He looked at the speedo; he was doing 20 mph. He blinked several times and tried to pay attention to his driving. But he couldn’t let any of it go. Spencer seemed resigned to going to Midland Junction. He felt the familiar pangs of regret and guilt and imagined his hand closing around a cool glass of beer. At that point he had to pull the car to the side of the road. He’d been instrumental in getting Hardy dismissed, and now he was dead. Could the force really be so incompetent as to miss glaring clues? Was there a cover-up going on? He sat with the car engine running as a wave of hopelessness swept over him. It’s too much, he told himself, it’s too much.
Turning into his driveway, the car headlights illuminated the open garage. He looked at it as if for the first time in years: bicycles, a lawn mower, wheelbarrow, buckets, bags, boxes. A bloody mess. The car hadn’t been inside since Betty died; she liked it in the garage, she liked the tilt-a-door closed, the tidiness of it all. He sat, reprimanding himself. He should have just let Spencer go to Midland Junction. What was the point of holding her at East Perth? She was in for trouble wherever she went. He couldn’t, and maybe shouldn’t, imagine he was protecting her.
His sobriety was the problem. Plenty of blokes would be having a few at work, then going home and having a few more. Their worlds weren’t falling apart just because of the occasional bloody beer.
He walked inside knowing exactly what to do.
Standing in the kitchen, he poured the amber liquid into a glass, watched it swirl, savoured the smell of yeast and hops. Then his hand started to shake. Before he could react, beer splashed onto the kitchen table. He used his other hand to steady the bottle. He reached for the glass with both hands, held it firmly, and slowly drew it to his mouth. Just as it neared his lips, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the sideboard mirror. He saw a man with desperation in his eyes holding a glass of beer in both hands as if his life depended on it. He froze. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t have come to this. He brought the glass down with a thump. Its contents burst upwards, showering the table and dripping onto the floor. He staggered back into a kitchen chair and dropped his head into his hands.
I could go mad at any moment, he thought wretchedly.
***
Cardilini was dozing in the lounge room listening to one of Betty’s records when Paul came home. He stood in the doorway, hands on hips. A Haydn symphony swirled between them.
‘Dad, Dad.’ Paul’s voice was full of dread.
‘What? What’s happened?’ Cardilini sat up.
‘How much have you had?’
‘No, I spilt it. I couldn’t manage. Didn’t touch a drop.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I didn’t. I’m as sober as a judge.’
‘Well, you look awful. Did you eat?’
‘No, I forgot.’
‘The place smells like a bloody brewery.’
‘I spilt it. My hands were shaking. Might have missed a bit cleaning up.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Paul said and withdrew from the doorway.
‘Wait, son, I’ll do it, I’m feeling better now.’ Cardilini staggered before righting himself, but his son was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Friday, 26 November 1965
9 a.m.
The next morning, Rosie O’Connor left five case files on Cardilini’s desk concerning women whose bodies had been found but were unidentified and their deaths unsolved. The first case occurred in December 1961, the last in 1963. Three bodies, a year apart, were found within days of their deaths. In each, the woman’s genitals, inner thighs and breasts had been mutilated. The other two bodies were too badly decomposed to determine any specific wounds.
‘Jesus, Mary and all the saints,’ Cardilini whispered to himself. He rang Colin McBride at the Royal Perth Hospital mortuary.
‘I was wondering when I’d hear from you,’ McBride said.
‘How did you go?’
‘I found three.’
‘Did you note the dates?’ Cardilini pulled the files towards him. McBride said three dates – each one matched a file that Rosie had brought. ‘You have a good memory.’
‘Yeah, memory for faces. It’s tragic, Cardilini, tragic – all young women. Something else to check – both wrists and ankles were tied separately. I would say their wrists were tied wide apart and above their heads and their ankles tied wide so they couldn’t close their legs.’
‘Sitting or standing?’ Cardilini asked, assuming they would have been sitting like Melody Cooper.
‘Standing,’ McBride said.
‘I think you’re wrong,’ Cardilini said, flicking through the first file.
‘You can think what you like. They were tied standing. Then towards the end of their ordeal, after they had been cut, they received blows to the pubic area. Kicking, most likely.’
The phone went silent. Cardilini waited.
‘I’m talking cracked pelvis kicking,’ a hoarse McBride said. More silence. ‘I noted what looked like shoe or bootlace marks on all three victims. Now, forensics is not my job, I’m just the guy that signs them in and signs them out, but if it were my job, I’d call that a pattern.’
‘Could the women have been tied in a sitting position first while being cut?’ Cardilini persevered, feeling sweat breaking out on his forehead.
McBride paused for thought. ‘Yes, that’d explain the pattern of blood. Some blood dried on the backs of the thighs, possibly between the thigh and a chair.’
‘Was this the first time these women were cut or were there older scars?’
‘First time for each woman. It’s hard to believe, Cardilini. And it all might have been too much for my brain, so what I’m going to say now could be nonsense. But I’m fairly sure something like this happened during the war.’
Cardilini sighed. The war. Two simple words that released a hoard of ghosts. ‘Do you remember where?’
‘No. And I’m not going to think about it right now. I’m going to go back to my, I was going to say family, but that would sound nuts to you. I’m going to go back and talk to my charges. I need to retreat. I was dreading your call but I wish you’d made it earlier.’
‘Sorry, McBride, I had no idea.’
‘You must have had some idea or why would we be doing it? Anyway, don’t ring for a few days.’ With this, McBride hung up.
‘Jesus Christ and Holy Mother of God,’ Cardilini repeated. He went through the files again, went through the forensics’ report, noted the station and officers in charge, and the locations of where the bodies had been found. He picked up the phone.
‘Mrs Andreoli,’ came the reply.
‘It’s Cardilini. Could Rosie drop by a list of missing women from the last five years?’
‘No, she couldn’t.’
‘If I asked nicely?’
‘I don’t think I could bear that.’ There was a pause before Mrs Andreoli said, ‘I’ll tell her.’
‘Thank you.’ He hung up and made another call.
‘What?’ came the greeting.
‘Robinson, it’s Cardilini, I’m coming up.’
‘No, you’re bloody not.’
Cardilini gathered up the files and the notes. A minute later he was in Robinson’s office.
‘I don’t want you here, Cardilini. Can’t you ever obey an order?’
Cardilini splayed the files across Robinson’s desk. Robinson sighed and drew them towards him. ‘Is this the domestic you’re supposed to be working on?’ He looked through one file dismissively at first, then slowly with closer attention. ‘Jesus. What are you thinking?’
‘The same thing you’re thinking.’
‘Could be a coincidence.’
‘McBride identified three women with similar tie marks, similar cuts, similar body impacts. In the photos he found what he thinks are the marks of boots, indicati
ng they’d been kicked. And forensics identified trauma to the pubic area.’
‘McBride has no qualifications.’
‘That’s right, he gets to speculate, but he’s always proved spot on.’
‘We don’t know that. Anyway, we’re looking at a possible … Oh, no, not now. We can’t come up with this.’
‘What in hell are you talking about? We haven’t “come up" with anything: it’s there.’
‘Were any of these cases investigated by this office?’
‘No, the bodies were found in bushland. But the final decisions on the case must have ended up here.’
‘Who signed them off?’
Cardilini had an idea but he wasn’t about to dump on another officer. ‘I’ll check, but forensics and the coroner also missed the pattern.’
Robinson flicked at the files in irritation. ‘Still, I don’t know how this hasn’t surfaced before.’
‘I don’t know either. What are we going to do?’
‘Forensics will have to go through the files they have on each case. We’ll wait for them to do that.’
Cardilini slowly shook his head.
‘Okay, what do you suggest we do?’ Robinson asked.
‘Send the forensic files east, get someone outside of WA to have a look at them. Fresh eyes.’
‘We don’t do that,’ Robinson replied sharply.
‘McBride said, and he’s right, that the patterns are identical. Forensics here should have picked it up, and the coroner.’
‘They’re all in on it, are they? Don’t be daft. No. And how many bodies found hidden in the bush weren’t tied at the wrists or ankles – did you check that out? And we have two here where the cuts and scratches could have been made …’ Robinson read from the file, ‘… by “the dragging of the body".’
‘But does that rule out a pattern?’ Cardilini pushed.
Suddenly alert, Robinson asked, ‘Where’s Spencer?’
‘Not in yet.’
‘Has she seen this?’
‘No.’
Robinson relaxed. ‘Good. She’s going to Midland anyway.’
‘I want this case,’ Cardilini said, stabbing the files with his index finger. ‘And Spencer needs it. She’s smart; she sees things a male detective will never see. We’d be bloody idiots to lose her.’
‘It would need a whole squad and you aren’t a detective inspector.’
‘Make me one.’
The two men stared at each other. Robinson saw the determination on Cardilini’s face. ‘What about the deputy commissioner’s domestic?’
‘I’ll speak to him.’
‘No, you bloody won’t!’
‘This case, when it breaks, will give him all the publicity he wants,’ Cardilini said.
‘That’s for bloody sure.’ Robinson got up and started pacing. ‘Don’t tell Spencer anything until you get my say-so. And don’t even think it’s going to be your case. And something else: have a chat to Spry and Archer, we’ve got nothing on the Hardy murder. Other officers are asking questions. It can’t be that bloody hard.’
‘That’s Bishop’s job,’ Cardilini said.
‘Yeah, yeah, sure. They’ve got a woman in the cells but are struggling to put a case together. Just have a friendly chat with them, all right?’
Cardilini picked up the files on Robinson’s desk. ‘Did you note the case numbers?’
Robinson nodded. ‘No one else is to know about this. And I hope to God we’re wrong.’
Me too, thought Cardilini as he left.
***
Back in his office, Cardilini sat down and opened the first file. He scanned the notes made by the various detectives until he came across the stamp deeming the case ‘open but not currently operative’. He checked the other files and found the same stamp, each time dated and signed identically. He’d seen the signature before but couldn’t place it. He checked the number of the Albany branch, rang and asked for Detective Trainer, a true-blue fellow he remembered had been transferred there.
‘Trainer, hi, it’s Cardilini.’
‘Cardilini, bloody hell, I thought you were suspended.’
‘Yep, back at it now. I was wondering if you could help me.’
‘What is it?’
‘You were the investigating officer in 1962 when the body of a young woman was found in bushland …’
‘Yep, I remember.’
‘Who signed off on it?’
‘Um, I guess we handed it to … oh, it was Hardy.’
Cardilini stared at the signature on the file. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yep, I’m sure. I remember I got my posting and Hardy took over. How are you guys going with his murder? I heard you have a working girl under arrest.’
‘Yeah, Jennifer Clancy. You remember her?’
‘Is she the one Hardy belted?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Well, she got her own back.’
‘It would seem.’
‘So why the question about the ’62 case?’
‘You know, just giving it a rattle.’
‘Well, good luck. We never managed to identify her.’
Cardilini hung up and went back to the files. He wondered why he couldn’t remember the cases. Some investigations were more exhaustive than others, but none made any reference to previous cases, and when they ended up at East Perth, Hardy had signed off on each one. Every time, he had accepted the detectives’ findings and hadn’t bothered to dig any further. Was he just being slack? Or was it something worse?
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Friday, 26 November 1965
11.45 a.m.
Spencer walked into the office and sank despondently into her chair.
Cardilini was in two minds about mentioning what he’d passed on to Robinson. It could be a wild goose chase. No point, he said to himself. ‘So, where have you been?’ he asked her instead.
‘Taking my time.’
‘Fair enough. Okay, we need to get a prosecution.’
‘Or I go to Midland,’ Spencer said.
Cardilini stood and walked to the door. ‘Why don’t you check with Bishop about what’s come in. I’m going to talk to Spry and Archer.’
Spencer sighed and looked around the office. That morning, again without a word to Cardilini, she had followed Daniel Abraham. He’d driven to his offices in Fremantle as he had every other time she’d followed him. And that was it. She wanted to talk to Cardilini about it but already knew what he would say.
***
Spry and Archer were in the interview room. Spread in front of them were dozens of files.
‘What do you want, Cardilini?’ Spry asked.
‘I want to see what real detectives get to work on.’
‘I heard you won’t be prosecuting Jack the Ripper,’ Spry said and laughed.
‘That’s right. How’s it going?’
‘We have a suspect. Guess who?’
Cardilini wasn’t going to let on that he knew. ‘No idea but I’m guessing a woman stabbed him while he stood over her. Probably a working girl.’
‘A constable could have figured that out.’
‘You hadn’t last time I spoke to you. So what’ve you got?’
‘The police surgeon confirmed that a long-bladed knife was used. Hardy was stabbed from below. Massive blood loss. Reckons he would have been gone in minutes. And we have a shoe size.’ Spry arched his eyebrows.
‘Shoe size?’ Cardilini asked.
Spry pointed to two files. ‘These two working girls managed to finger enough clients to provide alibis which check out.’ He then pointed viciously at a third file. ‘But this one told us two different stories for the hours when Hardy died, neither of which check out. Recognise her?’
Cardilini walked to the desk and
looked at the photo. He recognised her all right. ‘Since when did Jennifer Clancy start carrying a knife?’ he asked.
‘Who knows.’
‘Have you found it?’
‘Nope, but there are navy divers in the river right now,’ Archer said. The Swan River, below the escarpment of Kings Park, was not easily accessed from where Hardy had been found.
‘How long is the blade?’
‘No shorter than nine inches.’
Cardilini shook his head. ‘I don’t think Clancy would walk all the way to the river with a nine-inch bloody knife.’
‘Yeah, we thought that too, but the activity keeps the brass happy.’
‘You searched her place?’
‘Yeah, first thing. Not an exact match for the type of shoe. But the size is right and she could have ditched the ones she was wearing – along with the knife.’
‘But you need something else.’
‘We do. Any ideas?’
Cardilini sat and pulled Jennifer Clancy’s file towards him. She used to work in a Roe Street brothel, but when they were closed down, she and a few others decided to stay in the area to look after their regulars. Some of the girls were hopeless junkies, often with abusive minders, but Clancy somehow managed to avoid the worst of it. She used a bit, but had no convictions for violence and no record of ever carrying a weapon.
‘How long have you had her in the cells?’ Cardilini asked.
‘We picked her up this morning.’
‘Why?’
‘As I said, she was pissing us around about who she was with.’
‘That’s not unusual. She’d lose her regulars if she fingered one.’
‘That’s her problem.’
‘Come on. You know she’ll be in a bad way before too long.’
‘That’s what we’re banking on,’ Archer said with a smirk. ‘Then she’ll tell us everything we need to know.’
Spry laughed. ‘Probably confess to killing Hardy just to get a hit.’
‘Yeah.’ Cardilini closed the file. ‘Did you pick up her kit?’
‘Yep, hypodermic and four hits, probably a week’s supply,’ Spry said.
‘Can I talk to her?’
‘No way. You’ve gone soft on her before. Not this time.’
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