Before It Breaks

by Dave Warner

  ‘Not too bad. A few have called here. I’ve passed it onto Chelsea and she’s asked them to back off.’

  ‘I’ll be over shortly.’

  He stopped to fix himself a tea when Graeme Earle entered. He’d been about to head off for the first of the four Germans he had identified as worth a look but thought he’d check first all was well at Marilyn’s. Clement appreciated the gesture.

  ‘It’s all good there.’

  ‘Did those names of Germans in the region trigger anything?’ he asked of Clement.

  ‘To be honest, I only scanned. I’ll need to look at them again when I’m compos. Who is this guy you’re going to see?’

  Lured by Clement’s tea, Earle made himself one.

  ‘Name is Liedel, fifty-seven so he’s around the right age, worked as a chef in Perth, then in catering on the mining camps but he did time for an assault.’

  It didn’t sound an overly promising lead.

  ‘They’re talking Taskforce. Somebody else will head it.’

  Earle was suitably indignant. ‘That’s fucked. Nobody would have done any better than what we have.’

  ‘Possibly, but that’s the way of the world.’

  In a small way Clement felt ashamed that he’d had the same prejudice at the start of the case. ‘Take care out there,’ he said. ‘Our man is a killer.’

  Earle paused at the door, a mug of tea in his fist. ‘I think you’ve done an effin’ good job.’

  The flyscreen had barely banged shut when Clement’s phone rang.

  ‘Yes Jared.’

  ‘Might have something, boss. Potential witness to a vehicle at the Blue Haze garage.’

  The news crews videoed Clement again on the way out. A female reporter in a suit, one he recognised but whose name he could not recall, shot a question that was ripped away in the gathering wind, her hair already a mess. He had nothing against the media guys. Death was their living, and his too.

  It was a plain brick bungalow, one of a number in a small state housing village about a kilometre from the garage where Lee had been squatting. The wind was increasing. Smoke from a large bonfire out the back of one of the other houses pressed on Clement’s lungs as he strode up the gravel front behind Taylor who had been waiting in his car on the corner. Music from the yard of the bonfire was loud here and must have been ear-splitting at the source. Clement only listened to music post-1987 by accident and didn’t recognise the artist. A squeal of laughter and shouting from the bonfire yard actually managed to cut through the music, a party which he guessed had been going all night. A small patch of struggling lawn announced the front door, standard mesh security grill. The windows were sliding with aluminium frames. They stopped at the grill, the door behind was open and a light was on somewhere further back in the house.

  ‘It’s Jared.’

  An aboriginal woman appeared. She had a thin, lined face. Clement put her age at forty but she could have been ten years shy of that. Taylor had explained her name was Bronny Jackson, a single mother with three kids. She opened the security grill for them.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Clement.’

  ‘Hello Mrs Jackson.’

  She pointed a bony finger back to the gloom. ‘Tyson’s back there.’

  Jared had told him that Tyson was the youngest of the three. The father had shot through a couple of years ago. Tyson had been caught wagging school this morning and in the following interrogation by his mother had spilled on more truancy and what he’d seen one day last week. She knew of Jared through his cousin and called him. Jared had not attempted to interview the boy himself but had called Clement. He now led the way down the narrow hallway past a couple of closed bedroom doors to a small living room. It was stifling. The sliding door that gave onto the back was closed. Clement presumed that was to keep out the noise but even so the boom of the bass rumbled in here. The furniture was well worn, a sofa and an armchair that didn’t match. A small flat-screen TV, the newest thing in the house, sat on an old pine sideboard. A piece of copper art, a galleon of some kind, was the wall’s only adornment. It couldn’t have been a bigger contrast to Osterlund’s house overlooking the ocean. The boy, Tyson, was small and skinny with black curly hair. His eyes avoided them and he sat hunched like he was expecting to be chastised or beaten. He wore a t-shirt and shorts. Taylor took the lead.

  ‘Tyson, your mum tells us you saw something down at the garage there. You need to tell Detective Clement what you saw.’

  Tyson remained mute. Clement sat down on the lino in front of Tyson. His mum hovered in the background.

  ‘You barrack for the Eagles or Dockers, Tyson? Or both?’

  ‘Eagles.’

  ‘Well, I like the Dockers but don’t hold that against me. Tell us what you saw, Tyson. It could be important to us.’

  Unsure, Tyson looked to his mother.

  ‘Tell the man about the car.’

  Tyson told his story in a small, halting voice. Last Monday, Tyson, instead of being at school, was playing in the bush down by the garage. He heard the sound of a powerful motorcycle approaching and watched it swing into the area in front of the garage and stop. He saw the rider lift up the roller door and put the bike in. While he was doing that a car had appeared on the road slowing, almost stopped. From Tyson’s position closer to the road but hidden in the bush he could see the car, but the rider, from his position near the garage, would not have been able to. The rider disappeared around the side of the old building. The car drove up towards the village. Then a few minutes later it turned back around and cruised slowly past again.

  ‘What time was this Tyson?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Had you been there long? Was it morning?’

  He thought. ‘Probably about lunchtime.’

  ‘Did you see the driver, Tyson?’

  ‘No.’ A small voice.

  ‘Can you describe the car, Tyson? Have you seen the car before?’

  Tyson was nervous. He shook his head.

  ‘What colour was it? Do you remember?’

  He nodded. ‘White.’

  ‘And what sort of car, do you know? Have you seen any like it?’

  ‘It was high.’

  ‘A truck?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A four-wheel drive?’

  His mum helped. ‘Like Uncle Nicky’s?’

  ‘Kind of. Not so big.’

  Jared ascertained that Uncle Nicky had a Pajero. Eventually they narrowed the field of cars to some sort of sports utility. The boy was unable to help with numberplate, stickers, roof-racks. They went back over it a few times.

  ‘Have you seen the car around here before?’

  Tyson shook his head.

  ‘Okay thanks, Tyson. You’ve helped us a lot. Make sure you go to school though, right? See you in an Eagles guernsey.’

  Bronny opened the door for them. Jared jerked his thumb towards the party which had quietened a little but was still going strong.

  ‘When did they start?’

  ‘’Bout eleven last night.’

  ‘You want us to have a word?’

  ‘Better not. They’ll get tired soon enough.’

  39

  With Tyson’s information about the vehicle, the main room was invigorated: Shepherd checking all registrations of white SUVs for the region, Whiteman scrutinising the vehicles of all people tossed their way in connection with the cases, Jared Taylor recanvassing everybody in the Blue Haze area to find anybody else who had seen the vehicle. Gartrell and Paxton were methodically confirming Dingos alibies. Only Earle was absent. He’d called earlier. The chef was confirmed as being in Darwin when Schaffer had been killed, so he’d struck out for Derby to interview his second possible German of Interest.

  Mal Gross headed to make himself a coffee and broadcast to anybody interested, ‘They’re saying it’s crossing about a hundred and fifty k north but we should still cop a whack.’

  Clement called di Rivi and had her put Astuthi Osterlund on the
phone.

  ‘Do you or your husband have any associates who drive a white SUV?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Have you noticed a car like that hanging about?’

  ‘No. Do you know something?’ She was eager for any crumb. He couldn’t share though.

  ‘We’re following leads.’

  He told her to tell di Rivi if she recalled anything then removed himself to the AV room. There was no sign of Manners but the CCTV carpark footage was set up ready to roll so he helped himself to one more look. It is morning, half a dozen cars are visible in the carpark but no white sports utility. The boy said the car he saw near the garage that afternoon seemed like it was following the bike. But the car driver did not make himself known to Lee. If this was their guy and he was working with Lee, why not drive into the garage? Why might he be following Lee?

  Clement began threading the needle. Suppose he’s following Schaffer, planning when and how he will kill him. Lee is also following Schaffer or waiting for him to ask him about the dope. Lee and the killer spy one another. Is it possible Lee was killed because he may have been able to identify the killer?

  Clement sighed, rubbed his eyes. His phone rang. At the sight of Marilyn’s ID, every muscle in his body tensed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We found it.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  Marilyn was explaining. ‘The clothes she was wearing that day were in the laundry. Mum found it in a pocket. I’ll tell Constable Latich to go. You were right, it was just a coincidence.’

  ‘I’m sorry I scared you like that.’

  ‘It turned out okay.’ Not making a big thing out of it. It was encouraging. Maybe they could be friends.

  ‘I guess you’ll be busy for a while on this,’ she said.

  ‘I presume.’

  ‘We’ll see you when it’s done. Take care.’

  As if his brain sensed it could now divert its powers elsewhere, the moment he ended the call, his tooth zinged with pain. That was it. He poked his head out of the AV room into the main area. ‘Does anybody know a dentist?’

  Sometimes it is the one you least suspect. Shepherd looked up from his conversation with Paxton.

  ‘Our centre halfback is a dentist.’

  He rang his mate who said he would do Clement in ten minutes. Clement got the details: it was walking distance. He stopped at Mal Gross on the way out.

  ‘They found Phoebe’s watch.’

  Gross did not need to offer comment, his smile said it all. Clement slipped out the back door and up one of the side entrances. Three news vans were out front, three different crews, no sign of the journalists, which was a blessing. If they were from Perth it was almost certain they would know him but for now he was just another outback cop. The wind had really picked up. Empty soft-drink cans and coffee cups skittered across the roads, signs creaked and banged. The surgery was less than ten minutes’ walk and located in a small modern block on the east end of the main drag. An accountant and podiatrist flanked the dentist but were both closed. Nobody wanted to be caught out in a cyclone. Clement pushed into the fresh, well lit but deserted surgery and called out.

  ‘Dan?’ The voice came from a room behind the reception desk. Shepherd’s teammate appeared in the doorway. He was not your typical dentist. Shepherd’s call had found him at the Roebuck on his third lager and he had hastened back to his surgery in black footy shorts, a t-shirt and thongs.

  ‘Everybody cancelled. Cyclone I guess,’ he said as he ushered Clement through into the room where the dental chair waited like a predatory monster of the deep. ‘I was sinking a few jars at the ’Buck. I told Shep, “If your mate’s not gonna sue me I’ll do it.” Let’s take a look.’

  Clement lay back, opened wide and stared at the ceiling. Someone had stuck a large print of a Broome sunset up there to soothe. It was the typical one you saw on all the tourist posters, camels in a line on Cable Beach.

  ‘Guess you’re flat out right now, eh?’

  The dentist, whose name Shepherd had simply given as ‘Harry’, used a mirror and very gentle probe. Clement grunted a yes.

  ‘You floss?’ He pulled the mirror away.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘That lower left molar?’

  ‘Down there somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll try and be gentle but this might hurt.’

  And it did. The merest touch with the probe had Clement squirming.

  ‘Bad, eh?’ Harry pulled the implements out again. ‘Fairly extensive decay. How long since you’ve been to a dentist?’

  ‘Two years, maybe.’

  ‘Do it every six months, you won’t cop this. I’ll clean it out, fill it, we might get lucky. I don’t want to take it out if we can help it.’

  Great, now I’m going to be a toothless old man. What next, incontinence pads? Clement already felt the invisible momentum of life shoving against him and now it seemed his own body had defected. After the needle began to do its thing, Clement mellowed, decided it was bearable so long as he did not think about what was happening in his mouth. So he lay back staring at the camels and dwelling on the case. Dieter Schaffer was the key to all of what had happened. No matter how flimsy the evidence Clement could not shake the idea his death was intertwined with Pieter Gruen’s murder. Something snagged in his memory: Mrs Gerlanger had said Dieter’s sister had written him off because his gambling had cost him his house, but his colleagues glossed over that. He bet small, Mathias Klendtwort said. Was Klendtwort lying? Or had Schaffer hidden from them the extent of his debts. What if the Emperor had found out about Schaffer’s debts and offered him a deal to save his home? Was Osterlund maybe an intermediary?

  And as he lay there with his mouth screwed open staring at a print of camels on a beach, the puzzle began to take shape. Klendtwort had said Dieter was the only one to have personal contact with Gruen. The locker was used as a dead drop and cleared by Heinrich but only Schaffer interacted with Gruen. There was only one photo of Donen and if it had not come through the dead drop, it must have come via Dieter Schaffer. The answer was dead simple if only they had believed the junkie.

  Mal Gross was having a smoke in the rear courtyard as Clement strode in.

  ‘Packo and Gartrell have pretty much done the Dingos. Zero,’ offered Gross.

  The information moved around Clement like air over the wings of a plane but he managed a nod. Inside everybody was working a phone or a file. Shepherd loomed.

  ‘How was Harry?’

  Clement gave him thumbs up in preference to talking. Heart pumping he slipped into his office, pulled up the German police file on Kurt Donen again and found what he wanted. He was convinced he was right but needed expert confirmation. He called Keeble, told her what he wanted and asked her to come to his office. He then put in a call to Klendtwort but got only an answer machine.

  ‘It’s Daniel Clement. I’d be grateful if you could call me as soon as possible.’

  With perfect timing the knock on the door coincided with him ending the message.

  ‘Come in.’ His mouth felt lopsided. Lisa Keeble entered but offered no sympathy.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You brought the copy of Gerd Osterlund’s prints?’

  She presented her iPad to him. He spun his computer towards her.

  ‘Look at these.’

  She leaned in. He watched her mouth move as if she were talking to herself. Maybe she was, very quietly. She straightened.

  ‘They’re identical. Where are they from?’

  ‘Hamburg, ninety seventy-nine, the Emperor’s fingerprints. Gerd Osterlund is Kurt Donen.’

  40

  The apartment Gruen was renting was in a squalid concrete block on the opposite side of the city where Hilda took young Manfred to play on brightly coloured swings. The playground equipment here was broken and the smell of diesel seemed to cling to everything, even the washing strung optimistically on high balconies by women with a skerrick of house pride not yet extinguished. On
ly a few more days, he told himself. The apartment itself was sparse but he kept it reasonably clean, not so clean it may arouse suspicion if one of the Emperor’s people suddenly turned up, which had happened twice. He had his small kitchen table and a black and white TV. His books he kept well out of sight in the drawers of a cheap dressing table in the bedroom. Ten months of this, the highlight being his once-monthly reunion with Hilda and the boy. She knew what he was doing and the danger involved but they could not risk explaining to the boy who regurgitated to his school friends the story fed him, his father was working oil rigs in the North Sea. Gruen was looking forward to shaving off his beard. Last night when he’d finished his rounds, his heroin supply at the tail, he’d headed to Freiheit for a beer but there was no sign of Wallen. A small flower of hope had bloomed. Could Wallen possibly have cleared out as he’d asked? There was another possibility, a darker one. He tried to dismiss it. He had been foolish to tell Wallen about the bust. It endangered him. He checked his watch. It was time to check in with Dieter.

  He locked up the flat and took the rumbling elevator to the ground. Sometimes at night the skinheads would be around but not today. It was a ten-minute walk to the public phone and he timed it well. Dieter picked up on the first ring. Because of the secrecy of the operation he did not know where exactly Dieter had set up the safe house from which he operated.

  ‘Hamburg is going to win the whole fucking thing again this year,’ said Dieter.

  Football-mad Dieter, his one conduit to the normality of his old life.

  ‘Did you get the photo?’ Gruen asked.

  Last time they had communicated, two weeks ago now, Gruen had laid out a plan for Dieter to snap a photo of the Emperor. No one had ever managed it and it was impossible for Gruen to take a camera, even a spy camera, into the vault with him. He was routinely searched. He had worked out, however, by careful observation and the occasional chat with Klaus, that a chauffeur-driven old Mercedes was used to ferry the Emperor about the city. Over time he had gleaned some habits of the driver including his favourite bar. If Schaffer followed the driver, he might catch the Emperor. Perhaps it was unnecessary, there would be many mug shots of him soon enough but Gruen always thought of the worst situation, the Emperor getting away.