Thirty-one

Day 11

Fremantle Train Station

8.50 a.m. Wednesday, 4th November 1965

Mr and Mrs Doney’s son, their only child, died in a single-car accident the previous year at Wongon Hills. Now they lived in an apartment in Forrest Street, Cottesloe, waiting for the settlement of the sale of their farm. Senior Constable Young, who’d compiled the initial report for the traffic branch, had, earlier in the year, transferred to the Fremantle branch. Cardilini organised an appointment with him for 9 a.m. at the Fremantle train station.

This suburban train station appeared a poor cousin to Perth Central. The government architect had included design char­acteristics of the period in the stone portico and red brick buildings, however, its size suggested little future growth for Fremantle Port.

Cardilini waited for Senior Constable Young to come from the platform. When the timber carriages rattled away, Young, a tall, angular man with short, greying hair, walked towards him.

‘We had some idiot steal a conductor’s bag and machine,’ the constable said by way of excuse for the location of the meeting. Then, ‘Aren’t you suspended?’

Cardilini had crossed paths with Young on a number of occasions, usually at crime scenes, and he knew him to be a tough but honest copper.

‘No, on leave, just tying up a few loose ends.’

‘Funny thing to be doing on leave.’

‘Yeah. Hilarious. You remember the accident?’

‘Of course.’

‘You knew the boy?’

‘I knew of the boy.’

‘You’ve seen a few accidents. Was it suicide?’

Young shook his head and said sarcastically, ‘Why don’t you get straight to the point, Cardilini?’

‘Well, was it suicide?’ Cardilini persisted.

‘Who’ll ever know?’ Young was evasive. ‘He could have fallen asleep.’

‘Do you think he did?’

Young looked to the sky and pursed his lips. ‘Highly unlikely.’

‘Did he accelerate into the tree?’ Cardilini asked.

Young looked to Cardilini as if assessing him and asked, ‘You read the report?’

‘It wasn’t mentioned.’

‘That’s right, and you know why?’ Young asked.

‘I’m not going to ask you to change your report,’ Cardilini reassured.

‘I’ve heard that before.’

‘No one will know of this conversation,’ Cardilini said.

‘Don’t shit me, Cardilini. If this didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be asking and you’d be glued to a cold beer somewhere.’

‘Stop being a hard bastard. What did you see?’

Young scratched his cheek then said, ‘I think he lined the tree up from five hundred yards away and powered into it as fast as that jalopy would go. The bloody thing disintegrated around him. I don’t know how the traffic boys handle it.’

‘Me neither.’

‘I’ll say you’re lying if you try to use that,’ Young warned, staring straight at Cardilini.

‘Fair enough. Thanks, Young.’

‘What for?’

Cottesloe

3.30 p.m. Wednesday, 4th November 1965

Norfolk pine trees grew high on both sides of Forrest Street between Broome Street and Marine Parade. The Doney apartment was halfway down on the right. A double-storey, red brick block of four apartments, two up, two down. The Doneys lived on the second storey.

Cardilini knocked on the door. Mr Doney let him in. Doney, not a tall man, had dark hair and a round boulder head on broad, heavy shoulders. Large pieces of furniture left little space to manoeuvre between them. Lounge suites, sideboards, occasional chairs, clustered side tables, standard lamps and pouffes filled the room. A hollowed elephant’s foot that held umbrellas and walking sticks stood by the front door. Framed photos covered every flat surface and hanging pictures stared down from every wall. Only an army badge, crossed rifles supporting a crown in a laurel wreath, inscribed ‘Royal Corps Australian Infantry’ secured a space of its own on the sideboard. Beside it, a small vase of freshly cut yellow roses. Cardilini had noticed similar roses blooming along the driveway.

‘Take a seat,’ Mr Doney said.

Cardilini sat in an armchair.

Mrs Doney, a small woman who seemed to have folded in on herself, gave Cardilini a brief glance of her dark, bird-like eyes. Mr and Mrs Doney sat opposite on the lounge.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Cardilini said.

‘Thank you.’

‘And I’m sorry to trouble you.’

‘No trouble,’ replied Mr Doney.

Mrs Doney left to make a pot of tea and Cardilini and Mr Doney talked of the weather, of farming, and eventually, when Mrs Doney had returned and poured the tea, settled on the subject of St Nicholas College.

‘Did Peter talk about why he was discharged from the cadets?’ Cardilini asked.

‘No.’

‘Were you surprised?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Why should we be? He didn’t like it,’ Doney said flatly.

‘Did he say what he didn’t like about it?’

‘Peter wasn’t one to complain.’

‘He was dismissed for not accepting authority,’ Cardilini said.

‘That’s what we heard. Anything else?’ Mr Doney asked.

Mrs Doney now stared, unmoving, at Cardilini.

‘Was Peter an experienced driver?’

‘An excellent driver. The steering went. Could happen to anyone.’

‘Did you tell Senior Constable Young about the steering?’

‘What else could it have been?’

Cardilini turned his gaze from Mr Doney to Mrs Doney, who dropped her eyes.

‘Any other questions?’ Mr Doney prompted.

‘How was Peter’s state of mind before the accident?’

‘Terrific.’

‘Where was he going?’

‘When?’

‘When he took the car?’

‘He was … that road goes down to the highway.’

‘He was too young to have a license. Why would he be going that way?’

‘He was going to check a fence,’ Doney said with a quick glance to his wife.

‘I see,’ Cardilini said.

Returning his cup and saucer to the tray Cardilini casually said, ‘Tragic about Captain Edmund.’

Doney’s eyes turned murderous.

Cardilini didn’t exhale until he was in his car, where he fought a feeling of wretchedness.

Bentley

6.30 p.m. Wednesday, 4th November 1965

Evening gathered methodically on the verandahs, among the trees and towards the end of Williamson’s street. From his car Cardilini watched its slow encroachment. I’ll wait until the streetlights come on, he told himself. The streetlights came on and the gloom darkened but he continued sitting. Casual glances came his way from a man watering his front garden. He sat stubbornly. The man went inside his house. A car turned into the street. Cardilini watched it slow down and pull up at Williamson’s house. Cardilini opened his car door and walked towards the car. Bradley Williamson stood by the vehicle waiting for Cardilini to approach.

‘Bradley Williamson?’

‘Who’s asking?’

‘Detective Sergeant Cardilini, East Perth branch.’

‘I’ve heard about you.’

Cardilini paused. Williamson was six foot, square, trim and compact. He held Cardilini in an unblinking gaze.

‘From who?’ Cardilini asked.

‘Ask your questions, I might answer or I might not.’

‘Did you shoot Captain Edmund?’

Williamson tilted his head back and laughed.

‘Did you?’ Cardilini asked again when Williamson had settled.

‘They said you had a one-track mind.’

‘Who?’

‘Difficult is it, living with that?’ Williamson asked.

‘No. Getting away with murder is difficult.’

‘Experienced that, have you?’

A man in complete possession of himself, Cardilini thought, a strong, honest, straightforward man; a man other men would follow without a second thought. Cardilini fought an instinct to like Williamson.

‘Do you know who shot Captain Edmund?’ he persisted.

‘You’re getting boring, Cardilini.’

‘Answer me and I’ll suddenly get interesting.’

‘I was on a train from Sydney when it happened, but you’ve been told that.’

‘What?’

‘My mother told you I was travelling at the time of Edmund’s death.’

Cardilini remembered Mrs Williamson telling him. The booze had rotted his brain, he thought.

‘I know why he was shot,’ Cardilini said.

‘Tell me?’

‘For the deaths of Geoffrey Masters, Colin Sheppard and Peter Doney.’

Williamson didn’t respond.

‘Maybe you didn’t pull the trigger but you and others decided it was time to stop Edmund’s abuse.’

‘You’ve lost me, Cardilini, but how’s Salt going?’ Williamson asked.

‘Who was it, Mo Sheppard, Doney? They’re farmers, they’d have access to .303s.’ Cardilini continued.

‘Constable Salt will make a good cop. He also sees everything in black and white,’ Williamson ruminated, ignoring Cardilini.

‘But you don’t see everything in black and white?’ Cardilini asked.

‘Oh yeah, I do. There’s right and there’s wrong. You’ve got to choose where you stand.’

‘And you think you have chosen, right?’

‘But I guess, Cardilini, you don’t get to choose. You get told what’s right and wrong.’

‘What Edmund did was inexcusable.’

‘Not everyone agreed with that. But the shooting was accidental, don’t you read your own department reports?’

‘Did you read it?’

‘Have a good life, Detective Cardilini,’ Williamson said in parting. When almost at the door he turned, ‘I hope your boy does well at the academy.’ He walked into the house with Cardilini watching him until the door closed.

Without Williamson as his prime suspect, who? And what threads needed to be in place for Williamson to read the report of the shooting? Cardilini shook his head as he returned to his car.