by Dave Warner
‘I spoke to Trent Jaffner,’ said Earle, the gleaming road stretching ahead. ‘He gave the same story about Schaffer as all the others. The man virtually gave away his pot. If it was up to this lot he’d be canonised.’
It took them a little over ten minutes to reach the place which sat just off the highway behind a wide gravel space so flat it could have been a military parade ground. From the highway Clement couldn’t see anything except the boarded up old servo and its adjoining garage. Only when he turned off onto the gravel did he see what had been hidden from the road by a grove of trees and scrub: a white delivery van parked on the southern flank, about fifty metres to the right of the garage. An ambulance was beside it. Two male paramedics were attending, one on his phone. A short, dark curly haired man in a tight polo shirt and shorts was sitting on a flat rock near the delivery van. Clement pulled up behind the other vehicles. They got out and approached the paramedics. He hadn’t been back here long enough to know people from the other services by name. The one who was not on the phone, a chunky, prematurely balding fellow, came towards him.
‘He’s dead. We didn’t move the body. I don’t think you’re looking at natural causes.’
Now Clement saw the crumpled figure lying on the edge of where the gravel met bush. Flies had already zeroed in. He glanced over at the man sitting on the rock.
The paramedic said, ‘He’s the one who called it in.’
Clement and Earle retrieved plastic gloves and shoe covers from the car and each slipped one set on, cramming more into their pockets. A man’s body, bent awkwardly, wearing jeans and a denim jacket, was lying in the dirt on its left side. Blood had pooled around his staved-in head like a halo then flowed down around his torso but his Maori features were visible and he was wearing thick boots.
Earle spoke for both of them. ‘Looks like we found our biker.’
22
A hunting knife was close to the body but had escaped the river of gore. Its blade seemed clean.
Earle clocked him. ‘His?’
Clement shrugged, checked the body now, stiff.
‘A good few hours.’ He felt in the pockets of jackets and jeans, found a wallet with a hundred and forty dollars but no ID. There was no phone but there were two keys, one household style, the other shiny silver with black plastic tabs, probably for a cycle. Up close the wound looked like Schaffer’s, the skull had been sliced, tissue exposed.
‘Get some photos.’
As Earle moved around the body clicking his phone-camera, Clement peeled his gloves and shoe covers and headed to the man sitting on the rock.
‘Mr Orese?’
Close up, Clement saw he was green around the gills. He introduced himself then started in.
‘When did you find the body?’
‘Just before I called triple 0. I do the pies, for Wilson’s.’
Wilson’s was the local bakery. It had been around since Clement was a boy.
‘I pulled over here for a cup of tea. I keep a thermos. As I pull in, I seen this shape on the ground and first I think it’s a roo or something then I see it’s a person and I think it’s some drunk and I’m going to leave him be but he didn’t move at all so I got out to see.’
He offered a stricken face at what that had been like. Just telling the story had him sweating up again.
‘Okay, thanks, look we’ll need to keep everything in place until our techs can get here and check it out.’
‘What about the pies in the van?’
‘I’m sorry. You can’t move anything just yet. Did you touch the body?’
‘No way, it was gross.’
‘Did you see anybody around? Pass any vehicles?’
‘Didn’t see anybody, guess I passed cars but you know …’
The chance of the killer still being around when Orese was doing his pie run was remote. Clement thanked him but cautioned he would have to stay till the techs checked him and his vehicle. A patrol car pulled in and di Rivi and Restoff climbed out. Clement told them to establish a crime scene and returned to Earle who looked up from his phone-camera.
‘Looks like the same guy killed Schaffer did him.’
Clement was cautious. ‘Maybe. We’ll need the techs.’
Earle nodded towards Orese. ‘He useful?’
‘Doubt it.’
‘What was he doing out here you reckon?’
Earle meant the dead biker. It was a good question. There was no sign of a bike or any other vehicle. He may have been dumped there. The gravel was not conducive to tracks and Orese’s van would have wiped them anyway. Clement’s eyes swung across to the boarded-up servo shop and garage. Whatever door there once may have been on the shop was invisible behind nailed board but the adjoining old brick workshop offered a rusted metal roll-a-door. He walked towards it, shoes crunching over the gravel. He remembered what Lisa Keeble had said in the briefing about gravel being found at the back of Schaffer’s house and wondered if it had come from here. The afternoon sun was ripening, setting off images in his head of defrosting pies and flies. From around ten metres he could see the roll-a-door was secured by padlock, a new padlock at that. He bent down and tried the key he had taken from the biker’s pocket. The lock sprang. He unhooked it and lifted up the metal door which moved far too easily for something supposedly abandoned for years.
The space inside was the original garage, a rectangle of brick walls and concrete slab floor. A mechanic’s pit was dead centre but the hoist and everything else had long gone except for a Kawasaki Z750, black and gleaming chrome, just inside the door. It bore no licence plate. Dan put on a new set of plastic gloves and felt it. Cold. He pulled the door back down but did not bother to secure it with the lock.
He started west towards what had been the servo shop. How grand it had seemed to him as a ten year old. Now it was revealed as a shell, wood frames and glass windows stuck on a low brick base, although the glass had long been replaced by sheets of ply which were covered in graffiti of not the slightest artistic merit. As Clement reached the end of the structure and began to walk down the western flank of the building which was licked by low bush and scrub he realised the shop area of the servo was a façade built onto modest fibro living quarters. He reached the back of the building and what in his youth had been called a sleep-out, an enclosed veranda. He noted its glass louvre windows, a few still intact. Three old, rough wooden steps gave onto a back door of warped wood, the sort you locked with a long key with three teeth at the end, like in a cartoon. The small brass knob was loose as they always were. It spun when he tried it but finally caught and opened. The key was in the lock on the reverse side, exactly the sort he had imagined, long, rusty, God knew how old. With the bike in the garage it seemed probable this was where the biker had been staying. They’d have to do a property search, find out who owned the place. On the top step he called out.
‘Hello?’
Nobody answered. He stepped into the room which sloped towards him so walking up the warped floorboards was almost a climb. An old pool table dominated the space. Empty beer cans with cigarette butts stabbed into them decorated the room. The smell lingered, recent occupation. He stepped through the doorway into a narrow hall. On his right, what had once been an old bathroom. Only the toilet remained. It was ancient and filthy. He pushed down a wonky button and was surprised it flushed. On the left of the hall was what had been a bedroom, now barren, a hole smashed in the outer fibro wall so that it was exposed to the elements. At this point the floor levelled again. He continued up the hallway into the lounge room, the front room that sat immediately behind the old shop. Somebody had recently been living here. A grubby mattress lay on the floor, a sleeping bag thrown on top. Two old armchairs comprised the furniture. More empty beer cans and cigarette stubs. No phone, fixed or otherwise, that he could see. It beggared belief the biker had been here without one. He turned on his heel quickly, went back outside and phoned Risely.
‘Christ,’ said Risely after Clement’s precis. There was a pau
se — Clement imagined a moment of bitter reflection—then, ‘Perth is going to want in. The media is going to be all over this. Fucking serial killer shit.’
‘We can’t be sure it’s the same killer. Could be somebody trying to make it look like it is, or just coincidence.’
Risely didn’t care what the truth was, he knew how they’d all react and Clement didn’t fault his logic.
‘Have we got enough to paint this as a biker killing?’
Clement didn’t think so but the Dingos were his first priority. He saw Keeble arrive with her tech team. If she were tired she didn’t show it, moving with a spring in her step. They waved to each other.
‘We need something soon. This is a tourist town and it could get out of hand quickly.’
Clement understood Risely was being pragmatic but still felt like he was being pressured. The uniforms had already established a crime scene perimeter. Orese was still sitting by himself, waiting patiently. The paramedics were leaving, their services not required here. Risely asked if he should come out.
‘Probably not much point. I’d like to know who owns this place.’
Risely said he’d find out and they agreed to meet in the office as soon as Clement was through there. Clement advanced to where Keeble was camped over the body. Earle stood back, giving her space. Close up Clement could see the fatigue in her eyes.
‘It’s very probable he was killed right there sometime last night,’ Keeble said. ‘Single blow to the head, probably the same weapon as the other one.’
‘No defence wounds?’
‘Nope. Like he was just standing there — and whack.’
And yet he had possibly pulled a knife. Somebody had surprised him and at the last second he had tried to defend himself. Clement couldn’t ignore the idea the dead man knew his killer, had come to meet him out here and then realised it was a set-up. Clement thought about the body some more.
‘He doesn’t seem as badly beaten up as Schaffer.’
‘You’re right. He was pole-axed and left to die.’
Like it was less personal, more business, he thought. She showed him the kid’s watch which was in an evidence bag.
‘This was just a couple of metres from the body.’
Clement examined it. He wondered if the killer or victim might have dropped it. It should print up well.
‘I found gravel in the groove of his boot, which you’d expect, of course, but it is consistent with what we found at Schaffer’s where you were attacked.’
‘There’s a motorcycle in the garage. You want to do that here or the station?’
‘Here will be fine. Shall I do that first?’
‘No, van first for this poor bastard.’ Clement nodded at Orese.
‘I’ll print and swab him too.’
Finding a murder victim could be a damn inconvenience, thought Clement. Shepherd arrived, spraying gravel.
‘This is going to be big,’ he said heading from the car. Jared Taylor followed quietly behind him. Clement told them he wanted them to head up to the nearest houses and canvas everybody about what they had seen last night, and over the last few days.
‘Boys notice motorcycles. See if anybody saw our victim with anybody else or any people or vehicles here.’
His phone buzzed. Mal Gross thought he might have an ID on the victim.
‘Arturo “Arthur” Lee.’ Mal highlighted the photo on his computer. ‘They had a few on their books fitted the description but he was only one rides a Kawasaki.’
Risely craned in to get a good look. Clement had no doubt it was the same man he’d left back at Blue Haze with his head caved in.
‘That’s our victim. From Adelaide?’
‘Darwin, though I’ve got news from Adelaide too. Lee’s gang call themselves CZG, they were originally based in New Zealand but they’ve got Darwin and Cairns chapters. I spoke to Adelaide first and while we didn’t hit on Lee, soon as I mentioned that the Dingos had been talking of some kind of money rolling in, the Adelaide boys got interested. CZG has been sourcing methamphetamine chemicals from somebody in Adelaide who the biker squad has had under surveillance.’
Risely put it together. ‘CZG get the gear from Adelaide to distribute through the north. They’ve got Darwin and they are spreading south. The garage out at Blue Haze is owned by one of the Dingos, a Stefan Marinovic.’
Mal Gross knew him. He speculated the Dingos might be getting a cut from hooking up distribution. ‘The mining camps would be a big market, young blokes with money and not much to do. The Dingos could facilitate that.’
Risely stretched himself back to his full height. ‘I have warrants for the Dingo clubhouse and Marchant’s house on the way. How does Schaffer fit in?’
He looked at Clement for the answer.
‘Maybe Schaffer was a lot bigger than he seemed? Maybe this was the windfall he was talking about? He could have been in with Lee and CZG and somebody else has taken them out?’
‘The Dingos wouldn’t be up for this would they?’
Gross grunted. ‘Na. I wouldn’t think so. This is way out of their league.’
Risely said, ‘So let’s ask them what’s going on. And not too politely.’
A little after six p.m., Clement, Gross and Earle sat in Mal Gross’s immaculate work car outside Marchant’s house. His bike and car were in the driveway. Clement had decided to try the house before the clubhouse. If Marchant were with his family it would be a lot simpler. It looked like they were in luck.
‘Let’s go.’
They walked up the short, dark concrete driveway. The house was modest, circa 1980, brick, hacienda style with lawn. Cooking smells wafted out. Clement knocked. There was a delay and then the door opened on a squat woman around forty in shorts and tank top. Her over-tanned shoulder showed off a tattoo of a dingo. She looked them up and down with contempt. Clement identified the smell coming from inside as roast lamb or beef. Her eyes narrowed on Gross.
‘What do youse want?’
‘We need to speak to Dean,’ Clement said.
‘It’s Sunday dinner for Chrissake.’
Through the open door Clement could see a dining table and at least two children. The air inside the house was hot. He didn’t know how they could stand it. The hair of Marchant’s missus had wilted into tangled strands.
‘What’s the problem?’ Dean Marchant had appeared behind his wife.
‘Problem is, Dean, we don’t think you were honest with us. Now we’d like you to come to the station.’
‘He’s in the middle of dinner, arseholes.’
Marchant calmed his wife with a touch. ‘Go to the kids.’
She left, glaring.
‘Can’t this wait?’
‘You had your chance, Dean,’ said Mal. ‘You stuffed us around. You’re coming with us. Now.’
Marchant seemed on the verge of objecting. He could point out that if they weren’t arresting him he had no desire to come with them but he seemed to think better of it.
Clement and Earle sat opposite Marchant in the interview room, Mal Gross on a plastic chair inclined against the wall, arms folded. Clement had decided not to switch on the camera and make this a formal interview. Not yet anyway. He wanted to offer Marchant the chance to talk without feeling he’d be identified as an informant. Clement took the lead.
‘Arturo Lee was found murdered this morning. He had been staying in a property which we now know is owned by Stefan Marinovic, a member of your gang. Lee was seen arguing with Dieter Schaffer in the week before he was murdered. You and your gang are right in the middle of this.’
Marchant was trying to look tough but Clement sensed it was a front.
‘If you’re keeping quiet because you think there’s going to be a big payday, forget it. The Adelaide bikie-squad is busting your meth suppliers right now. In about two minutes I’m going to turn on that camera and this will become official. Once that happens you and your gang will be wiped off the face of the earth. Forget about seeing your kids grow up.
Or you can tell us everything you know about the murders. That’s what we’re investigating. You cooperate, it’s going to help you.’
Marchant folded his arms but it was a retreat, not a stonewall. ‘None of us had anything to do with murdering anybody.’
‘Who did?’
‘How the fuck do I know?’
‘You were importing chemicals with Lee to manufacture ice.’
‘No we weren’t. CZG contacted us and offered us money to put up one of their blokes and rent a space for a delivery.’
Gross laughed. ‘You’re not that stupid, Dean. You knew what they were up to.’
Clement bore in. ‘Don’t fuck us around. We’ve got multiple homicides pointing at you. Tell us what we want to know or we’ll find something to put you away for a very long time.’
‘That’s intimidation. I want a lawyer.’
‘You get a lawyer, this gets very official and those Darwin boys will not be happy. Work with us, Dean. If you didn’t kill Lee then we are all looking for who did. We’re on the same side.’
‘The operation was theirs,’ Marchant said mulishly. ‘But if we gave them some contacts for the north-west they’d be grateful.’
Clement read into it that the Dingos would be given cash or drugs to distribute through the Kimberley but he didn’t push, he wanted Marchant cooperating.
‘What was the connection between Lee and Schaffer?’
‘There was no connection. Not really. Look, while Lee was here somebody gave him a puff on some weed. He wanted more and someone pointed him to the Kraut. This is what he told me, right? Lee offered him a chance to join his distribution in return for some weed. Kraut tells him to go fuck himself. That was the fight. That was all it was.’
‘Not all,’ said Clement weightily. ‘Somebody bashed me with a shovel when I was at Schaffer’s. You?’
‘What? No! Lee went there to rip off the Kraut’s pot, teach him a lesson. He thought you were Schaffer.’
