‘The shot was made from down here somewhere?’ Salt asked amazed.
‘Go to the top of the class. Now impress me,’ Cardilini said. Salt began to move around the area.
‘There are a lot of foot marks around this tree.’
‘Beside yours and mine?’ Cardilini asked.
‘Yes. And no one walks on the lawn.’
‘Passable.’
‘This tree could fit the angle of a bullet’s flight,’ Salt proposed, ‘But that would also be possible if the bullet came from across the river.’ They turned in that direction. From the top of the embankment they could see across the limestone wall to the river 200 yards away and beyond the river to low scrubland and open pasture. Cardilini dismissed the notion and turned his demanding gaze on Salt.
‘Are we looking for signs of the shot being fired from here?’ Salt asked.
‘Clever boy. Yes.’
Salt began examining the tree.
Cardilini suggested, ‘High possibility it was a .303 bullet that did the damage.’ Then asked, ‘Ever fire a .303 rifle, Salt?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Trust me then. The rebound pounds the stock of the rifle into your shoulder.’
‘Yes, sir, I’ve heard that.’
‘Right, it jumps back sharply. Now look at the branch.’
Salt stared closely at a branch chest high.
‘Okay. Now look at me,’ Cardilini said, ‘We don’t want to draw attention to that branch but a casual glance will show you where the bark’s bruised and slightly lifted. It tells me someone used that branch to anchor the shaft of the rifle. And there are two more curious marks on branches further up. And on the trunk, someone’s foot slipped when trying to climb the tree. You see these?’
‘Now I do.’
‘Okay. Commit this to memory and when you get a chance write it up in your notebook and draw pictures. I’ve got a feeling the photo boys are going to find themselves too busy to come out here. Did you get a good sketch of what was immediately over the wall?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s good. How would you like some night-time investigation?’
‘Um.’
‘Good. Now can you remember what you’ve seen here?’ Cardilini asked, gesturing to the tree.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Let’s get out of this heat. I know where we can get a good counter lunch.’
‘Yes, sir. Are we returning to the school?’ Salt asked, but Cardilini was already walking away.
Eight
Day 2
A pub
2.00 p.m. Monday, 26th October 1965
Cardilini finished his steak and eggs with chips on the side and was halfway through his second pint while Salt was still drinking his first glass of lemon squash.
‘Do you go drinking with your colleagues, Salt?’ Cardilini asked.
‘Beer during the day makes me sleepy,’ Salt replied.
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What do they talk about?’
‘The crimes and the characters, mainly. Or sport. Or girls,’ Salt replied.
Cardilini nodded. ‘So why did you join?’ he asked.
‘Just the usual,’ Salt replied.
‘What’s that?’
‘Justice,’ Salt said shifting in his seat.
‘That’s the usual?’ Cardilini asked before finishing his beer.
‘Yes.’
‘Sir,’ Cardilini said.
‘Sir.’
‘Anything else happen while I was having a chat with my superior?’ Cardilini tried to make the question sound casual.
‘No, sir.’
‘Okay. Tell me about it.’
‘Nothing happened,’ Salt said earnestly.
‘Who were those people talking to you?’ Cardilini asked impatiently.
‘A teacher and a student.’
‘Names?’ Cardilini asked.
‘The student was Carmody, in the sixth form and intent on defending the school’s reputation.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That the shooting was an accident.’
‘That’s odd, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’ Salt was at a loss.
‘Why would he come up and say that?’
‘Being helpful?’
‘Is that what it seemed?’
After some consideration, Salt replied, ‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘Almost threatening,’ Salt reluctantly revealed.
‘Really. And you call that nothing?’ Cardilini asked.
‘I didn’t think of it like that.’
‘Like a policeman? You’re at the scene of a crime, the first thing a criminal wants to know is, what do you know? They can’t help themselves, particularly the stupid ones.’
‘Carmody’s not stupid.’
‘How would you know that? He could be as thick as two short planks,’ Cardilini persisted.
‘The teacher said Carmody should have been head boy.’
‘What happened?’
‘I didn’t get a chance to ask.’
‘What was the teacher’s name?’
‘I didn’t get a chance to ask.’
‘Who are you, Mary Poppins? You’re a copper, you make chances. No one leaves until you’ve got what you need,’ Cardilini growled.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes, sir. What about those scrawny ones?’
‘They were probably fourth form boys. Carmody told them to move on.’
‘Maybe that’s what you should have done.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I might have a chat with Carmody. Here’s a bit of police work for you, get me the name of the teacher.’
‘How?’
Cardilini stood from the table and walked from the pub. Salt sighed and, leaving his drink unfinished on the table, followed Cardilini.
Nine
Day 2
East Perth Police Department
4.15 p.m. Monday, 26th October 1965
Cardilini sat slumped at his desk staring gloomily at his watch. Too early even for him to go for another drink. He pulled out a street directory.
He noticed a car could coast down the hill outside St Nicholas and park near the river. The houses were at least 100 yards from the marshy foreshore. It would be easy for a car to park down there, then for someone to walk to the wall, climb over it and crawl up the embankment. There, they could make the shot and retreat the same way. No one would be the wiser. Cardilini headed for the basement.
The stairs to the basement were cast concrete. In an attempt to soften the gloom, corded carpet pinned by steel rods travelled the length of the stairs but not their full width. Dust gathered on the raw concrete edges. In the basement the temperature dropped ten degrees. Every five yards caged lighting clung like limpets to the concrete ceiling. Here the corridor was completely covered in the official green linoleum as on the building’s first floor. Timber doors lined the corridor, each embossed with gold lettering signifying the contents they concealed. Cardilini knew, despite the lettering, most rooms were given over to the masses of paperwork policing produced.
Halfway down the corridor he slouched against the doorframe of an office and tapped on the open door embossed ARMOURY. At the desk, ramrod straight, sat Senior Sergeant Acorn. Acorn reminded Cardilini more of a cuckoo clock than a copper. The Senior Sergeant was as fastidious as his moustache, which was always trimmed, as was his hair. Even his features, neat and understated, had a sheen and primness that also suggested daily trimming. Acorn raised his head in response to the tap. When he saw Cardilini he returned to his file without speaking.
‘Thought I’d drop by and say hi,’ Cardilini said.
‘You said it. Goodbye,’ Acorn replied without looking up.
‘I wonder if you could help me out.’
‘Out of where?’ Acorn raised his head with a superior smirk.
‘I’m chasing some information, if you’ve got a moment?’
‘Is it work related?’ Acorn lowered his head to the file in front of him.
‘Yes, sir,’ Cardilini said briskly.
‘What’s the case?’ Acorn asked drawing his open diary towards him. He poised his pen above a line. ‘Well?’
Cardilini smiled and sat in front of Acorn’s desk. Acorn had a weakness and Cardilini knew it: a vanity about his meticulous record keeping.
‘Just general information.’
‘A case name or I will have to ask you to leave the office,’ Acorn insisted.
‘Hey, Acorn, it’s me.’
‘Yes. I know it’s you, Cardilini. I seem to remember giving you confidential information once and ending up carpeted by the super.’
‘Yes. He shouldn’t have done that,’ Cardilini said sagely.
‘Yes, well, I don’t remember you speaking up at the time.’
‘It’s something I regret,’ Cardilini said with a fair approximation of a hangdog expression.
‘What’s the case?’
‘St Nicholas College. A shooting accident.’
‘A shooting? That I haven’t heard about? I don’t think so,’ Acorn closed his file.
‘The super dealt with it himself. The case is still a bit hush-hush,’ Cardilini said with a wink.
Acorn shook his head in annoyance and made an entry in his diary. ‘I can’t help you if I don’t have details of the case.’
‘I’m currently writing the report. I just need some advice regarding the firearm in question.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘The schools that go in for cadet training, do they hold .303 rifles?’ Cardilini asked.
‘That’s not a firearm question.’
‘A bit of leeway, please, Acorn.’
‘It’s Senior Sergeant.’
‘Implied,’ Cardilini assured.
‘Army, Navy or Air Force Cadets?’
‘I don’t know. Any. All.’
‘Typical Cardilini,’ Acorn tutted, ‘Yes, they’d have .303 rifles. Schools with a cadet program are required to have an armoury and secure all firearms.’
‘Would St Nicholas College?’
‘Yes. They would and do. The code of every rifle they have is recorded and stored.’
‘Where?’
‘Here. Where do you think?’
‘Are they .303s, ex-service rifles?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Could you tell me how many rifles they hold?’
‘Could I, or, will I?’
‘Will you?’
‘This is a legitimate enquiry? Right, Cardilini?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘And if I rang Bishop?’ Acorn reached for the phone.
‘Sure. Sure.’
‘I shouldn’t trust you, Cardilini,’ Acorn said withdrawing his hand.
‘No, this is one hundred per cent. Do you think I would risk doing that to you again?’ Cardilini asked earnestly.
Acorn paused for a moment before he picked up his phone and dialled. ‘Mrs Allenby, would you bring me the list of firearms and munitions held at St Nicholas College? Thank you.’ Acorn hung up and indicated for Cardilini to note the time.
Cardilini did and smiled back encouragingly. Acorn maintained an expectant expression as he stared at Cardilini for the two minutes it took for Mrs Allenby to drop the file on his desk.
‘Two minutes,’ Acorn said pleased.
‘Very impressive,’ Cardilini replied and hoped his facial expression was saying the same.
‘Forty-two,’ Acorn read from the file.
‘Can I borrow a bit of paper?’ Cardilini asked as he patted his pockets for a pen.
Acorn shook his head in disgust and placed a clean sheet of paper and a pen on his desk. Cardilini scribbled as Acorn dictated, ‘Forty-two Lee Enfield 4 Mk 1, two Owen Machine Guns. No live rounds.’
‘That can’t be right,’ Cardilini blurted.
‘What, can’t be right?’ Acorn scrutinised the file.
‘No live rounds,’ Cardilini replied.
‘That’s what the record says. And the record is correct. It’s signed off by the Officer in Charge, C A P T A C Edmund.’
‘Edmund?’
‘Yes. I’ve actually spoken to him. Very military chap. Very thorough.’
‘Where do they get the live rounds from?’ Cardilini asked while writing.
‘The live rounds are only issued at the rifle range,’ Acorn answered.
‘So a student could steal a live round from the rifle range if he wanted to?’
‘Highly doubtful. These are army cadets, Cardilini, not the usual riffraff you’re used to dealing with,’ Acorn said, closing the file firmly to emphasise the point.
‘What’s the C A P T A C, stand for?’
‘Captain. That’s his rank as Instructor of Cadets. It’s not a real service rank.’
‘In the Cooke case you matched markings on bullets for a number of rifles, right?’ Cardilini asked.
‘Yes, 60,000 .22 calibre rifles. It wasn’t me personally,’ Acorn replied.
‘No. Okay.’
‘Do you have a bullet?’ Acorn asked.
‘Not quite.’
‘Why aren’t I surprised? Anything else?’
‘Could I take that list?’
‘No!’ Acorn drew the file to himself protectively.
‘Can I get a copy?’
‘You have a sheet of paper and a pen. Copy it now.’
‘Could you get Mrs Allenby?’
‘No.’
‘Are the numbers sequential?’
‘No.’
Cardilini sighed and leant on Acorn’s desk to copy the numbers. When he finally finished he grunted, ‘Thank you,’ and started to walk away until Acorn called for his pen. Cardilini reluctantly placed it back on Acorn’s desk and left.
Ten
Day 2
East Perth Police Department
5.00 p.m. Monday, 26th October 1965
‘The super wants to see you,’ Bishop yelled as Cardilini passed his office.
‘Why?’
‘Go and ask him. Now.’
Cardilini turned and headed back to the stairs. The ‘brass’ were on the third level. The third level, to distinguish it from the lower levels, had red linoleum streaked with white. Suggesting royal blood was one theory, but Cardilini subscribed to another: the red linoleum was due to the amount of backstabbing that went on.
Cardilini had joined the police force a few years after Superintendent Robinson and they’d been good friends as constables together in a small country town. He knocked on Robinson’s door, and entered.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Robinson demanded.
‘Taking a dump.’
‘Bloody long dump.’ Cardilini sat. ‘Did you know Dr Braun called today?’
‘Yep?’
‘A murder? How the hell did it turn into a murder? There was shooting across the river. A stray bullet. What’s the matter with you?’
Cardilini asked, ‘What if the rifle was fired from the grounds? Maybe a 180-yard shot. A marksman,’ Cardilini said.
‘A marksman! That’s all we need. You got any proof of this? It’s over, Cardilini. I’ve just had my balls kicked for five minutes by the deputy commissioner. It was a shooting accident, for Christ’s sake.’
‘I might be a lazy bastard, but I’m not stupid, Robinson.’
‘Did Salt see it like that?’ Robinson asked pointedly.<
br />
Cardilini paused, perplexed. ‘No,’ he replied.
Robinson stood and strode to the door. Halfway across the room, he stopped, turned and said, ‘Sit on your fat arse, Cardilini. That’s what you’re good at.’ He walked out.
Cardilini was left staring out the window with a new furrow in his brow.
Eventually Robinson returned and sat comfortably before flicking Salt’s notebook towards Cardilini.
‘Have a look at these,’ he said.
The notes were precise and objective with no assumptions and no conclusions, just facts: date, times, places, names and diagrams. Just like they taught at the academy.
‘He’s good. Isn’t he?’ Robinson asked after a few minutes. Cardilini stopped his study of the notebook and gently placed it on Robinson’s desk and sat back.
‘Well?’ Robinson encouraged.
‘Is he your man?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘He’s written his notes to suit your story of a stray shot from across the river.’
‘My story? Careful, Cardilini. The deputy commissioner and I investigated and drew that conclusion. Well, where are your notes?’
‘Yeah, my notes … um …’ Cardilini cast his eye about as if looking for them.
‘Yeah. I forgot what a great detective you are,’ Robinson said sharply.
‘What about the angle of trajectory of the bullet?’ Cardilini asked.
‘We thought of that and decided it was impossible to determine,’ Robinson replied.
‘Oh. Right. I see.’
‘What do you see, Cardilini?’
‘I see there was never going to be an investigation. So you got the lazy, fat copper to sign the report.’
‘Have you got hard evidence?’ Robinson insisted.
Cardilini shifted in his chair. All he had was what McBride at the morgue had told him, that it was a shot from around 200 yards with a .303 calibre rifle. But McBride wasn’t a forensic expert.
‘There was bruising on a tree …’ Cardilini started.
‘I read it. A schoolyard full of boys. Half of them would’ve climbed that tree.’
‘It’s out of bounds,’ Cardilini said.
‘Oh, well. There you go. Rock solid evidence.’
Cardilini sat staring at Robinson, ‘So what do you expect me to do now?’
Man at the Window Page 4
