The Final Cut Page 3

  Cardilini examined the woman. There were old scars on her arms and chest. He grabbed Spencer’s arm and drew her attention to them. ‘Make sure her airways stay open. Don’t let her head slump. And don’t go anywhere near him,’ he added, pointing at the man cuffed to the stove.

  ***

  Soon there was no room to move in the small house. The ambulance crew worked on the woman while Ryan and Appleby dealt with the man, who they now knew to be the woman’s husband. Cardilini and Spencer waited outside – Cardilini smoking, his bloodied jacket on the car bonnet beside him, Spencer working through her notes.

  ‘Archie and Melody Cooper, married two years,’ she said.

  ‘Did you notice how the kitchen chairs were lined up?’ Cardilini asked.

  Spencer, lost in thought, replied, ‘How could she stay with him? The scarring on her legs looks like she’s been cut before.’

  The ambulance crew brought Melody Cooper out on a gurney. Her features were now relaxed, her eyes closed.

  ‘How bad is she?’ Spencer asked the ambulance attendant.

  ‘The cuts were mainly superficial. But if he’s been punching her she could have internal damage.’

  ‘I think he wanted his harm to be visible,’ Spencer said to Cardilini when the ambulance drove away. ‘He’s marking her as his. It’s some sort of power thing.’

  Cardilini threw his jacket onto the back seat of the car. ‘Well, I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Don’t we have to stay?’

  He got in and sat in the driver’s seat. ‘No, we don’t, it’s a Fremantle arrest.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We go back to the station.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Spencer said, looking to the plain-clothes police gathering in front of the house.

  ‘What don’t you get?’

  ‘I don’t think Ryan would have gone in by himself.’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘We can’t just leave, we should say something to them.’ She stood by the car with the door open.

  ‘Okay.’ Cardilini got out and walked across to one of the plain-clothes policemen. They spoke briefly and he returned to the car.

  ‘What did you say?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘I said we were going and that you hoped it wouldn’t hurt their feelings.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wednesday, 6 March 1957

  1.15 p.m.

  Melody walked along a gravel footpath in Geraldton. She was in Year 9 and had been sent home from school for swearing by Mrs Steel, her mathematics teacher.

  Mrs Steel didn’t like her. Melody puzzled as to why the girls in her school didn’t like her, either. The male teachers liked her; they always teased her with questions like, ‘Who’s your boyfriend?’ ‘Who’s the lucky fella?’ She smiled at the thought. It made her feel special. Mr Bryant even fancied his chances with her. She did lead him on; it was a game she played to let the other girls know she was having fun, even without them. She would put her hand up so he would come to her desk at the back. She’d have the second button on her school shirt undone and push her chest out, all the time being cow-eyed. He found it hard to keep his eyes off her. It amused those around her and made her part of the group. ‘You’re out of control, Melody Penny,’ they would say.

  But today she’d been told to go straight home. They’d check with her mum, but she decided to go to the Rainbow Café, her hangout. She was walking through a vacant block along the diagonal path of earth hard-packed by many walkers. It was about 18 inches wide, with wild oats growing waist high on both sides. She remembered when, as a kid in primary school, her first year in Geraldton, she used to wander through the wild green oats. It seemed so long ago now. The oats were stiff and strong; she’d push her way through them until she thought she was far enough away from the path and lie down; the oats would crush below her and send a juicy smell into the air. It was her little heaven – no adults, no big kids. She’d watch the birds fly high up, up.

  Sometimes she chose the sweetest boy to take with her. She would say, ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ and they would say, ‘Okay?’ but looked around for her teapot and cups. And she would say, ‘It’s pretend,’ and they would say, ‘Okay,’ with a slight shrug. ‘You can lie down and I’ll bring it to you.’ ‘Why?’ they’d ask. ‘Because you’re sick, and I’m looking after you.’ ‘What have I got?’ ‘You broke your leg trying to catch a horse,’ and she’d go about making the tea. Some would ask, ‘Which leg?’ but others would choose a leg and make it stiff and move it slowly like a big log. When the bigger boys got her in the grass they just wanted to feel her up, touch her breasts, even though they weren’t much, and then they’d poke a finger up her shorts, which made her insides tremble. She wanted to kiss but the older boys didn’t want to kiss, and the younger boys just pushed flat, hard lips at her.

  She hadn’t been in the grass for years, and now the vacant block looked tiny and there was rubbish everywhere. She wondered if the little kids still played there. Pushing her shoulders back, she watched her breasts swell. Now the boys fought each other over them and that should make her happy, but it didn’t. At school those same boys spent all their time with other girls, even in class they would help each other with their schoolwork, while she sat down the back with any stray she could grab so she wasn’t by herself. Sometimes even the strays didn’t want to sit with her because she had to muck up to make those other boys turn around to smile at her. The girls didn’t smile at her – their faces closed like a locked-up house, saying, ‘You’re not wanted here,’ and she would push out her chin at them and act really tough as if she didn’t care what they thought.

  ‘I’ll become famous,’ she said out loud and kicked at the grass. She pulled her pleated school skirt up and looked down at her legs, tanned and smooth. ‘Tanned smooth legs will get any man,’ her mother would always say. She’d had Melody shaving her legs since primary school. ‘A woman can’t get anywhere without a man,’ her mother said and put lipstick on Melody. ‘But you’ve got your mother’s breasts,’ she’d say and laugh because her breasts were tiny then, flat like pancakes. ‘Pretty for a girl, but no good for a woman.’

  Melody’s breasts grew and were now bigger than her mother’s. Her mother was convinced that if her own breasts were bigger she would have been able to hold on to a man; instead, men would come and go. If it happened too often, they’d shift towns.

  Melody had lived in Mingenew, Dalwallinu and Mullewa. Her mum could always get a job in a shop because she was pretty. ‘Being pretty is your passport, Melody; every woman envies you no matter what they’ve got, and every man wants to be with you,’ she’d say, then roll back on the couch, throwing her legs in the air. Melody would do the same, laughing with her mother in the moments when she had time for her. ‘Never underestimate your legs, Melody, we Pennys mightn’t have brains but we’ve got legs; you’d be surprised who you could catch with them.’ Melody would try to catch boys with her legs but they would trip over them and look at her as if she were nuts. It wasn’t until much later that she understood what her mother meant.

  It was a long time ago that they laughed together. Now her mum looked at her in the same way as the girls at school, like a locked-up house; now her mum didn’t want her in the house when she was entertaining a shearer, or fencer, or well-digger from out of town. A few months ago, just after Christmas, she’d been thirteen at the time, a fella who was staying with them came home carrying bottles of beer. He stood at the front door and yelled, ‘Where’s me little darlin’?’ Both Melody and her mum ran from different rooms and saw each other at the door, and instead of giving Melody a punch and her mum a hug, the fella went all smoochy to both of them. Her mum told her to go outside and play. Then she laughed as she pulled the fella into the house and closed the door.

  Melody hung her head as she walked from the wild oats to the café. That was where she hung ou
t. Even after school, when the school kids all had to go home for dinner, she hung out at the café, smoking, pretending she was older. ‘I can get any fella,’ she mumbled, leaving the laneway for Marine Terrace and walking south, head back, breasts out, feeling her skirt swirl from side to side as she walked. ‘I’ll show them.’

  A car pulled up beside her and drove slowly. ‘Melody. Did they kick you out of school?’ It was Bruno, in Con’s car. Con was driving. Melody felt her heart racing. Con was eighteen and wore his dark hair longer than the other boys. He had a slow smile that would creep up from Melody's knees to her tummy. He didn’t look at her like the other boys and he had a special soft smile for her. His strong black eyebrows and his eyes – dark, almost black – would rest on her and she always felt like crying. All the girls liked Con, but he didn’t have a steady. Bruno, who always hung around Con, was thickset and he had thick lips with thoughts behind his eyes that scared Melody.

  ‘I left. It was boring,’ Melody said in her tough voice and walked on.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Bruno asked. Melody stopped and turned to face them; she slumped on one leg and put her hand on her hip like she had seen the big girls doing.

  ‘Café.’

  ‘Jump in, we’ll take you.’

  Melody looked to the back of the car. Archie Cooper sat there.

  ‘He should be at school,’ she said, referring to Archie who was in the year above her.

  ‘He did some work for us,’ Bruno said. Melody heard Con say, ‘Shut up,’ quietly. She went to the car and leant her forearms on the wound-down window.

  ‘Hi, Con,’ she said awkwardly.

  ‘Hi, Melody.’ Con gave a half-smile, a blink and a little nod of his head.

  Melody felt her tummy flipping around, and she knew she smiled back like a little kid, so she said in her toughest voice, ‘What work?’

  Con moved his head slowly from side to side while looking at her.

  ‘I’ll find out,’ Melody teased.

  Con said, ‘Hop in, if you’re comin’.’

  Melody opened the back door and jumped onto the back seat. Her skirt slipped up around her thighs but she didn’t push it down. Archie was looking gog-eyed at her legs. ‘Whachu’ looking at?’ Melody said, like she’d heard the big girls say.

  Bruno turned around and he too looked at Melody’s legs. ‘Nice.’

  Melody waited a moment, hoping Con would turn around. She pushed her skirt down.

  ‘Let’s go to the beach, Con,’ Bruno said.

  ‘We’ll go to the café and drop her off,’ Con replied.

  ‘You want to come to the beach, don’t you, Melody?’ Bruno said, turning.

  The beach meant the sand hills, which meant Bruno wanted to feel her up. If it was just Con she’d go, but he never asked. She wanted to be mature like the older girls who flirted with Con, and Con took them in his car.

  ‘I wouldn’t go with all of you,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’ Bruno asked. Melody wanted to answer ‘Con’, but didn’t think she should. She glanced at Con. Her tough girl eyes were gone and it was her little-girl eyes wanting recognition. Bruno let out a single laugh. ‘Bloody baby,’ he said and turned to the front.

  ‘Told you,’ Con said, without taking his eyes off the road.

  Melody felt her face burn. She turned her head quickly to the window, trying to stop the tears by blinking furiously. ‘Bloody hot,’ she said in her tough girl voice and wound the window down to let the rushing air dry her eyes. Before they reached the café, she allowed one glance back into the car. She caught Con’s eyes as he looked in the rear-view mirror, black and soft, gently telling her she was all right. She smiled back. The image in the mirror was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. He wants me older, she told herself.

  Con pulled up at the café. Melody got out with elaborate goodbyes and adjusted her skirt. Bruno hung out the window and gave a ‘hoi, hoi’. Con didn’t say anything or even look in her direction. Archie said something, which she ignored. Though she gave a cheery smile and wave she felt very alone as they drove off. School didn’t want her, she couldn’t go home to her mum and her mum’s boyfriends, and the café had little to draw her; she needed a place of her own. The squawking of galahs broke her reverie. Looking up to the bleached eggshell sky, a flock of pink and greys filled her vision. As they flew in front of the sun, her eyes filled with tears. ‘The sun is too bright,’ she told herself, angrily wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll show them. I’ll become famous.’ Her pretty face lit up with a determined smile.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Thursday, 18 November 1965

  10 a.m.

  Lorraine Spencer stood at the lectern on the third floor of the East Perth Police Station. Before her sat the top brass, including the com­missioner, deputy commissioner and a range of superintendents, both plain-clothed and in uniform. At the back of the room stood Cardilini and Bishop.

  She’d spent so long in her flat that morning trying to decide what to wear that she’d been on the verge of tears. At one point she thought it’d be easier to resign than put herself through this. She was angry with herself for even caring. It shouldn’t matter. If only she could wear the same old suit like the men. Cardilini hadn’t even bothered about his bloodied jacket; she was the one who insisted he take it to the drycleaners. Eventually she’d settled on a long black skirt, dark stockings, flat shoes and a fitted jacket.

  ‘Currently, there is the understanding that there is no point in taking a man to court for assaulting his wife,’ she told the room. ‘We operate under the belief that the wife will either refuse to take out charges against her husband, or that she’ll fail to appear to give evidence. But when we, the police, believe a serious assault has occurred, we can bring charges. In fact, it is our duty to prosecute.’

  ‘Do you think it’ll ever happen?’ Bishop whispered to Cardilini.

  Cardilini shrugged. He looked at Spencer’s open, honest face and saw the innocent belief in her eyes. It made him anxious.

  ‘I reckon it won’t,’ Bishop continued. ‘Too many skeletons in the closet among police to encourage that sort of behaviour.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know, Cardilini. You couldn’t even see what Hardy was up to.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You think that girl he beat near to death was his first?’

  Cardilini turned and looked hard at Bishop. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t. You know he was with Spry before you. Ask him what he got up to.’

  ‘You’re bloody kidding me.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘At common law a wife is not compelled to go as witness against her husband,’ Spencer continued. ‘Why? Because of the sanctity of marriage? Because it could break up the family? Because the children would have to witness their mother sending their father to jail? Magistrates don’t want a wife to go witness against her husband in their courts. Prosecutors encourage a woman not to go witness against her husband because the jury would see her as betraying …’

  ‘Why didn’t it come up before you stuck Hardy with me?’ Cardilini whispered.

  ‘It did. Robinson was all over it. Hardy had counselling, swore he was reformed. It came up three times in other stations before he got to East Perth. No one was willing to do anything. The top brass thought it would look bad for the force. I guess everyone just wanted it to go away. Someone would have to admit there was a problem. You don’t put your hand up when the top brass is ignoring it.’

  ‘I should have been warned,’ Cardilini said and caught Spencer looking at him.

  ‘It’s almost a tradition for the police to persuade women not to give evidence,’ she continued. ‘What do we say? We say the husband will be upset, we say it would be better for them to drop the matter, and get on with their lives for the sake of the children …�
��

  ‘But I put my bloody hand up, didn’t I?’ Cardilini muttered.

  ‘Yeah. But that’s you, Cardilini.’

  ‘… because domestic violence isn’t treated as a criminal act by us or the state prosecutor. The clerk of courts, whom these battered women front up to, tells them to go home and behave themselves.’ A titter went through the audience. Spencer flushed. ‘But ultimately, the notion that a prosecution cannot occur without the woman’s evidence is wrong. Other evidence can be sought and is often available – evidence such as medical records. Even if the abuse takes place with only the husband and wife present – as much of it does – it doesn’t go on without others knowing, such as children, neighbours, hospital staff, police.’ Here she paused and stared defiantly at her audience.

  ‘Oh shit, that’s not going to go down well,’ Bishop whispered.

  ‘Why should it fall to the most vulnerable, to the battered victim, to bring a prosecution?’ Spencer demanded. ‘And why should she have to fight the very people sworn to protect her if she wants the beatings to stop? I’m sorry if I appear incensed but this week I witnessed another brutal case of domestic abuse and as yet there is no willingness by the attending police to bring charges.’

  ‘Shame,’ Bishop said, clapping enthusiastically along with the rest of the audience when Spencer had finished, ‘she just can’t see the big picture.’

  Cardilini turned and walked out.

  ***

  ‘Well?’ Spencer stood over Cardilini at his desk.