Before It Breaks

by Dave Warner

  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.’

  ‘That’s right. It was the cheapest stuff around. Dieter wanted a few friends that’s all.’

  Earle changed tack. ‘You ever been to his place?’

  The moment’s hesitation gave him away and he knew it.

  ‘Once. He asked me to help connect his water tank. I used to be a plumber. Sort of.’

  ‘So you knew where his dope crop was?’

  ‘I wasn’t the only one. Shit, anybody who went there could have seen it.’

  Karskine was the first person Clement had spoken to who admitted having been in the shack.

  ‘You remember if he had a computer?’

  Karskine cast through his memory, shook his head. ‘Might have. I don’t remember that much about the place except this big fucking framed poster of his soccer team. Frankfurt?’

  ‘Hamburg.’

  ‘Some paintings, abo stuff.’

  ‘You mind if we have a look around the house?’

  ‘Yes I do mind. Nothing personal but you might plant something. It’s been known to happen.’

  ‘We can get a warrant,’ said Earle evenly.

  ‘Go for it.’

  By the time they got warrants he’d have time to dispose of any evidence. Clement tried again.

  ‘Are you sure there’s nobody can alibi you? We don’t want to waste our time or yours.’

  Karskine thought back. It seemed an effort. ‘Wednesday night.’ He was in a galaxy far far away. Then back on earth. ‘Bill called. About ten. A bit before maybe.’

  ‘Bill Seratono?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Even if that were true it didn’t rule out Karskine although it meant the window to kill Dieter Schaffer was narrow. Clement figured it might be best to keep that to themselves.

  ‘That’s good. We’ll confirm it with him.’

  ‘You own a motorcycle, Mitch?’ Earle rested against the ute, mates.

  ‘Wish I did. Why?’

  ‘Just thought you might. Lots of guys with boats own bikes. I got a boat. Fibreglass runabout. Bung the trail bike in sometimes.’

  ‘Not me. I’m a bit tired. I like to get my beauty sleep.’

  Earle looked to Clement for direction. Clement nodded slowly to Karskine.

  ‘Thanks for your time.’

  As they walked to the car Earle remarked that the phone call didn’t get Karskine off the hook.

  ‘It would have been a squeeze but he could have done it.’

  ‘Yeah, but if there’s any evidence I don’t want him destroying it before we turn up with a warrant.’

  ‘We’ll be lucky to get one before tomorrow midday.’

  ‘Think he’s the sort who could kill somebody with an axe?’

  Earle yawned. ‘Can’t rule him out. I’ll speak to the neighbours, see if they remember if his car was in. You know this Bill?’

  ‘Seratono, old schoolmate, it might be best if you call him.’

  Clement hadn’t got that hunter’s instinct that Karskine was his man. Yet maybe he’d left that behind with the rest of his life. He felt he was running in beach sand here. He phoned Risely, caught him at his house and filled him in on what they’d learned so far. Karskine pricked Risely’s interest, so did the talk of bikers.

  ‘You got the CCTV footage?’

  ‘Going back to check it out now.’

  ‘I’ll see you here.’

  ‘The quality is really poor and it’s shot from a distance on the other side of the carpark so it’s not sharp.’

  Manners was hunched over his desk in the room they used for audiovisual matters. Screens, players, mixing desks were banked all around making it claustrophobic. Clement sat beside Manners in an adjustable chair; Earle and Risely stood, all eyes glued to a forty-two inch flat-screen monitor. The video was typical grainy, grey CCTV footage. The time code showed Mon 13-01-14, 09.12. The camera was situated high and captured the area about ten metres either side of the bottle shop where it was mounted, across the width of the carpark so that any cars parked on the other side might have their rear-number plate visible but nothing much more of the car. From this angle the rear of the Honky Nut was down at the right-hand corner but was not captured by the camera so Clement had to estimate where Selina’s position would have been. Manners tapped the screen in that region to show him.

  ‘Here.’

  The carpark was lightly populated for vehicles, only five in sight including the rear of Dieter Schaffer’s Pajero which had been parked facing where the back of the Honky Nut would be. Dieter Schaffer, identifiable by shape only, advanced alongside his car gesticulating with a biker. No colours, no numberplate identifiable, not wearing a helmet, facial features a blur.

  ‘Kawasaki, eight hundred, something like that,’ offered Mal Gross.

  ‘Any Dingos with a bike like that?’

  ‘One. But he’s a lot fatter than this bloke.’

  A bit more of Schaffer waving his hands.

  ‘It finishes about now,’ said Manners.

  And it did with Schaffer offering a dis
missive gesture as if shooing a fly. The bike lingered a moment then turned, disappearing quietly off-screen the way it had come. Schaffer lingered before also leaving the screen, presumably into his car because a moment later it reversed and cruised slowly from the carpark. Clement asked for it to be cued again. The sequence was: inactive carpark, Schaffer emerges from top right of screen as if he may have been heading to his car when he saw the biker who at that stage was off-screen. He advances and waits for a second as the bike cruises in and stops. The argument lasts for around forty seconds then the biker rides off. Schaffer leaves in his car, without haste.

  ‘Can they enhance that at HQ?’

  Risely wanted to hear the tech man say, ‘Yes we can turn any shitty evidence into something pristine.’ Clement would have liked that too but Manners offered no consolation.

  ‘Not enough to get a numberplate or a look at his face.’

  Clement was wondering if any witness might have been able to hear the conversation.

  ‘Let’s try and identify these vehicles, just in case the owners heard something. And I want you to go through the tapes for up to three days before this, and then from this up till last night, see if this bike is there some other time. I’d also like us to get all CCTV footage for the same period we can around Broome, try and identify this biker better and see if we can spot Schaffer’s Pajero anytime.’

  ‘That’s a big job.’ Manners was already sweating in anticipation.

  Risely said he could get Perth to assist.

  ‘Good. Let’s leave the big picture to them.’ Clement rested a hand on Manners’ shoulder. ‘You just stay with this camera. The biker might have been waiting for Schaffer. He must have had some idea of his movements so maybe he came in before or after. And when you get a chance, I need Mitch Karskine’s phone records.’

  It would be a grind but they had a number of avenues of inquiry.

  Risely announced he was going to bed. ‘I’ll get onto HQ about some tech support first thing tomorrow. And I’ll organise the Karskine warrant. See you in a few hours.’

  Earle yawned again. Clement checked his watch. It was two-thirty.

  ‘I’ll drop you home.’

  Manners looked at him hopefully. Clement could see he wasn’t used to the long shifts such a case demanded.

  ‘Get the numbers and details on any of the cars you can, you can come in an hour later tomorrow. I’ll be back after I drop Graeme.’

  Clement and Earle weaved their way through the few deserted streets that made up the town centre. Here and there an old poinciana drooped as if gathering all its strength to fight the sun again in a few hours but there was no life; not even a stray dog peeing against a trunk. Clement had the window down and this generated some breeze to fight the humidity. Finally Earle said, ‘Pity about the vision.’

  Clement was phlegmatic. ‘It’s more than we had yesterday.’

  He pulled up outside Earle’s house. It dark and quiet, a front light had been left on.

  ‘See you soon,’ said Earle leaving with a wave.

  Clement drove back pondering. Dieter Schaffer was proving as elusive as his killer. There was something odd about the man. He was an ex-cop who sold dope; well, he wouldn’t be the first but still, he sold it at cut-rates to a small circle of ‘friends’ and gave it away to strangers. That suggested a low-level distributor. But he was talking of his ship coming in or words to that effect. Bikers meant drugs. Had there been something in the encounter between Schaffer and the biker? Had Schaffer encroached on somebody’s territory? But why kill him in such a brutal way and then re-dress him? There was an intimacy in that.

  Clement parked in the bay reserved for detectives. Night shift had taken over now. Clement passed a couple of uniforms heading to their vehicle, their voices bells in the still night. The Major Crime section was deserted. Clement sat down at one of the desks thinking about loose ends. Schaffer’s client Trent Jaffner was supposedly hours south in Port Hedland. They would have to investigate if this were true or not, along with the other alibies. They had yet to speak to anybody in Hamburg who knew Schaffer. Immigration would have to be chased up about the sister’s details. At least the CCTV footage was in train. This was the hard grunt of casework, slow and steady elimination of possibilities. On cue, an exhausted Manners emerged from the audiovisual room.

  ‘I only got the rego on four of the vehicles. Owners’ details.’

  He handed over a piece of paper with details neatly written.

  ‘Good work. See you tomorrow.’

  Clement glanced at the names. None of them meant anything to him. In all likelihood they were staff from the shops. Something Shepherd could follow up in the morning.

  Clement stood in his jocks in the little apartment above the chandler’s staring out over the mute wharf for a long moment. The moon was a fingernail, the air like the hug of an old aunty who after too many sherries refused to let go. Everything was in stasis: Clement, the moment, the whole ocean. He broke that by lying back on his bed underneath the ceiling fan, the thunk of its blades almost calming. How had his life tumbled so effortlessly from where it had been to here? The night he’d met Marilyn, met her properly, had been a night like this, still and muggy, a sprawling backyard party in Mount Lawley, coloured lights slung along the scalloped wall of one of those wide concrete porches. He was a young detective on the rise, on the news sometimes. He’d never had a lot of confidence in himself, not until he’d begun work as a detective. Up till then he saw himself as a kid from the sticks with a very unnoteworthy family. At high school he’d generally been close to the top of his class but it wasn’t Harvard. And then mid-twenties he’d slowly hit his stride. He was good at his job, he knew it and so did everybody around him. He even displayed some leadership qualities. It was foreign to him but exciting. He’d always been the follower, the kid who sat in one of the back seats of a mate’s car, never the privileged front, the half-back flanker who wasn’t the last picked but never the first. Then he just blossomed and around the time he met Marilyn he was at his peak socially. He had confidence. He felt good about himself, dated women, slept with them usually, and when he looked in the mirror no longer saw the shy kid from the outback with a dumb fringe but a well-dressed man at the top of his game. But even he’d been aware that this braggadocio was surface, non-permanent, fragile, and one glance at Marilyn told him she was from a different tribe and any such approach was doomed. Kylie Minogue was playing on the stereo, no iPods yet, not that he recalled anyway: ‘Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’. Normally he wasn’t big on Kylie but he liked that song, even more when it coincided with the sight of the unknown young woman standing by herself clasping a plastic cup with an elegance that suggested Kenya, white gloves, military men in dress suits and billiards clicking quietly under a ceiling fan. He moved to her, confident he could win her but only if he kept the real Daniel Clement buried in a bottle.

  Her dress was watermelon pink. They talked easily. She was a primary school teacher, friend of … memory had long worn down the name of the party’s hostess whom he’d never actually met. One of the Fraud guys had a sister who was a teacher—that’s how they came to know about the party. After small nonsense talk he played the detective card and Marilyn was impressed.

  So are you from around here? And she mentions Broome and he goes you’re kidding and then realises she’s the daughter of Nick Menop, one of the big pearl guys, and his confidence is cracked and he’s worried the old Dan Clement, the real Dan Clement might burst out of the bottle, shattering it. But he’s not going to lie, the lie he’s propagating isn’t about who he was but how he feels about who he was, and when he mentions the caravan park she’s not even aware of it, she was down here at boarding school, and it’s as if she’s the one who is slightly embarrassed. Like girls at parties do, some girl keeps cueing the same Kylie track over and over and normally he hates this but it’s so appropriate because he can’t get her out of his head. Not on the way back to his flat after he’d left her with a l
ingering kiss, not the next day when he called her, fighting himself to make it stretch till four in the afternoon because the new Daniel Clement realised there was science to the art of courting just like there was to boxing.

  And here he was reliving that moment, that song. He couldn’t get her out of his head even now in this pokey ‘apartment’ but he could mask her for a while. Superimposed over Marilyn and the pink dress came an image of Phoebe climbing out of bed just a few hours from now, ready to head off on her adventure. He soaked himself in regret for just a few more moments, scolded himself for his lies and thanked them for what they had delivered, despite the impermanence of its beauty, and the pain of its loss.

  And then he slept.

  15

  HAMBURG 1979

  The car was an icebox. Chill bit through his scarred leather jacket and gnawed on his bones. Eleven minutes had passed since Wallen skulked down the laneway, knocked on the rear door and entered the tacky sex shop which covered for a heroin distribution hub, right here in the heart of the Reeperbahn. Talk about hiding in plain sight. It was so obvious, the drug squad hadn’t given it a second thought. And it was extremely convenient for the dealers who could load up with supplies and slip straight out to their ever-eager customers, the hookers of Hamburg. Tempting as the thought of being indoors was, he decided to wait. After sixteen long months, nearly an entire year of that in deep cover, a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

  He had passed on his intelligence to his controller. This would be his next to last buy. He just needed to act as he always did, not give them any grounds for suspicion.

  He sat back enveloped in tobacco smoke and let the moody sounds of Elvis Costello dance around him. ‘Watching The Detectives’. Ironic. One of the few side-benefits of this job had been his introduction to this British New Wave music, The Stranglers, Elvis Costello, Ian Dury. His colleagues hadn’t a clue about this kind of music. The Stones were as adventurous as they got but he’d found himself dealing with a different class of person in his role.