DEATH ON PARADISE ISLAND: Fiji Islands Mysteries 1

by B. M. Allsopp

  ‘Has Dr Chakra reported on his examination, sir?’

  ‘All in the file, Joe, all in the file. When you get back report to Suva station. Superintendent Navala there will keep me informed. Where’s your luggage?’

  ‘In my cousin’s twin-cab, with my family.’ Horseman answered grimly. ‘I’ll retrieve it and stow it somewhere until I get back.’

  ‘Do that—you won’t need much. Hope you’ve got a bula shirt. I hear they’re compulsory at the resorts!’ The DC chuckled at his joke. In fact, the bula shirt, Fiji’s abstract version of the Hawaiian shirt, was as popular with the locals as with visitors.

  The DC continued. ‘Well, the least I can do is explain things to your dear mother. She was my big sister’s best friend at school, you know. Least I can do, eh, Detective Inspector? I’m still in time for the ten thirty service up at Central Methodist.’ Gracious in victory, the big man picked up his well-thumbed black Bible and ushered his new Detective Inspector out.

  2

  TO VULA LAGOON

  Horseman sat slumped beside Constable Peni Dau. The car cleared the urban fringe villages of Suva and picked up speed along the Queen’s Road. Horseman was hardly aware of the passing scenery, a blur of green and dazzling blue beyond. He’d imagined he would be craning his neck, eagerly imbibing the glittering light, the colours, the earthy smells of his land. But now he was here, he didn’t care. He hadn’t done a single thing of his own volition since he’d got off the plane. He’d been transported, escorted, promoted, refused, assigned and packed off. So far, his return to his islands had brought only disappointment and much wasted effort to those who had wanted him back so much—his family.

  He raised his hand to acknowledge the customary waves of the pedestrians they passed: single men, family groups, small bands of young people, all scrubbed and clad in Sunday best. They carried their Bibles. Some were sheltered by umbrellas, others went bareheaded in the merciless sun. They smiled and waved when they were enveloped in dust by an unknown police car on their way to church. Not for nothing were Fijians awarded the title of ‘the friendliest people in the world’ by the tourism industry’s public relations writers. Horseman thought they might well be the most put upon.

  ‘Like some Fiji bananas, sir?’ the driver asked, pointing ahead. Here the road skirted a beach, its white sand bisected by a band of flotsam: seaweed, fronds, bits of wood, coconut husks, scraps of nets, bottles, food and indestructible foil snack packets. A couple of dogs and a small pig were picking through it. The sharp tang of sea underlain by earthy decay pricked Horseman’s senses.

  ‘Why not? This stall’s been here ever since I can remember.’

  The constable bought a couple of ripe hands from the makeshift stall and returned to the car.

  ‘Like to have a few now, sir?’

  Horseman remembered he hadn’t eaten since the previous night on the plane. He got out of the car and the two men ate their bananas in silence on the tussocky grass at the edge of the beach, their faces to the breeze that always blew here. Despite their size and cosmetic perfection, American bananas lacked the intense sugariness of the short, slender Fijian ones with black-blotched skins. He ate another, then another. He started to feel better.

  Shattered cartilage and bone had changed his life. Just for a year or two. Medical science was unbelievable these days. He didn’t know when, but he was sure he’d be back on the rugby field before too long. Now he had to focus on his CID work, and his unlooked-for promotion gave him a challenge. Stop resenting the routine and procedural frustrations and put his heart into it. One of the secrets of his rugby success was that he played any first round game as if it was the grand final. Psyched himself into it. He’d do the same now. He would investigate the resort maid’s death as if it were the death of the President himself. He didn’t know who she was yet, but he knew she deserved that.

  Constable Dau parked on the roadway adjacent to the riverbank landing stage. Horseman got out and walked along the bank but couldn’t spot anyone who might be Detective Sergeant Singh amid the bustle of the landing. However, he could now identify the sleek white Paradise Island launch rounding the bend in the creek. The boats were already two deep at the landing. This could be interesting. At least he could get his bag and be ready.

  When he turned back to his car, he saw a slim Indian woman talking to his driver. She wore grey cotton trousers, short sleeved yellow blouse, sandals. Black hair scraped smoothly into a tight bun. He smiled to himself. What would his mentors in Portland say if they had caught him making gender-based assumptions? Quite rightly, they would say he had taken a shortcut, not considered all the possibilities, and therefore neglected a fruitful and ultimately correct line of enquiry. Hadn’t the DC told him to keep an open mind? He went up to her, held out his hand and spoke in English.

  ‘Good morning, I think you might be Detective Sergeant Singh. I’m Joe Horseman.’ The woman nodded formally and shook his hand briefly. She looked seriously at him from behind large sunglasses.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I’ve got a crime kit bag for each of us.’

  ‘Thanks. The Paradise boat’s just come in so let’s get going. We’ll go through the file together during the crossing.’ He turned to Constable Dau. ‘What are your orders, Peni?’

  ‘Back to the station, sir. I’ll bring your bags down to the landing first.’

  Horseman smiled. ‘No need. By the way, thanks for the bananas. Just what I needed.’

  At the bottom of the landing steps the Paradise deckhand, spruce in turquoise polo shirt and navy shorts, was waiting for the two detectives. The launch was berthed midstream, tied alongside two fishing boats.

  ‘Bula, bula Ovisa. I’m Maika. We shouldn’t be rafted up to other boats, we’ll push off right now. Come this way, please.’ They clambered across the sterns of the fishing boats, took the skipper’s outstretched hand and hauled themselves up to the launch deck. Horseman was annoyed to realise that he needed the support. They introduced themselves to the skipper.

  ‘I’m Jona. Oi le, I had no idea I was bringing Josefa Horseman to Vula Island—or Paradise, we call it now! What a privilege to meet you, sir. But the circumstances are tragic, tragic.’ The flesh of Jona’s dark face hung slackly from his bones.

  ‘We’re here to investigate what happened, Jona.’

  ‘Io, sir. But why the police should be so concerned with a tragic accident, I don’t know.’

  ‘Why do you think it was an accident, Jona?’

  The skipper shook his head slowly. ‘Akanisi’s body was found on the fringing coral reef at low tide. She must have drowned when the water was higher. There’s no other explanation. Please take a seat while we cast off.’

  It would be impossible to discuss the case on the trip. Although they were the only passengers, Jona was skippering from an auxiliary wheel in the cabin, so privacy was impossible. As the twin outboard motors roared to life, Horseman smiled at his sergeant and shrugged. He took the file out of his bag, sat down and started to read. Taking his cue, Sergeant Singh retrieved a purple plastic file from her backpack and followed his example.

  Horseman’s file held the transcription of the manager’s telephone report of the discovery of the body of the eighteen-year-old maid, Akanisi Leletaku, on the reef at low tide. In addition, the local chief had provided a summary of her background to his friend the Commissioner. She’d been born and raised on nearby Delanarua Island, much larger than the tiny coral island now called Paradise. He was gazing at the foaming wake, speculating about how an island girl, who probably swam like a fish, could come to drown, when the sergeant held out her own file to him.

  ‘Sir?’ she yelled.

  ‘Vinaka,’ he said, accepting it and handing the DC’s file to her. Good to see she had initiative. She wasn’t a time waster, either. In addition to copies of the reports he’d already seen, the sergeant’
s file contained a printout of several internet pages detailing the protocols of the new Vula Marine Reserve, a double-page spread from this morning’s Fiji Times reporting yesterday’s festivities on the island, and another download from the resort’s own website.

  ‘Great!’ he yelled back, and settled to read the papers in detail. Singh must have already read them herself, as neat patches highlighted in either fluorescent yellow or pink scattered the pages. He turned to the newspaper article first.

  Vula Lagoon Marine Reserve has Ratu’s blessing

  Exclusive Paradise Island resort, in Vula Lagoon off the south coast of Viti Levu, yesterday hosted unusual numbers of visitors to celebrate the inauguration of the Vula Marine Reserve. The crowd of around 100 included villagers from the lagoon’s islands and guests from Suva, including diplomats from Australia, New Zealand and the United States, delegates from the university, Fiji Institute of Marine Science (FIMS), environmental NGOs, tourism and media organisations. Ratu Ezekaia Tabualevu, chief of the lands and waters of Vula Lagoon and keen proponent of the reserve, travelled from his home on Delanarua Island by the resort launch, together with his official party. When they arrived at 10.30 in the morning, resort staff garlanded the chief and VIP visitors with exquisite salusalu while the staff choir sang traditional songs and hymns. After a formal kava ceremony of welcome, Ratu Ezekaia formally proclaimed the Vula Marine Reserve, then the visiting villagers entertained the crowd with lively traditional dances on the resort beach.

  The Paradise resort cooks surpassed themselves with a magnificent buffet of Fijian delicacies. Ratu Ezekaia explained the importance of the new reserve and the rules which now operate.

  ‘Fishermen have been too greedy and now our stocks are depleted. From today, no one can take any species from the waters inside the outer reef. We all know there’s very little there now anyway. Beyond the outer reef there are no restrictions at all. I know we will stand united in support of the reserve so our lagoon waters will brim with life again,’ Ratu Ezekaia said.

  To cap off the day, Ratu Ezekaia and Methodist minister Rev. Mosese made a ceremonial circumnavigation of the island in the flower-bedecked dive boat, representing the circle of protection which now applies to the entire lagoon. Rev. Mosese prayed for the success of the new reserve in replenishing marine life. On their return to the resort beach the boat steered close to the shore while Ratu Ezekaia demonstrated the goal of the reserve to the waiting crowd. One by one, he held aloft live creatures of the reef waters: an octopus, a bêche-de-mer, a parrot fish, and a giant clam, then released them into the waters. But, just as the chief raised a turtle, his boat suddenly listed dangerously towards the beach. Villagers at the front of the crowd immediately rushed to the boat and succeeded in righting it. Ratu Ezekaia and Rev. Mosese were borne ashore on the villagers’ shoulders to the delight of the cheering crowd.

  Horseman was intrigued and wished he could have witnessed the last scene. He wondered if the dead maid had been there. One of the press photos showed the chief beaming, his dark face framed by abundant crinkled white Afro hair, dark formal jacket, white shirt and Fiji Rugby tie. It was heartening to see an older chief leading his people to combat a threat all too common in their little nation of islands.

  He turned to the print-out from Paradise Island’s website, amounting to twenty illustrated pages. Of particular value were the Paradise People pages. Their skipper Jona turned out to be the head boatman, a key position on an island resort. Deckhand Maika didn’t warrant a solo shot, but he appeared in a photo of the Vula Voyagers, a string band of three men in pink bula shirts, flowers in their hair. The dead girl wasn’t identified, but perhaps she was somewhere in a group shot of smiling staff.

  He was still immersed in the file when Maika tapped him on the shoulder and pointed ahead. Horseman stepped over to the windscreen. They were heading towards a green smudge on the horizon.

  ‘Paradise Island?’

  Jona nodded. Sergeant Singh joined them. As they watched, the smudge resolved into a scrubby hill, which a few minutes later acquired surrounding green flats. Soon they could see tall waving palms, a fringe of bright sand, a breakwater, moored boats and a tall white flagstaff. He forgot his assignment for a moment, and surrendered to delight. How magical this approach must be for the executive from Osaka or Houston! Now he could make out figures on the jetty. The boat slowed as the water shallowed.

  Horseman couldn’t resist going up on deck for a better view and Singh followed. Her curiosity was another promising quality. He caught a glimpse of a thatched roof and reed walls through the trees beyond the flagstaff. The boat slowed further as the bottom shelved. Jona steered a careful course, avoiding the coral boulders strewn below. But this welcome party wasn’t smiling and singing. Horseman wrenched himself back to his mission and went back inside to get his things. The cabin seemed dim after the brilliance outside. Sergeant Singh was rummaging in her backpack, her sunglasses pushed up onto her head. He handed her the purple file.

  ‘Vinaka, Sergeant. You’ve done a great job getting that background information so quickly.’

  His sergeant continued to rummage. ‘No problem sir. You can hang on to it. I’ve got duplicates.’

  She zipped her bag and looked up at him. Her eyes were the clear green of sunlit shallow water over sand. He tried not to stare.

  She smiled. ‘Call me Susie, if you like.’

  3

  PARADISE ISLAND

  The stocky man in the straw hat had to be the manager, Ian McKenzie. Beside him, and considerably taller, stood Adi Litia, just like her website photo. Interesting. Was her chiefly title a local one, perhaps a daughter or niece of Ratu Ezekaia of Delanarua Island? The uniformed constable with them stood stiffly to attention.

  ‘Epeli Waqatabu, sir. Constable Mocelutu is with the body.’ The casual use of the word body pulled Horseman up short. Like an object, a thing. It was his first investigation in more than a year, and the routine use of that word grated.

  ‘Good. Stand easy, Constable.’

  McKenzie’s face was pale between the freckles. He held out a trembling hand to Horseman, damp as they shook. ‘We’re all in shock, Inspector. Nisi was everyone’s wee sister. A dreadful accident. We’ll do everything we can to help the police do whatever it is you need to do. Nisi’s parents arrived this morning and wanted to take her back home with them. I couldn’t see the problem, but Litia assured me the police would not permit it. Is this correct?’ He looked doubtful.

  ‘It is, Mr McKenzie. In Fiji a police certificate is necessary before burial can go ahead. I can assure you that Nisi’s parents know that very well.’ He turned to the tall, handsome Fijian woman. ‘Adi Litia, I’m grateful you were able to advise Mr McKenzie of the procedure.’

  ‘Litia, please. No titles are used on Paradise.’ She smiled and shed years.

  ‘I suppose you’d like to see poor Nisi first, Inspector?’ McKenzie said. The nervous man was simply trying to be helpful.

  ‘Not quite yet. Constable Waqatabu tells me a constable is guarding her. First, I need to set up an investigation room. And as it’s already midday, I’m afraid we have no choice but to impose on your hospitality for tonight.’

  ‘Of course, I was expecting that. I thought the back office behind reception might suit you. It’s rather small, but Litia and the receptionist can handle phone calls for you and line up any people you might want to speak to.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m afraid that we do need our own phone, if it’s possible to have a space with a landline. How’s your mobile reception here?’

  ‘Iffy, you know. Our guest bures only have house phones—part of the away-from-it-all atmosphere. But I suppose. . . yes, there’s no reason you couldn’t have the owner’s bure, that’s got its own landline. When it’s used for guests, we remove the phone, but it’s empty at the moment. I can show you now if you like.’

 
‘Thank you. Wait with the gear in the shade, Constable.’

  The manager opened his mouth like he was about to speak, but shut it again. Three sandy paths started from the flagpole: the one to the right was marked ‘Nature walk—1km’. They took the middle one, which wound through cool gardens. To the left, above the screening shrubbery, he glimpsed steep thatched roofs each finished with a black tree fern trunk projecting from the ridgepole like a horizontal chimney.

  McKenzie waved an arm towards these. ‘Twelve bures facing the sea, around the point and above the eastern half of the beach. The owner’s bure is the last one, just before the bar and other communal buildings. The left-hand path takes you around the bures—each has its own entrance off the path and a veranda on the other side too, facing the sea. Guests often prefer to walk along the beach and hardly use the path and their official front doors at all.’

  ‘Just the twelve?’ Horseman wondered how the resort could pay its way.

  ‘No, there are another four on the other side of the jetty, just past the dive shop, facing north, you might have noticed them from the sea. They’re ideal for parties, large family groups and so on. People can let off steam without disturbing anyone over there.’

  It all fitted a foreigner’s preconception, or rather misconception, of Fiji, the tropical island paradise. A few guests were cooling off in a free-form pool set beneath palms and a spreading barringtonia tree shading the timber lounges clustered around.

  Horseman gaped. ‘A pool, here? In the middle of the lagoon?’

  The manager smiled. ‘Seems crazy, doesn’t it? But at low tide it’s not easy to swim off the main beach. The water’s too shallow for a long way out and often far too warm. We pipe seawater to the pool—filter it, naturally.’