Before It Breaks by Dave Warner Page B

concrete floor. A small L-shaped bar gave onto a door presumably through to back-officeand storeroom. Furniture consisted of a pool table and three round, standing bar tables with high stools. Two blokes in t-shirts and shorts sucking lager had claimed one of them. They glanced his way but did not stop their conversation. The walls were adorned with photos of future melanoma candidates holding large dead fish in their hairy forearms. A shellacked groper was mounted above the bar, which featured a colourful display of donated caps hanging like bunting. Apex Windowframes, St Mary’s Football Club Darwin, Adelaide Crows were a few that caught his eye. Beneath them a blonde barmaid somewhere north of forty and south of fifty-five was chatting animatedly with three men, one in a shirt and tie, one in overalls, one in shorts and T. All had the leathery look of long-time residents. Clement had no doubt Schaffer’s death was the subject. The blonde barmaid turned and caught his eye.
    â€˜Detective Clement,’ offered Clement as he strode over. ‘Jill?’
    She grimaced as confirmation. ‘Is it true about Dieter?’
    She pointed behind her at a display of home snaps that showed, presumably, the regulars having drinks at this very bar. Beaming at the camera, Dieter was alongside a ruddy-faced man whom Clement recognised as the man here in the overalls.
    â€˜I am afraid so.’
    The man wearing the tie rose from his stool.
    â€˜Rod Walters, I’m the Club President. This is Arko, our Secretary, and Jason.’
    Arko was the one in the photo.
    Clement asked, ‘Would you mind if I had that photo? It might help me.’
    Jill pulled out the drawing pin and handed it over.
    â€˜Can you tell us what happened?’ Jill seemed the most upset of the three but it didn’t look like she had been crying. Clement gave them the usual spiel about how they were trying to work that out. The two blokes at the high table were listening in. Clement asked when the last time was anybody had seen, or spoken to Dieter.
    â€˜We were just talking about that,’ said Jill and the others nodded. ‘He was here last Sunday afternoon. That was the last time I saw him.’
    It was now Thursday. One of the men from the high stool chimed in. ‘Tuesday night he was at the Cleo.’
    The Cleopatra Tavern was a popular but low-grade drinking hole. Clement walked over.
    â€˜Was he alone?’
    â€˜Well, he was just at the bar joining in like. You don’t remember me, do ya?’
    Clement searched the face. It seemed familiar now.
    The man sipped his beer and smirked, ‘Bill Seratono.’
    Jesus. He’d gone to school with him. It wasn’t that long ago was it? Now he’d been told, he could see right away it was Bill.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Bill.’
    â€˜Mate, I don’t recognise meself half the time. You haven’t changed much.’
    The way he said it didn’t make it sound like a compliment. There was a time they’d been pretty close but Bill left school a year or two ahead of him and they’d drifted apart. Clement didn’t recall any bad blood, they’d just gone their own ways.
    â€˜What are you up to, Bill?’ There would be time to pursue Dieter Schaffer soon enough.
    â€˜Usual shit, working haulage down near the port. McIntyre’s.’
    â€˜Married?’
    â€˜Yeah, two boys, teenagers. Fucking pains in the arse, just like we were, though actually you were always pretty good.’
    â€˜You never left?’
    â€˜Nah mate, some of us stuck it out.’
    There it was again, that antagonism. Maybe it was just the natural response to one returning from one who’d stayed. Clement looked for a conversational point.
    â€˜You got a boat?’
    â€˜Eighteen footer. This is me mate, Mitch.’
    The mute Mitch extended his hand and they shook. Mitch had a goatee and strong, corded forearms.
    â€˜G’day,