Before It Breaks (10 page)

The central part of the room offered an old sofa and coffee table, a standard lamp on sentry duty beside them. It looked a comfortable enough set up. The far end of the room served as the bedroom. A queen size bed covered in mosquito net, practical, as was the open rack beside it on which was hung a few shirts and pants. Lighting was apparently from battery driven lamps. There was one either side of the bed, neither switched on. No sign of a toilet so that was presumably outside. The cabin was wider than it was deep. It only took half a dozen paces to reach the back wall from the front door. A rough wooden bench here held ornaments, old jars, a few novels.
There were also two smallish photos in frames. One showed a smiling young woman in a skivvy. She had a pleasant face with dark, wavy hair. It was hard to date but faded, clearly not recent. The other showed a group of five young men and given the moustaches, sideburns and style of leather jackets, was much easier to place as 1970s. Though it was shot close it looked like they were in some kind of office, an old photocopier could be seen behind them. If one of them hadn't been wearing a uniform, Clement would not necessarily have picked them as cops. That uniform made all the difference. Those comradely arms around each other's shoulders, the gleam of triumph in their eyes, the cockiness; he'd been part of a hundred such photos every year. Second from the left, with chubby face and handlebar moustache, was a young Dieter Schaffer. So, he had been a cop after all.

It was as he glanced at the photo that Clement noticed for the first time a small set of wooden drawers to the right. The top drawer was half-open, papers swimming unevenly, while the lower drawers looked like they'd been quickly shoved closed, jamming papers in there. On the floor more papers. It was out of character with the rest of the place. He picked up the documents on the floor, old invoices, nothing exceptional, then began checking the drawers. The top one yielded a bank passbook, ruler, pencils, pens, some official looking certificates in German; one of which, from what he could decipher, was the death certificate of Schaffer's mother, Adele. The second drawer was almost empty. Curious, considering the other drawers were also crammed. One drawer was full of printouts from web pages mostly in German but some in English. Featuring prominently was HSV, confirming them to be the Hamburg football team, as he'd supposed. Travel tips to South America were also well represented, and cultivation of cannabis. Jammed in between the football printouts were some news items. The first featured what seemed to be a photo of a crime scene at a park with the inset photo of a man about sixty. The next was an article which showed a grainy photo, surveillance style, of a balding man with low forehead reading a newspaper. It had been blown up from a smaller original. Both of these printouts were from web downloads. There was also a real and yellowing newspaper clipping which showed a photo of a young Dieter Schaffer in police uniform.

Clement looked carefully but could see no printer. It was unlikely there would be any internet reception out here but the empty space in that second drawer would fit a laptop perfectly. He'd
have to see if anybody knew whether Dieter Schaffer owned one. Maybe somebody had heard about Schaffer's death and come out here to steal what they could. It must have happened since di Rivi and Restoff had come by, they would have noticed this mess, surely. Clement made a note to check just in case. He shone his torch on the doorless portal that led out the back. This space was narrower than the front entrance.

He stepped out onto a back veranda about the same dimensions as the one out front. No sign of any outboard or rifle. A bar fridge was to his left but without the generator running, it was inert. He checked inside: beer, eggs, cheese, bread, part of a lettuce. Presumably Dieter Schaffer would turn on the generator when he was there and turn it off when he was away fishing. Clement stepped off the veranda shone the torch beam outwards and immediately saw thriving marijuana plants laced in with virgin bush. It was no plantation but it was enough to keep Dieter supplied for his own use with plenty left over to trade or sell.

Clement headed towards it for closer examination. A sound made him turn to his right. Something swung through the air and slammed into his skull.

Clement blinked open his eyes. His head throbbed. The part of the world that was not dark was blurred. Almost at the same instant he realised he was lying in dirt, he heard the faint but distinct sound of a motorcycle peeling away. He sat on his haunches a long minute, the smell of earth assuring him he was alive. Unsteadily he climbed to his feet and touched the side of his head cautiously. His fingers felt the stickiness of blood. A rivulet was trickling down his temple onto his cheek. His torch, still on, had tumbled a metre away. Beside it was a long handled shovel. He guessed that may have been what hit him. He picked up the torch and staggered back inside, his head throbbing.

In the kitchen beside a brush, shaving cream and a packet of disposable razors, he found a mirror the size of an A4 sheet of paper. It was tricky angling the torch to check his scalp but as far as he could tell the wounds were superficial. He contemplated what he should do next. This wasn't the city with shifts coming on and off. All his people were already knackered or likely in bed, but his head ached and it was a long drive back in the dark. He made his way to the back veranda, pulled a warm beer from the bar fridge, cracked it and gulped. The throb began to ease. He drained the can looking up at the stars; the only sound the fluid in the can and his own breath, and all at once he understood how seductive this life must have been for Dieter Schaffer. When everything was stripped back, what did we really need, but a knife and fork in a tool box, water, a bed, a beer?

He finished the can, walked back inside and over to the bed. He sat down on it and pulled off his shoes dimly aware that his socks had been far too long on his feet. The mattress was soft. Strange that a man who lived so frugally had preferred such a soft mattress. Or maybe he just found one discarded on the street and took it, somebody else's preference automatically becoming his. By now
the pulsing throb had become a more chronic, less intense ache. Fatigue had hit him quickly like the shovel. No chance he was driving anywhere now. Clement lay back on the bed and pulled the mosquito net around him. That took him back many, many moons, to open verandas and the sound of the Gloucester Park trots on a radio. His thoughts drifted to Phoebe sleeping in the same bedroom her mother had as a child, on the cliff far above a green ocean.

Then he slept.

Daylight and the smell of morning woke him. He was surprised how lucid he was. He remembered everything. Well, he thought he remembered everything, he supposed he might not realise if he didn't. He touched his matted hair. The blood had congealed. He sat upright and his confidence evaporated. His head began to throb again, he felt nauseous. He slowed his breathing and gradually began to feel a bit better. He pulled out his phone and with it the card from Dieter Schaffer's phone. Shit, he should have been onto that already, valuable time had been lost. He popped it back in his pocket, slid off the bed, saw he'd bloodied up the pillow but that was all, and walked towards the kitchen end of the house, thirsty. Halfway across, he stopped and flopped on the sofa. He stared at his phone, saw it was five fifty a.m. This time the man with the hammer was in his own head. He dialled Graeme Earle.

Seventy minutes later Earle pulled into the area in front of Dieter Schaffer's shack and parked beside Clement's four-wheel drive. Clement watched him from the swinging cane chair on the veranda. He'd been enjoying the sun's early rays and was feeling much better. Earle spotted him and hustled over. He was clutching a brown paper bag.

Clement said, ‘I could get used to this.'

Once he was on the veranda, Earle gave the boss's head the once-over.

‘I've had worse falling off a bar stool.'

‘Bloody high bar stool.'

Earle handed over the paper bag. Clement dug inside, pleased to find fresh current buns. He raised an eyebrow to show he was impressed. ‘How many for me?'

‘How many do you think? One, you greedy bastard.'

Earle was the only one at work who was game enough to talk that way to him. Clement chewed into his bun. His appetite hadn't been affected. Earle grabbed one for himself.

‘What'd he hit you with?'

‘Long handled shovel I think.'

The men chewed in silence.

‘You need to see a doctor?'

‘Think I'm okay.'

‘That nurse at the hospital will make you feel better.'

Clement suppressed a smile. ‘You call Lisa?'

‘On her way. She's rapt with you. She'd had about ten minutes sleep she said by the time she got in from Jasper's. You didn't get a look?'

‘I heard a motorcycle. In the distance. I'd probably been out a few moments. How was the fishing?'

‘Three nice barra. Then I got home and heard about this shit. One or more?'

‘Just one I think.'

‘You think this is related to Jasper's?'

Clement savoured the fresh bun. ‘We need to run Schaffer's phone, see what might turn up.'

The sound of a vehicle arriving swung them back to the driveway. It was Lisa Keeble. Earle took a very big bite. ‘She must have had her foot to the floor the whole way.'

She pulled up hard and dust swirled. Earle watched her climb out.

‘You two should get together.'

Clement's face was kind of numb which aided his deadpan. ‘First the nurse, now Lisa?'

‘The nurse is just a bit of divorce therapy.' Earle's eyes tracked Lisa as she approached. ‘You'd be good for one another. She needs to dump that no-hoper muso bloke.'

Clement didn't mind Lisa's boyfriend. Everybody called him Osama because of the dark beard he wore. He was a bit alternative but he had a tuneful voice. Neither man spoke as Lisa joined them. She was detachment itself as she studied him up close.

‘You should get to hospital.'

‘I'll be fine. I want you to dust for prints inside, especially a set of drawers. There's a long-handled shovel, DNA it, print it. The can of beer on the back veranda was me. Same for the blood on the pillow, don't get excited, it's mine. ' He looked at Earle. ‘Mate, go through
the place, see if there's anything I missed. Bag all the documents in the drawers, bring them back to the station, I'm going home to change. Stay in touch.'

He turned back to Keeble. ‘Sorry to dump you in it again.'

‘It's my job. You didn't see your attacker?'

‘Just a blur.'

‘He heard a motorcycle leaving.'

Earle offered her the last of the buns. Lisa shook her head, Clement shook his. Earle took another large bite. Clement asked if Lisa had found anything interesting at the creek since they'd spoken.

‘Yeah, a shirt underneath the overturned dinghy. And guess what? At a rough estimate, the marks on it matched the bruising on Dieter's body.'

‘He was wearing that when he was beaten?'

‘He was wearing that when somebody took an axe to his head. A lot of blood had washed into the creek but you could see the stains.'

Clement pondered. ‘How could he change shirts if his head was caved in?'

‘Maybe he didn't.'

Earle spoke through masticated bun. ‘Somebody else put a different shirt on him?'

‘I think so.'

‘And then dumped him?' He looked over at Clement. ‘Did they feel guilty? Somebody who knows him?'

Clement, thinking along the same lines, gave a thoughtful nod. ‘What else?'

‘Lots of litter, might be useful but who knows. Right out at the edge of the search area I found a space that looked like it had a car recently, empty beer cans.'

‘How recent?'

‘There was still a tiny bit of beer in the can. I'm guessing forty-eight hours. No useful tyre tracks.'

Clement asked if she had printed the cans. Naturally she had. She also thought they might be good for DNA.