Mum, what about Dad?'

‘He's very happy for me and says he can always visit.' More chuckling from the girls. ‘I've wanted to come back for a long time and you being here has made me do something about it.'

‘You can stay with us,' said Jonah and he looked at me. ‘Can't she?'

‘Thank you,' said Mum, ‘but I'll get a rental subsidy and rent a room from Sissy here.' They shrieked with laughter. ‘She'll be my landlord.'

Later, I rang Dad, not sure how he was taking the news.

‘I've been telling her to go for years, ever since your grandfather died. This is no surprise. Besides, I'd love to visit for Christmas.'

Chapter 35

Jack came into my office with a charge sheet. ‘Take a look. Organised crime.'

Zavier Kulya Westlake was charged with stealing a waterproof digital camera valued at 1,199 dollars from the manager of the Department of Communities. Zavier was 20 and already had a healthy criminal history packed with assaults and was on a suspended sentence for a serious assault.

A criminal history can tell you a lot about an offender. Some histories show repeat offending relating to drugs, which might develop into the supply or trafficking of drugs. Crim histories full of assaults suggest offenders with anger issues. Traffic offences like drink driving, not holding a driver's licence and using a mobile phone while driving indicate that some people believe they are smarter than the law.

So when I considered Zavier's criminal history it seemed unnatural that, after three and a half years of beating the crap out of people, he would start stealing. He didn't steal money to buy alcohol or ganja and he didn't steal from someone known to him, like his employer, well, he didn't have one. Nor did he use violence during the theft. He stole, sorry,
allegedly
stole the camera from the home of someone who was likely to have expensive possessions – a European departmental manager.

I had a sneaking suspicion that Zavier hadn't developed a sudden interest in marine photography. Zavier participated in interviews, making full admissions. Those alarm bells rang, the same ones that rang when I looked at Jack's files about the rise in stolen property offences.

‘We need to leak this one to Arthur Garipati,' said Jack.

‘The Chief Mamoose who writes to the
Torres News
?'

‘That's right, the man of letters.'

‘Come to think of it,' I said, ‘he's been quiet these last few months.'

‘That's only because his wife went down south for an operation. You know, if he got off his bum and did something useful, he could find ways to keep these young guys out of court.'

‘Jack, I think the thing about the Arthur Garipatis of the world is that they don't want to work. Blaming other people is much easier.'

‘I suppose. Anyway, his wife's away so he won't be doing anything, except playing pokies. I've seen his car outside the Royal a lot lately.' He clapped his hands. ‘What do you think about Zavier's file?'

‘Yes. Zavier's on a suspended sentence so if he pleads guilty, he'll be jailed. Talk to the legal service lawyer. If Zavier gives us the name of the person he is stealing for, we'll drop the stealing to possession of tainted property and we won't ask the magistrate for a jail sentence.'

‘On the mark, Thea. You're thinking outside the circle.' He winked.

‘For the record, Jack, it's a box.'

‘I never said anything about a box.'

‘You think outside the box, not outside the circle.'

‘Does it matter whether it's a box or a circle, as long as it's a shape?'

‘Well, a circle is two-dimensional and a box is . . . oh, forget it, Jack.'

The inquest into Melissa's death was held in late August, following court week. The coroner examined witness statements and the autopsy and toxicology reports to make a decision as to Melissa's cause of death. It was uneventful and lacked the excitement and suspense of the screen versions.

A fortnight later, the coroner's report landed on my desk and the cause of Melissa's death was no surprise – ‘blood loss from the severance of the carotid artery by a person or persons unknown'. A death certificate could now be issued. Another piece fitted in the giant jigsaw of Robby's grief.

In September cultural festival fever gripped TI. It's a week of festivities where Islanders descend on TI to showcase their culture through dance, storytelling, and spear-making workshops and lots of
kai kai
. Shopfronts and government department offices were decorated with palm fronds and cuttings from cordyline and hibiscus bushes. Women wore blossoms in their hair and even leis made of fabric flowers. Salome took me to Anzac Park for a squiz. It was filled with women wearing their best island dresses and men in island shirts. A small group of women had gathered in the shade and were singing island hymns. Two men were admiring a spear, just like Jonah's night spearing one. Stalls were adorned with woven palm fronds and hibiscus and frangipani. Children were swarming over the playground equipment.

The festival program, an A4 sheet of colourful paper, must have been printed by the thousand, many of which had been dropped or discarded and were being whipped around the park and main street in the strong wind. I gathered some and took them to the station.

‘Don't go down till six or seven,' said Lency. ‘Remember TI Time,
wat
.'

On the first night of the festival, while Jonah and I were getting ready to head down, I became aware of a gentle vibration, almost inaudible.

‘Jonah, listen. What's that?'

‘The
warup
, drums from the park.'

I shivered with goosebumps. I hadn't seen island dancing for maybe ten years, since the opening of an Indigenous gallery in Brisbane that featured Aboriginal and Islander performances. Nothing could beat watching Torres Strait Islanders dancing on home turf.

The streets were packed with cars, so we walked the two blocks to the park. Even though it wasn't far, I started struggling for breath halfway there.

‘
Gabadan
,' said Jonah, taking my hand. ‘Slow down.' I stopped for a moment. The drum beats filled me with a warm rhythm and I let that rhythm carry me the rest of the way to the park.

We stood at the back of a horde of standing viewers to watch the dancing. The performance was sublime. A troupe of male dancers was wearing traditional blue sarongs with crocheted edges,
lava lavas
, and traditional
dari,
headdresses. They moved with the deep thud of the drum, with each other, as one. It was mesmerising, the fluid movement, the drum, the mournful solo song and the click, click, click of a woman tapping a stick on a piece of bamboo. I was spellbound and found myself tapping my foot and slapping my hand to my thigh. Each time the singing reached a piercing crescendo, I broke out in goosebumps again. It was like the whole performance had taken hold of my soul. The song ended and silence followed. The dancers relaxed, hands on hips and started chatting. A few moments later, the click, click, click preceded the drum beats and another dance began.

I studied the performers, their lean dark bodies, their muscles flexing with each movement. An old man wearing a white singlet sat on the ground, cross-legged, facing the dancers. A massive wooden drum painted red and pale blue rested on his lap and extended onto the lap of the woman sitting next to him. He gazed at the grass as he banged the skin, his head moving slightly with each beat, like he was in a trance. The woman was tapping the bamboo and singing, a long sad tune that somehow chiselled into my heart and made me want to cry.

‘What is she singing about?' I asked Jonah.

‘I dunno. I don't know traditional language.'

The drummer made a series of long, loud beats and the dancers filed off. Jonah was keen to grab some dinner, but I insisted on staying to watch more dancing.

‘I hungry,' said Jonah ages later. ‘Let's
kai kai
.'

We wandered through the crowd. There was everything you could imagine to eat – chicken
simur
, beef curry, goat curry, beef and vegetables, sweet and sour fish, and
sop sop
– all served in Chinese takeaway containers with plastic forks wrapped in white paper serviettes.

Jonah and I shared
simur
and a goat curry while watching a group of ladies dance. They wore matching green and pink island dresses and white cloths,
mak mak
, tied around their ankles. Their movements were softer and less energetic than the men's. A fat barefoot woman in a T-shirt broke from the crowd pushing a children's stroller complete with a strapped-in teddy bear and marched like a tin soldier in front of the dancers. The crowd roared with laughter, which made the woman, the court jester, it seemed, exaggerate her movements and the crowd roared louder again.

We bought cups of tea and chocolate muffins and managed to find a patch of grass to sit on and watch more dancing.

The Saibai dancers were phenomenal with their fast, aggressive moves and leaps into the air. They wore headdresses with long, flowing black cassowary feathers
.
They held traditionally made bows and arrows and each time they spun around, aiming the arrows, I stiffened and stepped back, thinking I was about to be speared. It wasn't just dancing, it was a performance. They danced for nearly half an hour, sweat streaming down their bare chests. When they paused between songs, they were gasping for breath. I was too.

Jonah and I went down to the festival for a couple of hours for the next two nights. On our last night, while we were sipping tea following a chicken curry dinner, the singing and drumming were shattered by high-pitched screaming from the playground. A hundred children ran in all directions, the music ceased, parents snatched their children by their arms and dragged them off while two dogs fought, turning in circles like a Ferris wheel. A man grabbed a plastic chair and began to whack the dogs until they finally separated and skulked off. One of them was the black and white dog that chased cars in the main street. Within moments, the children were back in the playground, laughing and playing and the dogs were sitting on the footpath, apparently at peace with each other. I chuckled to myself, thinking all things are possible with children and stray dogs.

During the September court week, among the usual matters, I NETOed the assault complaint by Mr and Mrs Tamala against Danny Soto. ‘No evidence to offer', or NETO, is a submission by the prosecution that the prosecution doesn't have sufficient evidence
to proceed. The history was that the Tamalas refused to attend the mediation the court ordered in April, and the magistrate, concerned about the delay, set the matter for a hearing. Danny's legal service lawyer had sent me a letter advising 13 witnesses had given evidence saying Mr Tamala had abused Danny numerous times in public about his misuse of
maydh.
I realised the charge wouldn't stick. After the matter was NETOed Danny was a free man and the Tamalas were an angry couple. The following week, I caught sight of Mr Tamala, through the one-way glass in my office, haranguing Lency. I went to rescue her.

‘This is very upsetting for my wife and me because that boy is in the wrong.'

‘The reason—' I said.

‘Don't you talk to me. You don't know your job. I am going to complain to the commissioner. I know my rights.'

I grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote the address for the Ethical Standards Unit. ‘There you go.'

He snatched it and stormed out. There was one loaf of Aunty Doreen's Best Ever Damper. I took it and returned to deposit ten dollars in the jar and slip it under the counter. Dinner for Jonah and me.

Also in the September court week, Dave Garland's lawyer flew from Cairns to agree that the fraud matter should go to trial in the District Court though, of course, Dave would defend the charges. It was an admission that there was enough evidence to establish a reasonable case. The prosecution delivered a mountain of paperwork to Dave's lawyer on the murder charge against Dave and the magistrate set it down for a committal proceeding in November.