Before It Breaks (7 page)

‘Is Shep making a nuisance of himself?'

‘Of course. But I can handle him. Now the croc guys are here, he's occupied.'

‘You going to need more bods?'

‘I've already called Perth. Given the size of the potential area, the billabong, it's going to take a bit of time. Two techs are on their way from Perth and my guys will be here any minute.'

It was as he expected but just because they'd be sending techs didn't mean Perth was going to run the case, not if he could help it, not after weeks of nothing more exciting than petrol theft.

‘Take care,' he said and swung into the small carpark of the Anglers Club. There were half a dozen vehicles in a carpark of about twenty spaces that doubled for the printing business next door. Only the late model Ford and the early model Toyota Camry had bothered to actually stick between the lines. Clement assumed they belonged to the employees. The other vehicles, pig-shooting and fishing rigs, were splayed as if the drivers were already a few sheets to the wind even though this wasn't necessarily the case. Up here people got used to space, more space than they needed. Why bother to straighten up when there were plenty more bays available?

Clement left the car, the heat not capitulating one iota. He pushed through aluminium and glass doors into heavy-duty air-conditioning. The sweat trickling down his back froze instantly. The building was no-frills, white brick walls, concrete floor. A small L-shaped bar gave onto a door presumably through to back-office
and storeroom. Furniture consisted of a pool table and three round, standing bar tables with high stools. Two blokes in t-shirts and shorts sucking lager had claimed one of them. They glanced his way but did not stop their conversation. The walls were adorned with photos of future melanoma candidates holding large dead fish in their hairy forearms. A shellacked groper was mounted above the bar, which featured a colourful display of donated caps hanging like bunting. Apex Windowframes, St Mary's Football Club Darwin, Adelaide Crows were a few that caught his eye. Beneath them a blonde barmaid somewhere north of forty and south of fifty-five was chatting animatedly with three men, one in a shirt and tie, one in overalls, one in shorts and T. All had the leathery look of long-time residents. Clement had no doubt Schaffer's death was the subject. The blonde barmaid turned and caught his eye.

‘Detective Clement,' offered Clement as he strode over. ‘Jill?'

She grimaced as confirmation. ‘Is it true about Dieter?'

She pointed behind her at a display of home snaps that showed, presumably, the regulars having drinks at this very bar. Beaming at the camera, Dieter was alongside a ruddy-faced man whom Clement recognised as the man here in the overalls.

‘I am afraid so.'

The man wearing the tie rose from his stool.

‘Rod Walters, I'm the Club President. This is Arko, our Secretary, and Jason.'

Arko was the one in the photo.

Clement asked, ‘Would you mind if I had that photo? It might help me.'

Jill pulled out the drawing pin and handed it over.

‘Can you tell us what happened?' Jill seemed the most upset of the three but it didn't look like she had been crying. Clement gave them the usual spiel about how they were trying to work that out. The two blokes at the high table were listening in. Clement asked when the last time was anybody had seen, or spoken to Dieter.

‘We were just talking about that,' said Jill and the others nodded. ‘He was here last Sunday afternoon. That was the last time I saw him.'

It was now Thursday. One of the men from the high stool chimed in. ‘Tuesday night he was at the Cleo.'

The Cleopatra Tavern was a popular but low-grade drinking hole. Clement walked over.

‘Was he alone?'

‘Well, he was just at the bar joining in like. You don't remember me, do ya?'

Clement searched the face. It seemed familiar now.

The man sipped his beer and smirked, ‘Bill Seratono.'

Jesus. He'd gone to school with him. It wasn't that long ago was it? Now he'd been told, he could see right away it was Bill.

‘I'm sorry, Bill.'

‘Mate, I don't recognise meself half the time. You haven't changed much.'

The way he said it didn't make it sound like a compliment. There was a time they'd been pretty close but Bill left school a year or two ahead of him and they'd drifted apart. Clement didn't recall any bad blood, they'd just gone their own ways.

‘What are you up to, Bill?' There would be time to pursue Dieter Schaffer soon enough.

‘Usual shit, working haulage down near the port. McIntyre's.'

‘Married?'

‘Yeah, two boys, teenagers. Fucking pains in the arse, just like we were, though actually you were always pretty good.'

‘You never left?'

‘Nah mate, some of us stuck it out.'

There it was again, that antagonism. Maybe it was just the natural response to one returning from one who'd stayed. Clement looked for a conversational point.

‘You got a boat?'

‘Eighteen footer. This is me mate, Mitch.'

The mute Mitch extended his hand and they shook. Mitch had a goatee and strong, corded forearms.

‘G'day, Mitch.'

‘Mitch owns the boat halves with me.'

‘Did you know Dieter well?'

Bill looked at Mitch. ‘We'd see him around, chat about this and that. Can't say we knew him that well but.'

‘Liked his piss,' offered Mitch, breaking his silence.

‘Who doesn't?' Bill drained his glass as if to emphasise this natural law.

‘Did you speak to him at the Cleo?'

There was an instant where something crossed through Seratono's eyes, some evasion.

‘Yeah, just the usual shit. He said he was going fishing up at
Jasper's. I told him to watch out, there was supposed to be a croc round there. He just laughed. Crazy fucking Kraut, said if crocs were there, must be something to eat.'

This it turned out was around ten that night, the Tuesday. The tavern was pretty full, regulars, backpackers and some of the staff from the resorts who preferred the cheaper liquor to their own bars. Schaffer did not appear to be with anybody. Seratono had bailed out before ten thirty but Schaffer was still there. If this had been the city there might have been a chance of CCTV coverage in the carpark but up here that was a remote possibility.

‘I heard Dieter hung out with a rough crowd.' Clement threw it out to the crew at the bar as well.

‘Probably us!'

Mitch cracked up at his mate's joke.

Clement persisted, ‘Nobody rough?'

‘Nah, mate,' assured Seratono.

Again that evasion with the eyes. Clement picked up a sideways glance from Mitch too. There was something. The door opened and another customer entered, male, shorts, short-sleeved shirt, sandals. Clement ignored him for now.

‘How about money?'

Jill moved automatically to serve the newcomer, obviously a regular, she didn't even bother to ask his preference. She spoke as she poured. ‘He was a shocker, always trying to run up a tab.'

‘Did he have a credit card?'

Jill shook her head. ‘Johnny Cash only.'

That killed that line of inquiry. The newcomer looked around, unsettled by the changes in his watering hole. The others at the bar brought him up to speed. He was shocked at the news.

‘Schultz was a bad punter.' For Mitch this was loquacious.

Bill elaborated. ‘He'd put the bite on but he'd pay you back. He reckoned he was going to be rolling in money soon.'

Mitch looked for a cigarette then remembered he couldn't smoke in here.

‘He told you that?'

‘Yeah. Not Tuesday. Before, here one time a couple of weeks ago I think.'

‘Did he say where this money was coming from?'

‘Nah, I just took it as the usual shit that he thought he was going to have a big win on the punt.'

‘You remember his exact words?'

‘Not exact but he said something like, “I'm good for it, I'm gonna be rolling in it soon.”'

‘And what did you say?'

‘Something like, “You are rolling in it, mate, manure that's what you're rolling in.”'

Now Jill seemed to recall Schaffer had also cockily mentioned about how he would be ‘looking after his friends' when he became a man of means.

‘I didn't think anything of it.'

‘He was a bit of a bullshitter like that.' Arko threw it in as he drained his beer.

All the same, if Schaffer had just wound up with a jackpot of some kind it could provide the motive for his murder. Clement made a note.

‘No enemies? No fights?'

Nobody recalled anything, shrugs all round. Clement asked them to contact him if they thought of anything. Before he left he went back to Bill Seratono.

‘We should have a drink sometime.'

It was one of those things you said that was polite yet noncommittal, an acknowledgment of shared times but no definite insistence they should be renewed, the kind of thing Clement found himself doing a lot more of these last couple of years.

‘Come out on the boat, any time.'

Clement was surprised at the invitation. Maybe he'd been in the city too long and forgotten how put-down banter was the stuff of male friendship up here. He thanked everybody and pushed back outside.

Standing beside his car, he contemplated his next move. He needed to follow up on the Cleopatra Tavern, get out to Dieter Schaffer's shack and check it out, but he also needed to nail down the tourists who had called in the report. They could be halfway to Darwin by now. He fumbled in his pocket for their mobile number, found it, edged over to a thin rim of shade from the roof of the print shop and called. The man's name was Evan Doherty and he was the one who answered. Clement identified himself then asked Doherty where he currently was.

‘At the Mimosa Resort.'

Perfect. After their brush with Kimberley life in the wild they'd gone running to the closest five-star accommodation they could find. Clement arranged to meet them by the pool in an hour. The Cleopatra was on the way to the Mimosa and he was hungry, a good fit.

The Cleopatra Tavern was a low, pagoda-style building, usually well frequented by locals and low-end tourists. Clement walked up the small brick paving entranceway to the tavern. Smoking was not allowed inside and Clement had to beat his way through a cloud of smoke supplied by three men in blue singlets gathered just out front of the doorway.

Inside in the public bar he was greeted by unflattering lighting, grey carpet with a yellow thread pattern, a generous bar and close to ten customers. A couple of blokes were playing darts, a pair of male backpackers were on the pool table. It was probably too early for trouble but when it came it nearly always involved young backpackers beating the locals on their own table. The locals would then belt them. In the smaller adjoining saloon bar the clientele appeared to consist of two couples. A barman, mid-forties, was working the bar with a perky blonde in her twenties. Clement thought of Jill at The Anglers; twenty-five years earlier this is probably how she would have looked.

He took a seat on a stool at the bar, glanced at the bar menu though he'd already made up his mind to order the fish burger which he'd had here before and considered good value. The perky blonde served him and Clement got his order out of the way. When she asked if he'd like a drink he declined. Once his order was through to the kitchen he called her over, explained he was a detective investigating the death of Dieter Schaffer. She looked blank.

‘A German guy, about sixty, was in here night before last.'

It clicked. ‘You mean Schultz?'

‘Yes. That was his nickname.' She was already feeling sad. ‘That's horrible.'

The barman, who carried himself like he was her boss and wore a tight shirt to show his muscles, made his way across. The blonde brought him up to speed and he turned to Clement.

‘What happened to him?'