THE ONLY POLICEMAN ON THE ISLAND
SphereMarch 2020Selected by Jeremy Poynting
In the second of a planned quartet, set on the Caribbean island of Camaho, the reader meets the voice of Michael “Digger” Digson, forensics expert with a gift for reading bones, who has just six weeks to prove that his detective colleague, Miss Stanislaus, killed someone in self-defence, not the murder for which she has been suspended. Jacob Ross has been widely praised for marrying the depths of characterisation and elegant style of the literary novel to the excitement and pace of the police procedural. In the process, he has brought something quite new to the Caribbean novel’s ability to get under the skin of the Caribbean world. — Jeremy Poynting
I was probably the only policeman on the island who didn’t mind the quiet and isolation of night-duty. With my nose against the glass of our office window, I stared out at the ocean, speckled with the lights of ships and fishing boats. From the esplanade below, the floodlit jetty shot out like a giant gangplank into the ocean. Miss Stanislaus would still be up, I thought, probably fretting against the restrictions that the Commissioner had imposed on her. Malan had, of course, left me to break the news to her, and to hand her the letter. She’d read it without expression.
Camaho’s version of Restricted Duties was torture. The officer was sent home but always had to be on call and was given jobs to humiliate them. They cleaned out the station’s holding cells, opened and closed doors for dignitaries who were quick to insult and put an officer in their place. I’d asked the Commissioner to have Miss Stanislaus answer only to him – not just to save her from the indignities she was sure to meet, but to protect those dignitaries from one or indeed several of her devastating put-downs.
Malan had wanted to “disarm” Miss Stanislaus himself. She was to come into the office and hand over “de Department property”. I’d told him to hell with what he wanted. I would get the gun from her.
Miss Stanislaus had said it was very nice of me to offer, but she would bring it in herself.
She called mid-morning the next day to say she was on the way. I chose to keep that information to myself. The resentment in the office was palpable, the tension between us brittle. I sat cross-legged in my chair waiting for Miss Stanislaus to turn up.
She arrived in a billowing white dress, shoes so pristine, you were afraid to look for fear of soiling them. A big handbag hung from her shoulder. She offered us a bright democratic smile, strolled over to her desk and dropped the bag on it.
“The gun,” Malan said; he held out his hand while remaining seated.
Miss Stanislaus pretended she didn’t hear him. She took out a long fluted vase and placed it in the centre of her desk. A giant round-headed ixora flower came out next – blood-red, and so perfectly preserved I thought it was artificial. She dropped the flower in the vase. The light from the window struck the glass and made bright patterns on the wall. Pet got up and fetched a cup of water, and half-filled it.
Then Miss Stanislaus retrieved the gun. She did something with her hand and the cylinder dropped open. Another movement and the shells tumbled into her palm. She settled the bullets in a small nest around the vase, fished out what looked like a shallow flower-patterned saucer from her bag and laid the weapon in it. She narrowed her eyes as if she were making some sort of calculation. Then she spun the saucer with a fluid movement that travelled all the way down her arm to her wrist. Miss Stanislaus turned her back on the Ruger, and us. The saucer was still spinning when she walked out of the door, a tissue fanning her face.
The saucer slowed down and stopped after a final lazy turn. ◉
Ross’ novel is set in the fictional Caribbean island of Camaho. The name references Camerhogne, which is what the indigenous Kalinago people called the island of Grenada.
The ixora is an evergreen flowering plant that grows in tropical and subtropical climates. It is also known as West Indian jasmine.