Before It Breaks Page 5

  ‘Likewise, if you think of anything you think might be important. And thank you for the coffee.’

  Clement stood. Osterlund assured he would call him if he remembered anything relevant, and saw him to the door. His wife had vanished into thin air.

  Clement took a last look back at the house and felt a pang of envy. He couldn’t deny it. Imagine living like that, pretty much retired, beautiful, devoted wife, amazing house. No kids he’d said. If Osterlund had any they were probably with an early wife back in the Fatherland. Clement imagined himself at some future date, alone, a grown-up Phoebe he never saw. That hurt. He would never have this. At best there might be a modest house in the suburbs, at worst one of those caravans like his parents used to lease to losers.

  He opened the car door and a dragon’s breath blasted him. He’d left the window open a crack and parked as close to shade as he could but it had made no difference. He cruised slowly down the driveway feeling no more enlightened on the victim than when he’d dragged him from the creek, a loner who liked his grog and the simple life. The Kimberley was full of them. Clement had garnered all that from one glance at Dieter Schaffer’s vehicle. No wallet, no outboard motor, no rifle recovered. It was looking like a robbery, either from a stranger who happened past or somebody who’d accompanied him fishing. And yet the murder in a way seemed careful, ordered. There were no signs of argument, nothing to suggest the presence of the killer other than blood and body, as if a bunyip had risen up from the creek and killed Dieter Schaffer before sinking back down. Bunyips were not myths, twenty years of policing had taught Clement that much. Bunyips were the depraved hearts, souls and minds of people given form by fury, anger, greed, envy, lust, and they could just as quickly fade into a ripple, a shy smile, a quiet sigh. Violent and careful killers were as hard to grab hold of as smoke. Clement knew he could be staring into the killer’s face and see nothing more than that tranquil billabong with the reflection of his own.

  5

  Clement called through to Shepherd and checked on progress at the crime scene. The croc guys had just arrived and were deciding how to clear it. Lisa Keeble had done a preliminary examination of the body which had been loaded up and sent to Derby Hospital from where it would be transferred to the airport. Though not a medical examiner, Keeble had worked numerous deaths-by-trauma in conjunction with the Coroner’s department. She had trained under professor Michael ‘Rhino’ David, an expert etymologist and head of the Forensic Science department at the University of Western Australia. She knew her stuff.

  Clement’s and Rhino’s careers had grown in step. Clement was the first cop to make use of Rhino’s abilities but it was a symbiotic relationship. Rhino helped him solve cases and Clement’s support kept Rhino’s numerous bureaucratic enemies at bay. Rhino’s CV included stints lecturing at the FBI’s US body farms, consultant on a number of international murder trials, and reigning faculty titles for piss-drinking and Donkey Kong. Politically incorrect, looking more like a roadie for a heavy metal band than a professor, Rhino scared his university colleagues and was anathema to the State Coroner, who saw him as some kind of forensic cattle baron muscling in on her turf. But his department was brilliant at identifying DNA, whether human or mineral, and earned the university a tidy sum from commercial clients, thereby coating Rhino in just enough Teflon to keep from being jettisoned. Rhino was also a teacher par excellence. His graduates could find employment anywhere in the world but Lisa Keeble’s best quality was she was adaptable. There were plenty of gourmet chefs but up here you needed one who could cook on a Bunsen burner. Clement had Shepherd put her on.

  ‘You know I can’t speculate on what killed him.’

  ‘Of course, but did you see anything other than a whopping blow to the head or drowning?’

  ‘No ligature marks but I lifted the t-shirt and had a quick look. I’d say he took a heavy beating, rib fractures most likely. You saw the jaw, right? Curious thing was that the shirt didn’t have any corresponding marks on it, that I could tell. If you hadn’t dragged him up onto the shore with a mechanised winch it might have helped.’

  ‘There’s crocs around, I’m not stupid.’

  ‘No, I’ll give you six out of ten.’

  ‘So what are you saying about the t-shirt?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe he put it on after he was beaten.’

  That was important. Maybe Schaffer got into a fight, took a beating, changed and then whoever beat him came back to finish the job?

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Sorry, that’s it for now.’

  ‘Is Shep making a nuisance of himself?’

  ‘Of course. But I can handle him. Now the croc guys are here, he’s occupied.’

  ‘You going to need more bods?’

  ‘I’ve already called Perth. Given the size of the potential area, the billabong, it’s going to take a bit of time. Two techs are on their way from Perth and my guys will be here any minute.’

  It was as he expected but just because they’d be sending techs didn’t mean Perth was going to run the case, not if he could help it, not after weeks of nothing more exciting than petrol theft.

  ‘Take care,’ he said and swung into the small carpark of the Anglers Club. There were half a dozen vehicles in a carpark of about twenty spaces that doubled for the printing business next door. Only the late model Ford and the early model Toyota Camry had bothered to actually stick between the lines. Clement assumed they belonged to the employees. The other vehicles, pig-shooting and fishing rigs, were splayed as if the drivers were already a few sheets to the wind even though this wasn’t necessarily the case. Up here people got used to space, more space than they needed. Why bother to straighten up when there were plenty more bays available?

  Clement left the car, the heat not capitulating one iota. He pushed through aluminium and glass doors into heavy-duty air-conditioning. The sweat trickling down his back froze instantly. The building was no-frills, white brick walls, concrete floor. A small L-shaped bar gave onto a door presumably through to back-office and storeroom. Furniture consisted of a pool table and three round, standing bar tables with high stools. Two blokes in t-shirts and shorts sucking lager had claimed one of them. They glanced his way but did not stop their conversation. The walls were adorned with photos of future melanoma candidates holding large dead fish in their hairy forearms. A shellacked groper was mounted above the bar, which featured a colourful display of donated caps hanging like bunting. Apex Windowframes, St Mary’s Football Club Darwin, Adelaide Crows were a few that caught his eye. Beneath them a blonde barmaid somewhere north of forty and south of fifty-five was chatting animatedly with three men, one in a shirt and tie, one in overalls, one in shorts and T. All had the leathery look of long-time residents. Clement had no doubt Schaffer’s death was the subject. The blonde barmaid turned and caught his eye.

  ‘Detective Clement,’ offered Clement as he strode over. ‘Jill?’

  She grimaced as confirmation. ‘Is it true about Dieter?’

  She pointed behind her at a display of home snaps that showed, presumably, the regulars having drinks at this very bar. Beaming at the camera, Dieter was alongside a ruddy-faced man whom Clement recognised as the man here in the overalls.

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  The man wearing the tie rose from his stool.

  ‘Rod Walters, I’m the Club President. This is Arko, our Secretary, and Jason.’

  Arko was the one in the photo.

  Clement asked, ‘Would you mind if I had that photo? It might help me.’

  Jill pulled out the drawing pin and handed it over.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ Jill seemed the most upset of the three but it didn’t look like she had been crying. Clement gave them the usual spiel about how they were trying to work that out. The two blokes at the high table were listening in. Clement asked when the last time was anybody had seen, or spoken to Dieter.

  ‘We were just talking about that,’ said Jill and the others nodd
ed. ‘He was here last Sunday afternoon. That was the last time I saw him.’

  It was now Thursday. One of the men from the high stool chimed in. ‘Tuesday night he was at the Cleo.’

  The Cleopatra Tavern was a popular but low-grade drinking hole. Clement walked over.

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘Well, he was just at the bar joining in like. You don’t remember me, do ya?’

  Clement searched the face. It seemed familiar now.

  The man sipped his beer and smirked, ‘Bill Seratono.’

  Jesus. He’d gone to school with him. It wasn’t that long ago was it? Now he’d been told, he could see right away it was Bill.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bill.’

  ‘Mate, I don’t recognise meself half the time. You haven’t changed much.’

  The way he said it didn’t make it sound like a compliment. There was a time they’d been pretty close but Bill left school a year or two ahead of him and they’d drifted apart. Clement didn’t recall any bad blood, they’d just gone their own ways.

  ‘What are you up to, Bill?’ There would be time to pursue Dieter Schaffer soon enough.

  ‘Usual shit, working haulage down near the port. McIntyre’s.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Yeah, two boys, teenagers. Fucking pains in the arse, just like we were, though actually you were always pretty good.’

  ‘You never left?’

  ‘Nah mate, some of us stuck it out.’

  There it was again, that antagonism. Maybe it was just the natural response to one returning from one who’d stayed. Clement looked for a conversational point.

  ‘You got a boat?’

  ‘Eighteen footer. This is me mate, Mitch.’

  The mute Mitch extended his hand and they shook. Mitch had a goatee and strong, corded forearms.

  ‘G’day, Mitch.’

  ‘Mitch owns the boat halves with me.’

  ‘Did you know Dieter well?’

  Bill looked at Mitch. ‘We’d see him around, chat about this and that. Can’t say we knew him that well but.’

  ‘Liked his piss,’ offered Mitch, breaking his silence.

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Bill drained his glass as if to emphasise this natural law.

  ‘Did you speak to him at the Cleo?’

  There was an instant where something crossed through Seratono’s eyes, some evasion.

  ‘Yeah, just the usual shit. He said he was going fishing up at Jasper’s. I told him to watch out, there was supposed to be a croc round there. He just laughed. Crazy fucking Kraut, said if crocs were there, must be something to eat.’

  This it turned out was around ten that night, the Tuesday. The tavern was pretty full, regulars, backpackers and some of the staff from the resorts who preferred the cheaper liquor to their own bars. Schaffer did not appear to be with anybody. Seratono had bailed out before ten thirty but Schaffer was still there. If this had been the city there might have been a chance of CCTV coverage in the carpark but up here that was a remote possibility.

  ‘I heard Dieter hung out with a rough crowd.’ Clement threw it out to the crew at the bar as well.

  ‘Probably us!’

  Mitch cracked up at his mate’s joke.

  Clement persisted, ‘Nobody rough?’

  ‘Nah, mate,’ assured Seratono.

  Again that evasion with the eyes. Clement picked up a sideways glance from Mitch too. There was something. The door opened and another customer entered, male, shorts, short-sleeved shirt, sandals. Clement ignored him for now.

  ‘How about money?’

  Jill moved automatically to serve the newcomer, obviously a regular, she didn’t even bother to ask his preference. She spoke as she poured. ‘He was a shocker, always trying to run up a tab.’

  ‘Did he have a credit card?’

  Jill shook her head. ‘Johnny Cash only.’

  That killed that line of inquiry. The newcomer looked around, unsettled by the changes in his watering hole. The others at the bar brought him up to speed. He was shocked at the news.

  ‘Schultz was a bad punter.’ For Mitch this was loquacious.

  Bill elaborated. ‘He’d put the bite on but he’d pay you back. He reckoned he was going to be rolling in money soon.’

  Mitch looked for a cigarette then remembered he couldn’t smoke in here.

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘Yeah. Not Tuesday. Before, here one time a couple of weeks ago I think.’

  ‘Did he say where this money was coming from?’

  ‘Nah, I just took it as the usual shit that he thought he was going to have a big win on the punt.’

  ‘You remember his exact words?’

  ‘Not exact but he said something like, “I’m good for it, I’m gonna be rolling in it soon.”’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Something like, “You are rolling in it, mate, manure that’s what you’re rolling in.”’

  Now Jill seemed to recall Schaffer had also cockily mentioned about how he would be ‘looking after his friends’ when he became a man of means.

  ‘I didn’t think anything of it.’

  ‘He was a bit of a bullshitter like that.’ Arko threw it in as he drained his beer.

  All the same, if Schaffer had just wound up with a jackpot of some kind it could provide the motive for his murder. Clement made a note.

  ‘No enemies? No fights?’

  Nobody recalled anything, shrugs all round. Clement asked them to contact him if they thought of anything. Before he left he went back to Bill Seratono.

  ‘We should have a drink sometime.’

  It was one of those things you said that was polite yet noncommittal, an acknowledgment of shared times but no definite insistence they should be renewed, the kind of thing Clement found himself doing a lot more of these last couple of years.

  ‘Come out on the boat, any time.’

  Clement was surprised at the invitation. Maybe he’d been in the city too long and forgotten how put-down banter was the stuff of male friendship up here. He thanked everybody and pushed back outside.

  Standing beside his car, he contemplated his next move. He needed to follow up on the Cleopatra Tavern, get out to Dieter Schaffer’s shack and check it out, but he also needed to nail down the tourists who had called in the report. They could be halfway to Darwin by now. He fumbled in his pocket for their mobile number, found it, edged over to a thin rim of shade from the roof of the print shop and called. The man’s name was Evan Doherty and he was the one who answered. Clement identified himself then asked Doherty where he currently was.

  ‘At the Mimosa Resort.’

  Perfect. After their brush with Kimberley life in the wild they’d gone running to the closest five-star accommodation they could find. Clement arranged to meet them by the pool in an hour. The Cleopatra was on the way to the Mimosa and he was hungry, a good fit.

  The Cleopatra Tavern was a low, pagoda-style building, usually well frequented by locals and low-end tourists. Clement walked up the small brick paving entranceway to the tavern. Smoking was not allowed inside and Clement had to beat his way through a cloud of smoke supplied by three men in blue singlets gathered just out front of the doorway.

  Inside in the public bar he was greeted by unflattering lighting, grey carpet with a yellow thread pattern, a generous bar and close to ten customers. A couple of blokes were playing darts, a pair of male backpackers were on the pool table. It was probably too early for trouble but when it came it nearly always involved young backpackers beating the locals on their own table. The locals would then belt them. In the smaller adjoining saloon bar the clientele appeared to consist of two couples. A barman, mid-forties, was working the bar with a perky blonde in her twenties. Clement thought of Jill at The Anglers; twenty-five years earlier this is probably how she would have looked.

  He took a seat on a stool at the bar, glanced at the bar menu though he’d already made up his mind to order the fish burger which he’d had here before a
nd considered good value. The perky blonde served him and Clement got his order out of the way. When she asked if he’d like a drink he declined. Once his order was through to the kitchen he called her over, explained he was a detective investigating the death of Dieter Schaffer. She looked blank.

  ‘A German guy, about sixty, was in here night before last.’

  It clicked. ‘You mean Schultz?’

  ‘Yes. That was his nickname.’ She was already feeling sad. ‘That’s horrible.’

  The barman, who carried himself like he was her boss and wore a tight shirt to show his muscles, made his way across. The blonde brought him up to speed and he turned to Clement.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘That’s what we’re looking into. He was found dead up at a waterhole called Jasper’s Creek.’

  The blonde, whose name was Michaeley, recalled now he had been talking about that on Tuesday night. Clement repeated his questions as to whether Dieter Schaffer had been with anyone. The bar manager, Justin, recalled he’d spent a bit of time with a couple of the ‘girls from the resort’. Before Michaeley broke off to serve customers she ventured their names.

  ‘Marie and Rosa I think. Marie’s Polish. Rosa is South American.’

  Clement made a note. Justin explained.

  ‘The resorts get a lot of casuals drifting through. They work as maids or kitchen hands mostly.’

  ‘Wasn’t Schaffer a bit old for them?’

  Clement saw Justin wondering how much to tell him.

  ‘Schultz grew his own dope. I don’t think he sold it. I think he just gave it away. I told him if I found him doing deals in here, he’d never be allowed back but you can’t police it if they go outside for a walk and a smoke.’

  Clement recalled Bill Seratano and Mitch’s evasiveness. That’s probably what it was about. Maybe Seratono had bought some grass off Dieter too? It also might explain why Schaffer was able to draw down so little from his bank account. He had a cash business going.