Before It Breaks

by Dave Warner

  ‘I can work through.’

  ‘No need. Get a break, get fresh, we’ve got a bit to knock over.’

  By now it was a little after six. A thought occurred. Clement rang Marilyn’s house and his stomach tightened at the thought of her mother answering. He was in luck though. It was Phoebe. He apologised right off.

  ‘I’m really sorry about the weekend.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘You’re going away on your friend’s boat.’

  ‘Mmm. It should be fun.’

  ‘Have you had dinner?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Would you like to have dinner with me?’

  The slightest hesitation. ‘Okay.’

  He was not going to offer her the chance to reconsider. ‘I’m on my way. Tell Mum I’ll have you back by eight.’

  He hung up and grabbed his keys before Marilyn could intervene. On the way out he passed Mal Gross hunched over his desk demolishing a hamburger. Gross waved as Clement took the back door through to the yard where Keeble was getting started on the car with Jared Taylor and a mechanic. He felt guilty he was deserting them but did not consider hanging around.

  ‘I’ll be on my mobile if you need me.’ He threw the comment like a chip to a seagull and hurried to his car.

  The drive to Marilyn’s house took around thirty minutes, a lot less than it legally should have. He turned up the familiar driveway that snaked over a magnificent bluff. The sun was red pink in its last throes of the day, the ocean a mirror. Old Nick had been at the game a long time. In the glory days of Broome, before the cultured pearl farm operations, the oysters of the region had yielded many pearls and Nick had claimed his share. During the 80s the Japanese had moved in, paying full-tote odds for existing businesses and generous incentives to keep the former proprietors involved. That was one reason the driveway was smoother than any you’d likely find in town. The residence came into view. Clement could query how Geraldine raised her daughter but not her garden. It was lush and bright with pinks and violets. This time of night it glowed. Tall palms gave it majesty. At least one gardener was employed full time but it looked like he had headed home, for the only cars visible in the carport near the house were those of Geraldine and Marilyn. Brian lived in Perth and used Marilyn’s car when here so this didn’t mean he wasn’t in situ. The driveway culminated in a loop where you could park within easy walking distance of a typical big homestead-style house circa 1920 that would not have been out of place on a horse-breeding property. Crimson bougainvilleas and frangipanis followed the line of the veranda. Vines offering small pink and yellow flowers twirled around the poles which, like the rest of the house, were white and seemingly always freshly painted. Nick had done extensions back in the 80s but retained the single level. People who made their living from the sea didn’t need a bedroom view of the ocean. Nick figured he could smell and hear it from his porch. If he wanted the view he could walk five hundred metres and enjoy a beer looking out over the ocean that stretched as far as the eye could see. Paths led to a small gazebo and old stables dating from the 30s. Clement remembered kissing Marilyn in that gazebo, reaching up under her skirt. He tossed the memory. It wasn’t helpful. He climbed the steps and was about to rattle the oval-shaped flywire door when it sprang open on Phoebe, with a smile bright as the kind of globes that burned in ceilings before environmental prefects hushed them.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  Clement tried to see any of himself in her but as usual failed. Mind you there wasn’t much of Marilyn either except the shape of her eyes. Unfortunately that characteristic was shared by Geraldine, who loomed out of the grey interior. She was a traditionalist so he guessed the glass in her hand contained gin and soda.

  ‘Eight at the latest.’

  ‘Marilyn and Brian here?’

  ‘Brian’s overseas on business. Marilyn is having a bath.’

  Dismissing him as a maid might.

  ‘Thanks, Geraldine. I’ll see you later.’

  He enjoyed opening the door for Phoebe and watching her wriggle into the passenger seat, a big girl now, the baby seat probably expunged from her memory. As a special treat, he told her, he was taking her to the Mimosa.

  ‘I love the Mimosa. The lasagne is so yum. We go there every Tuesday.’

  Not so special then, he guessed, but it didn’t matter. This was enough, having her beside him, her pretty shoes not quite touching the floor.

  ‘So tell me about the boat.’

  Phoebe couldn’t tell him much at all. Only that it was big with sails but an engine too in case there was a problem: Mummy had checked. Of course she had, Marilyn missed her vocation by fifty years, she should have been of those wartime code-breakers; nothing would have escaped her. He tried to elicit something about Phoebe’s friend Ashleigh.

  ‘She has problems with her teeth.’

  That was about all he learned by the time they reached the resort. A feature of resorts here was the outdoor dining setting, Tahitian lamps, cobbled walkways, tables that sat square on the ground. The dining area was a quarter full. They had beaten the rush but only just.

  ‘You want a Coke?’

  ‘Mango and orange please.’

  Everything made him aware of the growing distance between them, despite his efforts. The same Irishman took their orders. Clement followed his daughter’s lead and asked for two juices. He ordered the lasagne for her and a chicken salad for himself.

  ‘Not the barista tonight?’

  From the waiter’s face, Clement realised he hadn’t been recognised. The waiter did a good job of covering.

  ‘Oh no, only till five.’

  Clement and Phoebe sat in silence waiting for their drinks. It reminded Clement of so many evenings like this with her mother. Phoebe stared out into the growing gloom. That look like she was off thinking her own undisturbed thoughts, maybe that was how he’d seemed to Marilyn, impenetrable. Much as he was curious about Brian and Marilyn, he avoided that subject.

  ‘And are you going diving?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think Ashleigh has a wetsuit.’

  He had taught Phoebe to swim and an image hit him: water wings inflated with his breath encircling her tiny arms, goggles making her face laugh-out-loud cute.

  ‘Ashleigh’s dad fishes but I don’t want to kill any fish.’

  He lit upon an attractive young woman just arriving with a similarly good-looking young man. It was only when her eyes widened too in recognition that he clicked it was the young woman from the Honky Nut, dressed up for the night. She said something to her partner and started towards him. Twenty-four hours earlier Marilyn had advanced on him almost in this exact spot. Hoping for a better reception he rose from his chair.

  ‘It’s incredible,’ she said with a kind of wonder in her voice that he associated with yoga and activities alien to him. ‘I was only just thinking I have to contact you.’

  She smiled at Phoebe. ‘Hi, I’m Selina.’

  He hadn’t even taken her name before, more proof he was on the way out.

  ‘My daughter,’ Clement threw a hand out in her direction. ‘Phoebe.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Phoebe. What are you having?’

  ‘Lasagne.’

  Selina made her finger into a gun. ‘Good choice.’ She turned to Clement. ‘I remembered something … about that man.’

  14

  It took Clement a moment to orient himself and realise she was talking about Schaffer, trying to avoid mentioning murder victims in front of Phoebe.

  ‘Oh, right. Excuse us for a minute, sweetie. You okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He envied her easy assurance, mother’s girl there. Clement indicated Selina should move to the terrace cocktail bar which was about twenty metres away.

  ‘It was only on the way in with my boyfriend. A motorcycle passed us going the other way and I suddenly remembered about that man, the German.’

  Clement’s curiosity was whetted. He threw a glance at Phoebe who seemed unp
erturbed, balancing a fork over the stem of her spoon.

  Selina continued, ‘It could be nothing, but around the last time I saw him, it might have even been the last time, I was putting the bins out at the back of the café, there’s a carpark there, you know it?’

  Clement was aware of it, a flat area of bitumen. Businesses from parallel streets backed onto it so customers could park and enter via back entrances.

  ‘I heard some kind of argument, not exact words but you know, like … an argument, and when I looked up I saw the German man arguing with a biker.’

  ‘You mean a man on a motorcycle?’

  ‘Yes. Like a bikie, you know, big muscles and tatts but I didn’t see any colours. I’m so stupid I forgot all about it.’

  ‘It’s not stupid. You didn’t recognise the biker?’

  ‘No. We get them in the café sometimes. The Dingos, I think they are called? But I don’t know if he was one of them. He wasn’t wearing colours and I hadn’t seen him before. He was Maori, I’m pretty sure.’

  ‘Could he have been aboriginal?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m part Islander. I think he was Maori.’

  ‘Maybe you heard him speak?’

  ‘Maybe but I can’t remember any words, not exact ones, just he seemed angry.’

  ‘He seemed angry or Dieter Schaffer seemed angry?’

  She cast her mind back.

  ‘The German man, actually. The biker guy he was just sitting on his bike kind of calm, with the attitude, you know? I thought, I don’t know what I thought, maybe the biker had nearly caused an accident or something. I didn’t stay. I went back inside. They weren’t throwing punches or anything. I’m so sorry I didn’t think of this before.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. That’s great you remembered.’

  The waiter had materialised with the juices. ‘You want these here?’

  ‘No take them to the table, please.’

  ‘Food won’t be long.’

  Clement turned back to Selina. ‘Can you think hard when this was? It’s important.’

  ‘It was a Monday. I’m pretty sure of that. Our bins are always full after the weekend. But I can’t remember if it was last Monday or the one before. Last Monday I think. Yes, last Monday.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Morning. I usually do it just after the early rush, I’m guessing about nine.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the bike? Colour, size, anything?’

  ‘It was big, you know. I think it was black but I don’t remember. I wasn’t looking at the bike.’

  ‘Was there anybody else around?’

  ‘I didn’t notice.’ She closed her eyes to remember. ‘There were a few cars, not many, somebody may have been in them.’

  ‘Do you know if there are any CCTV cameras in that carpark?’

  ‘There might be one at the back of the bottle shop on the opposite side.’

  It was something he could look into.

  ‘Could I ask you to do something for me after your dinner?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Would you mind dropping into the station and seeing if you can identify the man you saw? We have photos there.’

  ‘Um, okay.’

  ‘Thanks, that would be a great help. I’ll call the desk sergeant, his name is Mal. He’ll take care of you.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘Thanks again, Selina.’

  She moved off. He looked over to see Phoebe’s juice almost drained, she was kicking her legs happily. He quickly dialled the station and told Mal Gross he was sending an attractive woman his way.

  ‘We may have a lead.’

  He explained the nature of Selina’s information and Gross said he would make sure the biker file was ready. Part of Clement wanted to be there when she went through the books but the argument she witnessed might prove to have been nothing after all. Running down the contacts in Schaffer’s phone was the priority. He asked Gross to see if there were any CCTV cameras in the carpark and mentioned the bottle shop.

  ‘If you can get the footage, we’re looking at the Monday before the murder, the morning, specifically around nine.’

  Gross said he would get onto it.

  Clement returned to the table, buoyed. At Schaffer’s, right after he had been hit, he’d heard a motorcycle leaving; Dieter Schaffer had been in an argument with a biker forty-eight hours before his death. Things were lining up.

  ‘Is she your girlfriend?’ Phoebe asked as he sat down. There was no judgment, no guile, just a straight out question of fact.

  ‘No.’

  He pulled a disapproving face. The days when a young woman like Selina might be his girlfriend had long gone. He’d had many chances working cases. Unlike most of his colleagues, he never took them.

  ‘But Mummy has a boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes. Doesn’t mean I have to have a girlfriend though.’

  Their meals arrived and Phoebe instantly started on her lasagne.

  ‘Are you the head detective at your work?’

  ‘We’re a team. We all have our jobs to do.’

  She wasn’t convinced. ‘There’s always a boss.’

  They ate their meal quickly. Phoebe knew she was on a time limit but wanted a banana split with chocolate topping. He watched her demolish it while he played with scenarios about the biker. Had he killed Schaffer, then gone to Schaffer’s place, perhaps to steal the dope plants? Were they involved in distributing dope?

  As soon as the last mouthful of ice-cream was downed, he motioned Phoebe to join him. There was no way he would have her back home by eight.

  It was around eight-twenty by the time he dropped Phoebe back. She hugged his neck before she ran inside. He saw the porch light come on and a shadow at the door and then she was gone, and in this he saw what he feared might be the inevitable destiny of their relationship: shadows and absence. He spun the wheel and left fast and arrived at Earle’s ten after nine. Earle was waiting in the driveway of his modest brick home enjoying a smoke. His fibreglass runabout, his pride and joy, slept on its cradle beside him. He stamped out the cigarette and hauled his big body into the passenger seat.

  ‘Who’s first?’

  Clement thought they should leave Mitch till last but other than that it was a matter of proximity. On the way to the first of Schaffer’s contacts, Sally Nightcliff, he filled Earle in about the confrontation between a biker and Dieter Schaffer.

  ‘Think it might be the bloke who conked you?’

  ‘Could be. The witness is going to the station after her dinner.’

  In the end it didn’t take them anywhere near as long as Clement had estimated to locate most of those in Schaffer’s phone contact list. Sally Nightcliff was not at home but her housemate pointed them in the direction of the Roebuck Bay Hotel. They found her and another of those on the list, Romano Grigio, drinking in different parts of the pub. Both had the demeanour of chronic potheads, were close to sixty, wearing worn shirts soaked in their BO. They had alibis. Grigio was playing cards with mates and gave details. Sally Nightcliff was in bed with her on-off boyfriend after a night of karaoke. Clement’s bullshit detector did not trigger and a glance at Earle suggested it was the same for him.

  Jenny Messiano was located at home with her de facto watching TV, telltale dope seeds on the coffee table. There was a feeling of desperation in that house, coiled animosity, mainly towards each other, an atmosphere not foreign to Clement. He didn’t rule them out as the kind who might kill somebody for a supposed stash. Jenny Messiano had a shift job packing meat at the abattoir, so on the face of it she was alibied. The de facto worked the same shift. Earle would check up on them. Trent Jaffner was a strikeout. According to his mother he’d driven to Port Hedland a week ago for a job. Something more to be followed up. Rory Clipsall was a young dude with a very old panel van who dossed wherever he could, often in his van. They found him at a mate’s place with rap on the speakers. Clement’s prejudice against rap was not enough to convince him this stoner w
ould be up to killing anybody, at least not without leaving a trace the size of an elephant print. Clipsall had no idea Dieter was dead. Clement didn’t think the kid was putting it on, he looked like he was out of it 24/7 and the fact he couldn’t remember where he was the night Dieter was killed rang true.

  Essentially every one of the people they interviewed reacted in the same way. First, blank denial about buying cannabis off Dieter Schaffer. When assured they wouldn’t be charged with dope offences if they levelled, they became wary but hopeful. What surprised Clement though was how much, or more correctly how little, Dieter Schaffer had been charging for his dope. If they were to be believed, and again Clement found he had no reason not to, old Dieter was doing ‘mate’s rates’, pulling in about half of what Clement had originally estimated. When Clement suggested Dieter Schaffer was their dope dealer, Sally Nightcliff’s response was typical. She wrinkled her greyish skin and said, ‘Dieter wasn’t no dealer. He was just a mate who grew dope and sold a bit around the traps for beer money. He gave it away sometimes.’

  Clement and Earle asked judicious questions about whether Dieter ever flaunted cash. His clients claimed he never seemed to have that much money. Romano Grigio confirmed Dieter liked to punt.

  ‘He played poker with us a few times but he wasn’t very good. I had to slip him some cash and he gave me some heads in return. I told him to stick to the ponies but I never saw him bet big or win big. Fifty bucks here or there, that’s all.’

  After they left Clipsall, the last one in the run, Clement and Earle stood by the car. The night was soft now.

  ‘I’m not convinced there is a stash.’ Even if it did niggle, Clement had long ago learned not to get too attached to theories the facts didn’t support.

  Earle shrugged. ‘He could have other customers he didn’t put in his phone. I mean, if he was supplying bikies he could afford to give the stuff away to his mates.’

  ‘They all say the same thing though. He was just selling a bit to get by.’

  ‘If he was smart that’s what he’d let them think. And even if he had no big money somebody might have thought he did. You know what it’s like with these types. They love a rumour.’