Standing in his kitchen, Gerd Osterlund gazed over the Indian Ocean, this morning the blue-grey colour of a revolver. It had threatened to rain in the early hours, distant rumblings, air so dense you could feel the moisture in your lungs with every breath. He loved the humidity, so different from where he had grown up. The sky this morning was remarkably similar in shade to the dark grey trousers he remembered on bus conductors of his youth, trousers that always matched the sky overhead. If it were purely a visual world you could momentarily forget you’d ever left Germany but even now at five thirty a.m. it was sticky, the air holding you close like a lover who had stayed too long. In Germany if you saw a sky like this, you could expect cold that gnawed your bones.
Osterlund watched coffee drip into the small silver cup. He thought of Dieter Schaffer. It had been almost a week. At first he’d been very concerned but now it seemed likely Schaffer had simply got himself into trouble with bikers. It was bound to happen. He picked up the cup, sipped, and placed it back on the saucer. He’d already dressed in preparation for his walk. Resting on the bench his phone plinked, its signal for a text. He wondered which of the territories might be contacting him at this time: surely too early for Europe? He guessed North America and opened his phone display.
A photo filled the screen. The cup and its chrome saucer leapt from his hand. Coffee splattered over the tiles. His eyes remained fixed on the screen. His heart pounded through his chest. One text, a number not recognised by his contacts list.
Who had sent this? The detective? Did he know more than he let on? But why? Surely he would just come right out—
‘Are you alright?’
Astuthi had appeared at the top of the stairs, hair wild, a white camisole over her dark skin.
‘It slipped out of my hands.’
She was looking at him acutely. Her eyes strayed towards the phone. He clicked it off.
‘I wasn’t properly awake. I’m sorry, go back to bed.’
‘I’ll clean up.’
‘I can do that.’
‘I’m awake now. It’s fine, you sure you’re okay?’
‘Yes, I’m good. I was just about to go on my walk.’
‘Well you go, I’ll do this.’
He hesitated but knew if he did not follow his routine she would worry. Still shaken he descended the stairs to the bedroom where his heartbeat slowly returned to normal and his brain unclogged. At first he had been on alert over Schaffer’s murder but the news of the bikie killing had relaxed him, made him think it was something to do with the crowd that Schaffer hung around. Schaffer had always been a problem. He cursed himself for his own stupidity in not taking action himself. He needed time to think. He could hear Astuthi moving about above; it would be easier too without her at his shoulder.
Exiting the house his eyes scanned the low scrub that led to the beach. It was not possible for anybody to hide there without being seen. All the same he diverted to the barbecue, armed himself with the sharp knife he used to slice steaks and placed it in the long side-pocket of his shorts. His mind was racing. He forced himself to click his phone back on and look at the photo again. No, it was not a prank; somebody wanted him to feel their breath on his neck. Reflexively he swung around. As far as the eye could see was pristine white sand, not a person in sight. He started south as usual. Going to the police was not an option. Who the hell could it be: one of Schaffer’s old police colleagues? Would they really have done that to Schaffer? He’d dismissed Schaffer’s concerns about the Edershen murder but now it seemed he should have paid more attention. Where did the biker fit? The logical thing to do would be to leave for a while, see if the police got anywhere. Bali was too close. Europe made more sense, a working holiday. Or he could stay here, tough it out, hire some muscle. In Bali he’d kept a revolver. He regretted he’d left it there.
Normally, thongs in hand, he liked to walk along the strip close to the water’s edge, where the sand was soft but not sloppy, enjoying the feel of wet sand on his soles. He could see a lone fisherman about a hundred metres south and decided to give him a wide berth even though he was pretty sure it was the same one who had been there most of the week. He had been tempted to strike up a conversation but he had told the detective the truth: he had little interest in fish other than when served on a plate with crisp potato wedges. Think calmly, he told himself. He knew people, ex-cops, other thugs. They could probably do a better job than the police here. Find whoever was responsible and stop it. But did he need to stay for that? He and Tuthi could enjoy a holiday anyway. His travel agent—
The thought stopped in its tracks. A distant shape appeared heading towards him fast. He planted his feet. His hand gripped the handle of the knife. The figure was close enough now to make out: a man running with his dog. The dog was a red setter or something like it. The man was pumping his arms, no sign of an axe. Perhaps he had a gun. Osterlund was already regretting his decision to leave the house. Then the angle of the man’s run changed sharply, away from him up towards the road. The setter followed. Osterlund edged the other way towards beach and the man and the dog passed a good thirty metres away. Osterlund turned back and watched as they continued on their course, travelling fast. Soon they were a dot behind him. Up ahead, as far as the eye could see, there was nobody. That was it then, settled, he didn’t want to have his blood pressure hit one-eighty every time he passed somebody. Soon as he got back he would organise a long business trip. The police could hardly find that suspicious. He’d put somebody in his house who could find the source of his problem and make it go away. Something fizzed through the air behind him but before he could turn, a burst of pain exploded in his knee. It was sharp, as intense as any he’d known. He tried to walk but toppled into the sand, recoiling at the sight of an iron arrowhead poking through the front of his knee.