Before It Breaks (8 page)

‘That's what we're looking into. He was found dead up at a waterhole called Jasper's Creek.'

The blonde, whose name was Michaeley, recalled now he had been talking about that on Tuesday night. Clement repeated his questions as to whether Dieter Schaffer had been with anyone. The bar manager, Justin, recalled he'd spent a bit of time with a couple of the ‘girls from the resort'. Before Michaeley broke off to serve customers she ventured their names.

‘Marie and Rosa I think. Marie's Polish. Rosa is South American.'

Clement made a note. Justin explained.

‘The resorts get a lot of casuals drifting through. They work as maids or kitchen hands mostly.'

‘Wasn't Schaffer a bit old for them?'

Clement saw Justin wondering how much to tell him.

‘Schultz grew his own dope. I don't think he sold it. I think he just gave it away. I told him if I found him doing deals in here, he'd never be allowed back but you can't police it if they go outside for a walk and a smoke.'

Clement recalled Bill Seratano and Mitch's evasiveness. That's probably what it was about. Maybe Seratono had bought some grass off Dieter too? It also might explain why Schaffer was able to draw down so little from his bank account. He had a cash business going.

‘You ever see him in any fights?'

‘Bit of a slanging match about the soccer once. Schultz and some Pommies were going on. His team was playing Man United or Liverpool or somebody. Otherwise he joked, kept to himself. He was liked, you know.'

‘He mention anything about money coming in?'

Not to them he hadn't. Justin couldn't recall exactly what time Dieter Schaffer had left on the Tuesday night. Michaeley joined again and was more helpful.

‘Just before eleven. The girls started playing pool with a couple of locals and Schultz left.' She hadn't noticed anybody follow him out.

‘You have any CCTV?'

‘Not for the last month,' offered Justin. ‘They were supposed to fix it.'

Whoever ‘they' were. Dieter hadn't been killed for another twenty hours but Clement would like to have seen how he had interacted. It was annoying.

The fish burger arrived and Clement tucked into it at a furious pace, improving his mood. It was well past five now which made it eight hours since he'd eaten. He asked Michaeley to let him know if
anybody there now had been there Tuesday night. She pointed out a couple of possibles, bearded blokes in fluoro vests. Clement waited until after he had eaten before tackling them. Both said they'd been here on Tuesday but had left early for a feed in town. Neither knew Dieter Schaffer.

Clement collected his plate and carried it back to Michaeley who was serving again. He thanked her and Justin and headed out just as a new bunch of clients arrived. These were younger, backpackers or workers at the resort. Michaeley read his mind and shook her head. They weren't the ones from Tuesday.

Ever since he'd left the creek Clement had been sounding his memory on old cases, looking for echoes. Now as he reached his car, something faint pinged. A sixty-three year old former music teacher who had been found strangled and mutilated in his apartment. It was violent but the scene was devoid of the presence of anybody other than the victim. The murderer turned out to be a former male student who'd been sexually abused by the teacher thirty years earlier. The killer had planned the deed in his head for many years and left not a scrap of DNA. Had his wife not realised there was something up and talked him into confessing, Clement probably would have never solved the case.

Clement would be extremely grateful if Dieter Schaffer's killer handed himself in but he doubted very much that would happen. If it was something personal that provoked this, it was likely the only way he would solve it was to know every dark secret of Dieter Schaffer.

It was out of peak season and the resort was sparsely populated so Clement had no trouble spotting the tourist witnesses on the patio area adjacent to the pool. None of the other guests looked like they'd venture much beyond the resort's boundary, let alone take to the bush; for a start, they were too old. The men wore the too-neat shorts and crisp shirts of those whose idea of a holiday was a game of golf with an ocean backdrop, the women, colourful light dresses perfect for art galleries. Evan Doherty on the other hand was clothed in lived-in black t-shirt and shorts; tall, slim, studious looking, mid-thirties. The woman whom he introduced not as his wife but ‘partner' was petite and dusky, maybe of Sri Lankan origin, guessed Clement. She was Marguerite Luskin and she also favoured shorts.

The sun had finally had enough for the day and the heat from the paving had dulled. Clement led them to a table away from any other guests and explained succinctly that the matter was considered serious, possibly a homicide. He saw the fear in their eyes and reassured them they were not suspects, though of course he never ruled that out. Before he could get further into stride, the barista arrived, dropping a menu on the table.

‘Can I get you anything to drink?'

A lilting Irish accent. By God they were everywhere now. Down in the city the gang resurfacing the road out front of his place had all been Irish, women and men. Normally Clement would forgo a coffee at these prices but he wanted to put the tourists at ease so he raised an eyebrow their way. They indicated they were fine. Clement handed the menu back and was about to say forget it but relented and ordered an orange juice. They did good fresh juice here.

‘Could you tell me what time you arrived at the waterhole?'

Evan took the role of spokesman.

‘Just after the sun went down, six-thirty, maybe seven.' He looked at Marguerite for support.

‘Around seven,' she agreed.

They had not seen anybody else in the vicinity though Marguerite thought she heard some faint music from a radio or iPod around the time they arrived. They had made some dinner from a small cooker they carried with them, chatted, taken a look at the waterhole but kept their distance having been warned of crocodiles. By this time it was pitch dark. They had been driving for quite a few hours and were tired so they climbed up on top of the van to sleep and had drifted off. The gunshots woke them. Evan wore a watch and was able to put the time at one-twenty. The gunshots echoed intermittently for what seemed like about ten minutes.

‘We'd had enough, we decided to go,' said Evan.

‘I was scared,' offered Marguerite.

They had grabbed their sleeping bags, climbed into the van and driven off quickly. They drove all the way back to Broome and spent the night sleeping near the beach, or trying to. They'd come to the resort for breakfast and decided they should notify the police just in case.

‘It's a good thing you did.'

Clement was acutely aware of his own hypocrisy. Hours earlier he had been deriding them. Clement's juice arrived. He gulped it and gave himself brain freeze which wasn't helped by the bill. They were too polite to press for details on the homicide but he told them the basics, a man's body had been found in the creek and thanks to them there'd been a relatively short time lapse before its discovery. Clement took them over it all a couple more times but without any change in their recollection. Once they were off the highway on the track heading to the waterhole they had seen no vehicles, nor did they hear any voices or splashing in the water when they were camped, just that faint sound of music. Clement scooped up the bill, thanked them for their time and took address details. They were from Melbourne, which might be tricky if they were needed for any inquest, but Clement urged them not to concern themselves with that for the time being and to try and enjoy the remainder of their holiday. What he didn't mention was that he would check with Victorian police on their background but there was nothing about them that raised the slightest warning signal. Clement paid for the juice at the desk.

‘How'd you like it?' asked the Irishman. Clement handed over a ten.

‘Excellent. Working holiday?'

‘Not much holiday.'

The young Paddy shovelled a couple of coins back. Clement followed the path around to the front of the resort and the main reception area. Just a few hire cars and a couple of vehicles bearing Perth or interstate plates were in the neat carpark. There was little breeze but the smell of eucalypt and jasmine infused the air regardless. Clement entered through automatic doors. Large runners decorated in aboriginal motifs covered the floor of polished wood, possibly jarrah. A comfortable settee for the benefit of guests faced a coffee table. The usual tourist brochures were laid out evenly. This was the complete opposite of the Anglers. A well-groomed brunette clinging to her twenties manned the desk, her skin tanned a shade darker than her skirt and contrasting with a crisp white blouse. Her sleek neck was like the stem of a flower and was adorned by a scarf matching the skirt but highlighted by a blob of bright blue. She wore it with the aplomb of an air hostess from a different era. Clement imagined she'd keep an immaculate bathroom with an array of moisturisers and perfumes and was immediately embarrassed that if she looked at him she'd see the opposite. This was the sort of resort we should have stayed in, he thought. The only holidays he could remember were up to his cousin's fishing shack in Lancelin, a spell at Rottnest when Phoebe was little and a small motel unit in Bunbury. The receptionist looked up brightly to offer assistance. A nametag designated her as Kate. Clement announced who he was and Kate blanched through her tinted moisturiser. He reassured her he was only here for some routine questioning of her staff. He gave the names of the young women.

‘That would be Marie Kasprov and Rosa Figueroa. They'll be finished for the day. We could try their bungalow. The quickest route is back through the front door.'

She pronounced ‘route' the American way so it rhymed with shout. She picked up the desk phone.

‘Shona, could you take over for a minute.'

She led Clement back out the front door and along the paving path which curved behind the reception and office area. Evening had arrived and new fragrances were detectable even beyond Kate's perfume. They crossed a courtyard then traversed a narrow
path which bisected a screen of trees and gave onto a set of bungalows, styled as if weatherboard but actually made of some flimsier material. The washing hanging on lines and the pushbikes propped against the sides of the buildings betrayed them as staff quarters. Kate knocked on the screen door of bungalow 8. A girl with a sullen, haunted look and an unhealthy grey hue to her skin came to the door. She wore small pink shorts and a grubby t-shirt.

‘Hi Sherry. Are Rosa and Marie in?'

‘Over at Arnie's.'

The girl's accent suggested somewhere like Wolverhampton. If she was curious what it was about, neither her voice nor eyes hinted at it. Kate led Clement around a corner to another set of bungalows.

‘We separate the single males from the single females but you know they're going to mix.'

The door to 12 stood open and music was playing, not overly loud. Shoes and thongs were lined up on the step. Kate rapped the door and poked her head around it.

‘Hi guys. Detective Clement is here to ask some questions.'

Clement followed her inside. The living room was a reasonable size, better than what he had above the chandler. The faint odour of marijuana hung in the air with a variety of cooking smells, Clement guessing chilli con carne. It was definitely a bachelor pad. Sneakers lay scattered on the lino floor, a wetsuit was hung off a kitchen cupboard and game consoles and cigarette packets jostled each other for room on the top of a low coffee table placed before a bamboo sofa. A blonde, small and chunky without being fat, he estimated early twenties, was sitting on the floor. He guessed this was Marie Kasprov, the Pole. At one end of the small sofa was the girl he presumed was Rosa. Even younger than her friend she looked exactly how Clement imagined a young Guatemalan would, with curly dark hair and flashing brown eyes. At the other end of the sofa, a shirtless young guy with thick curly brown hair, sat with one foot on the floor and one curled up under him. Clement guessed this was Arnie. He addressed the girls who seemed too surprised to register an attitude yet.

‘I need to ask you some questions about Dieter Schaffer.'

He saw confusion on the girls' faces. He produced the photo from The Anglers.

‘This man. Tuesday night you were with him at the Cleopatra Tavern.'

Now they looked really worried. He turned around to Kate, who was torn between dashing back to her post and listening to the detail.

‘It's okay. I can take it from here.'

‘I'll be at reception if you need me.'

Kate vanished with the skill of somebody born to the service industry. Arnie was waiting to see if he was required or not. Clement decided to leave him there. The girls seemed very anxious but he didn't want to reassure them yet.

‘You remember this man?'

The girls nodded.

‘He was German,' said the Polish girl.

‘Schultz they call him,' offered her friend in less perfect English.

Clement explained the man had been found dead the next day in suspicious circumstances. The girls appeared genuinely shocked. Arnie squeezed backwards into the sofa.

‘You hadn't heard?'

They shook their heads. They said they'd been out diving all day the previous day, a claim supported by sunburned faces.

‘We were with Arnie.'

Arnie nodded. ‘That's right.'

‘You work here, Arnie?'

‘One of the gardeners.'

‘Where are you from?'

‘Brazil.'

‘Were you at the Cleopatra, Tuesday?'

‘For a little while. I don't know the guy.'

Clement turned back to the girls. ‘Tell me how you met Schultz.'

The girls said they had gone to the Cleopatra with Arnie and his roommate for the cheap drinks. The drinks here were too excessive for their wages. Schaffer, who they had never met before, started talking to them, seemed friendly and Marie could offer a little German to chat with him. They got to playing pool and having a few drinks. Schaffer spent most of the time asking whether they had seen kangaroos, snakes and so forth. At about ten-thirty they had said goodbye, gone and got some food from the town and then come back to their rooms around eleven-thirty. It was the one and only time they had met Dieter Schaffer.