Devil-Devil (18 page)

Before leaving the house she hurried out to the back yard to examine the batttered Bedford faded red van that had been placed in her charge since her arrival in the Solomons. She had done her best to bring it up to scratch, but it was being held together largely by faith and rust. She hoped that it would survive long enough for her to be able to take her consignment of elderly sisters on their long-anticipated evening expedition.

For a moment she wondered if she dared appropriate the vehicle to take her on the immediate journey she had planned that evening. Firmly Sister Conchita put the thought out of her mind. She had been greeted with concern and sympathy upon her enforced return to Honiara but all the same she felt that she was being regarded with suspicion by the mission hierarchy. Too many inexplicable things had been occurring at Ruvabi mission lately for the peace of mind of the mission administrators, who were trying to pursue a policy of masterly inactivity. No one would tell her anything about Father Pierre and she had been emphatically denied access to the radio sked to talk to the old priest.

In that case, she decided as she slipped out of the side door into the gathering gloom of the evening, she would just have to use the bush telegraph instead.

Sister Conchita hurried down to Mendana Avenue where the stores and shops were mostly closed this late. She crossed the Matanikau Bridge over the river. Here there were no lights. She reached the Labour Lines, the long breeze-block buildings in which itinerant workers were housed. There were a dozen of these constructions, each one reserved for the workers of a different island. They were situated well apart from one another.

Sister Conchita headed for the block in which the Malaita men stayed when they were working in the capital. Shadowy figures glided about the dormitory buildings and she was aware of many eyes on her, but no one challenged the authority of her habit.

She approached a group of Malaitans huddled around a fire in the compound. In her halting pidgin she asked if she could see the latest arrivals from Ruvabi mission station. Without a word one of the men stood up and walked into the building. He returned a few moments later with a slight, grey-haired figure wearing a long green
lap-lap
and smoking a clay pipe. With relief the sister recognized him as Matthew Dauara. He was a deck hand on one of the Chinese trading boats that circumnavigated Malaita regularly. He was in his sixties, old for a seaman, but his knowledge of the reefs and tides around the coast made him a valuable relief wheelman on voyages. He also spoke English, a fact for which Sister Conchita was grateful.

‘Sister Conchita,’ said Dauara with surprise.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Matthew,’ said the nun, shaking the man’s hand, ‘but have you seen Father Pierre lately? I’m worried about him.’

‘We put in to Ruvabi two days ago,’ said Dauara. ‘I saw the father then.’ He took her by the arm and guided her to a pile of logs stacked outside the concrete building, gesturing to her to sit down.

‘How was he?’ asked the sister anxiously.

Dauara hesitated. ‘Sad,’ he said finally. ‘Father Pierre is unhappy. He does not want to come to Honiara.’

‘I don’t blame him,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘Is that why he is unhappy?’

‘I think there is something else.’

‘What?’

‘It is about the time before.’

‘The time before? Oh, you mean something that has happened in the past?’

Dauara hesitated, choosing his words carefully. ‘The old men on the station say that he is sad too much because of the death of the big beachcomber.’

‘Lofty Herman? I didn’t think that Father Pierre knew him that well.’

‘Oh yes. I visited Ruvabi many times before the war. Herman and the father were good friends. They did many things together. Some of the old people say that Father Pierre is blaming himself for the beachcomber’s death.’

When Kella and Dontate arrived, John Cho was sitting behind a desk in a neat, uncluttered office at the back of the Happy Gardens general store. A pair of slim, discontented-looking Chinese youths were sitting on the floor, with their backs to a wall. They seemed terminally bored. Martial arts experts, Kella guessed. Joe Dontate could probably blow them apart without breaking into a sweat. The trouble was, Dontate was on their side.

The youths ignored Kella and scowled at the barman, as if their capabilities were being questioned by his presence. Dontate surveyed them and then leant against a wall, as far away from the youths as he could get. It looked as if Cho’s bodyguards were not entirely one big happy family.

‘Ah, Sergeant Kella,’ said John Cho. ‘So good of you to come. Please sit down.’

‘I’m only here because Dontate gave me some information I needed,’ Kella told him.

‘Sure, whatever,’ said Cho, flapping an impatient hand in the direction of a chair.

Kella nodded and took the seat opposite Cho. The Chinaman was in his twenties, wearing an expensive lightweight suit. On one wrist was a gold Rolex. He was slim and good-looking, with thick black hair brushed straight back over his head. His father, David Cho, was regarded as the most influential man in the Chinese community. A remote, shadowy figure, he was seldom seen outside Chinatown now that he was growing old. The rumours were that John was eager to take over from his father as soon as he decently could, but that he was a little short of the requisite weight for the job.

‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, sergeant,’ said Cho, flashing a mechanical smile. ‘We should have got together a long time ago.’

It was all a little too pat and fluent. To Kella it seemed as if the young Chinese man was modelling his behaviour on one of the old black and white gangster films so often shown at the Point Cruz cinema. His father, on his rare public appearances, never struck attitudes. He had no need to.

‘Why’s that?’ asked Kella.

Cho spread his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘We’re the two coming men,’ he smiled, exaggerating an American accent. ‘As it happens, I am assuming a little more responsibility in my father’s various business affairs here in Honiara. You are commonly regarded as the leader of the Lau community. The Lau men are the hardest in the Solomons, that is common knowledge.’

Joe Dontate stopped leaning against the wall. One of the Chinese, who presumably understood English, translated to his companion, who grinned, revealing broken teeth. For a second, Dontate transferred his glowering attention to the first youth, before returning it to John Cho. The Chinaman continued to pay no attention to the islander.

‘A lot of people would disagree with that,’ said Kella.

Cho was not interested in what a lot of people, Dontate included, would disagree with. He leant forward eagerly across his desk.

‘There are big changes coming up in the Solomons, Sergeant Kella,’ he said smoothly. ‘Big opportunities too. A smart man like you should be able to take advantage of the situation. Especially if you’ve got the right friends.’

‘Like you?’

Cho shrugged modestly. ‘Maybe. I’ve got influence and connections.’

And an influential father, thought Kella. Aloud he said, ‘I’ve already got a job in the police force.’

‘For how much longer, Sergeant Kella? It’s a commonly accepted fact that the top brass among the Brits aren’t going to give you a chance until you’ve grown a long grey beard. You’re just their token Melanesian.’

‘White blackman,’ sneered Dontate.

‘I wouldn’t put up with it, if I were you,’ urged the Chinaman. ‘On the other hand, I respect your talents and ability. We could do a great deal together. You could retain your police job, and you’d still become Commissioner of Police when independence comes. Only by then you’d be a wealthy man.’

‘What would I have to do?’ asked Kella, too amused to be annoyed. After the subtle and elaborate manoeuvrings of old David Cho, the approach of his son seemed almost manic in its intensity.

‘Just become a personal friend,’ pounced John Cho. ‘Pass on information about stake-outs, lose the occasional file, keep me in touch with what’s going on at police headquarters, don’t interfere too much. In general, become a friend at court. Is that too much to ask? As a matter of fact, there’s one particular matter you can help me with straight away.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Kella, suddenly alert.

‘I’ll tell you when we’ve agreed terms. I’ll start you at a thousand dollars Australian a month. That’s big money for a police sergeant.’

The young man was pushing altogether too hard. In the Solomons, everyone practised patience, especially the criminal fraternity. Cho was badly in need of advice. Only a very ignorant and naive man would attempt to bribe the
aofia
and treat a Roviana man like Dontate with contempt at the same short meeting. Kella knew that he ought to play the Chinaman along and find out what was bothering him enough to send for a police officer in this way, but he did not have the stomach for it. He stood up.

‘Very big money,’ he agreed. ‘Now I’m going. You’re wasting your time. Good evening, Mr Cho.’

John Cho went red. The two youths scrambled to their feet. Dontate had already stepped forward to stand in front of Kella before the pair of hired hands had had time to sort themselves out.

‘Shall I slap him, Mr Cho?’ asked the bartender.

‘Don’t be silly, Dontate,’ snapped Cho. ‘You’re just a messenger boy.’ He looked venomously at Kella. ‘You’re making a big mistake, sergeant. I was going to invite you in on a very good deal; one that you’re already inadvertently involved in. You could have made a significant and lucrative contribution to the matter.’

Dontate was still standing close to Kella. The Roviana man had been made to lose face twice at the meeting. The former fighter would be resenting that. Kella decided to exacerbate the situation as best he could. It might serve his purpose to deepen the wedge between the two men.

‘Tell your messenger boy to get out of my way,’ he said, stressing the description.

‘Stop interfering, Dontate,’ snarled Cho, waving the
glowering
Melanesian away. ‘You have made a bad decision, Kella; one you might later regret.’

‘How do you like working for the Chinaman as an errand boy?’ asked Kella as he and Dontate came out of the store into the noisy, garish night.

‘I suppose about as much as you enjoy working for the Brits,’ said the Roviana man. His mind seemed far away.

‘Is John Cho always in such a hurry?’

‘Not that much,’ admitted Dontate. ‘Someone must have shoved a thorn up his arse to make him hammer away at you so obviously.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Kella. ‘Almost like I was getting close to something.’ He eyed the bartender. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what this deal is that Cho was inviting me in on?’

‘What do you think?’ asked Dontate contemptuously. ‘I’ll tell you this for nothing though. You pissed the Chinaman off in there, and he ain’t used to that. He’s not a patch on his daddy, but he’s got some say-so and a pot of cash. You be careful, Kella. I wouldn’t like to see his hatchet men having a go at you before I get my chance.’

‘You’re all heart,’ Kella told him.

He found the crown and anchor game lit by lanterns on poles in full spate on a patch of wasteland running down to the river behind Jimmy Fat’s store. Twenty or thirty Melanesians were jostling around the large flat board divided into squares bearing different inscriptions. The banker, a Chinaman, with two watchful Guadalcanal minders, was throwing the three dice. The gamblers were thrusting notes on to different squares and greeting the results of the throws with cheers or groans.

Kella stood quietly in the background until he had made out Michael Rapasia. His old schoolteacher was on his knees in front of the board, squabbling with the other punters as he threw down his banknotes from the thin wad in his hand.

At first Kella could hardly recognize the man. The quiet, dignified figure who had taught him many years earlier had been replaced by an unkempt, snarling gambler, fighting for his place at the board. Rapasia was a slight, grey-haired man in frayed shorts and an old Hawaiian beach shirt.

He was not having any luck with his bets. Kella saw the last of the former teacher’s money scooped up from the board by one of the Guadalcanal men. Rapasia stood up and slouched away from the game. Kella stepped forward.

‘Good evening, Mr Rapasia,’ he said. His old teacher stared blankly at him. ‘It’s Kella, sir. You used to teach me at Ruvabi.’

‘Kella,’ said the old man vaguely. He scrutinized the other man with dull eyes. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘You became a policeman and sent a missionary and Peter Oro to the killing ground.’

‘It wasn’t quite like that, Mr Rapasia,’ said Kella. He tried not to let the casual, offhand insult affect him. ‘It’s Peter Oro I wanted to talk to you about. Do you remember him?’

‘Of course I remember him,’ snapped Rapasia. ‘I remember you all, even the killers.’

‘I’m trying to find out who might want to murder him,’ said Kella. ‘Have you any idea who might have disliked him that much?’

‘He was just an ordinary boy,’ shrugged Rapasia. ‘Brighter than some, and ambitious.’ He tried to brush past the police sergeant. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about the school. Did you know they have sent me away?’

‘I heard that you had retired,’ said Kella tactfully.

‘Sent away!’ repeated Rapasia vehemently. ‘Dismissed! I was too old and ignorant for the bright young headmaster there.’ He stared angrily at Kella. ‘Do you remember the Lau incantation for an old man left alone and helpless, begging the younger men to fetch wood for his fire?’

‘
Tutu taa’I nay. Ngwane ku aarai na
,’ said Kella. It had been years since he had last heard the phrase. He was surprised that he could remember it. He translated. ‘I am all by myself. I am an old man.’

‘Precisely,’ said Rapasia. ‘Well, that’s me now, thrown on the scrap-heap and left to fend for myself.’

He started walking away. Kella fell into step beside him, ignoring the old teacher’s blatant hostility.