by Dave Warner
He knew how that felt.
His favourite were the spiders. Lying on his tummy as close as he could get to them he would watch them spin their webs, or climb over to the tiny flying bugs trapped within. Spiders were clever, he decided, perfect hunters. They would stake out the territory of high insect traffic and then find two branches or posts to hold their web. Only rarely were they foolish enough to waste energy on a web that would be torn apart by humans, setting them up above head height. The trick he saw was in their preparation, for once the web was set the spider could essentially sit back and relax. It seemed the spiders were in no hurry to eat their victims and he wondered if the spiders actually enjoyed watching the plight of those trapped and struggling beetles and gnats.
This day, however, was different. He was lying on the lawn drowsy, smelling his skin as the sun warmed it when something dropped right close to his arm. It was a fat black spider, inert. As he propped himself up a wasp landed beside it and wasted no time latching on to it. The hunter had been felled, presumably stung by the wasp, which even now was dragging the spider’s large carcass along the trimmed edge of lawn. He watched fascinated as the wasp reached the base of the small garden shed and began to hoist itself up carrying the spider. What incredible strength and resolve it displayed. At one point it hit some impediment which on close inspection turned out to be a spider web. In trying to shake itself free the wasp fell all the way back to the ground with its booty. It instantly resumed its climb with the stunned spider towards its own nest under the eaves of the shed. It was around this point that he became aware of an unusual sound hovering beneath the twittering of the birds, a kind of hum. His first thought was it might be the lawnmower but he almost immediately dismissed that for it was too even, not cackling and popping. He edged towards the house and the sound got stronger. Now he identified it as a motor, more muffled though than he would have expected. A narrow concrete path led up the side of the house, a sizeable two-storey. He had expected to see a car idling out front in the quiet street but there was no car. His mind grappled with the quandary: no car, yet the sound was still near.
He swung and found himself facing the garage door.
The day of the wasp dashed. Once more he was in the present, the cement sky pressing down upon him. The sand was still warm on his back. He sensed something, a warning in the air. Was it just a human’s in-built radar alert to an approaching cyclone, a sophisticated development of the ‘flight’ instinct? Did we react to air pressure in the way we might if some giant animal with sharp teeth ran towards us? Or was this just for him, the Power who had guided and protected his every move whispering to him that it was time to go?
There.
He sensed its breath. He had stayed too long already. All things must come to an end. It had been a long, long journey but from the first moment he had held the letter in his hands he knew his life was forever changed. The hand that had penned the words had been unsteady, untidy, making it difficult to read but no less potent.
… I knew your father, he was my friend, the best friend I ever had but it did not begin like that really. We were different, from opposite walks of life. I was the worst kind of man, hardly a man at all, perhaps more like an animal. I would like to think I changed, and if it is true that I have, then all credit goes to your father. I feel I owe it to you to tell you all I know. Back then I was a pitiful excuse for a human being, a junkie who sold…
He saw Wallen’s face before him now.
‘I could not have done it without you, old friend,’ he said, then looked back across to the pit and felt a swelling sense of pride. Almost done.
35
The news crews had arrived and set up around the station. Inside the station the mood was one of frustration. It was more than five hours since the computer had been found and the investigation had not advanced a metre. Every available police officer was searching vacant buildings. One promising lead—a Dingos member owned a blue van—died in its crib. An independent witness said the van had not moved all morning. The jogging couple had been located and cleared. They had never really got close to the area of the abduction, staying further to the south. Their vehicle, however, a new Mazda, was one of the ones reported as being in the area so at least something could be eliminated but it was more than compensated for by the number of vehicle reports coming in. Osterlund was not on the radar of the Australian Federal Police or any agencies with whom they liaised. Graeme Earle was busily constructing his list of Germans who might be resident or visiting the area and Whiteman had been delegated to help him. The Hamburg Police had sent the complete files on Kurt Donen, Dieter Schaffer and Pieter Gruen, and Clement was alone in his office using the computer translator on them. Born in Essen in 1947, Donen’s criminal career was first recorded when, as a sixteen year old, he bashed a pimp in Essen. The police report indicated Donen’s motive was financial: he was running his own string of girls and wanted to discourage competition.
There were references to Donen’s progress in brothel ownership and later pornography publishing. Donen was prime suspect in at least six suspected homicides. Two were drug rivals, two his own distributors, a prostitute who was a casual informer, and Gruen. Reportedly a chainsaw was Donen’s weapon of choice. Until Gruen, the police had found it impossible to penetrate his operation and very little was known of Donen other than what came as hearsay from lower-level drug mules.
Copies of his fingerprints and photo were included. It was the same photo as in the article Schaffer downloaded but clearer. Donen was wearing an overcoat and sitting on a railing perusing a German newspaper. Somebody had printed the date on the file so it could be read more easily. Checking across at Gruen’s file, Clement saw the date was nine days before Gruen had gone missing. The name of the drug dealer who had presented himself to the police and claimed to be part of the organisation had been noted, Michael Wallen. After some unconfirmed reports in 1981 that Donen could be in Amsterdam, there was nothing on him. He had vanished. Clement had just started on the file of Pieter Gruen when his door opened.
‘Dan?’
He looked up. A fatigued Risely entered, closed the door and said with gravitas, ‘The AC is talking task force.’
Clement knew that was inevitable but even so a sour feeling in his mouth welled. ‘I won’t be running it, I presume?’
‘Probably not, they need to make it look like they’re doing something.’
‘How long?’
‘Twenty-four hours max. They’re panicking there’ll be another death or abduction. Frankly, so am I.’
‘We’ve got some promising stuff.’
‘We’ve also got an abducted person and we’re hitting twelve hours in, not to mention a week since Schaffer was murdered. This is a tourist town. Murder and a cyclone is a big sign saying stay away. Our Minister has been copping it from the Treasurer. Nothing to do with the fact he’s Minister for Tourism as well! Look, it’s not personal. It’s all about bad press and votes.’ Riseley fixed him with his gaze. ‘You’ve done a good job, Clem. Nobody thinks otherwise.’
Somebody did.
When Risely had gone, he sat there soaking up the disappointment for a long moment, wondering if he should tell the others. In the end he decided it might look like self-pity. He’d find a good time and inform Earle and it would seep out from there. He went back to the files; he scanned but felt he wasn’t taking in anything. Dumped, that’s how he felt. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and let random questions fizz past. How did the abductor pull this off? What was the significance of Schaffer’s life as a police officer? Was he bent? Why the biker? No answers.
His phone rang. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see it was Marilyn.
The stretch of road was empty and dark. In this part of the world, man still only had a toehold on nature. He was fairly sure Marilyn had had an affair; or if not an affair, at least sex with another man in those months before they split. Perhaps nowadays he wasn’t so sharp but back then he was at the height o
f his game. He never accused her, not once, in truth he didn’t wish to know the answer. Probably her lover was on that museum committee, an intellectual who frequented foreign films and enjoyed cos lettuce. Nobody would ever know her as he did though. He knew every pore of her body that in some way he failed to satisfy, every lost aspiration that was slapped down by the moisturiser ritual prior to bed, every doubt that landed like a butterfly about her brow as she sipped her Darjeeling and studied him over the rim on her favourite cup, the one with the tiniest chip on the opposite side to the handle. If you want to know somebody, really know them, he thought, you must first disappoint them, and he had disappointed Marilyn in spades. And despite that, tonight she had called him and mentioned that Phoebe was scared about what was happening and wondering if he could reassure their daughter.
As Clement swung up the long driveway, lightning shimmered over the ocean. The radio was suggesting a potential category four cyclone: that would be a monster if it hit but they generally talked up the size and began reducing as countdown approached. Clement would gladly take a small cyclone to rid the heavens of the humidity.
His arrival was greeted with the faint grumble of thunder. Marilyn met him at the door. She looked good. Too good. A slim patterned frock clung to her body, a bead of sweat on her neck. ‘She’s just finishing off her bath.’
It was a strange sensation entering a house that had been so familiar and welcoming but where he was now considered an alien. He followed Marilyn’s slim ankles along polished wood into the parlour, a formal room old Nick never enjoyed. It was all Geraldine’s taste, the kind of style private schoolgirls of the 1950s aspired to, rosewood sideboards polished to high gloss, a chintz lounge suite, a slim-legged table with a large vase of fresh flowers, the colours complementing each other and the room. Nick used to prefer an old wicker chair on the back lawn. Sometimes Clement thought this was the essence of Marilyn, she was forever torn between the personalities of her parents, and instead of finding a happy medium she was either wholly one or the other. Tonight the easygoing nature of her father seemed to have the upper hand, much to Clement’s relief. She slipped off her sandals and sat on the sofa, curling her bare legs and feet under her bottom. He sat at the other end of the sofa. His eyes travelled over the oils of old luggers and early Broome. Some of these paintings were near a hundred years old. They were the only thing in the room he responded too.
Besides her.
His gaze rested on her now. With what seemed genuine sympathy she said, ‘You look tired.’
He almost said, ‘You look good,’ but she knew that, knew he was thinking it too, so he stayed safe. ‘Thanks for calling Mum, she appreciated it.’
‘I love your mum. And your father. They weren’t the problem.’ Implying he was. ‘Any news there?’ she asked.
He told her his dad was improving, hopefully he would return to normal.
‘The murders. You have any idea who it is?’
‘No. But I think we’re getting closer.’
‘Is it some psycho?’
‘I don’t think so but I can’t say that. I don’t think you’re in danger. I think there’s a reason for it but I can’t see it yet.’
‘We used to talk about your cases once upon a time.’
When he was young, looking to impress, before he realised all that was temporary. ‘You resented it.’
‘No, I resented being shut out. I resented your work being an excuse for what wasn’t happening between us. But I was always interested.’
Maybe that was right, but it would take a lifetime to unravel the knot. He jerked his head to indicate Phoebe hidden behind walls and corridors.
‘So she’s scared?’
‘Not scared exactly, concerned.’
Seeing her like this on the sofa, so less formal than usual, girlish even, stripped away the years. ‘Not long after we first met, you were teaching at Geraldton and I used to drive there every weekend unless I was working.’
The trip from Perth to Geraldton was long, four and half hours, and his old Corolla used to overheat badly, necessitating many stops.
‘I remember. I had a single bed you kept falling out of. Why?’
‘On the way here I had this memory, sensation, whatever you call it, that I’ve spent most of my life driving towards you and never reaching you.’
She looked at him oddly. It wasn’t the sort of stuff that ever found its way out of his mouth but there was no artifice left in him now.
Finally she said, ‘The thing about driving to someone is that they’re spending that time waiting and then eventually after a short interlude, you turn back around and drive away again and they have the waiting to do all over again.’
There was the sound of a door opening at the far end of a long hallway, voices and then feet moving fast. Phoebe entered in satin pyjamas and ran to him for a hug. Her hair was wet. Geraldine followed but without any intention of offering him physical contact. Even at bath time she looked like a head librarian but tonight at least she was civil.
‘Hello, Daniel.’
‘Hi Geraldine.’
‘Good luck getting this maniac.’
She turned on her heel and left for other regions of the house. Clement smiled at his daughter. ‘How did you like the boat?’
‘It was really good. We saw so many fish and a sea turtle.’
‘A turtle hey? That’s great. And you weren’t seasick?’
She shook her head, little droplets scattered.
‘Ashleigh was one day. That might have been because she ate too much chocolate.’
‘Mum tells me you’re worried about this bad guy out there.’
Her big eyes turned on him. ‘Is he going to take kids?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why did he take the man?’
‘I don’t know yet. We’re working on that.’
‘How are you going to stop him if you don’t know who he is?’
Marilyn piped up. ‘Your dad is really good at stopping bad people.’
The vote of confidence caught him off guard. Phoebe wasn’t convinced.
‘But if you don’t know who he is, how can you?’
‘Well that’s what I do. It’s called detection.’
‘Are you going to shoot him?’
‘I hope it won’t come to that.’
‘I’d shoot him and then cut his head off just to be sure.’
Marilyn and he made eye contact. At least she couldn’t blame that on him. Or could she?
‘Can you stay tonight?’ Phoebe pleaded. He glanced sideways. Marilyn’s eyes were shutters.
‘Look, sweetheart, I can’t but your mum is right. We’ll find this person and stop him.’
‘I don’t want him to hurt you.’ She hugged him tight.
‘He’s not going to.’ He tried to divert her. ‘What have you been learning at school?’
‘A story. Do you want to hear it?’
‘Of course.’
She made herself comfortable between them found her book and read easily. The story was about a fish called Marvin who was always ‘starvin’ and never ‘laughin’ till one day he made a friend of an anemone. The theme appeared to be that what you think are your ‘enemies’ can turn out to be your friends. Clement’s experience had been that it worked the other way. When she had finished and Clement had praised her enough Phoebe suggested a game. Marilyn intervened.
‘Next time. Okay, Miss P, bed.’
Phoebe kissed her father on the cheek.
‘Good night, Daddy.’
‘Night, sweetheart. You okay now? You’re not worried?’
She did the right thing and shook her head but her eyes kept sliding away. He gave himself a five out of ten. ‘You sure everything is okay, now?’
She’d been grappling with something. ‘Detectives find things, don’t they?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Well, I know you’re busy but I really need my watch. It’s my favourite.’
Maril
yn said, ‘I’ll have a look after you go to bed. I’m sure it will turn up.’
Phoebe looked hopefully at her father. He felt obliged to reassure her. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for it. What’s it look like?’
‘It’s about this big and it glows. It’s a turtle.’
36
His daughter had just told him she had lost her watch, the same kind of watch found near the second murder victim, Arturo Lee. He forced himself to stay calm.
‘What colour is the band, sweetie?’
‘Blue.’ There was a beat. ‘I think.’
Clement was pretty sure the watch they had found had a black band.
Marilyn said, ‘I’ll find it okay?’
Clement leaned in to his daughter. ‘When did you last have it?’
Phoebe thought hard. ‘I’m not sure.’
Marilyn tried to soothe. ‘Maybe you left it on the boat?’
The child screeched at her mother. ‘No I lost it before then. I told you. Because when I saw the turtle I went looking for my watch and I didn’t have it.’
‘That’s enough, off to bed.’
‘Just a second.’
Marilyn caught her husband’s tone and shot him a look. Clement’s gaze encouraged her to let him continue. ‘You had it before your trip?’
‘Yes, I remember I had it in the car the morning before when we went to get some bathers.’
Marilyn seemed to feel it necessary to explain. ‘Her old ones were falling apart.’
‘So you went to town?’
Marilyn answered. ‘Yes,’
‘And you haven’t see it since?’
Phoebe flubbed her lip and shook her head.
‘I’ll help Mum look for it, okay?’
Marilyn, uneasy he could tell, went off to put Phoebe to bed. As soon as they’d left the room he went outside to the car. He’d put the watch in the glove box meaning to hand it over to Lisa Keeble to secure in the evidence locker but the Osterlund business had derailed everything. He pulled it out and stared at it in its evidence bag. Was it the same watch? The wristband was black as he had thought. How many of these watches were there? Somebody said they sold them at servos. There could be lots. He hadn’t wanted to ask Phoebe if it were hers. That would lead to explaining why she couldn’t have it back. What if it was hers? Had she lost it and the killer simply found it by coincidence? Or did the killer know Phoebe was his daughter? How would he have got the watch, actually stolen it off her hand? Or had he been here, on these grounds, taken it from her room?
