Before It Breaks by Dave Warner

enemies?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜And he wasn’t unusually worried lately?’
    â€˜Not that I noticed.’
    Clement asked the obvious question. ‘Last night. You were here?’
    Osterlund did not seem offended. ‘Ja. We had guests for dinner, Gilbert Lucas and his wife, Sondra, across the road. Early dinner. They left around nine-thirty. We drank some wine and went to bed about ten.’
    â€˜You are retired I think you said?’
    â€˜More or less. I have a few business interests in Europe still. These days, Skype, Twitter, all this stuff, it is easy to work from anywhere.’
    Clement scanned the large, sparse room, saw a laptop set up atthe end of the long breakfast bar. ‘What line of business? You mind me asking?’
    â€˜Not at all. IT. I got in early, made good money before the space became crowded.’
    Clement awarded himself a prize for guessing correctly. Osterlund reached into what might have been a cigar box once and handed him a card which was printed in German on one side and English on the reverse. It simply read OIC with a bunch of contact numbers. Clement recognised the one for Broome.
    â€˜If you need to speak to me again, Detective, or need IT solutions.’
    He said it without the hint of a smile and Clement couldn’t be sure if he was serious or just being very droll. Clement found a crumpled, soiled card in his wallet and deposited it on the table to return the compliment, knowing Osterlund had got the worst of the deal.
    â€˜Likewise, if you think of anything you think might be important. And thank you for the coffee.’
    Clement stood. Osterlund assured he would call him if he remembered anything relevant, and saw him to the door. His wife had vanished into thin air.
    Clement took a last look back at the house and felt a pang of envy. He couldn’t deny it. Imagine living like that, pretty much retired, beautiful, devoted wife, amazing house. No kids he’d said. If Osterlund had any they were probably with an early wife back in the Fatherland. Clement imagined himself at some future date, alone, a grown-up Phoebe he never saw. That hurt. He would never have this. At best there might be a modest house in the suburbs, at worst one of those caravans like his parents used to lease to losers.
    He opened the car door and a dragon’s breath blasted him. He’d left the window open a crack and parked as close to shade as he could but it had made no difference. He cruised slowly down the driveway feeling no more enlightened on the victim than when he’d dragged him from the creek, a loner who liked his grog and the simple life. The Kimberley was full of them. Clement had garnered all that from one glance at Dieter Schaffer’s vehicle. No wallet, no outboard motor, no rifle recovered. It was looking like a robbery, either from a stranger who happened past or somebody who’d accompanied him fishing. And yet the murder in a way seemed careful, ordered. There were no signs of argument, nothing to suggest the presence of the killer other than blood and body, as if a bunyip had risen up from the creek and killed Dieter Schafferbefore sinking back down. Bunyips were not myths, twenty years of policing had taught Clement that much. Bunyips were the depraved hearts, souls and minds of people given form by fury, anger, greed, envy, lust, and they could just as quickly fade into a ripple, a shy smile, a quiet sigh. Violent and careful killers were as hard to grab hold of as smoke. Clement knew he could be staring into the killer’s face and see nothing more than that tranquil billabong with the reflection of his own.

5
    Clement called through to Shepherd and checked on progress at the crime scene. The croc guys had just arrived and were deciding how to clear it. Lisa Keeble had done a preliminary examination of the body which had been loaded up and sent to Derby Hospital from where it would be transferred to the airport. Though not a