He was terrified. There was nothing firm under his feet. Gravity was pulling him down, water rushing into his nose and mouth. It required all his energy to try and keep his head clear but his arms had lost almost all their strength and felt sewn on, sodden, as if they belonged to a dummy. His father watched on, bending down towards him, hairy legs, blue bathers with green trimmings, the kind that looked like shorts.
‘Help me,’ he tried to scream but his father just kept gesticulating with his arms and exhorting him with words that were lost beneath the terror of his pumping pulse. The bitterness of the chlorine was in his mouth at the back of his throat, coming in gulps now. With his last effort he reached out and felt the tips of his fingers contact the solid wall of the swimming pool. Clapping him like he was some hero, his father reached down and rubbed his hair but he could still hear nothing, his ears blocked as he gasped for breath.
A burst of music slammed into him but not Neil Diamond, his father’s favourite. The image pixilated, the swimming pool and patio gave way to the dirty white ceiling of his flat.
His phone was ringing.
He reached for it, the dream lingering. He had been six years old, late for a kid to start learning to swim in Australia. He couldn’t remember if he was angry with his father, he supposed so. Why wouldn’t he be? The phone number on the ID seemed familiar. He pressed answer and put the phone to his ear.
‘Clement.’
‘Detective, it is Astuthi Osterlund.’
Her transparent anxiety made him alert. A bad feeling was already oozing under his skin.
‘Yes, Mrs Osterlund.’
‘I’m worried, my husband has not returned from his walk.’
‘When did he go out?’
‘Just after five thirty. I went down to the beach and searched. I couldn’t see him. He’s not answering his phone.’
It was six fifty now. For once he had overslept.
‘It’s not seven yet.’
Her words came in a jumble and Clement had to pick his way through them. Gerd Osterlund was always back from his walk by six thirty. Earlier this morning before he went on the walk he received a phone call or text. He dropped his cup on the kitchen floor which had woken his wife. He told her it had slipped but she could see him looking at the phone and he was concerned, scared, even though he was trying to hide it. When he didn’t arrive back by six thirty she had started calling his phone every couple of minutes. It went to his voicemail.
By the time Astuthi Osterlund had reached this point in her narrative Clement was heading to the shower.
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. Call me if he turns up.’
It was closer to fifteen minutes before he swung into the driveway. He’d lost time calling Risely to explain why he would not be doing the scheduled interview.
‘You think there’s anything in it?’
‘I hope not.’
Whatever Risely was thinking he kept to himself and said he’d take care of the media. Clement drove to where Astuthi Osterlund waited anxiously by the front steps. She wore a brilliant batik wrap over her slender body. Her face was lined with worry. He climbed out.
‘No sign?’
‘No.’ She was trying to restrain her panic. ‘After Dieter …’
The image was too disturbing for her to complete the sentence.
‘Does he ever take longer on his walk? I mean we’re talking what, forty-five minutes?’
She was shaking her head.
‘I thought first maybe he met somebody he knew and they walked around the point to the Mimosa for coffee but he would have called me.’
‘His battery might have run out or he could have lost his phone.’
‘He would borrow one. And this morning, I could tell he was worried about the phone call.’
‘He didn’t say who called or texted?’
Clement was already running scenarios: the unfaithful husband having an affair, promising he’d leave the wife, his lover saying enough is enough, threatening blackmail. On another occasion in a different situation he would have gone with that but he had a potential serial killer out there, Schaffer was known to Osterlund, and they were both German. There was enough to set alarm bells ringing.
‘Why don’t you take me on his usual route?’
‘This way.’
He followed her through the house and down a staircase to a bedroom and bathroom below, modern, nicely furnished but without the wow factor of the living room. A big sliding glass door opened onto a patio which ended in low brush and white sand.
‘I’ll leave it open in case he comes back.’
Normally the salt air was invigorating but today it was a suffocating damp cloth.
After about twenty metres they hit low dunes and very quickly the beach itself. Clement realised he needed to remove his shoes. As he peeled his socks he called the station. Mal Gross had arrived. He filled him in. ‘Tell Graeme to stay there and interview the rest of the bikies unless I call to say otherwise. Anybody else around?’
‘Jared.’
‘Can you send him here?’
A pause, then Gross said Jared was on his way.
It was hard going through the sand and Clement angled inevitably close to the water. There were a handful of people scattered along the beach.
‘How far does he normally walk?’
‘He leaves at five thirty, back at six thirty. He was a few minutes later today.’
A creature of habit. That could be a bad thing if you had enemies.
‘Straight along the beach?’
‘Yes, always this way.’
That meant thirty minutes south then the same back.
‘Last night everything seemed fine?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about this morning again.’
She told him how she’d woken as she usually did when Osterlund’s alarm went off at five fifteen.
‘Normally I stay in bed. He has a coffee and then goes on his walk. I was drifting back to sleep when, I think it was his text sound, then a crash. I ran upstairs.’
She explained how he looked, pale, not right, the cup was on the floor, coffee everywhere.
Clement wondering now if it was a medical thing, whether Osterlund may have had a stroke or something similar, then wandered off disoriented. Even if it was just the shock of whatever that text may have been, he might be taking his time coming to grips with it.
‘So you didn’t actually see him start on the beach?’
‘No. But he didn’t come up through the house.’ She was very anxious.
‘It’s alright, just trying to cover all bases.’
‘His flip-flops were gone. He always takes them.’
‘Is it possible he might have gone around the house back to the front? That somebody could have arrived?’
‘I would have heard them.’
‘You said you came out to look for him?’
‘I ran out and looked to see if he was coming back. Then I called you.’
‘Did you speak to anybody on the beach who might have seen him?’
‘There was not many people around. Two backpackers, you know? They hadn’t seen him.’
‘What’s his number again?’
She rattled it off. He dialled it and got a voice message. If the axeman had got to Osterlund, he could have dragged him into the ocean. After all, he’d stuck Dieter Schaffer in the creek. Clement plugged on through the sand trying not to betray his growing concern. He was already sweating freely.
‘Does he have any other family? Were you his first wife?’
‘He wasn’t married before. He was never going to get married till he met me. His parents are dead. He has no brothers or sisters.’
‘When did you meet?’
‘Six years ago. My family have a restaurant in Bali. Gerd used to dine there. I knew him for two years before we dated. He taught me German, I taught him Indonesian, that’s how we met.’
‘What did your parents think?’
‘My mother was worried I would want babies later and Gerd was too old, but they like Gerd. He is respectful to them. He is two years older than my father.’
Clement’s phone rang. It was Jared Taylor. He had arrived at the house. Clement told him to drive the streets from the house to the beach in case Osterlund had for some reason taken the road back instead of the beach. He remembered Osterlund entering from the front of the house the other day after his walk.
‘Check whether there have been any accidents. If you see nothing, park and walk the scrub alongside the beach. He usually walked for around thirty minutes south before turning back.’
The sky seemed more troubled by the minute; pent-up anger would be unleashed with force. They would need to make progress quickly.
Clement was no match for Astuthi Osterlund, she seemed to glide over the sand. He struggled to stay with her.
‘Your husband said he thought Dieter Schaffer used to ring just to speak to you.’
She managed a smile that might be called wry.
‘Gerd might say that but it’s not true. Dieter liked talking to Gerd, he wanted to talk to someone from the old homeland and I think he looked up to Gerd.’
‘Did you like Schaffer, apart from him being a drunk?’
‘He was fine. He used to talk about his ex-wife, how he messed things up and missed her. Gerd was harsh with him.’
‘How?’
‘You know, he’d not really want to listen to him or share with him, in case he started hanging around, like Dieter was …’ she pondered the right word, an intrusion. I don’t think my husband liked his life in Germany much and Dieter would remind him of it.’
Clement could relate. He felt uncomfortable around Bill Seratono because Bill reminded him of what he had been, of times past, of confided dreams. There was that unspoken accusation he felt when he was around Seratono: you shouldn’t have left, you’re a turncoat and so on. The worst thing was he could not be sure if it was really there or it was simply his own guilty projection. Maybe Schaffer made Osterlund feel guilty because he was successful and Schaffer not.
‘Have you tried all his friends?’
‘No. He would answer his phone.’
‘Maybe a friend had some emergency and Gerd went to help.’
This gave her hope. She took to the task feverishly, making half a dozen calls in as many minutes. Nobody had seen or heard from him but they all promised to ring around and keep an eye out. Clement had no choice but to pile on her misery.
‘I have to ask you this: is your marriage good?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You don’t think your husband has some other relationship?’
‘Gerd doesn’t have relationships except in business. You ask me if he has other lovers, possibly, probably. He’s a man. He does business overseas. I’m not foolish. But if he got a phone call that worries him, it’s not from a woman.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘If Gerd wants to leave, he’ll tell me. If I can’t keep him, that is my problem. But this morning he seemed … afraid.’
She spoke the word as if testing its efficacy, then nodded like she’d nailed the emotion.
They walked on beyond the usual distance Osterlund travelled, passing in total only five groups of people on the way. Clement asked each of them had they seen Osterlund. All responded in the negative. He phoned Taylor who was now on foot, around a quarter of the way through the scrub heading in the same direction. He’d found nothing so far. Clement said he would turn around and come back through the scrub from the south towards Taylor. He called Mal Gross again and caught him halfway through a coffee.
‘The bikers are in with Graeme.’
‘Good. Listen, I’m going to need some help to search the area. There’s no sign of Osterlund.’
Gross promised to get some uniforms onto it immediately.
‘Tell them to call me when they have reached the house.’
Clement guided Astuthi Osterlund up towards the scrub area. She was growing more dispirited by the minute. They picked their way back north. It was not as easy to see the ground ahead as it had been on the pristine beach. If Osterlund’s body was lying flat they wouldn’t see it until almost upon it. Clement couldn’t help thinking about the similarities in the attacks on Schaffer and Lee. Both had happened in remote locations. And at six in the morning here it would also have been deserted. A moment later he was back on the line to Gross.
‘The IT guy, Manners: can you get him onto Osterlund’s provider and find if there was any communication this morning?’
‘Sure. The boss is asking if he should be worried.’
Clement was conscious of the woman with him. ‘He should be thinking about it.’
As he ended the call he saw Astuthi Osterlund get off her phone.
‘Our neighbours, the Lucases, are going to drive around and look for him.’ She was near tears. ‘Why would somebody want to hurt Gerd?’
Clement’s phone rang. Astuthi’s eyes filled with dread. It was Jo di Rivi. She and Restoff had reached the house, Lalor and Hagan were right behind them.
‘I want you to start searching all that bush around the house.’
Astuthi Osterlund’s fear ramped up. ‘Why are you looking in the bush?’
He did not want to say, ‘In case your husband’s body is there.’
‘We need be thorough.’
She let that sink in as they walked on without conversation. Eventually they got close enough to make out Taylor heading towards them. He pointed behind him.
‘Nothing. There’s a couple of lay-bys just back there where vehicles drive off the main road to get close to the beach but they’re empty.’
‘You keep going, double-check the area we just covered. We’ll go back to the house.’
It took them about ten minutes to reach the first of the areas Jared Taylor had described as a lay-by. It was little more than a sand track off the main road that ran up through scrub and stopped about ten metres behind dunes. Clement scanned around. There was broken and flattened scrub where a vehicle or vehicles had turned but it was now empty. He was vaguely conscious of Astuthi Osterlund trying her phone again as she had done every five minutes or so. Then he heard the sound of a phone ringing. She hadn’t heard it and was about to hang up.
‘Don’t.’
For a second she was confused but realised what this sudden command meant. Clement was already past her heading towards the beach. She ran after him. The beach was still bare but the sound pulled him to an area ten to twenty metres in. A phone lay on the sand, pitted by wet dark spots. Blood?
‘Stay back,’ he yelled to her. He slipped on evidence gloves and picked up the phone. The screen was opaque. He pressed it and a photo filled the small screen, a photo of Dieter Schaffer at Jasper’s Creek, lying stretched out on the ground in his pristine t-shirt, his head split, grotesque and bloody.