‘THE GOOD NEWS,’ said Robinson, the Secretary for Internal Affairs, ‘is that we have an interesting assignment for you, Sergeant Kella. He gave a wintry smile. ‘The bad news, I’m afraid, is that it will take you away from your niche on Malaita.’
Kella shifted in his chair. He always felt uncomfortable in any of the offices in the administrative block of the Secretariat in Honiara, and this one was no exception. Robinson, the Secretary, was an African retread. On the shelves were carvings of masks and animals, evidence of long official colonial sojourns in what had once been the Gold Coast, British Somaliland and Cameroon, names that were no longer even detailed on maps of the continent in this era of independence.
‘I know nothing of the customs and traditions of other parts of the Solomons,’ said Kella hastily. ‘I would be of no use to you outside my own island.’
‘You haven’t always been much use to us on Malaita,’ grunted Chief Superintendent Grice sourly. ‘The last time you got into trouble over there, we had to send a dozen policemen to get you out.’
The expatriate policeman glowered at Kella. The pair of them had experienced a number of run-ins over the past few years when the Malaitan had, in Grice’s opinion, put his duties as the aofia before the administration of the law.
‘Nevertheless,’ said the Secretary smoothly, ‘I think we can agree that Sergeant Kella’s knowledge of his area, and in particular his unique position in the, er, local religious and cultural hierarchy there, have been of considerable benefit to the authorities on a number of occasions, unorthodox although his position and approach may sometimes have been.’
Kella looked out of the office window at the single main coastal street that made up the capital, with its population of two thousand people. One side consisted mainly of corrugated huts left behind by the US forces after the war and now used as shops. The other side of the road was occupied by government offices, supplemented with a few more permanent stone buildings, including the exclusive Guadalcanal Club and the ornate Mendana Hotel. Behind the offices was the sea, skirted by the finger of Point Cruz Wharf. Casuarinas added a splash of colour to the afternoon somnolence.
‘Of course, if you want to put your faith in a witch doctor,’ shrugged Grice, once again washing his hands of the matter under discussion.
Accustomed to such displays of overt hostility, Kella ignored his superior. Robinson looked pained. He was a thin, pinched man in his early fifties who had devoted much time and effort over the latter stages of his career to maintaining his balance on the shifting, shrinking sands of the British Empire and, unlike Grice, had learned enough at least to pay lip-service to local observances.
‘We’re going to send you to the Western District,’ he explained. ‘It’s rather a delicate mission.’
Grice harrumphed through his nose at the thought of his rebellious sergeant being tactful or discreet.
‘That would be the Alvaro logging station in the Roviana Lagoon, then,’ said Kella. He tried to conceal the relief he was feeling. For a moment he had feared that he was going to be sent on another overseas academic course. He had almost lost count of the number he had undertaken, starting with his BA at the School of Philosophy, Anthropology and Social Enquiry at Melbourne University. Since then he had studied for varying periods of time at the London School of Economics and the University of Manitoba, as well as serving attachments with police forces in the USA, New Zealand and Fiji. In the early days he’d believed that Chief Superintendent Grice genuinely thought he was helping in the personal and professional development of his local subordinate, but lately it had been fairly obvious that it was just to keep the unpredictable Kella out of his hair, even if it did mean acting as a part-time travel agent for him.
Robinson looked surprised. ‘How did you know that?’ he asked. ‘We’ve done our best to keep it quiet.’
‘It couldn’t be anywhere else,’ said Kella. ‘Most of the labourers employed there are from my own island of Malaita. Presumably that’s the reason why you need me.’
‘Correct,’ said the disconcerted Secretary for Internal Affairs. ‘Spot on, in fact. We’ve had reports of trouble at the station. The logging efforts are being sabotaged, people being beaten up, that sort of thing. We’d like you to look into the matter, Sergeant Kella. The Malaitans there will talk to you. You might be able to get to the bottom of the problem.’
Chief Superintendent Grice’s disgruntled expression showed that he did not share the Secretary’s confidence in his subordinate’s ability, but he said nothing. Kella was inclined to agree with him. Sending a Lau man to investigate a crime in the Western Solomons would be akin to asking an Inuit to intervene in an inter-tribal squabble in Dahomey.
‘Do you have any idea who’s behind the attacks?’ he asked.
‘There’s some talk of an independence movement being involved, said Robinson. ‘Nothing concrete, though. That’s one of the aspects we’d like you to investigate.’
‘But carefully,’ added Chief Superintendent Grice. ‘The situation’s very delicate in the West. There’s even talk of them wanting to secede from the Protectorate. For God’s sake don’t go blundering in like a bull in a china shop. Show some finesse for once.’
‘Even more important than that,’ said the Secretary for Internal Affairs, wincing at the policeman’s bluntness, ‘we want you to be very careful in your dealings with the Alvaro Company. I don’t have to tell you how important their logging business is to the economy of the Solomons. Our total revenue in the Protectorate last year, including a substantial grant-in-aid from the UK, amounted to less than a million and a half pounds sterling. We need new industries in the Western District.’
‘Even if they’re ruining the forests there?’ asked Kella. ‘They used to have some of the largest freshwater crocodiles in the world on Alvaro. I hear they’ve all gone now.’
Like they were on Guadalcanal, he thought. But that had been due to the activities of bored US servicemen stationed on the island after the war who had spent their weekends idly taking pot shots at the creatures.
‘Do you see what I mean?’ exploded Grice. ‘He’s a loose cannon! You can’t send this man up there. Who knows what he’ll get up to?’
‘I expect Sergeant Kella to do his duty, simply that, whatever his private views might be,’ said the Secretary for Internal Affairs crisply. ‘He will fly to Munda as quickly as possible, investigate the sabotage attempts at the logging camp and put a stop to them. Frankly, Mr Grice, I cannot think of anyone else in your police force capable of undertaking such a hazardous task. Are your duties clear, Kella?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Kella, rising.
A thought occurred to the official. ‘By the way, will you still have authority among your people when they are so far from their home island?’
Kella had been wondering the same thing. He had spent a few months in the Western Solomons during the war, but all he knew about the islands was that the women were supposed to be sexually voracious, and that in the old days, known as the time before, before headhunters had been so successful that human skulls were still being retrieved in remoter areas.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried,’ he said. ‘It should be all right. Ramo diingana.’ He translated for the benefit of the others. ‘The chief is still a chief in his canoe, wherever he travels.’
‘I sincerely hope you’re right,’ said the Secretary for Internal Affairs. ‘Thank you, Sergeant Kella, that’s all. Chief Superintendent Grice, will you remain behind for a moment? Good morning, Sergeant.’
‘Mind you,’ said Kella, stopping at the door, unable to resist a final word, ‘the Roviana gods may be stronger than mine, and then the lagoon spirits will have home advantage.’
Before he could close the office door behind him, Kella could hear the voice of Chief Superintendent Grice raised in anger as the policeman argued with the Secretary for Internal Affairs. Kella and Grice had a long history of disputes and the senior officer would not be happy with any assignment that gave his subordinate such a degree of autonomy as this one, especially in territory that was virtually unknown to the sergeant and was so remote from the control of his superiors.
As he started to walk away, he heard the Secretary for Internal Affairs’ voice raised decisively in a tone that invited no denial. ‘That’s as may be. Kella may be a law unto himself, but he’s also a bloody good policeman. I don’t have to remind you that there are only three indigenous university graduates in the Solomon Islands and that Kella is one of them. Like it or not, Grice, he represents the future of these islands. Let him get on with his job.’
Kella had left the building and turned right to walk to Police Headquarters past the flame trees lining Mendana Avenue before he heard his name being called. He stopped and turned. The tall, grey-haired figure of Welchman Buna was hurrying after him. Buna was a reserved, dignified man with an exact triangle of beard. Always smartly dressed, even in the midday heat, he was wearing a shirt and trousers with precise creases. He showed no signs of perspiring. He was one of the local members of the council advising the High Commissioner on island affairs. It was common knowledge that before long, elections would be held for a proposed Legislative Council, giving much more power to the islanders. It was also known that Buna was unobtrusively nursing the Roviana Lagoon area, his own district, and that he was a certainty for election.
Little was known about his background. Early in his life he had been picked out by the Methodist missionaries working in the Western Solomons as a pupil of exceptional promise and had been given a place at their secondary school, Goldie College. There he had confirmed his potential. With the coming of the war to the west, he had disappeared from sight. Several years later he had reappeared, almost out of nowhere, on Guadalcanal. For a time he had worked as a clerk in one of the town banks. He had embarked upon a course of study at evening classes held at the Government Primary School and had been an almost permanent resident of the Honiara Public Library in his spare time. He had been an assiduous pupil, for he now spoke perfect English, with just a faint trace of pedantic hesitation, as if he was constantly translating the language in his mind and checking it in an invisible primer.
Now that Buna was a full-time politician, his source of income was a mystery and a subject of considerable gossip. So far he had made so little impact on the Advisory Council that he was known as the Invisible Man. Kella, for one, guessed that this was not due to diffidence but a desire on the part of the ambitious Roviana man to bide his time.
‘Sergeant Kella,’ Buna said politely. ‘How good to see you. I believe that you are going to Roviana to look into the problems at the logging camp.’
‘That’s right, Mr Buna,’ Kella said. Buna certainly had his contacts, but so did most of the local politicians.
‘You may find the situation in the West a little inflamed,’ said the politician. ‘I know that I can depend upon you to treat the matter with your usual common sense.’
‘I shall do my best,’ said Kella.
‘Of course, but there’s one more thing, I’m afraid.’ Buna seemed to be experiencing difficulty in digging the words out. He had the appearance of a man not accustomed to asking for favours. Finally he said, ‘When you return from this tour of duty in my region, I would appreciate it if you would report to me—unofficially, of course—and give me your opinion of things as they stand in Roviana. Would you do that for me?’
‘Certainly,’ Kella said, wondering what was coming next. He waited for the politician to say more, but Buna merely nodded and turned and hurried away. After a few yards he stopped and turned back.
‘Perhaps you would be good enough to do so before you make your official report to the Police Commissioner,’ he said, before turning and continuing his journey.
Kella strolled down to the wharf and looked at the cargo ships being loaded with copra. He thought uneasily about his assignment in the Western Solomons. Not only were the two cultures completely different, but while the gods of Malaita, apart from the shark-worshippers, were mainly land-based, in the lagoon the water gods held sway. They were known to be furtive. They hid in the sea itself, and in rivers and lakes. No outsider would ever know when he had placed himself in danger by trespassing in a tambu sacred place. Kella’s mana would certainly be overpowered by that possessed by the Roviana ghosts.
He would need all the help he could get on this occasion, thought the sergeant.
He wondered if there was any hope of it coming from one particular direction. He had heard over the grapevine that the fiery Sister Conchita had been transferred to the Western District recently. The young nun certainly had a powerful mana of her own, supplied by her faith. He hoped she might be persuaded to share it with him. Whether her presence in the Roviana Lagoon might turn out to be a good thing or a bad one, Kella had no means of foretelling. Almost inevitably, however, he thought with a slight lifting of his spirits, it should be eventful.