The Final Cut

by Robert Jeffreys

  ‘They cut it down. Why?’ Spencer whispered, awestruck.

  Cardilini couldn’t speak; the shimmering of the leaves consumed his thoughts. It was as if the tree was rippling in fear and astonishment at its own mortality. The sun had deserted it, its life had flown away, only the ghost of its memory remained.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said hoarsely. He walked over to the closest workman and asked what was going on.

  ‘Tree was blocking the view of the city from the café,’ came the reply.

  Cardilini blinked a few times, nodded, and then walked back to Spencer. ‘It was blocking a view,’ he told her absently.

  ‘Blocking a view?’

  The prostrate trunk, two-thirds the height of the workman, lay immobile. The bright orange wood was cruelly exposed: terminal, without any hope of recovery. It was a state Cardilini understood well. An unsettling feeling – a feeling he would have previously drowned in beer – now created an urgency within him, an urgency to get things right again, get himself right again. As he tore his eyes from the tree he saw a fleeting image of a woman in her sixties wiping away tears. Her familiar, warm brown eyes held his. Cardilini’s throat constricted.

  ‘Cardilini?’ came a male voice. The vision of the woman vanished. He and Spencer turned around: a wizened man stood before them, his face tanned and heavily lined, his grey hair sparse, his blue eyes suspicious.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Tuesday, 30 November 1965

  5.15 p.m.

  ‘Right. No names, no pack drills,’ the man said, turning and walking towards the semi-circle bench of the Eternal Flame. He sat and smiled at Cardilini and Spencer, who’d followed him. ‘Knees are buggered.’

  ‘You worked for Abraham?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘Were you expecting anyone else?’

  ‘No, it’s just …’

  ‘That’s all right, love. I don’t often get to talk to a pretty girl.’ He turned to Cardilini. ‘And you’re with her all day, you lucky bastard. I bet you don’t even know, do you?’

  ‘Know what?’ Cardilini asked.

  The man gave a short laugh. ‘I lost my wife to cancer before I realised what I had. I was a bloody idiot. I’m good after the case but not enough brains to figure it out beforehand, that’s me. Right, enough of that sentimentality.’ His blue eyes darted between them. ‘Come on, then, I haven’t all day. In fact,’ he said, nodding, ‘I have, but I’m not telling you lot that.’

  ‘How do we know you’re telling us the truth?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘I’ve sworn to my wife I would put a few things right.’ He looked to Spencer. ‘I did things she wouldn’t have liked.’

  ‘Like what?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘We brought all sorts of things through the docks, things you coppers had no idea of, and you still have no idea of. And once I tell you, my life is biscuits. I’m a dead man.’ He winked. ‘A beautiful woman, my wife. Couldn’t speak the language when she came out here. Straight from Europe, straight from some godforsaken camp. We thought the Abrahams were gods back then, we didn’t question the demands they made, never questioned the jewellery that they held in trust – supposedly to help offset their borrowing costs, jewellery on top of the fees they charged – but these weren’t regular people, these were people whose lives were in danger. A lot of hatred over there in Europe, a lot of retribution. The wife wanted to see her mother’s jewellery before she died. The Abrahams kept putting me off, she kept begging for it, just to hold it, so she could find her mother again. I’d go back again and again – they told me the jewellery was in transit, then the bank wasn’t releasing it. I believed them until a girl in the office took pity and said the staff had been told to make up any story.’ He shook his head in shame. ‘I couldn’t tell my wife that.’

  He stood up sharply, then sat back down again.

  ‘I should have known the Abrahams were bloody heartless bastards when the passengers were all young women. Young women who disappeared in a day and were never spoken of again. And men. Some said they were Germans escaping. We brought in guns and drugs. And I thought I was special, being one of the men, the men that could be trusted. Bloody fool. You aren’t the first coppers I’ve told.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘They didn’t want to hear. I could see their faces change from smug copper to frightened little boys. They didn’t want this hot potato. Next thing, I get a knock on the door from the federal police in suits, like bloody undertakers, wouldn’t even sit in my wife’s kitchen, too high and mighty. They told me to shut up about the Abrahams. They told me the Abrahams were a significant link in the fight against international crime. Hah. Bloody Abrahams were international crime. “What about the drugs and the girls?" I screamed at them. I was being a bloody idiot. They said my wife’s death had unsettled me. I grabbed the carving knife; well, didn’t their faces change? A couple of overweight rabbits wobbling as they hightailed it down the corridor. I chased them to their car; I stood there, screaming what worthless pieces of shit they were. Sorry, love.’ He cocked his head apologetically to Spencer. ‘I figured it was time to get away for a while. I went into hiding. I go past the house on occasion. We had no children; she couldn’t, she’d been damaged.’ He looked to the sky, swore an oath, then fiercely wiped at his eyes.

  ‘I spotted her coming down the gangplank and a voice in my head said, look after her, and I did – I took her home that day. I must have looked serious because when I marched up to old man Abraham and said I was going to look after her, he looked back at me, then at Ruth, and gave a slight nod. I walked away with her that day. For a long time, she wouldn’t leave the house, she just stayed in her room. I told her she always had a home here but it was her life. No one could understand I could live in a house with Ruth and leave her be. Anyway, I did, until I asked her to marry me. I knew from the start I would ask her one day, and I did. We got married. She wanted children. We went to every doctor. Even flew to Sydney. You married?’ he asked Spencer. Spencer shook her head. The man nodded.

  ‘Tell us how the Abrahams operate,’ Cardilini said.

  ‘Can I take notes?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘Sure, sure.’ He crossed his arms, looking out at the view. ‘The Abrahams are very close-knit. They do favours for the high and mighty. You wouldn’t believe who we’d see come around, lording it over us. But the Abrahams take them all for fools.’

  ‘Like who?’ Cardilini asked.

  The question made the man look tired. ‘We’re here about the Abrahams, you get those bastards first.’

  ‘How do you know the women were illegal?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘No papers. Ruth had no papers. They had to be made up. Same as the others.’

  ‘Men?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘German?’

  ‘Yep. So I heard. They didn’t bother to introduce them to me, though.’ Again he winked at Spencer.

  ‘And this is still happening?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not for years. Just people getting out of Europe in ’44, ’45.’ He turned to Cardilini. ‘You remember what it was like.’ Cardilini nodded. ‘Now it’s packages: cigarettes, alcohol and drugs. The instant they made heroin illegal, the stuff started pouring in. You had to think that Abraham orchestrated the whole thing; you know, pressured the government to make it illegal. He had a whole network set up. As soon as it was illegal the price rose tenfold. Tell me there wasn’t some big hitters behind that.’

  ‘What about his grandson, Daniel?’ Spencer asked.

  The man shook his head and looked to the sky. ‘It’s going to get dark soon.’

  ‘Is he involved in that part of the business?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘I have to think about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He got word to me he would look after me if I laid low for a while.’

  ‘You’re not making a mistake in trusting
him, are you?’ Spencer asked. But the man wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  ‘You said Germans came in after the war?’ Cardilini asked. ‘The connection, Germans and Jews? How does that happen?’

  ‘The Abrahams were in shipping well before the war. They had German clients. There were plenty of wealthy Germans around before and during Hitler’s time. Shipping was a big part of the war build-up, a big part. It’s business. Wars come and go but at the end of the day business survives. That’s what we used to say; through all the protests, all the marches, we knew who would be around at the end of it all. It’s very tight at the top. One of them …’ he started then shook his head.

  ‘One of whom?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘One of the Germans,’ he whispered.

  Cardilini waited a moment, then asked casually, ‘Do you know his name?’

  The man seemed distracted.

  ‘Can you describe him?’ Spencer asked.

  The old man grimaced and reluctantly replied. ‘Tall. Face like a butcher’s dog.’ He indicated vertical lines on his face. ‘Mean. Lined with mean. He looked right through you.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘No one asked questions when we worked for them. We trusted men, prided ourselves on it. Bloody idiots.’

  ‘Hair?’ Spencer asked.

  ‘A bit. Dark.’

  ‘Eyes?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Colour?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Not black.’

  ‘Who picks up the packages customs don’t get to see?’ Spencer moved them on.

  ‘Variety.’

  ‘Could you identify any of them?’

  ‘You know who’s selling drugs in the town. You figure it out. I haven’t got a beef with those boys.’

  ‘And the grandson, Daniel Abraham, is aware of all this?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Right, I mucked up me life, didn’t know what I had when I had it, not a good mistake to make.’ He looked up at Spencer and asked, ‘Did you see the tree go down?’

  Spencer nodded that she had.

  ‘How can we contact you?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘Through Ryan. Only copper at Fremantle I trust. Going now. I’ll see if you try and follow me. In fact, I’d like you to go back to the memorial and wait ten minutes.’ He stood, Cardilini and Spencer stood and they said their goodbyes.

  ‘Did you believe him?’ Spencer asked. ‘I think he was just looking for a bit of attention. All this sneaking around.’

  ‘Do you really think that?’

  Spencer thought for a moment. ‘No. But it’s what I expected you to say.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Wednesday, 1 December 1965

  8 a.m.

  The detectives – minus Spencer – gathered around Spry and Archer’s desk. Spry explained they had traced Jennifer Clancy’s movements the night Hardy was killed. They received confirmation that Hardy wasn’t seen in the area or at any nightspots where he usually drank. And witnesses backed up Clancy’s story: she had a client at 9 p.m., as seen by a grog shop owner below. The man didn’t see the client leave, but provided a description. She was then seen on James Street around 9.30 p.m. and she shared a meal with another female tenant in the block around 10 p.m. The woman confirmed she spent the night in Clancy’s flat, as she had on other occasions. Cardilini and Archer had contacted Hardy’s previous partners and discussed certain cases and criminals Hardy had helped put away. A list resulted, but no likely killer. In fact, Hardy hadn’t caught anyone they thought capable of planning and executing a murder. The three detectives parted gloomily.

  ***

  Cardilini meanwhile had obtained the flight manifests of all international flights into Perth in the last week. The list included four passengers of whom two identified as German, one as Swiss, and one as Jewish. He rewrote the names on a clean sheet of paper. He then carefully placed it in his filing cabinet. He was determined this was going to be done by the book. He picked up the phone and called downstairs.

  ‘Mrs Andreoli, it’s Cardilini.’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Andreoli answered.

  ‘Please, I just need her for a little while.’

  ‘What for?’

  Cardilini thought for a moment. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘It better be important.’

  ‘You know it is.’

  ‘I’ll send her up. You be nice to her and don’t growl.’

  Cardilini hung up when the phone went dead. Growl? He couldn’t remember doing that.

  A few minutes later, Rosie tapped on the door and walked in, a cup dangling from her fingers.

  ‘Rosie, do I growl at you?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘You growl at everyone,’ she said with a knowing smile.

  ‘At Spencer?’

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘That’s not growling.’

  Rosie rolled her eyes. ‘What do you need?’

  Cardilini pushed over the list of four names. ‘When you and Spencer went through the file on the missing girls did any of these names come up?’

  ‘I don’t know but I can look again. Where’s Lorraine?’

  ‘Not in yet.’

  Rosie looked at her watch and raised her eyebrows. ‘You get a pot of tea, I’ll get the files.’

  ***

  Twenty minutes later Cardilini was on the phone to McBride. He read out the four names.

  ‘Sorry, Cardilini, they mean nothing to me,’ McBride said. ‘The officers and soldiers involved in the massacres were captured. They went on trial in the ’50s.’

  ‘Were all of them captured?’

  ‘Well, obviously I don’t think so now. Or I wouldn’t be saying that the photos of the injuries our dead women suffered are the same as the ones I saw in France.’

  ‘No, okay.’

  ‘Can you get photos of the men on that list?’ McBride asked.

  ‘Would it help?’

  ‘Maybe. A number of officers were captured at the time, though no one knew they’d been at Oradour-sur-Glane. They were real arrogant bastards and demanded separate quarters from the enlisted men. At one point they were in a line-up for identification by one of the French villagers. The line-up was conducted in the town square and the bastards stood smoking with utter disdain for the proceedings. I was with some Australians and we were in a café, watching. The American officer in charge ordered the Germans’ cigarettes be taken from them. When the French civilian came out to identify them, the Germans turned their backs, chatting among themselves. The Yank lost his temper and sent some of his soldiers in to bring them into line. These boys must have been feeling what the rest of us were because they struck the officers with the butt of their rifles until they were all quietly standing, facing the front. An officer still wanting to hold the upper hand protested in English. One of the privates sent the butt of his rifle into the back of his knees, dropping him screaming. The soldier got a balling out by the Yank in charge but we all applauded. Anyway, I have a special reason for remembering faces; one of them was probably the one who had been just ahead of us, leaving mutilated women behind.’

  ‘The flight manifests have the passport numbers, I’ll see what I can do.’ Cardilini hung up the phone and looked to Rosie sheepishly. ‘Find anything?’

  ‘No. The women weren’t gagged?’

  ‘That’s what we think.’

  ‘That level of violence couldn’t happen in a built-up area without neighbours complaining and ringing the police.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The way the women were secured by the ankles and wrists is quite specific. He must have used a rack of some sort. Probably the same one for each woman.’

  ‘That’s what we’re thinking.’

  ‘So they must have been at the same property each time.’ R
osie shifted in her seat to face Cardilini. ‘Would the property be rented or owned?’ Cardilini shrugged. ‘I spent a few days at the Midland Land Titles office last year. Very nice people out there. If one of these names comes up associated with a country property it would be worth the search.’

  ‘Could you do that?’ Cardilini asked eagerly.

  ‘If you talk sweetly to Mrs Andreoli. Actually, no, that could be worse. Just don’t growl.’

  ‘Okay. Let me add a couple of names.’ Cardilini reached for his list and added Abraham and Kopecki. ‘Thanks, Rosie.’

  ‘If I’m allowed to go, could you organise a lift for me? Maybe see if Constable Salt is available?’ She left, smiling, the file in one hand and her cup dangling from her fingers in the other. Cardilini couldn’t understand how such a smart girl would be setting her sights on a copper. But he immediately checked himself and silently apologised to Betty. He picked up the phone and called downstairs again. Mrs Andreoli was adamant Rosie couldn’t leave today, but tomorrow morning might be possible.

  He then rang the duty sergeant. ‘It’s Cardilini. Is Salt partnered up yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s the problem with him?’

  ‘Everyone heard he was reporting to Robinson when working with you. Don’t trust him. But he’ll be off to university soon.’

  ‘Can he drive Rosie O’Connor to Midland tomorrow?’

  ‘Are you playing cupid, Cardilini?’ the duty sergeant asked.

  Cardilini hung up and pulled a Teledex towards him. He flicked through until he found what he was looking for, then dialled the number for the Department of Customs and Border Protection. He asked to speak to Agent Flavour.

  ‘Cardilini,’ said the familiar voice of the ex-policeman. Cardilini gave the names and passport numbers to his ex-colleague and asked for anything he could provide concerning them, particularly a photo.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Wednesday, 1 December 1965

  10 a.m.

  Daniel Abraham sat in a large brown leather armchair in the lounge bar of the Palace Hotel. Seated opposite him, a tall, slim man by the name of Ricker was dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and grey tie. His grey hair was cropped short, his slightly tanned face deeply lined, seemingly cast and unmovable, the only noticeable ‘live’ features were his piercing blue eyes.