by Dave Warner
‘Dieter Schaffer’s windfall probably had nothing to do with drugs.’
Clement stood outside the rear door of the station with Earle who was blowing a stream of smoke into a sky dark and unsettled like a room before an argument. The scent of wild flowers had been hovering until Earle’s smoke stream obliterated it.
‘You think it was the inheritance he was talking about?’
‘Yeah. Over a hundred and fifty thousand euros.’
Earle wondered if somebody might have killed him for it.
‘There’s no other beneficiary, no relatives.’
‘And Lee?’
‘Could be exactly as Marchant said. Somebody hands Lee a joint …’
Mal Gross, covered in the fug of tedium, joined them.
Clement didn’t stop. ‘… “Wow, great grass where did you get it?” He approaches Dieter. Dieter says fuck off. He doesn’t need to sell speed, doesn’t even need to sell his pot. He’s got a fortune coming. You saw how he lived.’
He turned to Gross and explained Dieter’s windfall.
Earle ground out his cigarette. ‘So the argument was just an argument. But the murders have to be connected by something. It can’t be coincidence that we’re investigating Dieter Schaffer and his dope and the next person killed is a biker he argued with, who was at his place the night after his death. You don’t think that?’
He didn’t. And yet something wasn’t right, wasn’t natural. He wished he could figure it out but his brain was tired. Earle was still spit-balling.
‘Could it be somebody with a grudge against drugs and people who sell them?’
‘It could, if somebody knew Lee was here to make and distribute drugs but that was secret.’
‘Not totally. The Dingos could have leaked, or Lee’s mob.’
Mal Gross shuffled. ‘I’ve been at it for hours. I can’t find anything linking the victims. If the killer is somebody connected with the Dingoes then the reason they are doing it is because they want all the action for themselves but I don’t think the Dingos have anybody smart enough or ambitious enough for that.’
Clement was inclined to agree but they had to pursue it. ‘Maybe there are factions within CZG. When is our first Dingo turning up?’
‘Ten minutes, Marinovic the landlord.’
‘They say there’s a cyclone heading our way.’ Mal Gross kept in close contact with all the Emergency Services.
‘How big?’
‘A big one, a cat four maybe.’
‘When?’ Earle and Clement spoke simultaneously.
‘They reckon Wednesday or Thursday.’
‘That’s all we need.’ Earle had spoken what they were all thinking. Normally cyclones bypassed Broome. Onslow was more likely to cop it. But if a cyclone did hit it would mean a shutdown of most everything, communications, airports, shops. Even a small one would see the available uniforms diverted to emergency business. If it was a big one, they could lose buildings. He would have to make sure all evidence was totally secured.
‘Put that on top of a serial killer, I don’t like the chances of a big tourist season.’
26
Over the next four hours they interviewed Marinovic and seven other members of the gang. Not one of them produced even the faintest spark in Clement. Some admitted meeting Lee, none put Lee and Schaffer together, none put Lee with any other members of any other gang. In between interviews Risely updated Clement on the steady stream of media requests. When the last Dingo had thudded his way from the interview room down the corridor to the exit Risely cornered Clement again.
‘You’ll have to speak to them sooner or later. They know I’m just the desk jockey. They want the operational head.’
‘Tell them I’m busy.’
‘Perth is getting restless.’
‘Then the Commissioner should do the interviews. We’ve got nothing: no murder weapon, no motive, one pathetic piece of CCTV. We can’t put Lee at Jasper’s Creek with Schaffer, we can’t put Lee together with anybody else who might have been at Jasper’s Creek. If he wasn’t a bikie we’d probably not be looking for a connection.’
‘But he was a bikie, right? So we need to go down that path.’
It was true and there was no point taking out his frustration on Risely. Clement retreated to his office and slumped in his chair. His phone buzzed and given the time of night he automatically assumed it was his mother, and in his current mood, bad news. The ID told him he was right about the first thing.
‘Hi Mum.’
‘Hello? Daniel?’
She was on her mobile and clearly not sure where to speak. ‘Just put it to your ear. It will work fine.’
‘That better?’
She was loud and clear.
‘Much. Everything okay?’
‘He’s improving.’
Clement’s body relaxed.
‘They’ve moved him from intensive care to a ward. He’s in with two other men.’
His mother ran down the condition of the others. Clement had little interest in them but he let her talk. Eventually she swung back to his father.
‘His lucidity comes and goes. One moment he is talking quite normally and then he’s off in his own world. I think he thought he was back in Broome at one stage. But they say he should gradually return to normal. He’s eating well and he’s able to move everything. How was your trip?’
‘It was fine.’
‘Phoebe rang. It was so nice to hear from her, poor little thing. And Marilyn, it was very nice of her.’
Clement never knew quite what to say when his parents brought her up. He suspected they thought he was the prime driver in the break-up. He did not have the kind of relationship with his parents where one shared deep emotions but one time his mother had looked reproachfully at him and said something about how you don’t realise what you have till it’s gone. Well his mother hadn’t had to live with Geraldine conducting Marilyn like she was lead violin in her orchestra. Clement and his mum talked the inanities of life—plane capacity, hospital elevators, weather—and both felt better for it.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye Mum.’
It was no use just sitting on his arse. He walked back out to the main area and caught Risely about to head home. He offered an olive branch.
‘How about I speak to local radio, ask if anybody saw any vehicles near Blue Haze or Jasper’s Creek on the nights in question.’
Risely was enthused. ‘I’ll set it up for tomorrow, say seven thirty? That way we’ll get the breakfast and most listeners.’
Clement okayed that but his brain was still mired in cul-de-sacs, and obviously it showed. Risely’s demeanour changed to pity. ‘Hey, it’ll come good.’
Shepherd was still out chasing down probably fruitless leads, Gross and Earle looked dog-tired. Clement saw no point keeping them here.
‘Unless you’ve got something special you’re chasing up, you guys may as well go home.’
Mal Gross was handing over to the night crew and said he’d head as soon as it was done.
Earle shoved back in his chair. ‘You want to come to our place for a bite to eat?’
It was kind of Earle to ask but Clement needed his own company.
‘Nah, I’ve got a few things.’
Actually he had nothing on but right now he needed to be alone. Clement went to grab his jacket from his office but stopped at the threshold. Something inside was flashing. What the hell was that?
In the centre of the meeting table was the child’s watch in the evidence bag, pulsing evenly. He guessed Lisa Keeble had left it for him, thinking he’d return it to evidence, but she had been so busy she had forgotten to mention it. He scooped it up and was about to call Phoebe but decided it was too late and drove to the Cleo wondering if Shepherd and Taylor might be there following up on Schaffer’s customers.
There was no moon. It felt like the air was slowly closing on him from all sides, squeezing the juice from him. He had the window down as he drove along the coast but the oc
ean offered no succour as if too busy brooding on the inevitable pain that would come with the cyclone. The Cleo carpark was thinly populated. Perhaps news of the second murder had spread and people were already staying at home.
‘It is a bit freaky,’ admitted Michaeley the barmaid handing him his fish burger. She said the only clientele had been hard-core regulars, nearly all men.
‘You can’t help looking at them wondering, you know, are you the one?’
Clement had established right away Shepherd had been in earlier asking whether anybody had seen Schaffer and Lee together. Neither Michaeley nor any of the other staff remembered Arturo Lee. Michaeley wiped a glass that was already clean.
‘Shep offered to drive me home if I was worried.’
Of course he had.
‘Do you know if he’s single?’ She sounded hopeful. Lisa Keeble would be pleased she might finally be off the hook.
‘Very.’ Clement thought he saw a small smile appear.
‘He said he had to chase down a few more things and then he’d come back before closing.’
Shep doing his civic duty. Michaeley slid down the bar to serve a thirsty patron and Clement took the opportunity to edge away to a high bar table. He began eating the burger. It was not as good as the previous time. The expectation had been too high or maybe it was that the kitchen had closed by the time he’d arrived and Michaeley had prevailed on the cook to fix him up as a favour. But he was hungry and it was better than anything he could have put together at the flat.
By the time he finished the burger the bar had thinned even further and he had no desire to bump into Shepherd so he carried his plate over to Michaeley and wished her well. He drove back to his flat, dwelling on Dieter Schaffer. Had Schaffer been referring to the money from his sister’s estate when he said he’d be rolling on it? Was he planning to use his inheritance to buy into the drug operation of Lee’s or start a rival one?
Clement parked and climbed the stairs to his apartment which was baking and airless. He left the front door open and pulled the sliding glass door that gave onto a tiny balcony overlooking the harbour but there was no breeze. It was like being buried in compost. He put on his Kmart articulated fan, clicked on The Cruel Sea and lay back on his bed knowing he wouldn’t sleep for hours and worrying about the interview he would have to give in the morning.
27
Standing in his kitchen, Gerd Osterlund gazed over the Indian Ocean, this morning the blue-grey colour of a revolver. It had threatened to rain in the early hours, distant rumblings, air so dense you could feel the moisture in your lungs with every breath. He loved the humidity, so different from where he had grown up. The sky this morning was remarkably similar in shade to the dark grey trousers he remembered on bus conductors of his youth, trousers that always matched the sky overhead. If it were purely a visual world you could momentarily forget you’d ever left Germany but even now at five thirty a.m. it was sticky, the air holding you close like a lover who had stayed too long. In Germany if you saw a sky like this, you could expect cold that gnawed your bones.
Osterlund watched coffee drip into the small silver cup. He thought of Dieter Schaffer. It had been almost a week. At first he’d been very concerned but now it seemed likely Schaffer had simply got himself into trouble with bikers. It was bound to happen. He picked up the cup, sipped, and placed it back on the saucer. He’d already dressed in preparation for his walk. Resting on the bench his phone plinked, its signal for a text. He wondered which of the territories might be contacting him at this time: surely too early for Europe? He guessed North America and opened his phone display.
A photo filled the screen. The cup and its chrome saucer leapt from his hand. Coffee splattered over the tiles. His eyes remained fixed on the screen. His heart pounded through his chest. One text, a number not recognised by his contacts list.
Who had sent this? The detective? Did he know more than he let on? But why? Surely he would just come right out—
‘Are you alright?’
Astuthi had appeared at the top of the stairs, hair wild, a white camisole over her dark skin.
‘It slipped out of my hands.’
She was looking at him acutely. Her eyes strayed towards the phone. He clicked it off.
‘I wasn’t properly awake. I’m sorry, go back to bed.’
‘I’ll clean up.’
‘I can do that.’
‘I’m awake now. It’s fine, you sure you’re okay?’
‘Yes, I’m good. I was just about to go on my walk.’
‘Well you go, I’ll do this.’
He hesitated but knew if he did not follow his routine she would worry. Still shaken he descended the stairs to the bedroom where his heartbeat slowly returned to normal and his brain unclogged. At first he had been on alert over Schaffer’s murder but the news of the bikie killing had relaxed him, made him think it was something to do with the crowd that Schaffer hung around. Schaffer had always been a problem. He cursed himself for his own stupidity in not taking action himself. He needed time to think. He could hear Astuthi moving about above; it would be easier too without her at his shoulder.
Exiting the house his eyes scanned the low scrub that led to the beach. It was not possible for anybody to hide there without being seen. All the same he diverted to the barbecue, armed himself with the sharp knife he used to slice steaks and placed it in the long side-pocket of his shorts. His mind was racing. He forced himself to click his phone back on and look at the photo again. No, it was not a prank; somebody wanted him to feel their breath on his neck. Reflexively he swung around. As far as the eye could see was pristine white sand, not a person in sight. He started south as usual. Going to the police was not an option. Who the hell could it be: one of Schaffer’s old police colleagues? Would they really have done that to Schaffer? He’d dismissed Schaffer’s concerns about the Edershen murder but now it seemed he should have paid more attention. Where did the biker fit? The logical thing to do would be to leave for a while, see if the police got anywhere. Bali was too close. Europe made more sense, a working holiday. Or he could stay here, tough it out, hire some muscle. In Bali he’d kept a revolver. He regretted he’d left it there.
Normally, thongs in hand, he liked to walk along the strip close to the water’s edge, where the sand was soft but not sloppy, enjoying the feel of wet sand on his soles. He could see a lone fisherman about a hundred metres south and decided to give him a wide berth even though he was pretty sure it was the same one who had been there most of the week. He had been tempted to strike up a conversation but he had told the detective the truth: he had little interest in fish other than when served on a plate with crisp potato wedges. Think calmly, he told himself. He knew people, ex-cops, other thugs. They could probably do a better job than the police here. Find whoever was responsible and stop it. But did he need to stay for that? He and Tuthi could enjoy a holiday anyway. His travel agent—
The thought stopped in its tracks. A distant shape appeared heading towards him fast. He planted his feet. His hand gripped the handle of the knife. The figure was close enough now to make out: a man running with his dog. The dog was a red setter or something like it. The man was pumping his arms, no sign of an axe. Perhaps he had a gun. Osterlund was already regretting his decision to leave the house. Then the angle of the man’s run changed sharply, away from him up towards the road. The setter followed. Osterlund edged the other way towards beach and the man and the dog passed a good thirty metres away. Osterlund turned back and watched as they continued on their course, travelling fast. Soon they were a dot behind him. Up ahead, as far as the eye could see, there was nobody. That was it then, settled, he didn’t want to have his blood pressure hit one-eighty every time he passed somebody. Soon as he got back he would organise a long business trip. The police could hardly find that suspicious. He’d put somebody in his house who could find the source of his problem and make it go away. Something fizzed through the air behind him but before he could turn, a burst of pain e
xploded in his knee. It was sharp, as intense as any he’d known. He tried to walk but toppled into the sand, recoiling at the sight of an iron arrowhead poking through the front of his knee.
28
He was terrified. There was nothing firm under his feet. Gravity was pulling him down, water rushing into his nose and mouth. It required all his energy to try and keep his head clear but his arms had lost almost all their strength and felt sewn on, sodden, as if they belonged to a dummy. His father watched on, bending down towards him, hairy legs, blue bathers with green trimmings, the kind that looked like shorts.
‘Help me,’ he tried to scream but his father just kept gesticulating with his arms and exhorting him with words that were lost beneath the terror of his pumping pulse. The bitterness of the chlorine was in his mouth at the back of his throat, coming in gulps now. With his last effort he reached out and felt the tips of his fingers contact the solid wall of the swimming pool. Clapping him like he was some hero, his father reached down and rubbed his hair but he could still hear nothing, his ears blocked as he gasped for breath.
A burst of music slammed into him but not Neil Diamond, his father’s favourite. The image pixilated, the swimming pool and patio gave way to the dirty white ceiling of his flat.
His phone was ringing.
He reached for it, the dream lingering. He had been six years old, late for a kid to start learning to swim in Australia. He couldn’t remember if he was angry with his father, he supposed so. Why wouldn’t he be? The phone number on the ID seemed familiar. He pressed answer and put the phone to his ear.
‘Clement.’
‘Detective, it is Astuthi Osterlund.’
Her transparent anxiety made him alert. A bad feeling was already oozing under his skin.
‘Yes, Mrs Osterlund.’
‘I’m worried, my husband has not returned from his walk.’
‘When did he go out?’
‘Just after five thirty. I went down to the beach and searched. I couldn’t see him. He’s not answering his phone.’
