‘I pulled Hardy off her as much for his sake as hers.’
‘Doesn’t matter. This is our case.’
‘Come on, I might be able to soften her up. She might think she owes me.’
Spry looked to Archer.
‘Only after she spills her guts,’ Archer conceded.
‘But other than a shoe size you have nothing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘She would have been covered in blood, surely, if she’d stabbed him from below.’
‘Nothing showed up on any of her clothes,’ Spry said.
‘That’s not good,’ Cardilini said. ‘What about on her jewellery?’
Spry looked at Archer. It was obvious they hadn’t checked her jewellery.
‘When Hardy put her in hospital she had a number of girls visit her, pushing her to report him and press charges,’ Cardilini said. ‘You could check with them, maybe they’d be more willing to name her clients to get her out of here.’
‘Could be worth a try. Do you know who they were?’ Archer asked.
Cardilini wrote two names on the file. ‘The clothing and jewellery are your best bet.’ He stood and started towards the door.
‘Thanks for the tip,’ Archer said. ‘What are you working on?’
‘The deputy commissioner wants a domestic violence prosecution.’
‘That’s going to be hard. Every second bloke we come across has given his wife a clip at some point.’
‘A lot of people are thinking the same way, Cardilini,’ Spry said.
‘Tell me about it.’ Cardilini left the room. He’d done his duty to Robinson and had found out how little they had on Jennifer Clancy. What more digging could he do?
CHAPTER FORTY
Friday, 26 November 1965
2 p.m.
‘Did Bishop have anything?’ Cardilini asked Spencer when he got back to the office.
‘Not really.’
It’s time, Cardilini thought. The guilt was too much. He dropped three files unceremoniously on Spencer’s desk.
‘What are these?’ she asked.
‘Have a look. Take your time.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to go through the missing person files.’
‘Get Rosie, if that’s really what you’re going to do.’
‘What does that mean?’ Cardilini asked.
‘I don’t know.’ She pointed to the files. ‘Are these anything to do with a domestic abuse prosecution? Or are they just to get me out of your hair?’
‘I want to know what you think. Can we just relax on the domestic prosecution for a few hours?’
‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one going to Midland.’
With a confused expression Cardilini replied, ‘I don’t want you to go,’ and left the room.
***
Fifty minutes later Cardilini returned with even more files. ‘Get bored?’ he asked.
‘Not at all.’ In front of her lay the files Cardilini had given her earlier along with two magazines. ‘Have a look at these – just the pictures, not the articles.’
Cardilini flicked casually through one magazine, then the other. There were advertisements on every second page. He ran his eyes over the images, examining the expressions and the features of the mainly female models.
Rosie knocked and entered. She came and stood by Cardilini as he examined a soap ad. ‘Is this what you two do up here?’ she asked with a smile.
‘What is it, Rosie?’ Spencer asked.
‘Mr Cardilini asked for these.’ She placed a thick file marked ‘Register of Sex Workers’ on the desk.
‘Thank you, Rosie,’ Spencer said.
‘What’s he doing?’ she asked.
‘I’ve set him a test. He’s not doing very well so far.’
Rosie gave a small wave and left.
Cardilini held open a page featuring an image of Audrey Hepburn. ‘Melody does look a lot like her,’ he said.
‘Yes? And?’ Spencer encouraged.
Cardilini, shaking his head, went back to the magazine and turned several more pages.
‘There,’ Spencer said, pointing to a photo of the Italian actress Claudia Cardinale.
Cardilini started reading.
‘No, just look at the photo,’ Spencer told him.
Cardilini did and eventually said, ‘She’s Italian?’
‘Yes, but look closely at her.’
He studied the photo and then with a worried glance at Spencer reached for the file containing photos of the three mutilated women. He placed one beside the picture of Claudia Cardinale. ‘No,’ he breathed.
Spencer opened the other magazine and flicked through until she found what she wanted. She turned the page towards Cardilini and placed the second victim’s photo beside it. ‘Susannah York.’
Cardilini compared the images. Shaking his head, he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Holy mother of God.’
Spencer nodded. ‘And in each case the woman’s face hasn’t been touched, the make-up not even smudged. That’s unusual, right?’
Cardilini nodded. ‘Holy mother of God. It’s a pattern.’
‘Yes.’ Spencer nodded.
‘Worst nightmare, Spencer, worst nightmare. How many others, how long has it been going on undetected? And a fetish – calculated, organised. A bloody nightmare.’
Spencer held up the third file. ‘But I can’t identify this woman.’
Cardilini studied the woman’s face. ‘Everything else says she is part of the pattern.’
‘I’m not doubting it,’ Spencer replied.
‘We’ll keep our eyes open.’
‘I think I’d recognise her if she was a celebrity of some sort, particularly if she was a movie star.’
Cardilini nodded. ‘I probably wouldn’t.’
‘Don’t you go to the movies?’
Cardilini shook his head. ‘Not since Betty’s illness.’
Spencer nodded. ‘She could be a French or Italian actress, but I can’t see the point of that for a Perth clientele.’
Cardilini nodded as he made some notes.
‘And why bother with movie stars? Surely the cutting and the screaming is the, I hate to say it, attraction.’
Cardilini looked from face to face again, then put his hand to his mouth.
‘What?’ Spencer stood beside him. Cardilini sat. ‘What?’ she repeated with emphasis.
Cardilini looked squarely at Spencer: she almost shied away from the intensity of his gaze. ‘They’re made up just like in the movies.’
‘Yes.’
‘As if for the movies,’ Cardilini added.
Spencer’s eyes opened wide, her jaw dropped, she fell back into her chair. ‘They’re making movies?’
‘No, it couldn’t be, but it just struck me for some reason.’
‘We have to find out who the third woman is meant to be,’ Spencer said.
Cardilini nodded, lost in thought. ‘To film something like this – could an individual do it, or would it take more than one person?’
Spencer shook her head. ‘Don’t know, but I can find out.’
Cardilini nodded.
‘So, it’s a case. Is it your case?’
‘It’s nothing yet. And it’s certainly not a domestic.’
Spencer stared at Cardilini, conflict in her eyes. ‘Please, Cardilini, don’t cut me out of this.’
Cardilini breathed in heavily. ‘Okay. What does the fact that they’re unidentified tell you?’
‘That they’re not West Australians, not local?’
‘Right. How do we usually work when we have an unidentified body?’
‘We wait for someone to come forward?’
‘Exactly. The person is
missed by someone. But if the unidentified body is of someone intentionally concealing their whereabouts and identity?’
‘Like sex workers?’
‘We have five unidentified young women: three with the scars we’re looking for, 1961, 1962, 1963; and two decomposed corpses, one from around December 1964 and one from 1962.’
‘You have to tell Bishop and Robinson about this,’ Spencer said.
‘Robinson knows about the similarity in the forensics reports. He should be contacting the coroner and forensics now.’
‘Robinson knows? So this is a case?’
‘I was told not to tell anyone. And no, it’s not officially a case.’
‘But Robinson said to tell me?’
‘No. That was my idea.’
‘Thanks,’ Spencer replied. ‘I think.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Saturday, 27 November 1965
9.45 a.m.
Though neither wanted to admit it, both Cardilini and Spencer felt pressured to find Melody Cooper fast. They decided to follow up on anyone who’d reported a woman missing in the past few years. The first two addresses given in the reports turned out to be a vacant block and a car tyre business, but the third was a semi-detached house in a street of low residential buildings on narrow blocks in Northbridge.
As Cardilini knocked on the door Spencer asked if he knew the missing woman. He cocked his head and gave a quiet, ‘Maybe.’ The door was opened by a woman in her fifties, grey hair to her shoulders. She was in an old dressing gown and looked under the weather. Peering over thick-rimmed glasses, her bloodshot brown eyes shifted suspiciously from one to the other. ‘Police?’ she asked.
‘Detective Sergeant Cardilini and Detective Constable Spencer.’
‘Heard of you.’ She lifted her chin in Cardilini’s direction.
Cardilini told her that they were following up on a missing person report concerning Bridget Law made by a Nancy O’Neil of this address in 1963.
The woman stepped from her doorway and pushed her glasses up, then scrutinised their features closely. ‘Bridget?’ They nodded and she pulled her chin into her neck and huffed. ‘Are you joking? Two years ago? The officer said you were all busy, but two years, this is crazy.’ Her incredulous gaze went from face to face to see if they saw the ridiculousness of the situation. ‘Are you really Cardilini?’ When Cardilini held out his badge, she stepped back and returned her glasses to the end of her nose. ‘Okay,’ she said with a shake of her head, ‘what do you want?’
‘Has Bridget been in touch with you?’ Spencer asked.
The woman sighed. ‘Has she turned up somewhere?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Is she dead?’
‘We don’t know where she is,’ Spencer said.
‘Did you ever even look for her? You didn’t care. You were probably pleased – one less girl to worry about. You coppers are jokes.’
‘You’re Nancy O’Neil?’ Cardilini asked.
‘It’s my address, isn’t it?’
When Cardilini explained that a number of the missing persons’ addresses were non-existent, Nancy replied, ‘And why do you think that is?’
Spencer shrugged.
Nancy explained as if to a five-year-old, ‘The ones who made those reports were other working girls concerned about a friend. They wanted you to be concerned also, but they didn’t want to be harassed. Once you get home addresses you mob turn up expecting a free ride. Why are you asking after Bridget now?’
‘We have photos of three unidentified deceased women,’ Spencer said.
Nancy shook her head, as if she’d expected something like that. ‘Come in, then.’ She turned and walked down the hallway. ‘Close the door after you.’
Cardilini and Spencer entered, followed Nancy into the kitchen and sat down at a washed raw wooden table. Nancy put the kettle on and said she wouldn’t be looking at any photos until she had a cup of tea. She dabbed at her eyes as she fussed about with the cups and saucers. Once organised, she asked to see the photos.
Spencer pulled the three photos out and placed the 1963 headshot on the table. The face was calm with no sign of the trauma her body had endured.
‘Oh my God, that’s her.’ Nancy grimaced.
‘We’re sorry to do this to you,’ Spencer said.
Nancy stood and wiped her eyes on a hanky from the pocket of her gown. ‘Why? After so long?’ Cardilini frowned and looked away. She turned to Spencer, who could only shake her head slowly. Nancy picked up the teapot and poured three cups. ‘Oh dear,’ she sighed.
‘What is it?’ Spencer asked.
‘Bridget lived here,’ she said. ‘I sat with her at this table many times. Drinking tea.’ She looked steadily at Spencer. ‘Was she hurt?’
Spencer looked to Cardilini. Nancy followed her gaze.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Oh my God. December?’
‘We think so, yes.’
‘Do you have who did it?’ Nancy looked from one to the other until Cardilini shook his head. ‘Why not? Oh, I get it, she wasn’t identified at the time, even though I reported her missing.’
‘Yes, I can’t explain that,’ Cardilini said.
‘I can.’ Nancy shook her head. ‘A husband or father didn’t report her missing, she didn’t have a family …’ She got up and went to the fridge.
‘Could you tell us a bit about her, please?’ Spencer asked.
Nancy slowly poured milk into each cup, then pushed one to Spencer and one to Cardilini. ‘Will it help find the person who killed her?’
‘Yes,’ replied Cardilini.
Nancy sighed heavily. ‘This is for Bridget. Personally, I don’t trust you people at all. The first time I met her she was sleeping on my front porch under a painter’s tarpaulin. She said she had followed me home and hoped I didn’t mind if she slept there because she was being beaten at her house.’
‘By her husband?’ Spencer asked.
‘What does it matter? They’re all pigs. So I let her stay the night. Not inside. I didn’t know her then. She was asleep when I looked out in the morning. I invited her in for a cuppa. I said if things didn’t turn out she could sleep here again. I really didn’t think that would happen.’
‘Was Bridget Law her real name?’ Cardilini asked.
‘Yes. She had no need to make up a name then. A few nights later, she turned up again. It was late, a noise must have woken me and I heard the tarp being moved. In the morning, same thing, I invited her in for a cuppa and I made some eggs. She didn’t have a bank account and was too scared to go back to where her belongings were. A very fragile, pretty woman. She wasn’t married. She’d run away with this bastard; they were from Melbourne, she often talked about St Kilda. She had a younger brother and sister and would cry, telling me how much she missed them. Her father had said he never wanted to see her again and that she was never to contact the family. The bastard that stole her away and beat her lived in Mount Lawley but she didn’t want to go to the police as she felt she had caused her family enough pain. I told her the police wouldn’t help anyway. Her fella was a baker. He went off to work in the early mornings, drank the rest of the day, then came home to rape and beat her before falling asleep. She was a prisoner. This beautiful, trusting, silly girl. I let her stay here. During the day I went to work. I work at Boans – should be there now but I’m too sick. Lucky for you I suppose. She was looking for work, she met some “friends" who were also looking for work. She got a job in a clothing factory, sweeping the floor. But she was too pretty for her own good. The cockroach that owned the place couldn’t keep his hands off her. I told her to leave. She would go out with her friends to a few clubs, protected by the police. Probably still are. Right, Cardilini?’
Cardilini nodded at the possibility.
‘You know your mates have Jennifer Clancy?’
‘Yes. She’s helping them with an investigation.’
‘Or they’re going to pin a crime on her if a decent lead doesn’t turn up. You heard of that trick, Detective Spencer?’
Spencer shook her head. Nancy stared at her, disbelieving. ‘So she went to the clubs. I told her she shouldn’t but she was … she was very young. Attracted the worst type, I thought. I said she was pretty; she had this thing about her – do you know the actress Susannah York?’
Cardilini and Spencer nodded.
‘Looked just like her.’ Nancy shook her head again. ‘She said she had a job. Anyway, she had some money and bought clothes and had her hair done and dressed up like that actress. She did impersonations, she said. But I never really believed her. She’d believe the world was flat if the right person told her, you know what I mean? She was here maybe a month all up but she came by regularly; often with a man, not always the same one but always in a car; the men never got out of the car, never looked in my direction; she would only be a few minutes, fluffing in front of the mirror then rushing off. I got the feeling she was just showing off. It wasn’t hard to figure out what happened to her.’
‘Can you tell us the exact dates she stayed here?’ Cardilini asked.
‘From October to November 1963.’
‘Why did you report her missing?’
‘One of the girls who had a spot in William Street asked me in November if I’d seen Bridget. She was worried that she’d disappeared and no one was talking about it.’
‘What did she mean by that?’ Spencer asked.
‘She meant that something happened to her but no one was going to talk about it in case it happened to them.’
‘What sort of thing?’ Spencer asked.
‘I don’t know, but I knew it wasn’t good, so I went to the police. And now, two years later, you’re asking me questions.’
‘Can you remember who you spoke to at the police station?’ Spencer asked.
‘Yes, I’ve good reason to remember, it was Detective Hardy,’ Nancy said, eyeing Cardilini.
Cardilini exchanged a look with Spencer. ‘So. These men you saw her with, do you know who they were?’
‘No. They were just men with money who liked what they saw. And there’s no point asking me about their cars.’
The Final Cut Page 16