by Dave Warner
Lane sipped his coffee. ‘On the positive side, I realised this morning that Grunder wasn’t in WA when she went missing, right?’ The computer had loaded up. ‘Needs your internet password,’ Lane reminded him.
Clement pulled it towards him and punched in the password, probably against regulations but he was too fired up to care about bureaucracy.
‘That’s right. Henderson too, I’m pretty sure. Think he was at Telfer. I can check.’ He swivelled the computer back to Lane.
‘Haven’t looked at these for a while,’ Lane admitted. Clement walked around to the other side of the desk and stared over Lane’s shoulder as he scanned the list of those interviewed in the original investigation. Neither Dave Grunder nor Bruce Henderson appeared. There was a Thomas Henderson, and Clement made a note just in case he might be some sort of relative. He slid the list of the other motel guests over to Lane. Clement had highlighted the names Kelly and Shields.
‘No bells,’ Lane said, ‘but it’s been a while.’ But when they punched the names into the Autostrada files they also returned a blank.
‘I’ve got Mal Gross looking for any criminal history.’
A tap on the door swung them around. Scott Risely stood there. He looked grim. ‘A body has been found in the desert.’
The body may as well have been on the moon, thought Clement. It was a fluke it had been found at all. A geology team had been heading west from no-man’s land in the desert after a week’s surveying and sampling and had almost driven over it. There were no roads here, just a few tracks of compacted red earth if you were lucky. Outback four-wheel drives were the only vehicles that you would trust, and even then you’d want to have a couple, each with a big water supply. The heat desiccated you, gave your clothes the crispness of dry gum leaves. Mind you, Clement counted himself lucky, this was one of the cooler months; he put it at about thirty-seven degrees Celsius. He chug-a-lugged a canteen and threw a sideways glance at Lisa Keeble and her assistant, a bald guy named Mason – Clement had never been sure if that was his first or last name – who were working the corpse and the surrounds. He’d already interviewed the three men who had found the body – a geologist, a surveyor and dogsbody – and let them be on their way. He felt sorry for them stuck out here for the nearly four hours it had taken him to get here, and that with a chopper. It could have been much worse. The location of the body, a little over three hundred k south of Broome on the edge of the Great Sandy Desert was just within the helicopter’s range. Clement had thought hard about driving instead. The chopper would be conserving fuel, taking it easy, while the highway south would be as fast or faster, but then you had to cut inland for another hundred and fifty k of scrubby, red nothing.
He concluded these hours might be critical and that he and the two techs should fly in the chopper with two vehicles following. He called in Graeme Earle and Josh Shepherd from their Mongoose Cole inquiries and told them to take Snowy Lane. Shepherd looked none too impressed and Clement guessed this time Lane would have to sit in the back. Jo di Rivi and Nat Restoff were also coming, bringing a van into which the body could be loaded, although there was an option to chopper it.
En route, plenty of thoughts ran through Clement’s mind but the one sticking its chest out for the tape was that the corpse was either the Feister girl, her boyfriend, or Turner. The geology party, who had got through on a sat phone, were finally raised again just as he and Keeble were getting to the helicopter. From what he could tell, they were saying the corpse looked like it had been there a while. He’d told them to wait and leave the remains intact. When the chopper eventually got there, flying low over endless rust-coloured dirt, not a living creature in sight, he directed the pilot to land a good distance from the site so as not to disturb the ground with its rotor. They then trudged through the furnace. Some days it got upwards of forty-five degrees C here so this was practically air-conditioned.
One glance told him this wasn’t Sidney Turner. The heat and wind of the dry desert had mummified the remains, which looked not unlike some of those images from Howard Carter’s tomb-raiding expeditions: leathery skin stretched over bone, teeth and nails intact. And hair. There was plenty of it. Clement reminded himself that Max Coldwell had long hair. The body was not totally intact, chunks were missing. Snap judgements could come back to bite you so Clement held off on any interpretation as to the cause. For the same reason he did not rule out the corpse being that of an Indigenous person. There were no reports of other missing persons, however, so he knew what odds a bookmaker might give. The loudest gong of doom playing in his head was the body appeared to have been nude. Maybe animals had carried off the clothing but he’d just completed a hundred metre radius sweep without finding a scrap of fabric. He’d already had the pilot take the chopper up for a quick sweep of the area in case there was any sign of another person or body. Unfortunately the fuel limitations meant that the search had to be circumscribed.
He checked his watch: 4.40 pm. He thought the others might still be an hour off. The pilot was stretched out under his chopper in the little shade there was. Keeble, in her tech suit despite the heat, strode towards him.
‘Looks like wedge-tailed eagles and lizards got to her.’
‘Her?’
‘Definitely female.’
‘How tall?’
‘One seventy.’
He wished he could remember Ingrid Feister’s size. Lane would, surely.
‘No clothes?’
‘Not a stitch. These will be helpful.’ She produced a small jar of beetles. ‘I’m thinking two weeks. Rhino will want a look.’
Rhino will love those, he thought. Keeble had learned most of what she knew from Rhino. She might have outstripped him on ballistics and other technical areas but he was the insect specialist.
‘You think all that damage is animal activity?’
‘Three years ago I had a case near Shay Gap. Rider came off his bike, nobody missed him for a week. I saw that body, I thought it was Jack the Ripper’s work but it was just our desert creatures doing what they do. The smell those first few days, it would have been like an invite to a smorgasbord.’
Clement could have done without the simile but every tech he ever knew who worked bodies adopted the same black humour. He was a detective, he had the luxury of thinking of the dead as their living selves, the techs had to treat the body as an inert site from which to scientifically extract evidence.
‘Having said that …’ she had pricked his interest, ‘… lots of bones seem to be broken.’
‘Like what? She was beaten?’
‘More likely run over.’ She obviously wasn’t prepared to hazard any further opinion. ‘You’re thinking it’s the Feister girl.’
Now it was his turn to be coy. ‘Not until you get me her DNA.’
She made a short snort. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘You don’t think we’ll get anything?’
She pointed at the sun, sulkily heading down but with a way to go yet.
‘Better than bleach. It’s going to be a real long shot.’
He’d half expected as much.
‘Might be a chance with fingerprints.’
That was something.
‘You got casts of the geologists’ tyres?’ He’d asked her to do this for elimination in case they found tyre tracks.
‘Mason did. But I haven’t seen any other marks at all. They probably blew away.’
Or somebody dumped the body and then wiped them.
I was in a far-off mental state, part of a surreal landscape of burnt orange, bumping over ground, alternately sandy and scrubby rock. I could have been one those emperors of olden times being carried on the shoulders of odd-sized servants. In front, Shepherd and Earle were exchanging a few words but not so loud as I could hear clearly, even had I wanted to. My mind was still back at the station when my fingers had played over the computer keys, the years peeling away to a time when Grace was in a highchair and Perth gripped by mistrust and fear. It might have been
baseless but I felt I’d let myself down, my colleagues down, my city down, my clients down, and most of all those girls. This was supposed to be my second chance. Out of the ether, there it was, the missing pendant, in front of me, somebody who would recognise it, maybe not instantly but soon enough to follow the trail. It was as if the whole case centred around me, like I’d been specially chosen; I was the young King Arthur. But then in an instant that stupid egotism of mine was used against me, like a judo flip. I was twisted in mid-air so what was up was now down and vice-versa. Then I was dumped on my arse. I was supposed to be looking for Ingrid Feister but I’d sidelined her, belittled her importance. Now I was being punished for my neglect. Only at the last minute did I save myself from praying the body was not hers. In my rush for self-preservation, that would have been a new low. Whoever had died out here, accident or murder, deserved my prayers, not me. Maybe I was too old, maybe I was already past it seventeen years ago. If that was the case, I should just get out of the way.
…
By the time we reached the site, the sun was nearly done. Clement warned me the remains were far from pristine. I didn’t try to get too close, didn’t need to. He sent the others to drive around in their vehicles in case there was a survivor or, more likely, another body. At some point I heard the drone of the light aircraft he’d called in to look further out than he’d managed with the chopper.
‘Keeble says female. How tall are Ingrid and Coldwell?’
I’d brought my folder just in case but didn’t need it.
‘Five eight and five ten and a half.’
Clement did the calculations. ‘That’s definitely not him. We’ve got the victim as five seven.’
Bones were broken, scavengers had attacked the corpse and I couldn’t be certain how accurate the given height was anyway; everybody makes themselves taller if they can and the data could simply have been copied from a form Ingrid herself had filled in sometime. In the absence of any other missing persons I had to assume it was her.
‘I suppose the DNA will tell us for sure.’
He explained we might not be that lucky. Now I felt ignorant as well, a virgin in Victoria’s Secret.
‘If there’s a way, the Feisters will pay, I’m sure of that.’ I asked if he had to tell Perth.
‘I suppose I could wait, see if we can get a cause of death but we’ve got two missing persons and a body. It’s up to Risely. I’m guessing he’ll call Feister, see if they want to go public.’
When the cars returned without having spotted anything, Clement went off to talk privately with Graeme Earle. I waited around kicking dirt. There was a lot to kick, which was just as well. It was a while before Clement came back.
‘We’ll load the remains in the van with the uniforms. They’ll drive to Derby and leave them at the hospital. By the time they get there it will be too late to fly them out today. You, me and Keeble will fly back in the chopper. Lisa will go to Derby first thing and accompany the remains to Perth. Earle and Shepherd will head back now. They’ve got some stuff happening with Mongoose Cole. The other techs will stay here and do another search first thing tomorrow.’
…
No matter how much life wants to grind you down, you can find something that reaffirms your place on the earth as blest. For me it was savouring a slice of pepperoni pizza sitting on Cable Beach under the stars. For now the horror of the desert had been parked, along with contemplation of our own mortality. I had flown back in the chopper mired in dark thoughts, postponing calling Dee Vee until the morning. A late-night call was only going to have people worrying. By the time we’d got back to the station it had been near 10.00, and Clement and I were starving. Clement suggested pizza. So here we were eating slices out of the box, the waves breaking softly in darkness. Keeble had politely declined an invitation to join us as she was looking at a 5.00 am start to get to Derby and ride shotgun with the body. Which was probably a more entertaining prospect than joining two losers feeling sorry for themselves. It had been too noisy to talk on the chopper so apart from our short parley at the site we’d not really checked the scoresheet since before we’d left for the desert. Now there wasn’t much else to do except swallow.
‘Earle hasn’t made much progress on Cole.’ Clement licked a piece of cheese off his bottom lip. ‘They didn’t find any footage of his Subaru with any other vehicle before Turner went missing. All we have is that CCTV of his car heading out to the airport around one-thirty.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘That’s what it looks like. He didn’t go to the main terminal but to the light aircraft area. There we got more vision of him meeting with the pilot of a plane that flew in from Wyndham. We’re thinking drugs. The Feds have found evidence of a drug trail from Malaysia to Timor. It leaves Timor by boat, mid-sea swap, then maybe it goes to Wyndham and Cole collects this end.’
‘How long was he at the airport?’
‘All up, around half an hour. We’re trying to find some eyewitness who might have seen him park, load, or leave. Then we lose him and pick him up in the chicken place buying a burger at two-fifty.’
‘Maybe he hid Turner in the back, organised Turner a flight out?’
‘I just don’t see Cole being that worried by a little meth-head. It’s possible he dropped Turner off somewhere, then collected him after the airport and did God knows what after that. Earle is solid. He’ll keep looking for those missing hours.’
‘So we still have Sidney Turner unaccounted for,’ I said. ‘The body is not his. Coldwell and Feister are also missing and have not been seen now for three weeks. Their car has also vanished. The possibilities with Feister and Coldwell haven’t changed much. The best case scenario: they’ve dropped out and tuned out. Alternatively, one or both have come to harm.’
He said, ‘The likelihood of an accident, I think, is receding. Even if that body is not hers, we’ve had planes, choppers and eyes on the ground searching for them. They could have met with foul play and the vehicle has been deliberately hidden for some reason. Agree?’
‘Yes. Foul play possibilities if we assume the body is Ingrid’s: Coldwell has killed Ingrid, deliberately or accidentally. Question then, where is he? Interstate? Or somebody has killed both of them.’
‘You don’t think he’s been abducted?’
‘I can see why you kill the guy to keep the girl but not vice versa.’
His turn to agree. I spun it out. ‘Now, if they are dead, we have some evidence – the pendant – of a serial abductor-slash-killer having been in the area. Is that a coincidence? Do we have a Bradley Murdoch opportunistic road-killer type out there and a serial killer who so far as we know is still dormant? Or is it the same guy?’
‘She fits the profile of the Autostrada victims: young, affluent.’
‘Except she was with a guy.’
Clement pulled a face. ‘Maybe he couldn’t help himself this time. Maybe he didn’t realise there was a guy?’
I could concede those points. ‘If it’s the same killer, it is not Grunder or Henderson, right?’ I like to go over a scenario again and again.
Clement dusted his hands. He was done for pizza. ‘Correct. But then, maybe we are jumping the gun and it isn’t the same killer. Feister withdrew six grand in cash. For a lot of people, that’s a million bucks.’
He stood. I think he was as annoyed as me we were chasing our tails.
‘Time to go and check on those previous Turner burglaries. I haven’t had a chance yet.’
We started to trudge back to the car when he stopped and said, ‘Shit.’
I would have been less surprised at Margot Fonteyn twerking.
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m supposed to have my daughter. Now with all this stuff …’
He checked his watch, pulled out his phone. He was going to cancel.
‘Don’t. The body won’t be in Perth till midday or something. You’ll be wasting a day you could spend with your kid.’
‘There’s Turner to follow up
, the other burglary victims.’ He wanted to hear me but his professional duty was like a pair of headphones clamped on his ears. I spied an out for him.
‘Why don’t we hit the pubs now, ask around about Turner? I’m guessing Friday night just about everybody in town is out and about.’
The next two hours we canvassed every venue in Broome showing photos of Turner, Feister and Coldwell. A couple of people recognised Turner but hadn’t seen him recently. Clement asked them who Turner normally hung out with, just in case the police had missed them in their earlier inquiries. I had some young South Americans who reckoned they might have spied Coldwell at one of the gorges the previous week. They thought it was Manning Gorge but couldn’t be certain. He seemed to be fishing, they said. Other than a cursory ‘hello’, he hadn’t spoken to them and had left fairly quickly. That in itself was suspicious. Up this way human interaction is usually cherished. They had not seen his vehicle. I took their details and passed them onto Clement when we were back in his office. It was close to 1.00 am now. A few of the night crew were coming and going. Even though neither of us had consumed alcohol, we were both struggling. The day seemed to have lasted longer than a Geoff Boycott fifty. He pulled out the list of other burglaries Turner had committed, mainly businesses. None of the victims seemed a likely demographic match to the Autostrada killer but we checked the old police files anyway, to no avail. There is an old Mental As Anything song, ‘Spirit Got Lost’. That was how I felt, split into two, half of me floating away.
‘Stumps?’ I suggested and he agreed. Later I would have to call Dee Verleuwin and give her the bad news. Somehow I felt I would not be enjoying a swim and a bacon breakfast.
After Lane had gone, Clement walked to the car at the rear of the building, opened it and sat for what seemed a long time. He could not remember ever feeling so alone. This, he imagined, must be what it is like for a shipwrecked sailor drifting in an unfathomable vastness. It was not his work that precipitated this. If he applied himself methodically, he knew over time this miasma would be defined into discrete, potentially understandable elements. The core of his problem was Marilyn, yet he could not blame her entirely.