Before It Breaks (45 page)

‘The grandson?' Even via the tinny phone speaker in this hurtling missile, Risely's surprise was clear.

‘Yeah. I don't know if he's in the file but I should have allowed for the possibility anyway. Name is Peter Bourke.'

‘Now all we have to do is find him.'

‘He works at the Mimosa. I remember the name from the staff list. He's served me, an Irishman. He was there when the witness informed me about a biker arguing with Dieter Schaffer. I'm guessing he'd been following Schaffer, spied Lee arguing with him, followed him.'

Risely was digesting this. ‘Why'd he kill him?'

‘Probably just to divert us. Or maybe he figured we'd find Lee and Lee would mention the young dude following Dieter Schaffer and we'd start to look for him.'

Clement turned off the main road onto the long Mimosa driveway. ‘Should be able to ask him in person very soon.' Clement gave him a detailed description for circulation and announced, ‘I'm here.'

‘I'll assemble a team. Don't approach him till we arrive, unless you have no choice. And well done, mate.'

Clement cruised into the reception carpark and pulled into a bay. Pieces of broken foliage were whipping through the air. Clement removed his service weapon from his glove box and checked it. Hopefully he would not have to use it but Peter Bourke had proven he was prepared to unleash any amount of force and use any weapon. Even though he had promised poor Mathias and Heinrich he would
do everything he could to keep the boy unharmed, Clement wasn't going to be caught second-guessing with an axe or arrow coming for his head. He forced the door open and stepped out of the car.

The shelter of the Mimosa grounds reduced the wind's power substantially although the tops of the palm trees were shrieking. In the distance maids ran fast as they serviced bungalows. Loose buckets tore off on their own adventure.

When he had entered reception through the automatic doors the gusty wind swirled briefly through the lobby. Clement caught sight of himself in the mirror, a devil from the netherworld bringing chaos and darkness.

According to the concierge Kate, Bourke's shift did not begin until midday. In all likelihood he was in the bungalow he shared with the Brazilian, Arvie, and another young man, Jake Windsor, but there was no guarantee. Arvie was flat out securing the garden from the cyclone so at least he wouldn't be in there but Jake Windsor was a waiter working the same shift as Bourke and there was every chance he might be with him. The same went for any other staff on the late shifts, especially given the impending storm. It was likely they would be jawing together. There was no phone in any of the bungalows. Kate had most of the staff's personal mobile numbers but Clement didn't want to risk trying those. If they were hanging with Bourke and their phones went off he might tumble something was up, so Clement told her to keep staff away from the bungalows and channel them into reception if she could. She could make up some excuse about the bungalows not being safe in the cyclone.

‘What kind of car does he drive?'

‘A white SUV.' She didn't have the registration. She was nervous.

Clement reassured her, ‘Don't worry.'

From her look, it didn't help. He moved closer to the reception door and called Risely again.

‘He drives a white SUV, rego unknown but it should be on the list you have.'

‘Manners is onto it. We're suiting up. I'll bring you a vest.'

It could not be assumed Bourke had acted alone but that was Clement's instinct. He cursed himself for not considering the possibility of a grandchild as the killer and in the next breath forgave himself. You didn't expect a grandchild to come avenging his progenitors. Nor did he blame his German friends. Even if they were aware of Manfred Gruen having a child, the image that naturally came into their heads was a little toddler chasing
butterflies. The world was moving too fast. In a blink Phoebe would be walking down the aisle, or more likely moving into an apartment with some dude who wore his cap backwards.

His thoughts flitted to his father. Clement still hadn't called him. Peter Bourke was just a kid when his own father suicided. Was that the point where his life had been irretrievably shunted in the wrong direction? What was he going to do when he was confronted? Sometimes these people didn't care if you killed them, in fact they wanted it.

Clement automatically gripped the pistol in his coat pocket, its hardness and weight physical reminders of its awful power.

Clement asked himself what he would do if Bourke came at him. They needed him to find Osterlund. Clement had sat under a fan drinking coffee, making polite conversation with the monster who had chopped Gruen to pieces with a chainsaw. Would Clement risk his own life to find him?

He put the question aside hoping he might never need to learn its answer.

Daryl Hagan was set up on the Great Northern Highway ten k out of Broome looking for any white SUVs using the road to Derby and the desert. Despite its name, the road actually ran more east than north at this point. The wind had picked up steadily in the three hours he'd been there and now it was whipping through hard. He could smell the rain at its back. Off the top of his head he opined there may be no cars on the road at all with a big storm coming through. His usual partner in crime Beck Lalor disagreed. She reckoned there were plenty of white SUVs especially if you counted cream and even though there was a storm coming she reckoned there'd be a half dozen. Hagan suggested they have a case of beer on it. If between them they stopped more than six white SUVs she won. Being a woman who enjoyed a beer on a hot day, and a bet on any day at all, she agreed. She was set up ten k out of Broome on the road heading north to Cape Leveque. Hagan made her promise she wouldn't be stopping vans or silver SUVs to boost her numbers. As it turned out he was going to skate through easy on this one. Checking in via the radio he'd learned she'd only stopped one white SUV so far. It was not the one they were after but she had taken details just in case. For his part Hagan had stopped only two white vehicles, one of those, a larger four-wheel drive, out of sheer boredom. Lalor was already trying to wriggle out of the bet though, claiming that the cyclonic conditions were keeping people off the road.

‘It's a tainted sample,' she said.

‘Well you would say that,' he replied. Lalor had done some tertiary studies and she liked to bandy about words and statistics that he kind of grasped without ever being totally sure what she was on about. ‘But you knew that when we bet.'

She agreed that was true. ‘But I reckon they're going to call us in early, so it can't count.'

She had a point there but Hagan could shoot back some statistical concepts of his own.

‘So we were talking four-thirty finish, right?'

That would have been the normal time they would work to before somebody else came to take over.

‘Yes.'

‘Okay so we can extrapolate the numbers, right?'

‘Extrapolate? That's a huge word for you, Hages.'

He was grinning and he imagined she was too. Hagan liked Lalor a lot. If he didn't already have a cute girlfriend he might have considered extracurricular possibilities.

‘I picked it up from Manners.'

‘The IT guy?'

‘Yeah. So what do you say?'

He could hear her mind computing. ‘Sure.'

Uh-oh. She sounded confident. Had he miscalculated? He thought he had the numbers falling his way.

‘We've done three vehicles in approximately three hours,' she said. It was getting harder to hear her over the wind. ‘Which “extrapolates” to seven in seven and a half hours, so I guess I win.'

‘No, hang on a second, one of those was a big mother that I only stopped because I was bored.'

‘So you're saying it's actually two in three hours which would equate to five in seven point five hours, meaning you win.'

‘Correct.'

‘Yes. Unless we get another couple before they call us off, then I win.'

‘Has to be any time. This wind is getting very angry.'

‘It's worse here.'

‘What happens if we get one more?'

‘I guess that would be a tie.'

‘Take care.'

‘Keep your eyes peeled.'

‘I will.'

As much as they joked about it both were aware that this was not a job to be taken lightly. The man they were looking for had killed two, maybe three people. If a cop stopped him he might start firing, and they were all on their lonesome, not the ideal situation, but neither was having an axe killer running around a small town.

‘No car by the bungalow.'

Clement was standing in the small garden at the corner of the last staff bungalow in the set of four before Bourke's. From this vantage he could clearly see the empty parking bay in front of 12. Wearing a headset Risely stood behind him, looking even bigger in his body armour which they were all wearing. It always felt strange to Clement, the way cricket pads felt strange. Whiteman and Shepherd were next in line with Parker and Hathaway, the biggest guys at the station. Graeme Earle hadn't quite made it back yet and was ropeable he was missing out. Paxton had two other big guys working to the back. Ryan Gartrell and Jared Taylor were waiting at the driveway in case Bourke came driving in from elsewhere. Risely called through to the men informing them there was no vehicle out front and warning Gartrell and Taylor to call in immediately if they spotted the white SUV approaching.

The radio crackled.

‘Bravo team in position.'

This was Paxton. The bungalows backed right onto bush and though there was no rear door there was always the chance Bourke might try and hightail it out of a window. Paxton and his men would be ready. Risely nodded to Clement, his call.

‘Let's go.'

Clement and Risely left cover and started quickly down the narrow path, the others close behind, Parker and Hathaway carrying a door ram. Number 12 was the last of the four bungalows. After talking it over with Risely it had been decided the best approach was a simple knock on the door under the guise of emergency services. As soon as they cleared bungalow 11, Whiteman and Shepherd broke to cover the sides. Clement walked up the step, Risely to his left, pistol ready, Parker and Hathaway behind. Clement knocked loudly to be heard over the wind and yelled.

‘Emergency services. We need to clear the bungalow.'

There was no response from inside. Clement guessed the others were no less tense than him. He knocked again.

‘Is anybody there? Emergency services.'

Still no response. He tried the door knob and was surprised when it yielded, the force of the wind powering it open, almost off its hinges. Clement and Risely entered, pistols drawn.

‘Peter?'

Clement was forced to yell. Risely was running commentary into his microphone. One glance showed the lounge room was clear. The bedroom doors were open. Only the bathroom door was closed. Clement snapped it open. It was empty too. Clement fought deflation. Somebody closed the front door but the walls were still groaning. Clement advanced and studied the bedrooms. One looked cleared out. They were too late.

The wind had increased. The desert sand was nasty and careless where it struck. Hagan was forced to shelter his face behind his forearm. Since he'd spoken to Beck there'd been one car, total, tourists getting out of Dodge. His radio went. It was Mal Gross.

‘Yes Sarge.'

‘We're bringing it in, Hages. It's coming in faster than they thought.'

‘You're not kidding.'

‘And I hope you told Lalor Corona, 'cause I like Corona.'

The bet was common knowledge. Hagan would have to share. From the case, he'd be lucky to wind up with a brace.

As he was about to open his door to climb into the relative safety of his cabin he saw a vehicle approaching from the Derby direction. This was the opposite direction to where he expected the abductor, that's why he'd set up on the other side of the road, to get vehicles heading out of town. Hagan was good at spotting makes and models from a very long distance, it was his specialty, similar to how some of the indigenous boys could spot a roo and it would look to him like a small shrub. Part of him was inclined to let the car go. But then again the bet would be a tie. Neither would buy a case, and the Sarge and the other cheapskates would have to buy their own beers. He could see the car was an SUV, white. He hit his lights and walked into the road with his sign that read
POLICE STOP.
He managed to give the driver enough time to slow and eventually pull over. Hagan made sure the road was clear and headed across, his shirt flapping like the sails of yacht. His cap wouldn't make it in the high winds so he left it in his car as he approached the Rav4. There was only the driver, a young guy. Hagan made sure he could see his hands at the wheel. He wasn't taking any chances.

‘Everything okay? I don't think I was speeding.'