The Final Cut

by Robert Jeffreys

  ‘They’ll love that. Maybe wait until the arrest is announced.’

  ‘The press conference is arranged for 5 p.m. today so they can get it in tomorrow’s papers,’ Spry said. ‘We’re all invited. Spencer will have her hand shaken again.’ Spry smiled at Spencer, who rolled her eyes in return.

  ‘Okay, I’ll leave you three to it,’ Cardilini said, checking his watch.

  ***

  ‘Is that it?’ Spencer asked Cardilini as she closed their office door. ‘The investigation is over and we leave Jennifer Clancy to her fate?’

  ‘What do you suggest we do?’

  ‘Was Robinson even alerted to the possibility of Louise Hardy being responsible?’

  ‘Go for it. You’re a detective. Go alert Robinson.’

  ‘I think I will.’ Spencer started for the door.

  ‘Good for you. But have you checked the last three cases where the wife was charged with “violence leading to death of spouse"?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Surely at university?’

  ‘It didn’t come up.’

  ‘Okay. Here’s what happened. Husband kills wife. Due to it being a crime of passion, husband gets reduced sentence and sympathy from court and jurors. Wife kills husband – probably in self-defence – but that crime of passion doesn’t gain support from jurors or judges. Why? Women aren’t subject to such passions, don’t you know that? If they were, surely they would have attacked their abusing husband the first time they were assaulted. And if, in previous beatings, the wife hasn’t shown that sort of passion, it would suggest that her attack this time was a premeditated crime. Wife gets twenty years.’

  Cardilini watched Spencer’s hand drop from the door handle.

  ‘You looked those cases up?’ she asked.

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘I still don’t feel good about Jennifer Clancy being charged,’ Spencer said.

  ‘Is there a possibility she actually might have done it?’ Cardilini said.

  ‘Yes, there’s a possibility.’

  ‘Well then maybe Robinson is right, it’s time for a jury to decide.’

  ‘I still don’t like it.’

  Cardilini looked at her squarely: the defiance, the integrity were clear to see. ‘Okay, Spencer, you have a friend in the prosecutor’s office, right?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ she said, defensively walking back to her desk.

  ‘In any case, you might want to make sure he becomes aware of our concerns.’

  ‘Tell him about Louise Hardy?’ Spencer asked in surprise.

  ‘No. About the blood, the stomach contents, the clothing, the lack of witnesses. The fact that Jennifer’s necklace was handed in anonymously and the distinct possibility that the murderer could have been holding onto it for this occasion.’

  ‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you? A policeman would never undermine his own case. It would be like betraying the whole force. Even you wouldn’t do that.’

  Cardilini shrugged and looked at his watch. ‘You’d better get ready for the press conference.’

  Spencer stood with her arms wide. ‘What do I have to do to get ready?’

  Cardilini looked back in surprise. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Would you say something like that to Spry or Archer?’

  ‘I doubt they’d care what they look like.’

  The phone rang. Cardilini made sure Spencer was out of earshot before he answered. ‘Hi, Flavour, any luck?’ He listened for several minutes, then reached for his notebook and wrote down two names, carefully checking the details each time. ‘Tell me about diplomatic immunity?’ he asked, then listened for a while longer. ‘Okay, thanks.’

  He had two suspects: a Swiss and German who were currently in Perth. The other two – the Swiss and Jewish passengers – had already flown east. The Swiss and the German matched the age and general description they’d received from Abraham’s employee. Below the names he scribbled notes explaining that the two identified had ‘diplomatic immunity’. He noted, immunity as a diplomat, according to international law agreed to by the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations 1961, included immunity from lawsuits and prosecution in the country they visit. He circled 1961 as the year the first of the bodies appeared and looked at his empty teapot. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Wednesday, 1 December 1965

  6.30 p.m.

  Melody ate her beef stew and green beans. She knew the two men she’d named Heckle and Jeckle hadn’t cooked it. She’d seen the car it arrived in. She thought she recognised the woman driving – someone who looked a little like a woman from Geraldton; a shadow, standing in a doorway or standing on a verandah, a woman who even the son and husband paid no heed to, a woman just to be ordered at from a distance: Mrs Kopecki.

  Melody had done a lot of thinking these past few days. She wished she’d never met Bruno or Mr Kopecki. Without Mr Kopecki’s influence and directions the chances were Con would have married her. She was nearly eighteen when Con married Helen, when he ‘had’ to marry Helen. If only she hadn’t gotten pregnant. Melody knew Helen did everything she could to get Con to make her pregnant so he would have to marry her … The slut. Con knew Melody had been saving herself for him. ‘If only’ was her nagging mantra.

  She sighed. She’d proved to everyone that she wasn’t a slut; she had never let Archie get past the inside of her top. When he’d had his hand on her breast she’d smiled to herself as she watched him cooking like a pot. Then she pretended to be disgusted and quickly pulled away saying, ‘That’s enough,’ just like her mum used to say when Melody wanted something. She now wondered why she’d behaved like that, and why she’d been so cold towards Archie when she knew he’d do anything for her. But she had told herself, ‘It’s my dream, I have to focus on my dream.’ And Con had been part of that dream. Until he married Helen.

  She wrote a note but addressed it to Con, which meant that when she retrieved it, later, after the performance, she’d have to destroy it. She’d destroy Theresa’s note too so no one would know she’d been there. This was her time to shine and she wasn’t going to share it with anyone.

  ***

  Around 10 p.m. that night, Archie Cooper stumbled out of the Norfolk. He wandered down the street, found his Holden, leant against the side and took a piss. Suddenly, three men were behind him. A cord was slipped around his neck and pulled tight. Archie gasped for breath but a cloth was pressed against his mouth. Clawing at the cord he fell unconscious, landing in his own piss. The boot of his car was opened and he was thrown inside. One of the men grabbed his car keys, while the other climbed into the car. The third man went to another car.

  No one had noticed or heard a thing.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Wednesday, 1 December 1965

  7 p.m.

  Cardilini stood back to avoid the smoke from the lamb chops cooking on the homemade backyard barbecue. He’d filled the forty-four-gallon drum, cut down the centre and resting in a steel cradle, with wood that had been stored since their last barbecue, some twelve months ago, just before Betty’s death.

  ‘Where did you put everything from the garage?’ Cardilini asked Paul.

  ‘Most of it was rubbish. Did you want any of it?’

  ‘The lawn mower.’

  ‘It’s in the garden shed.’

  The aroma from the chops fought with the smell of the rotting wild oats Paul had been watering. Cardilini thrust his tongs at the bedraggled plants. ‘No point watering those.’

  Paul looked down and then back up to the hot plate. ‘Hot plate’s a bit rusty.’

  Cardilini smiled and pushed at the sizzling chops.

  ‘You should let the flames die down a bit,’ Paul went on, ‘you always cook too hot.’

  ‘I’m hungry. You got the spuds on?’

 
; ‘Yep. Keep your shirt on.’ They turned their attention to the flames licking up the side of the drum. ‘I think the stuff you cut from the lemon tree is still a bit green.’

  ‘She’ll be right,’ Cardilini grunted. ‘When are we going to see this girlfriend of yours?’

  ‘It’s a bit cool at the moment.’ Paul dug his hands into his pockets. ‘I told her I was going to the police academy next month.’

  ‘Maybe her dad’s a crim?’ They both chuckled at this. ‘Me being a policeman was never a problem for your mum. I was in an army uniform when we met. I guess she figured anything was safer than the war.’

  ‘Do you hope I’ll be called up for service?’

  Cardilini looked at him in horror. ‘God, no. That’s crazy, how could you ever think that?’

  ‘For a while this year, I was thinking of enrolling. It was when you were drunk all the time.’

  Thank God you didn’t, Cardilini thought, keeping his eyes on his son. ‘Sorry.’

  Paul watched the barbecue, seemingly unaware of his father’s gaze. ‘You going to turn those?’

  Cardilini did as he was told. ‘Better check those spuds.’

  Paul wandered back to the house with a smile on his face.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Wednesday, 1 December 1965

  7.30 p.m.

  After regularly seeing the woman who delivered the meals, Melody was sure it was Mrs Kopecki, which meant Mr Kopecki would be close by. But she didn’t think he would be allowed to see her performance; he wasn’t like the men she had heard attended; they were rich, discerning. She liked that word. She’d told the other girls at Kalgoorlie that her clients were discerning. They hadn’t responded well. And they had names for her and her clients; names that hurt and confused her, though she didn’t show it. She saw her discerning clients – not Archie’s drunken morons but her clients – as an educated audience watching a classy performance. Just like any actress Melody wanted to impress and please. She often wished to see their faces so she could see the impact she was having. After the performance, she wanted to smile an appreciative, humble smile like she’d seen other actresses do. She just had to keep pleasing her audience, that was the way to success. Her mother had never been pleased with her, pushing her away even when Melody was trying to be just like her. Well, now she knew that she did please her clients and her mother would understand that she was perfect and worthy of adoration and love.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Thursday, 2 December 1965

  9 a.m.

  ‘I’m not going to another press conference just for being female,’ Spencer told Cardilini as they drove to North Bridge.

  ‘Sounds fair.’

  ‘And why didn’t you have to turn up?’

  ‘Too busy.’

  ‘Ha,’ Spencer said. ‘You contradicted the deputy commissioner.’

  ‘Corrected him.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right for you,’ Spencer said, ‘but some of us want to keep our jobs.’

  Cardilini turned to her. ‘Hey, I want to keep my job. See, I’m correcting you now.’ In fact, now, more than any other time, his job was vital to him.

  ‘I’m just cranky,’ Spencer said. ‘How does it feel, shoe on the other foot?’

  Cardilini was smiling as he pulled into a parking bay on the south side of William Street. The Blue Ribbon was twenty yards away, toward the city.

  ‘Do you know Nic, the manager?’ Spencer asked as they headed down the footpath.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Salt said that if he and I had gone in there it would have caused a stir back at the station.’

  ‘He’s right. But half the force still think I’m drinking, so me being here is business as usual.’

  ‘But why this place?’

  ‘Safety. I went here to get drunk knowing a copper would get me home rather than leave me in the gutter.’ He pushed at the front door. Inside, bare overhead lights gave the space a clinical starkness. Two barmen were rolling kegs to the front bar, which extended into the room in a U shape. Heavy window drapes were drawn aside from glass panels painted a mustard yellow. Weak light cast a dirty glow into the room.

  ‘Nic here?’ Cardilini called.

  ‘Cardilini? Yeah. I’ll get him,’ a tall barman in his thirties said.

  ‘That’s okay, we’ll go up.’

  ‘He won’t like that.’

  ‘Okay then, you can go ahead and tell him we’re on our way.’

  The barman looked at his colleague and then went to the rear of the bar. Cardilini then Spencer followed him up a narrow return staircase. The barman stepped out from a room towards the end of a corridor. ‘Nic can see you now.’

  Cardilini gave him a nod in passing and entered the room.

  A heavily tanned man with a hooked nose and dark eyes in a white shirt, tie, trouser braces and dark blue suit trousers held out his hand. ‘Cardilini, where have you been?’

  ‘Around. Nic, this is Detective Constable Spencer, my partner.’

  Nic took an exaggerated step back and a long leisurely look at Spencer, appraising her from top to toe. ‘I’m impressed, Detective Spencer.’ He held out his hand. When Spencer took it, he closed his other hand over it possessively, smiling boldly at her.

  ‘All right, Nic, she’s not here to buy anything.’ Cardilini sat and pushed a chair forward for Spencer. Spencer chose another chair.

  ‘I think a female detective is a wonderful idea,’ Nic said.

  ‘Do you now?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘I’m just a detective, not a female detective,’ Spencer said.

  ‘You may think that, you may even try to be that, but in everyone else’s mind you’re a woman first and foremost.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be like that,’ Spencer said.

  ‘Ah, but what shouldn’t be and what is …’ Nic said, shaking his left wrist loosely.

  ‘Bridget Law,’ Cardilini said, getting straight to the point.

  Nic leant back in his chair. He touched the fingertips of each hand, looking from Cardilini to Spencer and then back to Cardilini. ‘Why haven’t I seen you around?’

  ‘I’ve given up the drink.’

  Nic’s eyebrows rose sharply. ‘Really?’

  ‘Bridget Law,’ Cardilini repeated.

  Nic sat forward. ‘Hmm. Lovely fresh face. Gone back to Melbourne, I assume.’

  ‘No, turned up dead,’ Cardilini said flatly.

  Spencer placed a headshot of Bridget on the desk in front of Nic.

  His genial manner faded instantly and he looked back aggressively to Cardilini. ‘You didn’t need to do that, Cardilini, you could have been more respectful.’

  ‘Yes, I could have been. When you finished with her, what happened?’

  Nic’s mouth closed tight as he shook his head, then in an effort to relax he breathed in and looked at the photograph again. ‘You were much better drunk, Cardilini.’

  ‘I asked you what happened to her.’

  ‘She stayed around. She’d come in here.’

  ‘In here?’ Spencer asked with surprise.

  ‘Yes?’ Nic answered, questioning her response.

  ‘Did she associate with the police?’ Spencer asked. Nic looked to Cardilini. ‘You can tell me,’ Spencer added sharply.

  Nic smiled at her and then at Cardilini, but said nothing.

  ‘It’s highly likely that she did,’ Cardilini said and gestured for the photographs of the other two young women. Spencer pulled them from the envelope and placed them on the desk.

  Nic reluctantly drew them towards him. ‘Ah, yes, she called herself Karen.’ He pushed the first photograph back, took a look at the second one, then pushed it back too. ‘Never seen her, though.’

  ‘Tell us about Karen,’ Cardilini said.

  ‘She was from Perugia,
from memory. She didn’t want me to know her family name. She’d upset her father and they’d disowned her. Ended up here making a living.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘Worked as an escort. She had this thing where she would dress up like Claudia Cardinale. You know, the actress. She was very good at it.’

  ‘And Bridget would dress like Susannah York?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘Yep.’ Nic nodded from one to the other.

  ‘They were prostitutes?’ Spencer asked.

  Nic feigned offence. ‘You couldn’t really say that. They received gifts. They were well looked after. But they were exclusive in that they had boyfriends. Like any other woman.’

  Spencer wasn’t pleased with the answer. ‘Police boyfriends?’

  ‘I don’t think a policeman’s salary could extend that far. What do you think, Cardilini?’

  ‘Whatever you think, Nic.’

  ‘Very accommodating, isn’t he?’ Nic said, looking at Spencer.

  ‘Karen turned up dead, too,’ Cardilini said.

  Nic frowned and his aggressive look returned. He tried to appear casual when he asked what had happened.

  ‘Murdered and dumped,’ Cardilini replied.

  ‘One of their boyfriends, no doubt,’ Spencer added.

  ‘No doubt? There’s a confident policewoman. When?’

  ‘Bridget in December 1963, and Karen in December 1962,’ Cardilini said.

  ‘I think I would have heard about it; it mustn’t have been a very thorough investigation.’

  ‘You weren’t contacted?’ Cardilini asked.

  Nic shook his head slowly. ‘Why the attention now?’ But neither detective responded.

  ‘Was Karen a girlfriend of yours, too?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘No,’ he said and gave a short laugh. ‘She’d already had enough of Italian men when she met me.’ He looked at Cardilini. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘We think it might have been the same person who killed them both. Who was around in December ’61, ’62, ’63 and ’64, someone with an unusual appetite?’