DEATH ON PARADISE ISLAND: Fiji Islands Mysteries 1

by B. M. Allsopp

  The rain had all but stopped. The fine mist could scarcely be felt, but as the light breeze passed through, it cooled the skin better than any air-conditioner. Near the pavilion, a barringtonia tree overhanging the beach was subtly spot-lit.

  ‘Let’s walk back along the beach,’ Horseman said. ‘We might even see the barringtonia flowering if we’re lucky.’

  ‘That one looks fabulous, doesn’t it? I wonder if the lights interfere with the blossoms opening. Is it true they only flower in moonlight?’

  ‘I don’t really know if they need light at all. When we were kids my sisters and I loved collecting them from the sand in the mornings and putting them in the sea to float away. That’s when we used to stay with my grandfather for holidays, on Ovalau. He used the seeds for fishing.’

  ‘I’ve heard about the barringtonia seeds. How’s it done?’

  ‘Crush them and scatter them in a good-sized pool. The fish die and float up to the surface. I’m sure Professor Burgermeister would disapprove of the method, as it’s completely indiscriminate—everything is killed, not just the fish you want to eat. But we did eat just about everything in those days.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the fish be poisonous?’

  ‘No, apparently they suffocate somehow. A good question for you to ask the professor tomorrow. I’m pretty sure I’ll be in Suva. Hey, look at that!’

  They’d reached the barringtonia. Clouds hid the moon, but scores of flowers were illuminated. Each set of white petals supported hundreds of finger length stamens, white blushing to pink as if burned by the soft light, each tipped with a golden pollen puff. Several buds were opening before their eyes. How could such fragile magic come from a tough old tree with leathery leaves on the edge of the sea?

  ‘You know, when I was in Oregon, I saw a fibre-optic lamp with hundreds of silver filaments branching from the base, each ending in a minute light. Fantastic, but it made me homesick for barringtonias.’

  ‘So beautiful, yet they’ll all be gone by morning.’ Singh sounded wistful.

  ‘What did you think of Adi Litia’s tale?’ he asked.

  Singh didn’t hesitate. ‘I think she was telling the truth, as she sees it. Seems she’s a regular snoop, don’t you think—instead of a security patrol? I wonder if the staff know about it?’

  ‘I’d be surprised if they didn’t. If you wanted to walk away from the beach, you’d surely go on the middle path we took, through the gardens or along the nature trail, or both—they’re all lit at night. Not skirting the front entrance of every bure. And if Dr Chakra didn’t see her, she must have been hiding in the shrubbery, not passing the entrance-way.’

  ‘Her room surprised me, sir. She’s got style, hasn’t she? A real Bollywood fantasy. Kind of sad, though.’ Sergeant Singh sounded sad herself.

  ‘Yes, we’ve seen her vulnerable side now. Who would’ve thought it? Guy Dawson, eh? No telling where Cupid’s arrows will fall, is there? He strikes me as the opposite of the Bollywood hero type.’

  They walked along the dark beach in silence, Horseman pondering how Akanisi had died. Ghost crabs scurried busily away from the vibrations of their footfalls. Further ahead, in the loom of the bar terrace, a banded sea krait headed lethargically up the beach. They waited while it passed in front of them. Horseman was sorry he couldn’t see Sergeant Singh’s face. ‘It seems oblivious to us—in its own world,’ he said.

  ‘As long as it stays that way, I’m happy.’ When they’d passed the bar terrace and turned towards their veranda, Sergeant Singh asked. ‘What’s your take on Dr Chakra?’

  ‘The more I hear about him, the more anxious I am to meet him. If Litia’s claims are true, he’s moving from being witness to suspect. But let’s not pre-judge. Come on, let’s hit the paperwork.’

  They strolled up the beach, the harmonies of the string band beckoning as they approached the bar. The Paradise Voyagers, yes, that was the name, a good one too. Leaving on a Jet Plane, a Fiji favourite, voiced the desire of so many islanders for continental green pastures. He didn’t know what he wanted any more. Maybe when he was fit, and back on the rugby field, then he’d know. Maika, Sai and Inoke sang the song very slowly, voices full of loss and longing. Maybe Nisi, eighteen-years-old, had wanted to leave on a jet plane. Now she was dead. Horseman had just arrived on a jet plane this morning, and his job was to find out why.

  MONDAY

  13

  SUVA

  Traffic on the western approaches to Suva was choked at half past seven on Monday morning, spewing oily black diesel plumes into the fresh morning air. In front of the police car, an overloaded taxi, its rear just clearing the roadway, coughed up a dense cloud when the driver accelerated. Horseman’s respiratory system rejected the acrid poison and he coughed too. His driver closed the windows, trapping the fumes inside.

  ‘They’ve got clean air over in the States, have they, Detective Inspector?’

  Horseman just managed to croak. ‘Man, half the vehicles in Suva would be off the road in the U.S.’ More coughs racked him.

  ‘You’ll toughen up now you’re home, sir.’ The man sounded proud of his ability to take unburned diesel in his respiratory stride, like a smoker laughing at a novice hacking at his first cigarette. Horseman no longer knew where home was, but he couldn’t breathe this air.

  They crawled past the bus station, where more than a score of worn-out buses in assorted company livery disgorged crowds of workers and students into dust and fumes. Melissa would hate this pollution.

  Melissa. This was the first time she’d entered his mind since he landed in Fiji twenty four hours ago. Yet he’d fallen totally for the beautiful occupational therapist he’d met six months ago in Portland, fallen as never before. Parting had been a wrench. They’d cheered themselves up by planning her visit to Fiji in May. He’d been dead beat with his nose to the grindstone since he landed. Did that mean he’d only fallen in love because he’d had time on his hands in Portland? Surely not. He’d email her the very first moment he could, and buy a mobile so they could text.

  The lights changed and they crept along beside the Suva market. Outside the market hall, vendors were arranging their root crops, nuts, vegetables, fruit, herbs and flowers on fresh banana leaves laid on clean newspapers, or on mats, or floral plastic tablecloths or flattened cardboard boxes.

  At the next intersection, the driver turned left, away from the beautiful, filthy harbour sparkling in the sunshine and into the heart of the city and Suva Central police station. Upstairs on the CID floor everyone got up to welcome him home, trade mock insults and shake his hand warmly.

  By nine o’clock the superintendent had allocated him a desk, approved his actions so far, agreed that future plans depended on the post-mortem findings, and told him there were no vacant rooms in the barracks, even for one week. His bags were stored there and would be sent to wherever he decided to stay. He made a few calls and found a room with a cousin who was a high school teacher with four children and didn’t really have room for him. But the extra income would make a difference to the family. After this case was over, he must find his own flat.

  Unsurprised that Dr Chakra had failed to get in touch, Horseman decided to walk the few blocks to his surgery without phoning first. He set off at a brisk pace, trying to lengthen and equalise his stride as Melissa had taught him. He saw her face, lit by deep-set blue eyes and framed by short wispy brown hair. She laughed her pleasure in his progress as she urged him on up the hill. ‘Way to go, Joe! A few more steps now—four, three, two, one—now just one more—you’re my star!’ The rise was steep and he paused when he reached his turning, just to admire the view of course, and to stretch his protesting hamstrings and calves.

  As he looked west over the rubbish dump, he could see the serried hills rising from the narrow coastal strip, shading from emerald to amethyst in the distance. They protected the hinterland and its pe
ople from the sea and the foreign ways it brought. The curve of the bay was interrupted by the sprawl of waterfront buildings, but beyond them the glitter of the sea made him screw up his eyes. The hilltops of Beqa and Nukulau islands to the south were green and sharp in the morning sun. He identified Delanarua’s hills but tiny, low Paradise Island couldn’t be seen.

  There was no breeze and the sweat ran down his skin, wetting his collar, watch strap, waistband and socks. He mopped his face and neck with his large handkerchief, then turned left into Kadavu Street which skirted the hill and was almost level. He set off again, trying to stride, grateful to be shaded by overhanging rain trees.

  When he reached the modest building housing Dr Chakra’s surgery, he was struck by its inappropriateness, despite the pretentious name, Harley Consulting Chambers, emblazoned in fancy black lettering across its upper floor. Probably no more than thirty-years-old, the building, like many inhabitants of the tropics, looked older and more neglected than it deserved: ravaged by sun, rain, and myriad agents of decomposition. These thrived, devouring whatever paints, sealants and protective coatings human ingenuity could produce.

  A tailor, a pharmacy, an optometrist and a shoe shop occupied the ground floor. A central flight of steep and narrow stairs led to the upper floor, effectively denying access to all but the moderately fit or those who could be carried. Perhaps there were too many patients, so the stairs filtered the flow, ensuring that no really serious cases would challenge the abilities of the consultants. There, he was being ridiculous again.

  The stairway and corridor above were dingy, but clean enough. A varnished timber plaque screwed to the second door on the left identified Dr Chakra’s suite. A bell jangled as he opened the door. Curious faces stared, then broke into happy smiles when they recognised him. He could never go undercover in Fiji, a distinct disadvantage for a detective. The waiting room was a pleasant surprise: fresh white paint, yellow and white checked cotton curtains, clean windows, shiny brown tiled floor. An elderly couple, a mother with three young children, and a pregnant woman waited on yellow plastic chairs. Nothing fancy, but hygienic, cheerful and more comfortable than the homes of many patients. The receptionist was protected from the patients by a high-countered desk adjacent to the door.

  The middle-aged Indian receptionist’s head barely reached the countertop. He looked down on a small round face, scarred long ago by chicken pox or acne. Her slight smile did not extend to the protuberant black eyes that pierced him through pink-framed glasses. ‘May I help you, sir?’ Her tone suggested she thought this unlikely.

  Horseman smiled and showed her his ID. ‘Yes, ma’am, I need to speak to Dr Chakra, please, when he’s finished with his current patient.’

  ‘Are you seeking medical attention, sir?’

  ‘No, ma’am, I’m here on a police matter.’

  ‘It is not possible to see Dr Chakra about anything today, sir. He is not here.’

  Horseman glanced pointedly at the waiting patients, raised his eyebrows. She affected incomprehension.

  ‘Yes, sir? Do you have a question?’

  Horseman smiled again. ‘Are these patients waiting to see Dr Chakra?’

  The receptionist forced a grim smile. ‘If they are, sir, they will be disappointed. Dr Chakra’s assistant, Dr Pillai, is in attendance today.’

  As if on cue, the internal door opened and a young Fijian woman carrying a baby emerged, followed by a very short, very thin man in a white coat, his narrow face dwarfed by a crown of luxuriant black hair. He smiled delightedly on recognising Horseman, then shrugged an apology, picked up a card from the reception desk and turned towards the elderly couple.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Reddy, come in please.’

  Mrs Reddy assisted her husband to rise and supported him as he shuffled across the room. How had they managed the stairs?

  ‘Where’s Dr Chakra today?’ Horseman asked the receptionist.

  ‘He is not in attendance here, so it is not my business to know where he is, sir.’ She implied it was none of Horseman’s business, either.

  ‘Mrs—? I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘If you really must know, I’m Mrs Nath.’

  Horseman abandoned the empathetic approach. ‘When is Dr Chakra’s next appointment, Mrs Nath?’

  She sighed, then pulled towards her an old-fashioned foolscap appointment book which she perused in a leisurely manner. ‘Let me see, now. . . yes. . . no, that one’s Dr Pillai. . . well, it looks like he will next attend surgery at three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon.’ She spoke more slowly, articulating each syllable precisely.

  ‘And if Dr Chakra’s patient is seriously ill, requiring urgent treatment?’

  ‘Of course, Dr Pillai will attend to any true emergency immediately. Genuine emergencies never insist on a particular doctor, I find. Or, depending on the nature of the emergency, the patient may be advised to go straight to Suva Hospital.’ Her tone suggested that, in her long experience, there were few genuinely urgent cases.

  Horseman struggled hard to keep his voice pleasant. ‘Mrs Nath, this is genuinely urgent police business. I need to speak to Dr Chakra now. Will you tell me where he is?’

  The receptionist looked down, but he caught her fleeting smile of triumph before she suppressed it. ‘I cannot tell you where he is, sir, because I do not know.’

  ‘Could you please give me all his contact numbers—mobiles, pagers, anything and everything you try in a genuine emergency, Mrs Nath.’

  She took a business card from the counter top holder and painstakingly copied some numbers onto the back. She smiled as if indulging a particularly trying five year old, and handed him the card. Horseman glanced at the numbers. The only one he hadn’t already tried was the pager.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘For the moment, Mrs Nath. Goodbye for now.’ After he closed the door he pressed an ear to the plywood partitioning. He heard the faint beep as the telephone was activated. Suppressing his urge to smash his head against the wall, he got out of the building as quickly as his knee allowed.

  14

  PARADISE ISLAND

  Singh stepped into the runabout while Maika held it steady against the jetty piles. He started the motor and pushed off expertly with the boat hook.

  She stared into the water unseeing, reviewing her interview with Ledua. She was convinced Ledua had told her only part of what she knew about Nisi’s life and perhaps even her death. Susie had not wanted to push her into hostility. As the boss said, there was little point until they had the post-mortem results.

  The boss. When she first learned Horseman was to be Investigating Officer, she’d felt resentful. As a national rugby star, he’d been adored by the top brass, had more privileges than other officers, particularly women officers, and more particularly the very few women detectives. She wasn’t a rugby fanatic herself, but no one in Fiji could miss his image in the media, even on roadside billboards, where his warm brown eyes and encouraging smile urged drivers to observe the speed limit. Well, his photos didn’t do him justice.

  She’d learned not to voice complaints about the role her bosses expected her to play in an investigation team: a combination of secretary, maid and messenger. At best, personal assistant. Her family and friends told her she should have known what it would be like; she should never have abandoned teacher’s college, and a career where women were respected, to join the police. If she persisted, she could get herself into public relations, human resources or even training, where she could expect promotion and some female company. Couldn’t she? Yes, she could, but she didn’t want to. Not at all.

  In the face of her dogged determination to be a detective, her self-appointed advisers gave up on her. She knew she was a better detective than most of her peers, and none worked harder, yet when she became a detective sergeant, after only a few years longer than
was usual, male colleagues bleated loudly about the fast tracking of women!

  Horseman had so far treated her as a colleague, seemed grateful for the Paradise dossier she’d hastily assembled, and welcomed her ideas rather than resenting them. She was so embarrassed when he’d stuck up for her against Adi Litia over her accommodation, but she knew then he would look after his team. It was probably instinctive behaviour for rugby captains, or perhaps he’d been a successful captain because that was the way he was. When they returned to the bure last night, the constables were plodding through a mess of paperwork. Horseman had asked her to take charge and hooted at Mareka’s serious suggestion that she do them all herself as she was so much better at it.

  ‘We can’t allow Sergeant Singh to keep her secrets from the team, Mareka. She can teach us how to work smart, so we’ll always get to bed earlier. It’s an order, Sergeant.’

  Tired as they all were, he’d somehow made it all enjoyable. She wasn’t one to rush to judgement, she’d been misled by first impressions before, but she suspected she’d like working for Horseman. To cap off the long day, when she retired to her own bure, she relished a level of privacy and comfort way beyond her experience of Spartan barracks rooms and the simple earth-floored house of her childhood on a sugar cane back block. Now, as Maika steered the little boat towards the beach, she guiltily hoped they’d need to stay at Paradise another night.

  This beach was straight, less protected than at the resort and more natural. No daily sweeping here. The sand was littered with rocks and the high water line was marked by nature’s barricade of debris: a continuous mound of rotting grasses, kelp and algae, knitted together like coils of barbed wire and studded with broken coral, plastic bottles and a rubber flip-flop. Coconut palms overhung the sand. One had been uprooted in a storm and was now growing horizontal over the beach. Beneath the palms’ open canopy a scrubby thicket tangled with vines provided the island’s second line of defence. The yellow-flowered beach hibiscus was the only plant she knew by name.