Before It Breaks (6 page)

‘Alright.'

Clement ended the call as he broke free of the industrial section of town and struck out for the ridge overlooking Cable Beach. In the last twenty years this millionaire's row had grown gradually. The pearl farmers, like Marilyn's family, generally lived further out of town on estates overlooking the ocean but many of the town's wealthy and newly settled were dotted up around here.

Mars Place turned out to be a new strip of asphalt running between lush vegetation. Clement had never been to the Caribbean but this was how he imagined it. Each of the properties was the width of half a dozen suburban houses and all were screened in bush. Palm trees rose high in several places. Number 5 was not identified, nor was number 3, but 1 and 7 were so Clement found it by the process of elimination. A short driveway off Mars Place led to an iron gate set between white walls. The gate had been left open. Clement took the narrow drive which rose slowly before ending in a small circle, nothing ostentatious. A tile path led up between a natural, well-tendered garden of luscious grevillea and other plants unknown to Clement, and ended in low wooden steps and a veranda. The front door was open. Balinese carvings and indoor plants adorned the vestibule.

‘Hello?' called Clement on the threshold.

Footsteps scuffed over a slate floor. The man he assumed was Osterlund appeared around a corner. Wiry, sixties, a grey ponytail, loose Indian style cotton shirt and pants, espadrilles. Clement automatically made him for advertising or IT.

‘Detective? Come through.'

Osterlund didn't offer his hand, simply swung on his heel. One used to giving orders. Clement followed up the short hallway which gave onto a stunning wide and spacious split-level lounge. You didn't notice the expensive mix of modern and aboriginal artwork on the walls, nor the minimalist European furniture. Not at first. Dead ahead through floor to ceiling glass spanning the width of the house was the Indian Ocean and Cable Beach. It was breathtaking. Osterlund floated coffee or tea as refreshment. Clement dragged himself from the vista and accepted coffee. A sleek young Asian
woman in a sarong whom Clement hadn't even realised was there, moved to oblige. She had been standing in front of a massive wall painting, camouflaged by it, her clothes being of similar colour. When she moved, the effect was of her stepping out of the two-dimensional space into the real world. Osterlund did not introduce her. Clement assumed she was a servant.

‘White? Sugar?'

‘Yes and yes. One.'

Osterlund didn't even glance at the woman who moved towards a galley of shining steel and stone surfaces. He gestured to a bright orange sofa on the lower level, adorned with lime green cushions.

‘It gets the downdraft,' explained Osterlund pointing at the closest ceiling fan. ‘I don't like air-conditioning.'

‘With you there, except in a car,' quipped Clement.

Osterlund smiled. They sat. The sound of a cappuccino machine erupted in the background. Osterlund got to the point.

‘Dieter is dead?'

‘His body was at a place called Jasper's Creek.'

‘I don't know it. I am not a fisherman.' He sighed, frowned. ‘That's upsetting. You said it may not be an accident.'

‘It's possible he was murdered.'

Osterlund shifted slightly in his seat, a natural reaction. ‘Robbery?'

‘We're looking into that. Would you know if his boat had an outboard motor?'

It bothered Clement no motor had been with the boat, people had been killed for less. Of course it could be on the bottom of the creek.

‘I only went out with him once, in an aluminium runabout. That had a motor. May I ask how he died?'

‘We're not certain.'

The girl arrived with his coffee and a tea in a glass for Osterlund. Clement thanked her. She had large, dark brown eyes. She didn't look more than early twenties.

‘The last time you spoke was yesterday morning, you said.'

‘Ja. I don't remember exactly what time but I think between ten and eleven. Poor old Dieter.'

They sipped their drinks at the same time. The coffee could have come from a café, smooth, professional, though Clement's tooth or gum twinged at the hot fluid.

‘What did you talk about?'

‘Nothing really. Dieter was a lonely fellow, a bit tragic. He calls every day or so and starts talking about German football or the weather, crocodiles. I don't share much with him except we are both German. Probably he just wanted to hear my wife answer.'

It was the first time Osterlund had mentioned his wife. Clement almost stepped right in and asked where she was but Osterlund continued.

‘He was always going on about how lucky a man my age was to find a beautiful young woman like Tuthi.'

Osterlund gestured at the young woman who had served them. She was busy making the kitchen immaculate again. Clement felt dumb and was only pleased his gaff remained private. He pushed on.

‘Did he have any close friends?'

‘Not that I know of. He was a loner really. He'd talk about the guys at the Angler Club. I think he had a few drinking mates.'

‘Did he have a job? What did he do for money?'

‘He told me he had a police pension.'

‘Did he have credit cards?'

Osterlund cast through his mind. ‘I don't remember.'

‘Enemies?'

Osterlund's eyes shifted evasively. ‘I don't want to speak badly of Dieter. He was okay but he gambled, he drank, he mixed with a … how you say it, a rough crowd.'

Clement wasn't sure if Osterlund was a snob or if he was covering for his dead friend, making him sound more genteel than he was.

‘Did he owe money?'

‘Probably. He asked me for loans from time to time. I didn't oblige.'

‘And he has no family?'

‘Not here. I think he may have mentioned a sister in Germany. Actually, I am pretty sure he did but I don't think she lived in Hamburg.'

‘So he was not married. Children?'

‘He told me he had no children. We have none. The subject came up. He said he was sad about not being a father. He was married but divorced. He did not speak about it much. I don't think he ever mentioned his ex-wife by name.'

‘Do you know when the marriage might have ended?'

‘Not exactly but I think it was a long time ago. I remember him
saying once something about being a bachelor for twenty years. It might have been thirty.'

Clement made notes. ‘How did you meet him?'

‘Where everybody met Dieter, at a pub. He heard me talking, picked the accent and came over and introduced himself.'

‘This was when?'

‘Two, three years ago. He said he was from Hamburg. I grew up in Hanover. We were about the same age, so you know, we had some fun talking old times, Germany when we were growing up.'

‘Is it true he was a policeman?'

‘I have no idea. He claimed he was a policeman, had plenty of stories. I believed him.'

‘Did he ever say why he came to live here?'

‘The climate. I think he had nothing in Germany, no family, no work. The idea of crocodiles and fishing … well Germans are suckers for that.'

‘Why did you move here?'

‘Actually, I lived in Bali for six years. For Germans Bali is the tropical paradise, the Holy Grail. I went there in my twenties and promise myself when I retire I will go back. Eventually I did. I met Tuthi there. But Bali became too busy, too … spoilt. Muslims, Australians, no offence. One lot want to chop your hand off for drinking, the others get drunk and vomit on the street. We took a trip down here one time and I liked it. Like Bali used to be. Similar climate and you Aussies are better behaved at home.'

‘That was when?'

‘A little more than three years ago. I'm here for good.'

‘So as far as you know Dieter had no enemies?'

‘No.'

‘And he wasn't unusually worried lately?'

‘Not that I noticed.'

Clement asked the obvious question. ‘Last night. You were here?'

Osterlund did not seem offended. ‘Ja. We had guests for dinner, Gilbert Lucas and his wife, Sondra, across the road. Early dinner. They left around nine-thirty. We drank some wine and went to bed about ten.'

‘You are retired I think you said?'

‘More or less. I have a few business interests in Europe still. These days, Skype, Twitter, all this stuff, it is easy to work from anywhere.'

Clement scanned the large, sparse room, saw a laptop set up at
the end of the long breakfast bar. ‘What line of business? You mind me asking?'

‘Not at all. IT. I got in early, made good money before the space became crowded.'

Clement awarded himself a prize for guessing correctly. Osterlund reached into what might have been a cigar box once and handed him a card which was printed in German on one side and English on the reverse. It simply read OIC with a bunch of contact numbers. Clement recognised the one for Broome.

‘If you need to speak to me again, Detective, or need IT solutions.'

He said it without the hint of a smile and Clement couldn't be sure if he was serious or just being very droll. Clement found a crumpled, soiled card in his wallet and deposited it on the table to return the compliment, knowing Osterlund had got the worst of the deal.

‘Likewise, if you think of anything you think might be important. And thank you for the coffee.'

Clement stood. Osterlund assured he would call him if he remembered anything relevant, and saw him to the door. His wife had vanished into thin air.

Clement took a last look back at the house and felt a pang of envy. He couldn't deny it. Imagine living like that, pretty much retired, beautiful, devoted wife, amazing house. No kids he'd said. If Osterlund had any they were probably with an early wife back in the Fatherland. Clement imagined himself at some future date, alone, a grown-up Phoebe he never saw. That hurt. He would never have this. At best there might be a modest house in the suburbs, at worst one of those caravans like his parents used to lease to losers.

He opened the car door and a dragon's breath blasted him. He'd left the window open a crack and parked as close to shade as he could but it had made no difference. He cruised slowly down the driveway feeling no more enlightened on the victim than when he'd dragged him from the creek, a loner who liked his grog and the simple life. The Kimberley was full of them. Clement had garnered all that from one glance at Dieter Schaffer's vehicle. No wallet, no outboard motor, no rifle recovered. It was looking like a robbery, either from a stranger who happened past or somebody who'd accompanied him fishing. And yet the murder in a way seemed careful, ordered. There were no signs of argument, nothing to suggest the presence of the killer other than blood and body, as if a bunyip had risen up from the creek and killed Dieter Schaffer
before sinking back down. Bunyips were not myths, twenty years of policing had taught Clement that much. Bunyips were the depraved hearts, souls and minds of people given form by fury, anger, greed, envy, lust, and they could just as quickly fade into a ripple, a shy smile, a quiet sigh. Violent and careful killers were as hard to grab hold of as smoke. Clement knew he could be staring into the killer's face and see nothing more than that tranquil billabong with the reflection of his own.

Clement called through to Shepherd and checked on progress at the crime scene. The croc guys had just arrived and were deciding how to clear it. Lisa Keeble had done a preliminary examination of the body which had been loaded up and sent to Derby Hospital from where it would be transferred to the airport. Though not a medical examiner, Keeble had worked numerous deaths-by-trauma in conjunction with the Coroner's department. She had trained under professor Michael ‘Rhino' David, an expert etymologist and head of the Forensic Science department at the University of Western Australia. She knew her stuff.

Clement's and Rhino's careers had grown in step. Clement was the first cop to make use of Rhino's abilities but it was a symbiotic relationship. Rhino helped him solve cases and Clement's support kept Rhino's numerous bureaucratic enemies at bay. Rhino's CV included stints lecturing at the FBI's US body farms, consultant on a number of international murder trials, and reigning faculty titles for piss-drinking and Donkey Kong. Politically incorrect, looking more like a roadie for a heavy metal band than a professor, Rhino scared his university colleagues and was anathema to the State Coroner, who saw him as some kind of forensic cattle baron muscling in on her turf. But his department was brilliant at identifying DNA, whether human or mineral, and earned the university a tidy sum from commercial clients, thereby coating Rhino in just enough Teflon to keep from being jettisoned. Rhino was also a teacher par excellence. His graduates could find employment anywhere in the world but Lisa Keeble's best quality was she was adaptable. There were plenty of gourmet chefs but up here you needed one who could cook on a Bunsen burner. Clement had Shepherd put her on.

‘You know I can't speculate on what killed him.'

‘Of course, but did you see anything other than a whopping blow to the head or drowning?'

‘No ligature marks but I lifted the t-shirt and had a quick look. I'd say he took a heavy beating, rib fractures most likely. You saw the jaw, right? Curious thing was that the shirt didn't have any corresponding marks on it, that I could tell. If you hadn't dragged him up onto the shore with a mechanised winch it might have helped.'

‘There's crocs around, I'm not stupid.'

‘No, I'll give you six out of ten.'

‘So what are you saying about the t-shirt?'

‘I don't know, maybe he put it on after he was beaten.'

That was important. Maybe Schaffer got into a fight, took a beating, changed and then whoever beat him came back to finish the job?

‘Anything else?'

‘Sorry, that's it for now.'