Before It Breaks by Dave Warner Page B

was upstairs if it was urgent. He left the note on the windscreen.
    Usually he bounced up the steps two at a time but not today. He showered quickly and checked the scalp laceration in the mirror as best he could. He didn’t think he needed stitches. He grabbed a clean shirt, changed jocks, climbed into his alternate suit, found atie from the back of his chair and dashed back out to find the ute owner, a tattooed bloke with a thick neck, scowling.
    â€˜Sorry,’ said Clement, though he wasn’t sorry at all. He’d left a note. If the bloke wanted to get out he could have climbed the stairs and asked. For an instant it looked like the bloke might make an issue of it but he held his tongue. At least I must still look like a cop, thought Clement, still pissed off at taking so long to follow up on the Kellys.

    It was only a ten-minute drive to their house, an old-style fibro with tin roof surrounded by overgrown straggly garden that could almost be described as bush. Nobody was about, not only here but in the whole street. Clement made his way up the little track between almost dead grass and the more adventurous stretches of bush. He heard a radio on inside the house and knocked on a door that could have done with a lick of paint. The door swung open pretty quickly. Mrs Kelly was in a dress but wore no makeup and her hair was straggly with grey streaks, the real kind, not the whimsy of a hairdresser.
    â€˜Mrs Kelly, I’m Detective Clement. I was at the station the other day. I believe you reported an axe stolen?’
    â€˜Finally.’ Her hands formed a circle then dropped by her side. She called off to her left to somebody out of Clement’s line of sight. ‘The coppers have finally come about the axe.’
    Her husband shuffled into view, probably not as tall as her, it was hard to tell because he was bent as if it took an hour or two in the morning before his spine warmed and unwound. He had a large forehead and was bare-chested, wearing short pyjama bottoms and slippers.
    â€˜You find it?’
    â€˜Not yet.’
    They edged back allowing him to enter.
    â€˜You run into a door, mate?’ asked Mr Kelly with an impish smile.
    Clement didn’t bite. He scanned the small room, neat, modest, and followed the Kellys down a narrow passageway to the kitchen where the radio played. Mrs Kelly made no move to turn it down. The floor was chipped lino and it sloped.
    â€˜Wanna cuppa?’ Mr Kelly offered. Mrs Kelly shot her husband a look that suggested he’d be making it.
    â€˜No thanks. I wonder if you could just take me through again exactly what happened. And show me where the axe was taken from?’
    â€˜Out the back here.’ Kelly played guide. The back door opened onto some sunken paving bordered on all sides by a jungle of a garden. Mrs Kelly took up the tale. She’d heard, or thought she heard something Sunday night along the side of the house. A sound, that was all, like somebody brushing past and the bush slapping the pipe or something. They were in bed, her husband fast asleep, but she’d woken up.
    â€˜He’s too deaf anyway’.
    â€˜I’m not deaf. I heard that.’
    She’d sat up and listened but heard nothing more and eventually went back to sleep. She wasn’t sure of the time except that it was after midnight, which meant technically they were talking early Monday morning. It was Wednesday before they realised the axe was missing.
    A small woodpile directly in front about five metres from the back door indicated where the axe had been taken from. Clement looked it over carefully trying to keep his distance.
    â€˜Has anybody been up around here since?’
    Mrs Kelly shrugged. ‘Not really. But we need the axe for the hot-water heater.’
    There were marks in the dirt, no proper images of shoes or anything but Keeble might find something useful. The thief could simply have walked up the side of the house or come