‘Look, we didn’t push it at the time – what they said really wasn’t making sense.’
‘What were they saying?’ Spencer asked, notebook at the ready.
‘The drying pattern of the blood is one thing, but the blood on the ground didn’t match the blood on Hardy’s trousers.’
‘How can that be?’ Cardilini asked.
The four detectives sat looking at each other.
‘It didn’t make any sense,’ Archer said. ‘That’s why we didn’t bother with it. Just the boffins making something up to look important.’
‘Give them another call, Spry,’ Cardilini said. ‘Let them have their say and don’t try to dissuade them.’
‘Okay,’ Spry said. They all watched him dial. ‘Hi, it’s Spry. Who’s on the Hardy forensics? Can you put him on?’
Cardilini mouthed, ‘Who is it?’
‘Middleton,’ Spry whispered back, covering the mouthpiece. ‘Hi, Middleton, can you go through the whole blood thing again … Yeah, well I might have been a bit hasty … All right. All right … Sorry. Now can you explain that again, bit by bit?’ Spry listened and made notes. Archer rose from his seat and looked over Spry’s shoulder, then sat shaking his head. ‘Go again, slowly?’ Spry said and checked what he had written. He then replaced the receiver and looked from face to face.
‘Well?’ Cardilini and Spencer asked at precisely the same time.
‘I don’t know what to make of it.’
‘For God’s sake, just spit it out,’ Cardilini cried.
‘Given the time it must have lain there, Middleton doesn’t think the blood on the ground could have been Hardy’s,’ Spry said.
‘So it’s someone else’s?’ Spencer asked, incredulous.
‘The killer’s?’ Archer asked. ‘That doesn’t make sense, there was too much blood, they’d be lying there, too …’
‘So where’s Hardy’s blood?’ Cardilini asked. ‘That’s what he died of, isn’t it? Blood loss?’
‘Forensics might have got it wrong,’ Archer said.
Cardilini stood. This was getting ridiculous. He grabbed the phone and called them again. ‘Middleton, it’s Cardilini. Yeah, yeah. Can you get someone else to look at the blood? Robinson asked me to, right? So get someone else to look at it and confirm if it’s Hardy’s or not.’ Middleton’s voice could be heard through the receiver, but Cardilini talked over it. ‘No. Actually, you should have done that already. Consider it urgent. Check with Robinson if you like, ring back here.’
‘He won’t like that,’ Spry said, shaking his head soberly but smiling at the same time.
‘What about Jennifer Clancy?’ Archer asked.
‘It’d make more sense if Hardy had been killed somewhere else and then taken to the park to make it look like it was a working girl getting her own back,’ Cardilini said. ‘Keep Clancy under surveillance – she could still be part of it.’
‘But you said she couldn’t be,’ Spencer said.
‘By herself, no, but if he was killed somewhere else, it would have taken more than one person to move him,’ Cardilini said.
‘Hang on, hang on,’ Archer interrupted, ‘this is a whole other story, and nothing … nothing came up anywhere: no drag marks, no car marks, nothing. Plus, it would take two men to carry Hardy. You want us to consider the idea that the body was put there and someone else’s throat was cut to supply the blood? Come on, Cardilini, we’re trying to close this case, not go off on a wild goose chase.’
‘Yeah, so where the hell did the other blood come from?’ Spry asked.
‘Have any other bodies turned up?’ Cardilini asked. ‘Anywhere?’ When no one answered he shot out directions like machine-gun fire. ‘Spencer, get onto McBride at the mortuary, check the date and time of every arrival and if anyone had bled out. Go to the office; we’ll leave this phone free. Archer, you and I will hit the records again. Spry, you take the call from Middleton.’ Spry and Archer looked at each other, none too happy, thinking this could take all day. Spencer walked off smiling.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 30 December 1965
3 p.m.
All day, Cardilini and Archer extended their search through Hardy’s cases to include all his convictions. It was exacting, painstaking work. They were also on the lookout for any offenders who had been recently released. Only two new names came up from their hours of reading. When they reconvened at Spry’s desk that afternoon, Spry and Spencer were sitting with puzzled looks on their faces.
‘What is it?’ Archer said.
‘It’s not Hardy’s blood,’ Spry said, his eyes flicking to Spencer for reassurance.
‘We knew that already,’ Archer said.
‘No, he means it’s not … human blood,’ Spencer said, spelling it out.
Archer was dumbfounded. ‘How the hell can they tell that?’
Cardilini started going through papers on the desk. ‘Is this on the record?’
‘Yep,’ Spry replied, stopping Cardilini from rummaging further. ‘They are typing it up now. Robinson wants a copy.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Archer.
Cardilini sat down heavily next to him. ‘So, it’s animal blood?’
‘Guess it has to be,’ Spry answered.
‘What sort of animal?’ Archer asked. ‘Not that it matters, I suppose.’
‘Spencer asked them the same question but they couldn’t say,’ Spry said. ‘But they did think it could have been at least seven pints.’
‘How many pints are in a human?’
‘Fourteen to fifteen,’ Spry said.
‘Did they test the entire blood spread?’ Cardilini asked, but Spencer shook her head. ‘This is getting crazy.’ He sat forward and started afresh. ‘So, we’ll take every bit of evidence and place it in the most likely scenario. No hypotheticals.’
The detectives arranged the files and notes in front of them. Spencer wanted to start with Hardy’s stomach contents. Spry asked where Hardy had eaten. Cardilini said they’d checked and he hadn’t eaten anywhere in town. Archer suggested, seeing it was a Sunday roast, he’d likely eaten before leaving for the city. Spry pointed out that Louise said he hadn’t come home for dinner and Archer said that if he’d had roast a dinner at a friend’s house surely that person would have come forward.
‘Unless they were responsible for his death,’ Spencer said quietly, taking notes.
Spry almost laughed. ‘Bloody unlikely that any convicted crims or working girls would be cooking Hardy a Sunday roast.’
‘So we don’t know where he ate,’ Cardilini said. ‘We need to start another line of inquiry.’
‘What about his clothing?’ Spencer asked. ‘We know he wasn’t dressed for going out.’
‘Okay. Where does it put him? You tell us, Spry,’ Cardilini instructed.
Spry looked hard at Cardilini, then turned to his notes. He read them several times but seemed reluctant to speak. Archer eventually spoke for him. ‘At home. Hardy is, or was, a smart dresser, you know that. We looked into his clothes first thing. Figured he left home drunk, too drunk to bother about changing. So he ate dinner, got a snoot full, had an argument, tore out of the house and drove to the city. But Louise said he didn’t have dinner at home. That’s what stumps it.’
‘Or,’ Spencer said slowly, ‘he ate dinner at home, got a snoot full, argued and belted Louise …’
Cardilini, Spry and Archer ignored this. Cardilini wanted to know where the kids were. Spry checked his notes and confirmed they were at home.
The silence was broken by Spencer. ‘Cardilini, remember my friend Jenny? When her husband was belting her, she said the kids knew to go next door, to the neighbour’s house.’
Spry stared menacingly at Spencer. ‘I don’t like where this is going.’
‘Did you speak to the neighbours?’ Cardilini asked.
>
‘Yeah, Faber,’ said Spry. ‘Did you?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Cardilini replied, then opened his eyes wide. ‘Faber?’
‘Who’s Faber?’ Spencer asked.
‘The Wembley copper who was at Louise Hardy’s when we went round,’ Cardilini said.
‘Faber is a neighbour?’ Spencer blurted.
‘Seems so. Did he back up Louise’s story about Hardy not going home on Sunday night?’ Cardilini asked Spry.
‘I didn’t ask him,’ Spry said. He turned to Archer. ‘Did you ask him? Or his wife?’
‘No. Why would I? Hardy was found dead in the park, where he was killed.’
‘Except now we find he wasn’t killed in the park,’ Spencer said.
‘We haven’t confirmed that,’ Archer shot back heatedly.
The detectives sat in silence. Finally, Spry asked what Cardilini thought. Cardilini looked from Spry to Archer and suggested they sort out Jennifer Clancy’s story before going any further. They should hit her with the prospect Hardy wasn’t killed in the park.
‘But the evidence trail must involve Louise,’ Spencer said. Spry and Archer gave her death stares. ‘Okay, okay. Spry and I go see Jennifer,’ she conceded.
‘Speak again to her alibis,’ Cardilini said. ‘Nothing pre-conceived this time. Do you understand me, Spry?’ Spry nodded. ‘Archer and I have two cases to follow up on.’
Spencer looked at Cardilini, then followed Spry out.
When they’d left, Archer asked, ‘Cardilini, is there anything concrete to suggest Hardy was beating Louise?’
Cardilini looked at Archer non-committally. ‘Would Faber have known about it?’
‘If Faber knew, he would have done something.’
‘I’m not so sure. And do you ever really know about that stuff? It would probably take Louise running to your house battered before you’d be convinced.’
‘Say she or the kids did run to Faber’s house, what would be your instinctive reaction?’
‘You’d protect her. Jesus, you think Faber might be involved?’
‘No, I don’t. He might give Hardy a belting but … the kids … he’d never kill Hardy over Louise getting a slap. What’s Spencer got against Louise, anyway? Doesn’t she understand that Louise is as good as one of us?’
‘She thought Louise’s make-up was covering up some bruises. Didn’t you notice that?’
Archer flipped his notebook closed. ‘Yep. I suppose I did.’ He stood defiantly. ‘But I tell you what, if you want to pin this on Louise Hardy I won’t be helping you.’ He pointed to the door. ‘You’ll have to get your little mate to do that.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Tuesday, 30 November 1965
4 p.m.
Back in Spencer and Cardilini’s office, the phone rang.
Cardilini picked it up. ‘Hello?’ he answered, his eyes immediately widening. ‘Archie? Where are you?’ He nodded to Spencer and to her notebook, but spoke little after that, other than asking Archie to repeat points or for further explanation.
‘Well?’ Spencer asked when he hung up.
‘Okay, okay. So they were planning to escape Perth and drive east, camping along the way. They’d left the house in Mount Lawley they’d been taken to and Duke Street.’
‘Whereabouts in Mount Lawley?’
‘He wouldn’t say. They’d arranged to meet in a park in East Fremantle. Archie had packed the car and gone to get provisions. While he was doing that, Melody caught a taxi to Duke Street to pick up her clothes and cosmetics – and a perfume that she’d left behind.’
‘L’Interdit.’
Cardilini nodded. ‘Anyway, she never came back. Archie figured she was unsure about what she wanted to do and so he decided to give her some time. But he returned to the park every day.’
‘What was the date she didn’t return from Duke Street?’
‘The 22nd.’
‘We were there on the afternoon of …’ Spencer checked her notes, ‘… the 23rd, and the perfume was still there.’ She looked at Cardilini for an answer. ‘What does he think happened?’
‘He thinks she might have got sick of being cut by him. He was sounding tearful, reckons it’s all his fault.’
‘Bastard.’
‘He said she had plenty of offers to dump him, and he figures she’s taken one of them up.’
‘Did he say anything about the people who put them in accommodation?’
‘No, he wouldn’t say who they were, but he did think they might be involved and she’d probably jump at the opportunity of them running her after his last effort.’ Spencer had finished her notes and had a puzzled expression on her face. ‘What?’ Cardilini asked.
‘For all of Archie’s … idiocy … Melody did appear to have real affection for him.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘I just don’t think she’d leave him cold.’
Cardilini pondered this for a moment. ‘Maybe he knows her best.’ He checked his watch.
‘Maybe.’ But she wasn’t convinced. She wanted to know why he had waited so long before contacting the police. Just being scared wasn’t enough. Cardilini had his doubts too and so hadn’t mentioned Kopecki while he was on the phone. They both suspected Archie could be lying, wanting to find out what they knew. Spencer put her notebook aside. ‘You don’t think Melody is in danger, do you?’
‘I don’t know. Probably not while she can attract an audience.’ He again checked the time.
Spencer thought she was losing his attention. ‘You with me on this?’
‘Yes, yes.’ He looked away before asking, ‘Do you want to come to Kings Park? Ryan got in touch. If we’re looking out over the city in front of the war memorial at 5 p.m. someone might come and have a chat with us.’ He smiled. ‘An ex-employee of Abraham’s Shipping.’ Spencer didn’t immediately jump at the invitation. ‘What? You have other plans?’
‘I suppose I owe you an apology,’ she said. ‘Doubting you were doing anything about Sally’s husband.’
Cardilini shook his head. ‘Spencer, it’s fine. You’ve got good instincts. I’m still a bit all over the place.’
‘I’m glad you said it. I’ve been thinking the same thing myself.’
CHAPTER SIXTY
Tuesday, 30 November 1965
4.30 p.m.
Cardilini and Spencer stood a few hundred yards above the Swan River in Kings Park. Stretched out before them was a panorama of the city, the Perth waters, the Melville waters, the Swan River and the eastern suburbs to the Darling Range. The low western sun had begun to cast Kings Park’s shadow over the view, but on the distant escarpment of the Darling Range, the sun’s rays still smudged the forests with a misty gold-green hue. Traffic on the Narrows Bridge from the city had dropped to a trickle. Few boats were out on the waters that had been raked by a stiff south-western breeze, the ‘Freo Doctor’, since midday, but the progress of two ferries crossing the Perth waters caught their attention.
As Cardilini took in the scene in front of them, Melody’s disappearance continued to niggle at him. Was she safe? Daniel Abraham was no innocent. And not just as a wife beater. There was something sinister about him. Both Melody and Sally were at the mercy of others, but which one was in the most danger?
‘Look, Cardilini.’ Spencer pointed. The ferry coming from the Murray Street jetty appeared to be on a collision course with the one coming from Mends Street in South Perth. They watched in anticipation but their attention was rudely broken by a chainsaw tearing at the air behind them. Turning, they noticed half a dozen men standing around a giant gum tree. Cardilini knew the tree well. He, Betty and Paul had often picnicked in the shade of its canopy in summer. One of the workmen sat, back to the trunk, astride a lower branch perhaps twelve feet from the ground.
‘That’s a big one,’ Spencer said.
; ‘A real beauty,’ Cardilini agreed.
The workman’s chainsaw roared again and bit at the branch. He then swung the chainsaw over to the other side, making a shallower cut on the top of the branch, before going back to the side again. Within moments he leant backwards on the trunk and the branch dropped as a single piece. The ground trembled, branches cracked, foliage bounced. Then all was still.
‘What are they doing?’ Spencer asked.
‘Just giving it a bit of a prune, I think,’ Cardilini said.
‘Shame,’ Spencer replied.
‘Might have been at risk of falling branches,’ Cardilini said. He turned to the war memorial where several family groups sat on the lawns. There was no one else in sight. He looked back to the river; the ferries hadn’t collided and now each nuzzled their respective docks to the north and south of the river.
The chainsaw roared again. The workman straddled another branch about ninety degrees from the first and followed the same routine. With a thump and cracking, another enormous branch fell and lay still on the lawn.
‘Wow, another one,’ Spencer said. Cardilini nodded. The workman didn’t climb down to the ground but leant back against the ropes that held him. He faced the trunk of the tree. The bark was shades of grey through to white and looked like satin in the afternoon light. The circumference of the trunk would have been around three and a half yards. The workman swung his roaring chainsaw against the bark, spraying wood and juices from the wound.
Cardilini stared.
The workman began attacking the other side of the trunk and then – in an instant, it seemed – he was back burying the tearing saw into the first side. He repeated the pattern on the opposite side before swinging to the front of the trunk. He performed a cut there then went to work on the back, clinically, deftly. Then, when the blur of activity paused, he leant back to the stub of the branch he worked from. Cardilini saw every leaf shimmer simultaneously, touched delicately by the late sun: a dance of desperation. The giant gum began to tilt. Cardilini’s breathing stopped as seventy years of proud growth thundered in shards of light and sound down onto the lawn.
The Final Cut Page 23
