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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
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before the administration of the law.
    ‘Nevertheless,’ said the Secretary smoothly, ‘I think we canagree 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 BAat 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