‘Vinaka, sir, this will be a change of scene for me. Looking forward to it. I’ll start on background computer work now.’
Again, the super’s mouth turned up at one corner. ‘Just before I go, I haven’t forgotten you go on recreation leave next Friday. I suppose your visitor from the US is still coming?’
‘Io, sir.’ He felt helpless. Melissa would land in the middle of a round-the-clock murder investigation.
‘Let’s pray this one’s straightforward, then. I’ll do what I can to enlarge your team. However, you’re aware all leave is cancelled for IOs in serious crimes like this.’
‘Io, sir.’ What an incentive!
***
How could this work? He’d been trying to get Melissa to Fiji ever since he’d left Portland, Oregon, over four months ago. She’d be here in just five days. He hoped their reunion would lead to something, maybe even a decision about their future together. But now?
This murderer had cheated him, snatched his hope away. Hardly likely that they’d crack the case before Friday! But it was possible; he’d cling to that small chance and make it his private deadline.
He had to be rational though. It might be better to postpone Melissa’s trip until this case was solved. But his job was unpredictable. This very situation could happen again next time. He had to talk it over with her, and now. Sunday at six o’clock in Fiji was eleven on Saturday night in Portland, Oregon. He texted her two words: ‘News. Skype?’ He set up his laptop, logged in to Skype, and waited. Within a few minutes, the computer pinged and she was there, a towel round her neck, her short hair wet, her mouth and eyes smiling.
‘Ciao, Joe, can’t see you yet. Ah, here you come now. As you can see, I was in the shower when you texted. I sure could use some Fiji sun! What’s your news, honey?’ She rubbed her hair, put the towel aside.
‘A murder up in the hills today, a few hours’ drive from Suva. I’m IO, heading the enquiry. I’m going up first thing tomorrow. No clue at this stage. It could complicate our plans for your trip. Quite easily, actually.’
Melissa’s happy smile vanished. ‘Sure, I can see that. What are you thinking?’
‘Darling, I want you to come on Friday. I just need you to be prepared. If we haven’t arrested the killer before then, I won’t have any choice but to be working flat out on this case. My leave will be cancelled.’
She gazed at him, her blue eyes thoughtful. ‘Do you think I should postpone my trip? It shouldn’t be a problem at the hospital. I bought the flexible ticket, cancelling and rebooking will cost me zilch.’
The scatter of freckles over her nose and cheeks made him want to kiss her. He sighed. ‘I don’t know. The trouble is, a detective’s caseload is unpredictable. If you postpone, it could easily be the same scenario later.’
‘Oh no, I might never get there! You know what? Let’s hope for the best, not decide yet. Who knows, you might go up to the hills tomorrow morning and return with the culprit in cuffs by dinner!’ She smiled.
Positive thinking never did any harm. ‘Let’s talk again Monday evening when I get back to Suva—your Sunday night. But it could be too late for you, darling, maybe even after midnight.’
‘No, just call when you can. I’ll stay up. I won’t be able to sleep.’
’Okay, I will. Got anything planned tomorrow?’
‘Lunch with the folks. Maybe a walk with Dad later. He’s gotten inactive the last few years, I want to encourage him.’
‘Good. Give your family my greetings. Go easy on your father.’
‘Good luck with your case, you gotta wrap this one up quick, honey!’
‘Believe me, I’ll do my best. But we’ll make your trip work, Melissa, whatever happens. See you tomorrow.’
‘Sure, honey. Can’t wait. Sweet dreams!’
As she clicked off, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a worried frown replacing her smile.
MONDAY
3
The road inland from Nausori skirted the broad Rewa River and a bright patchwork of traditional root crops and fruit trees. To meet the demands of the growing number of tourists, enterprising farmers now grew previously unknown crops: lettuce, bok choy, capsicum, all shapes and sizes of tomato, and more.
‘It’s a picture, sir, isn’t it?’ Detective Constable Tanielo Musudroka gazed at the flourishing farmlands from the Land Cruiser’s front passenger seat.
‘It sure is,’ agreed Horseman. ‘You’ve not been along this road before?’
‘Never had call to. I’ve heard about it, though. The farmers around my place near Ba say how good the ground is here, how easy the farmers have it.’
‘A lot of hard labour goes into this pretty picture, too. Speaking of pictures, what do you make of the photos of the victim?’
‘Strange, sir.’ Musudroka took the A4 prints from the envelope on his lap and looked at them again. ‘He’s flat out, arms outstretched, his head towards the cross at the front of the church. It’s kinda like a crucifixion position.’
He shuffled the pictures. ‘In this one, I can see matted blood in his hair, so probably a head injury, but no cuts and bruises to his limbs. The mat he’s lying on looks straight and clean, not like there’s been a fight.’
‘Io, he must have been taken by surprise and the first blow knocked him out, if not killed him. Dr Tavua said that there was hardly any blood, so it seems he was killed somewhere else and brought to the church, deliberately arranged like that. It might be a crucifixion position or possibly a submission position.’
Musudroka was silent for a bit. ‘What does that tell us, sir?’
‘Good question, Tani. It tells us that the murderer didn’t want to hide his crime. He wanted to display it, while keeping his own identity secret. He’s arrogant, and is probably among the villagers right now, acting shocked and grieving and enjoying his anonymity. He also wants to make a pronouncement. If the victim is presented as being crucified, then presumably the victim is the sacrifice, but for what?’
‘And if it’s submission?’ Musudroka asked.
‘That could mean the murderer is making the victim submit, maybe he saw him as a sinner who needed to be brought back to God. But what was Viliame’s sin?’
‘And who thinks he’s God, judging and punishing?’
‘Excellent question, Tani. You’ll make a detective yet! Remember, those who like to act as judge, jury, and especially executioner rarely have any respect for the police. When we visit the village, we’re likely to meet natural resistance that more isolated people always have to uninvited authorities. If the murderer’s still there, he will not only try to outwit us, but he could amuse himself by turning the community against us.’
Musudroka looked alarmed. ‘I’m used to people wanting to keep their business to themselves, but…’
‘But this is different, Tanielo. A murderer who goes to a lot of trouble to display his handiwork in public, especially in a church, is different from one who hides his victim’s body. This one will delight in discrediting the police, possibly by showing us up as fools or as crooked. We need to be extra careful to do everything by the book, and to show courtesy to everyone we speak to.’
‘Of course, sir. Goes without saying.’ Musudroka sounded a bit offended.
Horseman turned left onto a winding gravel road which climbed steadily. The commercial farms gave way to smaller plantations providing subsistence for the villagers who owned and worked them. Here and there were cleared paddocks, where brown cattle grazed the rough tussocks, constantly swishing tails and shrugging skin to rid themselves of biting insects.
They could hardly miss the final turn-off. This steeper track was deeply rutted where the gravel had been washed away. They were in the highlands now. The villages and plantations were smaller and further apart, the forested patches larger and lusher. Horseman slowed as two men on horseback approached, leading two pack horses laden with bulging sacks, bunches of bananas, and nets of root crops. The officers returned the men’s friendly waves and shouts
of ‘Bula, bula.’
Horseman idly wondered if the horses were descendants of the horse shipwrecked with his own ancestor in the early 1800s. That horse, the first in Fiji, had saved his ancestor’s life when a chief instantly set his heart on the beautiful beast. Never having clapped eyes on an animal bigger than a pig, the chief had no idea how to handle the horse, so Horseman’s ancestor was saved from the ovens, became the chief’s groom, and lived to found a lineage. The ancestor became known as ‘horse-man’ by the Fijians, and the name was passed down through the generations.
‘What’s that dark green crop—the bushes over there?’ Musudroka suddenly asked, disturbing Horseman’s reverie. He pointed to an orderly plantation of small, dark trees stretching up the slope.
‘Coffee Arabica bushes. They only do well at this height and higher. The best coffee in the world. Well, maybe just a bit behind Colombian. Fiji’s isolated from diseases that periodically strike the large suppliers and raise the price. We don’t have the volume yet to supply the major buyers, but the single-source coffee merchants want our beans, and pay top prices.’
‘What are you talking about, sir? You’re a walking encyclopaedia.’
Horseman chuckled. ‘No, Tani, just a coffee obsessive and a patriotic one, too.’
‘I don’t even like coffee. Give me a good, sweet cup of tea any day.’
‘Ah, that’s because you’ve never smelled and tasted the good stuff. I’ll have to educate you about coffee at the Arabica in Suva.’
Horseman was now forced to slow right down as the gravel disappeared into red clay mounded into even deeper ruts. These were a challenge even for the Land Cruiser, which often lurched, shaking the two men. The forest was thick and tall in the gullies now; mahogany trees festooned with epiphytes, the giant gingers drooping under the weight of their heavy red or creamy flowers. The track curved and descended into the misty forest. Horseman switched on the headlights. They heard the tumbling river again, and around the next bend a barrier of logs showed up in the headlights. A hand-painted sign instructed ‘No Vehicles Beyond This Point—Pedestrians Only’ in Fijian and English. Beyond the barrier was a timber footbridge. In a cleared area of muddy grass to the left stood a battered red truck, a couple of old bikes and a quite new-looking cream twin-cab utility vehicle. A few wheelbarrows were upended near the car park entrance.
‘This is the car park the super mentioned. Literally the end of the road.’
‘Tanoa’s a funny name, isn’t it? A yaqona bowl?’
Horseman shrugged. ‘I don’t know how the name came about. Maybe it was the landscape. We’re surrounded by hills, could be like the bottom of a tanoa.’
Mist shrouded the river, thinning as it rose to the hilltops. The hazy river bank opposite curved to the point where the bridge crossed.
To the right stood clusters of houses and a church. Further up the slope was a terrace with a school and a grassed rectangle with bamboo posts at either end. This would be the rara, the ceremonial space that in small villages doubled as a rugby field, both functions equally vital. Here and there were washing lines and small sheds. At the beach below the bridge, women washed clothes, slapping them rhythmically on the smooth river stones. Others tended fish traps, watched closely by a couple of thin dogs. A typical backblocks village—picturesque, placid, dull. But this one harboured an unusual and dangerous killer.
To the left of the bridge, the land rose steeply to a high outcrop of rock, a near-vertical cliff. The stone at the top had been shaped, maybe boulders hauled up to increase the height. Horseman recognised the ruins of a precolonial hill fort. His hackles rose as he gazed through the mists of time at bloody battle scenes. Rough battlements would have protected the Tanoa defenders hurling spears, shooting arrows, throwing missiles with deadly accuracy. What better site to spot attackers from down river? What better site from which to repel them?
***
A middle-aged man strode forward to meet them as they crossed the bridge. He wore a short-sleeved blue shirt and pocket sulu, the formal version of the simple wraparound cloth worn in villages by both sexes. Horseman presented his police ID, introduced himself and Musudroka.
‘Bula vinaka, officer. You’re welcome. Of course, it’s a pleasure to meet our rugby legend. I am Joni Tora, the Methodist pastor here. It was I who discovered our brother Viliame dead in our church yesterday morning. I can still hardly believe what has happened. Such evil, here, where life is so peaceful.’
‘Vinaka vakalevu, Pastor Joni. We are very sorry you have lost one of your precious young men and apologise for intruding on your grief. It is clear that Viliame was murdered, so it is good that we find his killer. I’m afraid you will have to put up with a team of police troubling you until we do.’
‘I understand, and so will Viliame’s family. It is God’s work you’re doing here. Our chief is not here in the village today, but his headman, Ilai, is here. Come along to my house and have some refreshments. You must be tired after your long drive. Have you really come from Suva this morning? You must have left very early.’
Most of the houses were built of traditional plastered reed walls and palm thatch, others with painted weatherboards and corrugated iron. As they walked along, the sun broke through the oppressive cloud cover, cheering the scene. A minute later, women hauled rolled pandanus mats out of the houses and spread them on convenient hibiscus bushes.
‘Ah, sunning the mats—such a pleasant sight,’ Horseman said.
‘And a job that’s never done,’ the pastor replied. ‘It’s often cloudy here in the hills. The women are constantly alert for the sunshine and act immediately.’
Pastor Joni led them past the white-painted church to the house next door, larger, more elevated, and more recently painted than the others. Bright green with a red door and window frames. ‘Welcome to my humble home, officers. Please take a seat at our table. My wife, Mere.’
Horseman and Musudroka shook hands with Mere, a small plump-faced woman with a beaming smile. ‘Mere is a huge rugby fan,’ Pastor Joni explained.
They sat at the table, already covered with a yellow plastic cloth and set with glasses of water, teacups and saucers, a jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar. Mere brought a large aluminium teapot to the table and poured tea, then brought sandwiches and a basket of scones wrapped in a checked tea towel.
‘You know exactly what we need Mrs Tora. We should be in top form after this wonderful morning tea.’ Horseman dutifully ate a few tinned meat and tinned fish sandwiches and drank a cup of tea while eyeing the scones. Mere unwrapped the bundle, releasing the comforting aroma into the air.
‘Do take a few, Inspector Horseman. We have butter, too.’ She fetched a tin of butter from the open-shelved pantry and passed it to her husband who reached a knife from his sulu pocket and opened the tin. Horseman did not want to eat into his hosts’ tinned supplies, but the tin was open now and scones were definitely better with butter. So he cut a scone in two, spread each half sparingly with butter while Mere poured him another cup of tea. Musudroka followed his example.
Suddenly Mere jumped up again. ‘Silly me, I forgot the jam! Banana and passionfruit, I only made it last month.’ She stood on a stool to lift a jar from the top shelf and set it on the table with a flourish. ‘The passionfruit does give it a nice tang, if I say so myself.’
‘Mere is a champion jam-maker, officer. This one is extra special,’ the pastor said. They each had another scone, this time with Mere’s jam.
Horseman never liked to rush village people, who considered haste very rude. However, it was time to be about their duties. ‘Pastor Joni, can you tell me about your discovery of Viliame in the church yesterday?’
The pastor sipped his tea before he spoke. ‘Io, I went across well before nine o’clock, when Sunday school starts, to get things ready. It must have been around half past eight. I went first to the windows, opened a few wooden shutters and the light flooded in. I glanced around and immediately saw poor Vili, lying face down on the mat
s, arms outstretched. For a moment I thought he might be praying, although it is not our custom to prostrate ourselves in church, but still… then I noticed how still he was, then the blood on his hair.’
‘Did you touch him, Pastor?’ Horseman asked.
‘Io, I got down on my knees and felt for a pulse in his neck. I raised his shoulder and felt for a heartbeat. His skin was a bit cool. I’m no expert, but he seemed dead to me and by another’s hand.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I went to his house, broke the news to his parents, and brought them here. Then I rang the bell outside to gather everyone so I could tell them myself. Fortunately, one of the Sunday school teachers, Tomasi, is a retired policeman. I handed over to him and he did a great job of controlling the church. He even took photographs. He asked Naca to go to the police post in his truck and bring the constable back here.’
‘How are Vili’s parents now?’
‘They’re grieving and still shocked. Either Tomasi or I were always with them in the church. I cancelled Sunday school. We still had Sunday service at half past ten, but we held it in the school shelter shed. Vili’s parents attended. Afterwards, they and their younger children joined my family here for lunch, then they went home to rest.’
‘Vinaka, Pastor Joni. You and Tomasi have shown great sense and done all that you could. What can you tell me about Vili?’
‘Ah, Vili, he can’t be replaced. A delightful boy. Great potential, I believed. He’s with God now.’ The pastor bowed his head for a few moments, then finished his cup of tea. Musudroka helped himself to another scone. Horseman frowned at him.
Pastor Joni started speaking again. ‘You can see how it is here—we’re at the end of the road, far from the bustle and crowds of the coast and the main valley. It seems too cut off for our children. They don’t do particularly well at school, very few go away to high school. Even children who are bright enough are shy, a bit scared of boarding school. They’d rather stay here and farm, or get their drivers’ licence and drive a truck or a bus. Some of them get jobs at resorts, both boys and girls. But because they haven’t got much education, their jobs don’t bring in much money, so little comes back to the village. No one here minds, but there’s not much money here, never mind that everyone works hard.
Death by Tradition: Fiji Islands Mysteries 2 Page 2
