by Dave Warner
It was six fifty now. For once he had overslept.
‘It’s not seven yet.’
Her words came in a jumble and Clement had to pick his way through them. Gerd Osterlund was always back from his walk by six thirty. Earlier this morning before he went on the walk he received a phone call or text. He dropped his cup on the kitchen floor which had woken his wife. He told her it had slipped but she could see him looking at the phone and he was concerned, scared, even though he was trying to hide it. When he didn’t arrive back by six thirty she had started calling his phone every couple of minutes. It went to his voicemail.
By the time Astuthi Osterlund had reached this point in her narrative Clement was heading to the shower.
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. Call me if he turns up.’
It was closer to fifteen minutes before he swung into the driveway. He’d lost time calling Risely to explain why he would not be doing the scheduled interview.
‘You think there’s anything in it?’
‘I hope not.’
Whatever Risely was thinking he kept to himself and said he’d take care of the media. Clement drove to where Astuthi Osterlund waited anxiously by the front steps. She wore a brilliant batik wrap over her slender body. Her face was lined with worry. He climbed out.
‘No sign?’
‘No.’ She was trying to restrain her panic. ‘After Dieter …’
The image was too disturbing for her to complete the sentence.
‘Does he ever take longer on his walk? I mean we’re talking what, forty-five minutes?’
She was shaking her head.
‘I thought first maybe he met somebody he knew and they walked around the point to the Mimosa for coffee but he would have called me.’
‘His battery might have run out or he could have lost his phone.’
‘He would borrow one. And this morning, I could tell he was worried about the phone call.’
‘He didn’t say who called or texted?’
‘No.’
Clement was already running scenarios: the unfaithful husband having an affair, promising he’d leave the wife, his lover saying enough is enough, threatening blackmail. On another occasion in a different situation he would have gone with that but he had a potential serial killer out there, Schaffer was known to Osterlund, and they were both German. There was enough to set alarm bells ringing.
‘Why don’t you take me on his usual route?’
‘This way.’
He followed her through the house and down a staircase to a bedroom and bathroom below, modern, nicely furnished but without the wow factor of the living room. A big sliding glass door opened onto a patio which ended in low brush and white sand.
‘I’ll leave it open in case he comes back.’
Normally the salt air was invigorating but today it was a suffocating damp cloth.
After about twenty metres they hit low dunes and very quickly the beach itself. Clement realised he needed to remove his shoes. As he peeled his socks he called the station. Mal Gross had arrived. He filled him in. ‘Tell Graeme to stay there and interview the rest of the bikies unless I call to say otherwise. Anybody else around?’
‘Jared.’
‘Can you send him here?’
A pause, then Gross said Jared was on his way.
It was hard going through the sand and Clement angled inevitably close to the water. There were a handful of people scattered along the beach.
‘How far does he normally walk?’
‘He leaves at five thirty, back at six thirty. He was a few minutes later today.’
A creature of habit. That could be a bad thing if you had enemies.
‘Straight along the beach?’
‘Yes, always this way.’
That meant thirty minutes south then the same back.
‘Last night everything seemed fine?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about this morning again.’
She told him how she’d woken as she usually did when Osterlund’s alarm went off at five fifteen.
‘Normally I stay in bed. He has a coffee and then goes on his walk. I was drifting back to sleep when, I think it was his text sound, then a crash. I ran upstairs.’
She explained how he looked, pale, not right, the cup was on the floor, coffee everywhere.
Clement wondering now if it was a medical thing, whether Osterlund may have had a stroke or something similar, then wandered off disoriented. Even if it was just the shock of whatever that text may have been, he might be taking his time coming to grips with it.
‘So you didn’t actually see him start on the beach?’
‘No. But he didn’t come up through the house.’ She was very anxious.
‘It’s alright, just trying to cover all bases.’
‘His flip-flops were gone. He always takes them.’
‘Is it possible he might have gone around the house back to the front? That somebody could have arrived?’
‘I would have heard them.’
‘You said you came out to look for him?’
‘I ran out and looked to see if he was coming back. Then I called you.’
‘Did you speak to anybody on the beach who might have seen him?’
‘There was not many people around. Two backpackers, you know? They hadn’t seen him.’
‘What’s his number again?’
She rattled it off. He dialled it and got a voice message. If the axeman had got to Osterlund, he could have dragged him into the ocean. After all, he’d stuck Dieter Schaffer in the creek. Clement plugged on through the sand trying not to betray his growing concern. He was already sweating freely.
‘Does he have any other family? Were you his first wife?’
‘He wasn’t married before. He was never going to get married till he met me. His parents are dead. He has no brothers or sisters.’
‘When did you meet?’
‘Six years ago. My family have a restaurant in Bali. Gerd used to dine there. I knew him for two years before we dated. He taught me German, I taught him Indonesian, that’s how we met.’
‘What did your parents think?’
‘My mother was worried I would want babies later and Gerd was too old, but they like Gerd. He is respectful to them. He is two years older than my father.’
Clement’s phone rang. It was Jared Taylor. He had arrived at the house. Clement told him to drive the streets from the house to the beach in case Osterlund had for some reason taken the road back instead of the beach. He remembered Osterlund entering from the front of the house the other day after his walk.
‘Check whether there have been any accidents. If you see nothing, park and walk the scrub alongside the beach. He usually walked for around thirty minutes south before turning back.’
The sky seemed more troubled by the minute; pent-up anger would be unleashed with force. They would need to make progress quickly.
Clement was no match for Astuthi Osterlund, she seemed to glide over the sand. He struggled to stay with her.
‘Your husband said he thought Dieter Schaffer used to ring just to speak to you.’
She managed a smile that might be called wry.
‘Gerd might say that but it’s not true. Dieter liked talking to Gerd, he wanted to talk to someone from the old homeland and I think he looked up to Gerd.’
‘Did you like Schaffer, apart from him being a drunk?’
‘He was fine. He used to talk about his ex-wife, how he messed things up and missed her. Gerd was harsh with him.’
‘How?’
‘You know, he’d not really want to listen to him or share with him, in case he started hanging around, like Dieter was …’ she pondered the right word, an intrusion. I don’t think my husband liked his life in Germany much and Dieter would remind him of it.’
Clement could relate. He felt uncomfortable around Bill Seratono because Bill reminded him of what he had been, of times past, of confided dreams. There was that unspoken accusa
tion he felt when he was around Seratono: you shouldn’t have left, you’re a turncoat and so on. The worst thing was he could not be sure if it was really there or it was simply his own guilty projection. Maybe Schaffer made Osterlund feel guilty because he was successful and Schaffer not.
‘Have you tried all his friends?’
‘No. He would answer his phone.’
‘Maybe a friend had some emergency and Gerd went to help.’
This gave her hope. She took to the task feverishly, making half a dozen calls in as many minutes. Nobody had seen or heard from him but they all promised to ring around and keep an eye out. Clement had no choice but to pile on her misery.
‘I have to ask you this: is your marriage good?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You don’t think your husband has some other relationship?’
‘Gerd doesn’t have relationships except in business. You ask me if he has other lovers, possibly, probably. He’s a man. He does business overseas. I’m not foolish. But if he got a phone call that worries him, it’s not from a woman.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘If Gerd wants to leave, he’ll tell me. If I can’t keep him, that is my problem. But this morning he seemed … afraid.’
She spoke the word as if testing its efficacy, then nodded like she’d nailed the emotion.
They walked on beyond the usual distance Osterlund travelled, passing in total only five groups of people on the way. Clement asked each of them had they seen Osterlund. All responded in the negative. He phoned Taylor who was now on foot, around a quarter of the way through the scrub heading in the same direction. He’d found nothing so far. Clement said he would turn around and come back through the scrub from the south towards Taylor. He called Mal Gross again and caught him halfway through a coffee.
‘The bikers are in with Graeme.’
‘Good. Listen, I’m going to need some help to search the area. There’s no sign of Osterlund.’
Gross promised to get some uniforms onto it immediately.
‘Tell them to call me when they have reached the house.’
Clement guided Astuthi Osterlund up towards the scrub area. She was growing more dispirited by the minute. They picked their way back north. It was not as easy to see the ground ahead as it had been on the pristine beach. If Osterlund’s body was lying flat they wouldn’t see it until almost upon it. Clement couldn’t help thinking about the similarities in the attacks on Schaffer and Lee. Both had happened in remote locations. And at six in the morning here it would also have been deserted. A moment later he was back on the line to Gross.
‘The IT guy, Manners: can you get him onto Osterlund’s provider and find if there was any communication this morning?’
‘Sure. The boss is asking if he should be worried.’
Clement was conscious of the woman with him. ‘He should be thinking about it.’
As he ended the call he saw Astuthi Osterlund get off her phone.
‘Our neighbours, the Lucases, are going to drive around and look for him.’ She was near tears. ‘Why would somebody want to hurt Gerd?’
Clement’s phone rang. Astuthi’s eyes filled with dread. It was Jo di Rivi. She and Restoff had reached the house, Lalor and Hagan were right behind them.
‘I want you to start searching all that bush around the house.’
Astuthi Osterlund’s fear ramped up. ‘Why are you looking in the bush?’
He did not want to say, ‘In case your husband’s body is there.’
‘We need be thorough.’
She let that sink in as they walked on without conversation. Eventually they got close enough to make out Taylor heading towards them. He pointed behind him.
‘Nothing. There’s a couple of lay-bys just back there where vehicles drive off the main road to get close to the beach but they’re empty.’
‘You keep going, double-check the area we just covered. We’ll go back to the house.’
It took them about ten minutes to reach the first of the areas Jared Taylor had described as a lay-by. It was little more than a sand track off the main road that ran up through scrub and stopped about ten metres behind dunes. Clement scanned around. There was broken and flattened scrub where a vehicle or vehicles had turned but it was now empty. He was vaguely conscious of Astuthi Osterlund trying her phone again as she had done every five minutes or so. Then he heard the sound of a phone ringing. She hadn’t heard it and was about to hang up.
‘Don’t.’
For a second she was confused but realised what this sudden command meant. Clement was already past her heading towards the beach. She ran after him. The beach was still bare but the sound pulled him to an area ten to twenty metres in. A phone lay on the sand, pitted by wet dark spots. Blood?
‘Stay back,’ he yelled to her. He slipped on evidence gloves and picked up the phone. The screen was opaque. He pressed it and a photo filled the small screen, a photo of Dieter Schaffer at Jasper’s Creek, lying stretched out on the ground in his pristine t-shirt, his head split, grotesque and bloody.
29
Clement felt like the kid in the school play whose job it was to stand there with a crown and cape looking important while the other kids sang and danced and did all the stuff that actually required talent. He was immobile in the centre of Gerd Osterlund’s lounge room as a variety of techs in full crime-scene clothing moved about dusting, photographing, cataloguing. Even Graeme Earle had something to do. Having cancelled the interviews with the remaining Dingos he now sat at the kitchen bench methodically combing recent emails on Osterlund’s computer.
‘They’re not on Facebook? Twitter?’ he asked Clement.
‘Mrs Osterlund says not.’
The crime scene now spanned the beach and the house, the beach having been sectioned off from a hundred metres north of the house to the lay-by south where they had found the phone. Despite the photograph on Osterlund’s phone, it couldn’t be absolutely determined Astuthi Osterlund hadn’t killed her husband, been involved in his abduction, or colluded with him to stage it. Clement did not believe any of these things but decreed nonetheless the house be treated like a crime scene. He had to balance potential contamination of the scene with the possibility that somebody would call the house and make ransom demands, so Mrs Osterlund was still inside being shadowed by Jo di Rivi. They were currently downstairs in the bedroom which had already been processed. Lisa Keeble had nowhere near enough bodies to work the case so more techs were flying in from Perth.
Scott Risely entered the house in an obligatory crime-scene suit. His fingers raked back through his cropped grey hair.
‘Perth is sending a media liaison person and three more detectives.’
‘You know who?’ Clement hoped it would be people he’d worked well with before.
‘Not yet. You think he was abducted?’
‘That’s my best guess.’
‘Why different this time? If it’s our guy why not just kill him?’
‘He might want to know something from Osterlund. He may want to just draw it out.’
‘Or it could be a ransom. Osterlund is wealthy, right?’ Risely automatically lowered his voice. ‘Where’s the wife?’
‘Downstairs. Di Rivi is with her.’
‘I’ll get the phones monitored.’
Clement scanned the empty beach through the glass. No birds. Something bad was coming. ‘I don’t think this is a ransom situation. The abductor has had time to call her. He must know her next move would be to call us.’
‘We still need the phones monitored.’
‘I agree.’
Risely leaned back in to keep it confidential.
‘Are we sure this is the same guy? I mean, maybe the wife wants him to disappear and it’s a good opportunity.’
‘What about the photo of Dieter Schaffer on his phone? She’d have to have something to do with that.’
Risely remained suspicious. ‘If Osterlund isn’t involved in something, why didn’t he
call us when he got this disturbing text?’
‘It was very early, maybe he thought too early, went for a walk to kill time.’
‘Or he is involved.’
Sound logic. Clement was already planning ahead. ‘We need whatever CCTV we can get: coast road, town, service stations, anything between say five a.m. and seven a.m.’
Risely moved off to get it in train. Clement considered their killer-cum-abductor. This was the most dangerous of his crimes so far, with a much higher chance of detection. Either he was becoming bolder—not uncommon in a serial criminal—or Osterlund represented some much bigger prize than the others had. Maybe Risely was right and there was money involved?
Jo di Rivi appeared from the stairs. ‘I’m getting her a cup of tea,’ she explained.
‘What’s your take?’
The constable looked surprised to be asked. Clement pushed. ‘You think she’s genuine?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Me too. How’s the dog?’
Jo di Rivi smiled proudly. ‘She’s good but she’s hardly seen me.’
Even our pets suffer our vocation, thought Clement. ‘You got a name yet?’
‘Working on it.’
Clement’s phone buzzed again and di Rivi headed to the kitchen bench.
‘Clement.’
‘It’s Brett Manners. I thought that phone number was familiar.’
‘Which phone number?’
‘The one that sent the text to Osterlund’s phone. It’s the phone we were looking for, Arturo Lee’s.’
Risely slapped his fist into his palm in emphasis. ‘The photo of the dead Schaffer came from Arturo Lee’s phone. Lee is on a slab in Perth. Well, that’s it, that’s our connection.’
Clement had called his boss and Graeme Earle outside to the front veranda. The uniforms were assiduously going about their business, processing the surrounding bush.
Risely ran like a marlin. ‘Lee and some associate kill Schaffer, take his photo for some reason. Extortion maybe? They’re going to scare the shit out of Osterlund so he’ll pay up. The unknown associate gets greedy, kills Lee.’
Clement felt the need to haul in his boss.
