The Final Cut Page 18

  ‘Not so puzzling we couldn’t present scenarios for it all,’ Archer said.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Cardilini turned to Spencer. ‘Spencer noted a few things that lead to a theory.’ Spry and Archer turned blank eyes to her.

  Spencer started with the visit to Hardy’s house and what she observed of Louise’s behaviour and make-up. She paused at this point but neither Spry nor Archer offered a comment so she carried on, outlining the scenario where Louise Hardy went to bring her husband home, an argument started, Hardy hit Louise and knocked her down and she stabbed him.

  ‘She went to bring her husband home with a carving knife, on the bus? Archer asked, trying not to smile. ‘Or did she get a neighbour to drive her?’

  ‘Forget about how she got there. What do you think, Spry?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘I think that’s about as far-fetched as you can get. We have Jennifer Clancy in the location, in the correct timeframe – and with a motive.’

  ‘So you won’t be releasing her?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘No way. I reckon she’ll confess.’

  ‘Shame she didn’t have any bruises; she could plead self-defence,’ Spencer said.

  ‘What she pleads is not our or your concern really. Maybe he pushed her over,’ Archer replied.

  ‘Thanks for your time.’ Cardilini stood.

  ‘Why are you looking at the forensic reports, anyway?’ Spry asked.

  ‘Clancy was going to give us some information if we got her out of here,’ Cardilini said.

  ‘It need only be for twenty-four hours; you could pick her up again,’ Spencer added hopefully.

  ‘So you’d hang it on Louise Hardy just to have a chat with Jennifer Clancy?’ Archer asked, incredulous. Cardilini shrugged. ‘Being a devious bastard is not your usual method, Cardilini.’

  Cardilini reminded them that legally they either had to charge Clancy or let her go. ‘You know what you have won’t stand up in court. I can’t see a confession coming – not a legal one, that is. Letting her go now would be a good move while you build up the evidence. She won’t go anywhere. You can keep an eye on her, she might slip up. You never know. Think about it.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Saturday, 27 November 1965

  10 p.m.

  That night, Cardilini and Spencer drove out to Kings Park. They left the car on the far side of the park from the city view and opposite the spot where Hardy had been found. The park stretched two city blocks. Tree shadows created an inky blackness on the paths and grasses below them. They looked towards a pool of black that sat below their intended target point. In the weak, malarial yellow haze cast by streetlights along the footpath at the other side of the road, three young women slouched idly. Each wore a short skirt, high heels and a revealing blouse.

  ‘Okay, Spencer, how do you want to play this?’

  Spencer paused. ‘The two of us would send them packing. I’ll go, as Jennifer suggested.’ She started off across the road. Cardilini followed for a bit, then stopped and sat down on a park bench.

  As Spencer approached, the girls stopped chatting and stared. Two of them were probably in their twenties – a redhead, and a blonde chewing gum – while the third was tight-eyed and sharp-featured and a fraction older. Spencer quietly asked if she could have a quick chat.

  ‘You a copper?’ the older one asked.

  ‘Off duty. Call me Spencer.’

  ‘Spencer? She’s a copper. Doing a bit of moonlighting,’ the older one said to the other two, laughing.

  ‘Not in that outfit!’ the red-headed girl said.

  ‘Who’s that over there?’ the gum-chewer asked, indicating the pool of dark obscuring the park bench and Cardilini.

  ‘My partner.’

  ‘Shy, is he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Spencer replied with a smile.

  ‘Sent his secretary,’ the older one said and they all laughed again.

  ‘Tell me about Sunday the fourteenth,’ Spencer said.

  ‘We know. Someone put a knife into Detective Sergeant Hardy.’

  ‘Were you working here that night?’

  ‘What do you think?’ the older girl said. ‘Of course bloody not. And we’ve already told Spry that.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Spencer nodded. ‘Did you see anyone hanging around who didn’t fit in?’

  ‘Like someone going to a funeral? Like you?’

  ‘I’m here to help a friend of yours,’ Spencer said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jennifer Clancy.’

  ‘That snob. No friend of ours,’ the red-headed girl said and grimaced.

  ‘She’s a snob?’ the gum-chewer asked.

  ‘Thinks herself too good,’ the older girl said.

  ‘Doesn’t she work the streets, too?’

  ‘No, she has regulars,’ the older girl said. ‘Lucky bitch.’

  ‘She wasn’t down here on the fourteenth, then?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘We weren’t here, remember?’ the older girl hooted.

  Spencer pondered that for a moment. ‘Have you seen Melody or Archie Cooper about the place?’

  This was met with blank expressions.

  ‘What about Bridget Law? You heard of her?’

  ‘Nope,’ the gum-chewer said.

  The older girl was silent. Spencer addressed her, ‘She’s probably around your age.’ No response. Spencer persisted, ‘Did you know she was tortured then killed in December 1963?’

  ‘You took your bloody time then, didn’t you,’ the older girl said bitterly.

  ‘We’re afraid it might happen again,’ Spencer added.

  At this, the two younger girls swore and walked away. The older girl asked Spencer where she was stationed, before following the other two. The interview was clearly over. Spencer walked back towards the dark pool, following the cigarette glow. ‘That you, Cardilini?’

  He was still sitting on the park bench. Spencer sat beside him and they stared out into the night. Cooler air had gathered under the trees and the smoke from Cardilini’s cigarette hung around them. Yellow light from the street lamps cut unusual angles of blackness along the pathways. Indistinct voices could be heard in the distance.

  After a moment Spencer said, ‘I should take up smoking.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Something to do while I wait for you to speak.’

  Cardilini paused, then asked, ‘How did you go?’

  ‘Someone knows what’s been going on. But not the police.’

  ‘But not the police,’ Cardilini repeated. Whoever was cutting and killing girls had probably come across Melody already. He worried she may have disappeared because they’d spoken to her. They sat in silence. Far away in the distance, a dog barked. A neighbouring dog replied, then the silence was even deeper.

  Cardilini peered at his watch. ‘What do you think, could Hardy have been murdered here and no one witnessed it?’

  ‘At this moment he certainly could’ve.’

  Cardilini nodded and stubbed out his cigarette, breathed heavily and let his eyes slowly travel around the park.

  ‘How much longer do we wait?’ Spencer asked impatiently.

  ‘It’s quite pleasant here.’

  ‘Oh yeah, simply outstanding! It’s a public brothel.’

  ‘Well, apart from that,’ Cardilini answered as he stood.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Sunday, 26 October 1958

  8.30 p.m.

  The Geraldton Railway Picnic happened once a year in honour of railway workers and their families. It was also a day for all Geraldton residents who needed the railways, easing their sense of isolation from the far-flung towns in Western Australia. Melody had never been before and when Archie invited her weeks earlier she hadn’t wanted to go – until she heard Con would be there. Families had packed
up an hour ago. Now, scattered around in the bush surrounding the clearing, small fires glowed and laughter and chatter drifted among the night-bird calls. Into the cool light of the rising full moon the cloying waxy smoke of burning grass trees wafted from a small fire. As the resin began to crackle, Bruno built a tent of twigs and soon the smell of fresh biting eucalypt took over.

  Archie and Melody sat on a log holding hands, watching.

  In the fading light her dark eyes searched for Con. He was on the ground, leaning against a log across the fire from her, a king brown beer bottle perched on his pelvis. Helen sat beside him, fingering the bottle like she might a soft toy. On the other side of Con, Genya and Dianne, both pretty and dark-haired, sat silently, their eyes moving from Helen’s hand to Con’s face and back again, a rosy glow on their cheeks.

  Melody’s face was cold as she watched the little group.

  In a spark of embers, the tent of twigs Bruno had built over the fire suddenly collapsed to the side. He swore. Archie gave a timid laugh. With reflection from the fire flickering in the darkness of his eyes, Con looked to Bruno, then lazily to Melody.

  She knew he would look at her, she had willed it, and when she had his eyes she told him she loved him; beyond Geraldton, beyond her being Melody and he being Con; she told him she had loved him all her life, even before she met him, and would love him when everything was gone. Her eyes told him this, though her other features were frozen. Her feelings poured from her and dived into his eyes. His lip rose slightly, his head gave an imperceptible nod. Then his eyelids began a lazy descent and his head turned away from Melody: bright and clear eyes laughing with Helen.

  ‘You watch, others will start wandering over here,’ Archie whispered proudly in her ear. She didn’t want them to; she didn’t want to be holding Archie’s hand. Archie had pursued her for months before she realised that they were actually an item. On her birthday in January he’d given her a friendship ring, and though she wore it to show off at school, she didn’t like wearing it around Con. She’d let Archie be her ‘boyfriend’ so that she could be close to Con.

  She wanted to be kneeling, facing Con, holding his hands, so she could examine his face, catch his smile and send her soul into his eyes. She wanted Con to say her name and smile and then say it again. She told God she would die after that if He could make it happen. She knew it would happen because she wanted it so much, so she waited.

  ‘Melody, you’re hurting,’ Archie tugged away his hand.

  She let go in fright and darted her eyes across to Con to see if he had noticed. His head was back and he was laughing slowly like the gurgle of a winter creek. She smiled and breathed in the sound.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Sunday, 28 November 1965

  8 a.m.

  Cardilini stepped back, put his shovel down and surveyed his work. He’d turned the soil in the old vegie patch twice before, on each occasion creating tidier sods, on each occasion remembering when he’d done it as Betty watched on. He wished he could look up and drink her image now. But he couldn’t; it kept swimming and shifting. And she was gone.

  ‘Dad. Dad. Can you hear me?’ Paul called from the back verandah.

  Cardilini slowly emerged from the fog of the past. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t you have to plant something first?’

  Cardilini looked at the soil, the straight edges, the regular furrows; things he never had time for when his wife was alive. The weeds will get in if it’s not a straight trench, she’d say. He’d thought that was madness. He asked how weeds knew if it was straight or not. She replied, full of conviction, that they know where you didn’t want them to be.

  ‘What did she plant here?’ he asked Paul.

  ‘Vegies.’

  ‘Yeah, but which ones?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I think there were some beans against the fence,’ Paul said, pointing. Cardilini wandered over and looked at the ground, deciding that would be the next spot to dig.

  Leaning against a verandah post, Paul asked if he could use the car. The wavy blackness of his hair and his fine, intelligent features reminded Cardilini of Betty. ‘Why?’

  Paul straightened and warily explained that he wanted to go to the beach with some of the drive-in crowd. When Cardilini told him to catch the bus, Paul reasoned that if he wasn’t using the car …

  ‘Ah, it’s that girl.’

  Paul paused, looking out at the garden. ‘Yeah, sort of.’

  Cardilini pondered his son’s request for a moment. Finally, he looked up and said, ‘Well, why don’t you invite her home.’

  ‘Not yet, Dad.’

  ‘Have you met her parents?’

  ‘Dad, it doesn’t work like that anymore.’

  Cardilini started walking toward the house. ‘I bet they’d want to know who she’s driving around with.’

  ‘It’s a group thing, Dad. And I said I might be able to borrow the car. Being Sunday and all.’

  Cardilini stopped at the steps and looked in his son’s eyes. ‘Did you, now? Shouldn’t I be asked first?’

  Paul sighed. ‘I just said maybe I’d be able to borrow it. I didn’t say definitely. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘No, son. Don’t do that. I want to work with you on this. I’m not against you using the car.’

  A smile burst across Paul’s face. ‘Thanks, Dad! I’ll give it a wash and clean it out before I bring it back.’

  ‘Trade-off is you do the vegies for the roast tonight.’ With profusive thanks, Paul was already turning away. Cardilini called out, ‘Drive safe and have it back by midday.’ But it was too late, his son was gone. Cardilini felt the familiar pain in his chest. He wished Betty was there; she would have known how to handle this.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Sunday, 28 November 1965

  11 a.m.

  A few hours later, Cardilini wandered from the bus stop to the Royal Hotel for his appointment with McBride, the morgue attendant. As he entered the pub, the acrid smell of beer immediately assailed his senses, turning his morning bowl of Weet-Bix into a broiling turmoil. The lush carpet and red velvet trim on the walls and furniture couldn’t disguise the hotel’s primary purpose. McBride was perched at the bar already with a drink in his hand.

  ‘Cardilini, what can I get you?’

  ‘Um, can we go for a cup of tea instead?’ Cardilini said, visibly pale.

  ‘Why in hell?’

  ‘I’m on the wagon, McBride.’

  ‘Wonders never cease. Let me finish my drink. I think I’m going to need it.’

  ***

  At a café in Forrest Place, they sat down opposite one another, cups of tea in front of them. Cardilini was smoking as he explained that Robinson wanted forensics to go through the files. McBride was scathing about the fact that the similarities weren’t picked up before. Cardilini vacillated with excuses but wondered who he thought he was protecting. McBride wasn’t convinced either way.

  ‘Tell me why you got me here, then?’ Cardilini asked while butting out a cigarette and pulling another from the packet.

  McBride watched Cardilini flick the cigarette between his fingers for a bit. ‘Going to the hotel got the juices going, did it?’

  ‘You could say that.’ He reached for his matches and lit the cigarette. ‘Come on, tell me why you got me here.’

  McBride took a deep breath and exhaled as if he had just aged twenty years. ‘I need to tell you more about when I saw young women with the same cuts.’

  ‘During the war?’

  ‘Yes. I was with an English-American advanced guard; we were parachuted in hours before the Normandy landings. Our job was to make sure the retreating Krauts didn’t blow up a particular bridge. Anyway, it was at night and we were dropped from our Waco CG-4A glider. You know those buggers?’

  ‘Heard of them. Flying coffins.’

  ‘T
hat’s them. Anyway, it was pitch black, and we were spread across the countryside. I couldn’t find the others. I heard a platoon marching – German, by the sound of their voices – so I hid under a hedge and figured I’d find my way to the bridge come daylight. Anyway, I never found the bridge – or my group – so I joined an American bunch, a bomb disposal unit tearing through the countryside in Willy’s jeeps. Bloody cowboys. The lieutenant would get a call and we would charge off. Most of the towns we went to had just been deserted by German troops. Our job was to check their old quarters for booby traps. Fortunately, they usually left in such a hurry that our unit didn’t have a lot of work to do. If we came under fire we’d turn tail and charge off and wait for another radio call. In some of the towns I got to wander around a bit.’ He sighed deeply and took a sip of his tea, staring out into Forrest Place. Youngsters and families wandered about in colourful summer outfits. Cardilini turned to see what he was looking at. McBride began speaking again, his voice seemingly dragged unwilling from another place.

  ‘Anyway, one day I heard crying and so I poked a door open with my rifle. There was a corridor leading to a kitchen. You know the type. Typical sort of terrace house. Sitting at the kitchen table were three women, maybe in their forties. They were comforting each other. When I entered they looked up at me – I didn’t speak French – and then just ignored me. Their eyes were hollow, and empty of expression one instant, then in pain the next. I started backing down the corridor. A door to my right was slightly open. I pushed it further. God, now I wished I hadn’t; I can still see it. Three bodies covered in sheets lay on the floor. The room had been used as some sort of office; a pile of papers and files were stacked on a desk. It looked like someone had tried to set fire to them. The whole place had the turmoil of a sudden departure, but the three bodies were evenly placed, the sheets almost ceremoniously draped over them. I lifted the first sheet. I saw the face of a young woman, maybe a girl, it was hard to tell. She seemed serene. I heard a footfall behind me. One of the women stood in the doorway, the others behind her. I lay the sheet back the way it was and stepped aside. I knew what this was about – departing Krauts wreaking revenge on the locals. The woman at the doorway fixed me with her eyes and entered the room. She crossed to the body of the young girl and knelt beside it. She said something in French – I don’t know what it was, but her tone was arresting. A deep-voiced command, almost. I stood transfixed as she began drawing the sheet back. I remember as if it was in slow motion: the young woman’s face fully revealed; beautiful, dark curling hair, her shoulders were bare; my eyes flicked between the eyes of the woman and the gradually revealed body. Did I say her shoulders were bare? But then the cream of her shoulders slowly turned to bloody mutilated gore, her breasts had been horribly disfigured. With eyes still fixed on me, the woman gradually drew the sheet further.