Before It Breaks (28 page)

‘You get anything from Blue Haze?'

‘Couple of young blokes said they saw motorcycles there three nights ago. But nobody saw anything last night.'

So far this agreed with what Marchant had told them. The cycles were in all probability the Dingos who had been hanging out with Lee until the police got interested. Then they'd gone to ground until the delivery. Gross's phone rang. He checked the ID and took himself outside to talk. Clement looked up at his whiteboard.

‘Schaffer was talking about money coming in. Schaffer's computer is missing. It's possible Arturo Lee took it and then sconed me.'

Lisa Keeble spoke. ‘Rhino will know if we have a DNA match from the shovel by morning.' Lee's body had been flown to Perth via Derby. Rhino was working fast.

Clement said, ‘Marchant's story of Lee going to rip off Schaffer's pot could be true.'

‘Big coincidence,' said Shepherd.

‘Coincidences do happen, Shep. It could also be true Lee didn't tell Marchant the whole truth about any relationship with Schaffer. For a start he wouldn't want his mob cut out by the Dingos. So, Marchant might be telling us what he thinks is the truth.'

‘There was no sign of any computer at the garage,' said Keeble.

Clement tapped the board.

‘We need to find that computer. Also, Lee's phone is gone. It seems whoever did this didn't want us seeing those contacts. They left money but took the phone.'

‘I've already asked for the phone records from Optus.' Earle was thorough.

One of the things they had done while questioning Marchant was to obtain Lee's phone number.

Clement said, ‘Maybe we'll get lucky and there will be some common contact between Schaffer and Lee but we can't rely on that. Did you find anything on CCTV?'

It was Manners' turn. ‘Not so far. I'm back four days, checking the parking lot behind the Honky Nut. Perth have been looking at every other camera that might have something on it. All they've found is that one shot of Schaffer's Pajero driving down the street.'

‘I want you guys to check and double check if anybody in town saw Lee and Schaffer together at any time. We know that Schaffer likes to socialise in pubs. Marchant says Lee had a taste of some weed Schaffer supplied so let's recheck Schaffer's regular customers, they're the most likely to have supplied Lee.'

Gross came back in. ‘Sorry. That was Adelaide. They busted the meth chemical supplier and he folded right away. There was a van full of chemicals that was coming here to be met by Lee.'

Shepherd peeled a gum for himself. ‘The boss will be pleased.'

It was true. Risely would at least be able to point to one positive that had come from the investigation, a good size drug-prevention bust.

‘What did you think from the wounds?'

Keeble didn't bother with notes. ‘The head wounds looked very similar but I can't say for sure if it was the same weapon. Rhino should be able to make that call quickly. There was none of the additional bruising we saw with Schaffer. I'm no profiler but Schaffer's killing seemed more violent, prolonged. I can tell you that I printed Arturo Lee, and his were the only fingerprints on the knife found at the scene. I also found Lee's prints on this.'

She held up the kid's watch in an evidence bag.

‘Maybe he was holding it when he was struck because it was not covered in blood. It was found close to the body, so he could have just dropped it.'

Clement looked around at his team. ‘Any ideas what he was doing with a kid's watch?'

‘Could have been checking the time for a meeting.' Earle flicked it out, a possibility.

‘But why a kid's watch?'

Shepherd shrugged. ‘It's cheap.'

Nobody could think of anything else.

Clement turned to Earle. ‘We need to see whether there is any
chance Karskine and Lee were connected. See whether they were in prison together or with buddies of the other.'

By now it was closing in on midnight.

‘Grab some sleep everybody, this is going to get uglier by the minute.'

As they broke away, Shepherd lingered to quiz Lisa Keeble on Briony the female tech. ‘Has she got a boyfriend?'

‘Pretty sure she has.'

‘How solid?'

‘I don't know, I haven't asked.'

‘Be good if you could. “Know your enemy” that's what our cricket coach always says. It's from some Chinese general.'

‘So Briony is your enemy? Why would you want to date her?'

‘Figure of speech, Lisa.'

Clement put an end to it. ‘Shep, things to do. Go back to all of Schaffer's contacts and see if anybody supplied Lee with pot.'

‘Now?'

‘You could try the pubs on the way home. You might get lucky with one or two there. Anybody you don't find, first thing tomorrow.'

Shep moved off, glum.

Lisa Keeble managed a tired smile. ‘Thanks.'

‘You need some rest.'

‘Not as much as you do.'

Clement's phone buzzed. Keeble left him to it. The ID said ‘Mum'. Clement braced himself.

‘Yes, Mum?'

‘He's back.' She was relieved, bubbling. ‘A little while ago his eyes opened and he talked. The words were a bit of a jumble but he was able to talk and he can move his arms and legs.'

Clement felt a wave of relief tempered by the reality that it was early days. He spent a little time reassuring his mother and said he would call her again. He advised her to try and take it easy herself. Only Graeme Earle was left. He signalled.

‘Karskine did his time at Geraldton. I've put in a request to Corrections for information on who else was there at the time.'

Clement knew it was a very, very long shot. He just didn't see Karskine as a double murderer. But what else did he have?

Earle guessed his thoughts. ‘It'll be better tomorrow when we hear from Rhino.'

It had been a long time since Clement had enjoyed a shower as much. The fug of the day sat around his skin like grime in an underground railway. Once he stepped out of the cool water though he was back to unpleasant reality. It was sticky inside his brain and out: two murders and nothing to show. He called up Rhino's contact number and pressed enter.

‘Can't sleep, eh?'

‘It's cyclone season.'

‘How's your dad?'

‘Conscious. You with the coroner?'

‘Just got out. And I'm glad I'm nowhere near Broome. That was a big guy on the slab; whoever did him is big, psycho or both.'

‘Weapon?'

‘Same killed your biker and the German.'

‘You're sure? No, of course you're sure.'

‘You'd reckon the guy must have known his killer. The blow was front on while standing, swung from slightly below him. Not like Schaffer, I'd say Schaffer was crouching when he was hit.'

‘Can you say how tall the killer was?'

‘The angle of the axe this time suggests somebody shorter swinging up.'

Arturo Lee was a big man and yet somebody, possibly shorter, had hit him in the front of the head with an axe. It must have been somebody he knew, surely?

‘Thanks mate. I'll let you go.'

‘You've had your way with me, now you're tossing me off like a used condom.'

‘No wonder you got a D for English.'

‘A for anatomy, but. ‘Night.'

Clement sank into his single mattress. The room was basting even though the windows were open. He dialled before he'd thought about it. The phone rang long, longer. He was about to end it when she answered.

‘You obviously know what time it is?'

‘Of course. Did I wake you?'

A moment's hesitation. ‘I was reading.'

‘Can't sleep either, eh?'

It was one sentence too many. Marilyn snapped. ‘You call me at one o'clock in the morning for banter?'

‘I was wondering how Phoebe got on. Is she back yet?'

Marilyn was steaming now, her words like stiff jabs. ‘Yes. She's fine. She had a great time.'

‘Dad had a stroke.'

‘What?'

He explained what had happened.

‘So is he going to be alright?'

‘I hope so, but I only got the call a little while ago that he was conscious.'

‘Your poor mum. I'll call her first thing.'

‘Let her speak to Phoebe some time will you? She'd like that.'

‘Of course. I'll call in the morning.'

The call ended, snap like that, like the way somebody brought an axe down on Arturo Lee's head. The only difference was, Clement was still there to dwell on it.

The sand here was like wheat and kept pouring back down the hole. Eventually he had struck a level firm enough beneath the grey soft sand to allow some depth to be attained. It was hard work and he was not used to it but at least on the lower stratum where the earth became black it was cool. Sweat was pouring off him. He stopped digging and took a deep slug of tepid water from the large bottle he had brought with him. The idea had germinated almost at the instant he decided, fortuitously as it turned out, to change course on his original plan. It would of course increase the risk of being discovered here and it made the execution—he liked that word—of his altered plan more difficult than the original. But there were two big bonuses. One, he would give himself a much greater chance of escape and, more importantly, his pleasure would be greatly heightened by the drawn out suffering of his vanquished foe. Really, a good clean axe through the skull was more than was deserved.

Foe; he dwelt on the word and its medieval connotations. How apt. Those were the days men tortured bears for sport and conjured new ways to inflict pain on their enemies: racks, presses, dungeons. That was the world into which he had followed his quarry, a primitive world of life and death, good and evil, no grey areas, no soft academic two-sided debate with prevarication and polite concession, no namby-pamby civilising—but brutal, all or nothing decisiveness.

The sun was at its apex, beating and blistering like the devil's trident. It would be a perfect hell. He began digging again. Timing was the tricky thing. Rather than just appear as he had to Schaffer, he wanted to deliver horror and panic, to tease and fill the victim with dread of impending doom. But as much as he wanted to move on with things he must bide his time a little longer, ensure all was in place. He bent his back to it again. An image of his father loomed. It was perhaps three years before he died. He rarely wore boots but
this day was an exception. He dug in the garden, robotically, his face seemingly void of emotion. His father was weak, physically, emotionally, a man who existed on tracing paper, removed from what he might have been. But it was not all his fault and now as he recalled how hard his father had dug, wheezing through his sunken skinny chest, yet determined to bury the dog, he found himself overcome by emotion. His body began to tighten like a snare being tuned, feedback he recognised only too well as a precursor to tears, the physical state that defined most of his youth. He made himself relax. He needed to keep things under control. His father had meant well, fatally flawed though he was. The dog had been a gift from his father, one of the few he ever gave him. Even at that early age he recognised dimly it was somehow important to his father to do this; more important even than to him as receiver; as if this living creature, an expression of his paternal love, could make up for everything else. It was a brown female labrador called, for reasons unknown, Sophie. He had loved that dog but his father had loved her more, cherished her. When Sophie died, nobody being quite sure why—it was around nine years old so maybe just natural causes—his father caved in. Without Sophie he no longer had any physical measure or validation that he had ever loved his son. It was as if he had learned to mistrust what his own soul might be telling him, as if only this physical representation of his love had currency. He had pitied his father then, but all would be put right.

He rested on his shovel, enjoying the sight of his sweat dripping into the dry earth. The pit was deep enough now for reinforcement. Tossing the shovel, he picked up the wooden batons he'd scavenged and then cut and began fitting them into the pit wall for support. The police would now be combing the garage area for clues but he had been careful about leaving anything that might point to him. Of course he could not become complacent. Broome had after all a limited population. Had the croc taken Schaffer's body perhaps the question of homicide may never have arisen but it was too late now; what was done was done. The biker's murder was necessary but there would be media interest, task forces, vehicle searches. It made things more difficult, yet also more exciting. His mettle would be tested. He must hold his nerve. Every day he was heightening his senses, bonding with the land, like an indigenous warrior, or even more than that, like he was a spirit, able to detect a predator's scent on the wind, invisible when he hunted, part of the land itself, without ego. He had gone from man to warrior and from warrior to
superman. He was a tribe of one or one million because moment by moment the very pores of his body were transforming into grains of earth, its heat was his blood, the lightest breeze his whispered words.