Before It Breaks (17 page)

‘Could he have been aboriginal?'

‘I don't think so. I'm part Islander. I think he was Maori.'

‘Maybe you heard him speak?'

‘Maybe but I can't remember any words, not exact ones, just he seemed angry.'

‘He seemed angry or Dieter Schaffer seemed angry?'

She cast her mind back.

‘The German man, actually. The biker guy he was just sitting on his bike kind of calm, with the attitude, you know? I thought, I don't know what I thought, maybe the biker had nearly caused an accident or something. I didn't stay. I went back inside. They weren't throwing punches or anything. I'm so sorry I didn't think of this before.'

‘No, that's fine. That's great you remembered.'

The waiter had materialised with the juices. ‘You want these here?'

‘No take them to the table, please.'

‘Food won't be long.'

Clement turned back to Selina. ‘Can you think hard when this was? It's important.'

‘It was a Monday. I'm pretty sure of that. Our bins are always full after the weekend. But I can't remember if it was last Monday or the one before. Last Monday I think. Yes, last Monday.'

‘What time?'

‘Morning. I usually do it just after the early rush, I'm guessing about nine.'

‘Can you tell me anything about the bike? Colour, size, anything?'

‘It was big, you know. I think it was black but I don't remember. I wasn't looking at the bike.'

‘Was there anybody else around?'

‘I didn't notice.' She closed her eyes to remember. ‘There were a few cars, not many, somebody may have been in them.'

‘Do you know if there are any CCTV cameras in that carpark?'

‘There might be one at the back of the bottle shop on the opposite side.'

It was something he could look into.

‘Could I ask you to do something for me after your dinner?'

‘Sure.'

‘Would you mind dropping into the station and seeing if you can identify the man you saw? We have photos there.'

‘Um, okay.'

‘Thanks, that would be a great help. I'll call the desk sergeant, his name is Mal. He'll take care of you.'

‘Alright.'

‘Thanks again, Selina.'

She moved off. He looked over to see Phoebe's juice almost drained, she was kicking her legs happily. He quickly dialled the station and told Mal Gross he was sending an attractive woman his way.

‘We may have a lead.'

He explained the nature of Selina's information and Gross said he would make sure the biker file was ready. Part of Clement wanted to be there when she went through the books but the argument she witnessed might prove to have been nothing after all. Running down the contacts in Schaffer's phone was the priority. He asked Gross to see if there were any CCTV cameras in the carpark and mentioned the bottle shop.

‘If you can get the footage, we're looking at the Monday before the murder, the morning, specifically around nine.'

Gross said he would get onto it.

Clement returned to the table, buoyed. At Schaffer's, right after he had been hit, he'd heard a motorcycle leaving; Dieter Schaffer had been in an argument with a biker forty-eight hours before his death. Things were lining up.

‘Is she your girlfriend?' Phoebe asked as he sat down. There was no judgment, no guile, just a straight out question of fact.

‘No.'

He pulled a disapproving face. The days when a young woman like Selina might be his girlfriend had long gone. He'd had many chances working cases. Unlike most of his colleagues, he never took them.

‘But Mummy has a boyfriend?'

‘Yes. Doesn't mean I have to have a girlfriend though.'

Their meals arrived and Phoebe instantly started on her lasagne.

‘Are you the head detective at your work?'

‘We're a team. We all have our jobs to do.'

She wasn't convinced. ‘There's always a boss.'

They ate their meal quickly. Phoebe knew she was on a time limit but wanted a banana split with chocolate topping. He watched her demolish it while he played with scenarios about the biker. Had he killed Schaffer, then gone to Schaffer's place, perhaps to steal the dope plants? Were they involved in distributing dope?

As soon as the last mouthful of ice-cream was downed, he motioned Phoebe to join him. There was no way he would have her back home by eight.

It was around eight-twenty by the time he dropped Phoebe back. She hugged his neck before she ran inside. He saw the porch light come on and a shadow at the door and then she was gone, and in this he saw what he feared might be the inevitable destiny of their relationship: shadows and absence. He spun the wheel and left fast and arrived at Earle's ten after nine. Earle was waiting in the driveway of his modest brick home enjoying a smoke. His fibreglass runabout, his pride and joy, slept on its cradle beside him. He stamped out the cigarette and hauled his big body into the passenger seat.

‘Who's first?'

Clement thought they should leave Mitch till last but other than that it was a matter of proximity. On the way to the first of Schaffer's contacts, Sally Nightcliff, he filled Earle in about the confrontation between a biker and Dieter Schaffer.

‘Think it might be the bloke who conked you?'

‘Could be. The witness is going to the station after her dinner.'

In the end it didn't take them anywhere near as long as Clement had estimated to locate most of those in Schaffer's phone contact list. Sally Nightcliff was not at home but her housemate pointed them in the direction of the Roebuck Bay Hotel. They found her and another of those on the list, Romano Grigio, drinking in different parts of the pub. Both had the demeanour of chronic potheads, were close to sixty, wearing worn shirts soaked in their BO. They had alibis. Grigio was playing cards with mates and gave details. Sally Nightcliff was in bed with her on-off boyfriend after a night of karaoke. Clement's bullshit detector did not trigger and a glance at Earle suggested it was the same for him.

Jenny Messiano was located at home with her de facto watching TV, telltale dope seeds on the coffee table. There was a feeling of desperation in that house, coiled animosity, mainly towards each other, an atmosphere not foreign to Clement. He didn't rule them out as the kind who might kill somebody for a supposed stash. Jenny Messiano had a shift job packing meat at the abattoir, so on the face of it she was alibied. The de facto worked the same shift. Earle would check up on them. Trent Jaffner was a strikeout. According to his
mother he'd driven to Port Hedland a week ago for a job. Something more to be followed up. Rory Clipsall was a young dude with a very old panel van who dossed wherever he could, often in his van. They found him at a mate's place with rap on the speakers. Clement's prejudice against rap was not enough to convince him this stoner would be up to killing anybody, at least not without leaving a trace the size of an elephant print. Clipsall had no idea Dieter was dead. Clement didn't think the kid was putting it on, he looked like he was out of it 24/7 and the fact he couldn't remember where he was the night Dieter was killed rang true.

Essentially every one of the people they interviewed reacted in the same way. First, blank denial about buying cannabis off Dieter Schaffer. When assured they wouldn't be charged with dope offences if they levelled, they became wary but hopeful. What surprised Clement though was how much, or more correctly how little, Dieter Schaffer had been charging for his dope. If they were to be believed, and again Clement found he had no reason not to, old Dieter was doing ‘mate's rates', pulling in about half of what Clement had originally estimated. When Clement suggested Dieter Schaffer was their dope dealer, Sally Nightcliff's response was typical. She wrinkled her greyish skin and said, ‘Dieter wasn't no dealer. He was just a mate who grew dope and sold a bit around the traps for beer money. He gave it away sometimes.'

Clement and Earle asked judicious questions about whether Dieter ever flaunted cash. His clients claimed he never seemed to have that much money. Romano Grigio confirmed Dieter liked to punt.

‘He played poker with us a few times but he wasn't very good. I had to slip him some cash and he gave me some heads in return. I told him to stick to the ponies but I never saw him bet big or win big. Fifty bucks here or there, that's all.'

After they left Clipsall, the last one in the run, Clement and Earle stood by the car. The night was soft now.

‘I'm not convinced there is a stash.' Even if it did niggle, Clement had long ago learned not to get too attached to theories the facts didn't support.

Earle shrugged. ‘He could have other customers he didn't put in his phone. I mean, if he was supplying bikies he could afford to give the stuff away to his mates.'

‘They all say the same thing though. He was just selling a bit to get by.'

‘If he was smart that's what he'd let them think. And even if he had no big money somebody might have thought he did. You know what it's like with these types. They love a rumour.'

The suggestion could not be ignored. Clement recalled an old Croatian pensioner in Perth who had been bashed to death in a home invasion because the whisper was he kept cash in the house. The reality was he was on the bones of his arse. Meanwhile, they still had Mitch Karskine to interview.

Clement checked his phone and realised that forty minutes earlier he had received a text from Mal Gross to call him. He did so now. Gross had only been home a half-hour and was sitting down with a quiet beer.

‘The girl came in but we drew a blank. I showed her photos of all the Dingos we've got on file. She said it wasn't any of them. I even pulled out a couple of likely types from the general files but she said it wasn't them either. I also checked up on the CCTV. You were right, there's a camera at the back of the bottle shop and they say it's working. I sent Manners to pick up the hard drive and find what we need.'

Clement left Gross to his beer and passed the news on to Earle as they drove to the address they had for Karskine, a duplex circa 1980, one level, salmon brick, dark grey concrete driveway. Various fish traps were lying around the small front yard. Apart from a porch light over the door, there were no lights in either this or the neighbour's. There was also no car in the carport.

‘What time does the Cleopatra close?'

The words were barely out of Clement's mouth when an early-model Toyota Hilux cruised in and parked. The headlights extinguished. Karskine climbed out and looked them up and down. He was wearing an AC/DC t-shirt, shorts and thongs.

‘This about Schultz?'

‘Yeah. You want to go inside?'

‘Nicer out here, believe me.'

Clement had to assume Karskine had been drinking but he didn't seem drunk. Mitch Karskine leaned back against his truck like they were old pals. Earle jerked a thumb to the adjoining unit as if they might be disturbing them.

‘What about them?'

‘Fuck 'em. What do you want to know?'

He looked directly at Clement as he spoke, pulled out a cigarette pack and offered it. They declined. He stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a disposable lighter.

‘You bought pot off Dieter Schaffer.'

‘Is there a law against that?' Karskine smirked and flicked his ash. ‘Yeah, okay. He'd fix me up with a little pot here or there. Ex-cop and all.'

‘You didn't tell me this before.'

‘I'm not stupid. I've been in the slammer. You probably know that. That's why you're here. I'm an ex-con, I bought pot off Schultz, gee I must have killed him.'

‘Where were you the night he was murdered?' said Earle.

Mitch Karskine pointed his cigarette at his unit. ‘Asleep. I had work next day.'

‘No witness?'

‘Not that night.'

Clement stepped out of the slipstream of the cigarette smoke.

‘We've spoken to his other clients. They say Schaffer wasn't into it for the money.'