Free Before It Breaks by Dave Warner Page A

doors. Large runners decorated in aboriginal motifs covered the floor of polished wood, possibly jarrah. A comfortable settee for the benefit of guests faced a coffee table. The usual tourist brochures were laid out evenly. This was the complete opposite of the Anglers. A well-groomed brunette clinging to her twenties manned the desk, her skin tanned a shade darker than her skirt and contrasting with a crisp white blouse. Her sleek neck was like the stem of a flower and was adorned by a scarf matching the skirt but highlighted by a blob of bright blue. She wore it with the aplomb of an air hostess from a different era. Clement imagined she’d keep an immaculate bathroom with an array of moisturisers and perfumes and was immediately embarrassed that if she looked at him she’d see the opposite. This was the sort of resort we should have stayed in, he thought. The only holidays he could remember were up to his cousin’s fishing shack in Lancelin, a spell at Rottnest when Phoebe was little and a small motel unit in Bunbury. The receptionist looked up brightly to offer assistance. A nametag designated her as Kate. Clement announced who he was and Kate blanched through her tinted moisturiser. He reassured her he was only here for some routine questioning of her staff. He gave the names of the young women.
    â€˜That would be Marie Kasprov and Rosa Figueroa. They’ll be finished for the day. We could try their bungalow. The quickest route is back through the front door.’
    She pronounced ‘route’ the American way so it rhymed with shout. She picked up the desk phone.
    â€˜Shona, could you take over for a minute.’
    She led Clement back out the front door and along the paving path which curved behind the reception and office area. Evening had arrived and new fragrances were detectable even beyond Kate’s perfume. They crossed a courtyard then traversed a narrowpath which bisected a screen of trees and gave onto a set of bungalows, styled as if weatherboard but actually made of some flimsier material. The washing hanging on lines and the pushbikes propped against the sides of the buildings betrayed them as staff quarters. Kate knocked on the screen door of bungalow 8. A girl with a sullen, haunted look and an unhealthy grey hue to her skin came to the door. She wore small pink shorts and a grubby t-shirt.
    â€˜Hi Sherry. Are Rosa and Marie in?’
    â€˜Over at Arnie’s.’
    The girl’s accent suggested somewhere like Wolverhampton. If she was curious what it was about, neither her voice nor eyes hinted at it. Kate led Clement around a corner to another set of bungalows.
    â€˜We separate the single males from the single females but you know they’re going to mix.’
    The door to 12 stood open and music was playing, not overly loud. Shoes and thongs were lined up on the step. Kate rapped the door and poked her head around it.
    â€˜Hi guys. Detective Clement is here to ask some questions.’
    Clement followed her inside. The living room was a reasonable size, better than what he had above the chandler. The faint odour of marijuana hung in the air with a variety of cooking smells, Clement guessing chilli con carne. It was definitely a bachelor pad. Sneakers lay scattered on the lino floor, a wetsuit was hung off a kitchen cupboard and game consoles and cigarette packets jostled each other for room on the top of a low coffee table placed before a bamboo sofa. A blonde, small and chunky without being fat, he estimated early twenties, was sitting on the floor. He guessed this was Marie Kasprov, the Pole. At one end of the small sofa was the girl he presumed was Rosa. Even younger than her friend she looked exactly how Clement imagined a young Guatemalan would, with curly dark hair and flashing brown eyes. At the other end of the sofa, a shirtless young guy with thick curly brown hair, sat with one foot on the floor and one curled up under him. Clement guessed this was