When the front door slammed, Cardilini bellowed, ‘Good riddance.’
Day 5
Kilkenny Road
2.00 a.m. Thursday, 29th October 1965
A marked police car pulled up outside the front of Cardilini’s house. Light was in every window and spilled through the open front door. Two constables climbed from the car and stood conferring before walking up the driveway. They called out at the front door several times without response. One constable left the porch to walk around the side of the house while the other entered. They both arrived at the backyard at the same time.
There Cardilini, still in his work clothes, mumbling and cursing to himself, was turning the earth with a spade in what might’ve once been garden beds. Covered in dirt and sweat, he wiped his eyes with his forearm and plunged the spade into the dirt, pushing the spade deep before turning the sod and moving to the next spot.
‘Detective Sergeant Cardilini. Sir. Detective Cardilini.’
Cardilini looked up. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Sir. You must stop. Complaints have been made.’
‘Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em.’
‘Please, sir. Please. Detective Sergeant Cardilini.’
‘Who the fuck are you? I don’t know you.’
‘We’re from East Perth. Can we go inside?’
‘No, you can fuck off.’
‘Would you come with us, please, sir?’
‘No. I left off doing this for twelve months. I’m not going to stop now. I’m not going to stop. I’ve got to get it done.’ Cardilini continued his digging.
The constables conferred quietly then asked, ‘Can we help?’
Cardilini stopped digging and turned to view what he had completed. He started laughing to himself and staggered backwards, ‘You idiot. Done the wrong bit.’ He collapsed onto his backside holding the spade to stop himself from toppling further. ‘Look,’ he pointed to the constables, ‘that’s supposed to be lawn. Betty’s going to …’ Cardilini paused and squeezed his eyes closed.
‘Sir. Would you come inside, please?’
Cardilini tried to focus on their faces, ‘Oh yeah, you’re at East Perth. You’re Salt’s mates, eh?’
‘Yes, sir, Fowler and Riley.’
‘Yeah. So what do you want?’
‘It’s after two in the morning.’
‘Oh, yeah. Okay. Well. A bit noisy, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Someone rang up?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good boys. Good boys. Yeah. I might go and lie down.’
Cardilini had trouble rising so the constables assisted him to stand then they walked together up the back verandah stairs. At the back door Cardilini stopped and indicated he was fine to walk. The constables stood back.
‘I might have a shower. Make yourself a cup of tea, boys.’
‘Shall we sit in the kitchen while you shower, sir? We’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Yeah,’ Cardilini stood still at the back door, ‘No. I might lie down for a bit.’ He turned to a large timber-framed couch that sat on the verandah facing the backyard and settled himself full length, his head on one armrest and his feet on the other.
The constables stood watching for a few minutes.
‘What do you think?’ one asked.
‘He’s asleep.’
‘Might as well have a cup of tea.’
The other nodded and they entered the house.
Twenty-one
Day 5
Kilkenny Road
6.00 a.m. Thursday, 29th October 1965
At sunrise Cardilini blinked his eyes open, staggered to the laundry on the back verandah, drank from the tap and stripped off his filthy clothes. He stared at them on the floor then, shaking his head, put them in a tub for soaking and headed to the bathroom.
Showered and shaved, he tidied and swept the kitchen, put the rubbish out and forced some cornflakes down, accompanied by four cups of tea. Only slightly recovered he returned to the kitchen table with Captain Edmund’s files before him.
Paul interrupted him at 9 a.m. ‘There’s an unmarked car and driver out the front.’
‘Last night …’ Cardilini started.
‘No. I’m moving to Aunty Roslyn’s. You’re a disgrace. The neighbours told me what happened last night. The academy won’t want me now. Anyway, I don’t think I could go.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That hasn’t meant anything since …’ Paul shook his head and went to his bedroom.
Cardilini sat with his eyes shut, his stomach knotting and his head roaring. When composed he picked up the files and stood at Paul’s door.
‘I know I’m a disgrace, I know what your mother would think, but I want you to know … I am trying to turn things around.’ Cardilini stood a while longer then headed for the front door and the car at the verge.
‘Salt,’ He said as he sat.
‘Sir.’
Cardilini closed the car door.
‘Where to, sir?’
‘Did you hear about my performance last night?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How bad was I?’
‘Calls started at the local branch at midnight. I think you were out in the backyard then. A senior constable at East Perth sent the car around.’
‘How bad?’
‘No damage. The constables stayed about an hour or so. It was a slow night.’
‘Was a report made out?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You thank those boys for me.’
‘No disrespect, sir, but I’d rather not.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Salt sat silently staring forward.
‘Can you explain yourself?’
‘I’d rather not, sir.’
‘You think I should be on report?’
‘I’d rather not say, sir.’
Cardilini turned and looked at his house. The front lawn, once immaculate, was now dying in patches. The rosebushes along the fence, without their winter prune, were wild and snarled and reaching out across the footpath. ‘It’s a bloody mess, and I forgot about the roses. Okay. East Perth, Salt.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Salt, get that old, beat-up, shit-box of a car back again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
***
Acorn watched with pen poised as Cardilini spoke. ‘Two years ago, St Nicholas had a cadet who won state marksman awards two years running. Captain Edmund had recorded every score the boy achieved over a three-year period. The boy, Williamson, had been assigned rifle number one, one, three, one, seven, two.’
‘What were the boy’s scores?’ Acorn asked.
‘He regularly produced groups of five at two-hundred yards.’
‘How regularly?’
‘Jesus, Acorn.’
‘You want me to make a judgment? How regularly?’
Cardilini pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and counted, ‘Seven from twelve his first year, nine from ten his second year, plus winning the state school boy titles.’
‘A farmer’s son, familiar with shooting a .303, no doubt.’
‘No. Lives in the city.’
‘A natural, perhaps. But I don’t think it was a marksman that made that shot, I think it was a stray shot. Target shooting is usually at the chest. That’s how cadets train. Never a head shot. In your scenario the shot would be intended for the chest, and .303 is a kill-shot in the chest, so the shooter missed his target. Either way Edmund’s death was the result of a miss-shot, which supports strongly a miss-shot from across the river.’
Cardilini didn’t need to hear that, but he should have known. He was missing too much. What else was he missing? And why was he pursuing this line on the shooting? What hard evidence did he have? Scuff
marks on a tree, a tree in a school playground full of boys, boys happy to sneak around at night wouldn’t be too afraid to climb a tree. And yet, he was trusting McBride or wanting to trust him.
‘It would be the height of arrogance to attempt a head shot from that distance. And you said the boy left school two years ago. It would take training to achieve that shot, or lucky arrogance.’
‘I have a candidate for the arrogance,’ Cardilini said, thinking of Carmody.
‘Can he shoot?’
‘Fair to middling.’
‘Was it his rifle?’
‘No, but could he practise with it? Knowing the results it produced for Williamson?’
‘I’m sure that’s the sort of thing school cadets could do. Captain Edmund might have even encouraged it among his better marksmen.’
‘Would it make a difference to their accuracy?’
‘Possible.’
Cardilini looked at his notes.
‘I think your assassin scenario is shot full of holes,’ Acorn said smugly.
‘It would seem so.’
‘The defence could come up with any number of army instructors that would see it my way. Wouldn’t look good in court.’
Cardilini nodded, sighed, thanked Acorn and left.
***
Back at his desk a spade lay across his chair. He stood looking at it for some time, gradually the heads of his colleagues turned to watch him.
‘Actually, that’s pretty funny.’
A general round of applause and laughter greeted this. ‘So, how are you brushing up, Cardilini?’
‘Getting there,’ he said with a sheepish smile and shifted the spade to the side of his desk before sitting.
‘You can keep the spade. It was bought out of your share of the Christmas fund.’
‘Great,’ he said and patted the spade, ‘I might just leave it here.’
‘Cardilini,’ Bishop called from the open doorway, ‘you’re wanted upstairs. Superintendent Robinson.’
Cardilini knocked on Robinson’s door.
‘Yeah. In you come. Sit down. You aren’t making this very easy, Cardilini.’
‘No, sir.’
‘“No, sir?” Since when have you called me, sir?’
‘Since now.’
‘Sucking-up is not going to do you any good.’
‘It’s not sucking-up.’
‘Fine. I should put you on report.’
Cardilini nodded in agreement, ‘Do it, put me on report.’
‘What?’
‘I need a kick up the arse for last night.’
‘Still don’t mind telling me my job it seems,’ Robinson said.
Cardilini shrugged.
Robinson looked quizzically at Cardilini, ‘on report, means you can’t afford to muck up.’
Cardilini replied dismissively, ‘I know what it means.’
‘Right. You’re on report, three months. That’s going to make a few people happy. And get a few of the new wave off my back,’ Robinson said perfunctorily and sat looking at him, ‘Now, you got something for me?’
Cardilini shifted to one side of the seat then the other before replying, ‘I was just about to type it up.’
‘Accidental?’
Cardilini ran his fingers through his hair and squeaked out, ‘Yes?’
‘Is that what you think?’
Doubt gripped Cardilini as he stared at Robinson. He wanted to say yes, he wanted to get back on track, see Paul happy again. He knew that after last night, if he had any super other than Robinson, he could easily be on suspension.
‘Yes …’ he croaked out and despite everything couldn’t help adding, ‘… and no.’
Robinson looked towards the ceiling and ran his hand across his brow. ‘You got evidence the prosecutor would accept?’ Robinson asked, pulling a diary towards him.
Cardilini shook his head then said, ‘Students going out of their way to insist it was an accident. Students protecting someone.’
‘Your opinion.’
‘The sketches?’
‘A protest? A celebration? Who knows what goes through the head of a schoolboy?’
Cardilini’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Robinson, ‘You do. You were there. What did you think?’
‘You don’t dob on your mates, you don’t break ranks, you take it like a man and get on. That’s what the boys are taught and that’s what they’re doing,’ Robinson said.
‘Right,’ Cardilini couldn’t argue with that.
Robinson fingered the pages of his diary as Cardilini looked on anxiously. Robinson slowly closed his diary and casually asked, ‘Do you want someone else to look at it?’
A wave of relief went through Cardilini and he tried to reply equally casually, ‘Might be good.’
‘Really?’ Robinson asked shocked.
‘Yeah. Acorn’s convinced the shot came from across the river and I’ve really got nothing. I’ll type up the facts we’ve got.’ Cardilini sat up and breathed fully for what seemed like the first time in ages.
‘Thank God for that.’ Robinson gave a rare smile.
‘I’ll get to it,’ Cardilini said standing.
Robinson cautioned, ‘Going on the facts the next copper will see it the way myself, the deputy commissioner and now Acorn see it.’
‘Yeah. I know,’ Cardilini nodded and left.
***
Cardilini set the report in triplicate in his typewriter. Despite his fingers poised over the keys, he sat looking at the spade leaning against the side of his desk. Then, as if waking, he pulled a dog-eared Teledex from his desk drawer. He flicked its pages until he found the one he wanted then pulled the phone towards him.
‘Goodman, it’s Cardilini. A favour. Can you check if a Bradley Williamson, born August 1947, was either conscripted or enlisted? St Nicholas, that’s him. The second. What’s basic training? What’s he doing now? Rifleman, what does that mean? How intense? Where? Swanbourne? Sydney? Vietnam? When? Really? Okay. No, you’re not missing anything here, same old, same old. Yeah. Cheers. I owe you.’
Cardilini hung up and studied the notes he’d made. He dialled again.
‘Acorn. How would a second-year army recruit, who’s been doing specialist training in the rifle corps for eighteen months, suit my scenario?’ Cardilini listened then replied. ‘The one I told you about who won the state schoolboy titles two years running. Yes, but could he make that shot?’ Cardilini held his patience. ‘Could he, if he wanted to, make it? Could he? Good. Could a defence attorney find a specialist to argue against that possibility, probability? Thanks.’
Bentley
11.10 a.m. Thursday, 29th October 1965
Fifteen minutes later, with Salt driving, Cardilini travelled to a home in Bentley.
Salt pulled up beside the verge.
‘Wait here. I might only be minutes,’ Cardilini said as he got out of the car.
Cardilini opened the low, white-picket front gate. Yellow roses were blossoming the length of the front fence. Red brick paving separated two expanses of tidy green lawn and led to the front timber verandah. Cardilini knocked on the flyscreen door while he looked at the nearby potted plants and a couch and armchairs placed to face the street. He shook off images of Betty’s neglected garden.
The front door opened and Cardilini focused his eyes to see through the flyscreen into the gloom of the house.
‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice asked.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Cardilini from the East Perth Station. I wanted to have a chat to Bradley.’
‘Bradley’s in the army.’
‘Yes. I know, but isn’t he home from training before going back to Vietnam?’
‘He goes to the Swanbourne barracks every day.’
Cardilini stepped back as the flyscreen door ope
ned. A woman of forty or so stepped onto the verandah wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her brunette hair with thin lines of grey was swept back from her forehead and tied with a ribbon. She’s been baking, Cardilini figured, a fine dusting of flour was on her apron.
She looked out to the police car with Salt at the wheel. ‘My husband’s at work.’ Unsure, pretty, hazel eyes looked up at Cardilini, ‘Do you want to come in? I can make you a cup of tea.’
‘No, thank you. Do you know when Bradley will be home?’ Cardilini asked.
‘I don’t know. Do you know when he goes back to Vietnam, Detective Cardilini?’
‘No. Sorry. Haven’t you been told?’
‘No. They won’t say. It’s very nerve-racking. Please come in, you’ve come all this way.’ Mrs Williamson stepped aside.
Cardilini looked past her down the hallway. No, he didn’t want to know these people; he wanted their son to be a murderer. He shuddered inwardly at the thought.
‘No. Really,’ he said shaking his head.
‘Why do you want to talk to Bradley?’
Cardilini didn’t have the stomach for another Mrs Lockheed episode.
‘It’s nothing. Just finalising a report. Bradley might be able to fill in some blank spaces.’
‘Is it about Captain Edmund’s death?’
‘In a way. Yes.’
‘It was a shock to us all. When Bradley arrived home, he hadn’t heard because he was travelling, he couldn’t believe it. Bradley was a favourite of Captain Edmund’s.’
‘Travelling?’
‘Home from his base in Sydney. He’ll fly back there when we get a date,’ she sighed deeply, ‘We’re proud of Bradley, but people are starting to say hurtful things about Vietnam. It’s not the boys’ fault. Do people expect them to go to prison for not going? I’d like to ask those protesters if they would do Bradley’s prison term.’
‘Was Bradley a conscientious objector?’
‘No. What do you think, should our boys be going over there?’
Cardilini remembered the nervousness he had about the possibility of Paul being conscripted. He hadn’t thought about the right or wrong of it. He just knew he didn’t want Paul to go to Vietnam.
‘How does Bradley feel about going?’
‘He just said his mates were going and he had to be with them.’
Man at the Window Page 11
