Man at the Window

by Robert Jeffreys

‘Did he enjoy his time at St Nicholas College?’

  ‘Yes. Very much. He was a prefect. He was captain of the first eleven. He won two state schoolboys marksman trophies.’

  ‘What did he want to do before being conscripted?’ Cardilini asked, as he formed a picture of the boy arriving home in his school uniform, telling his parents he had been elected prefect, bright shiny faces greeting him, loving him. Could he pull a trigger and kill a man?

  ‘He wanted to do law but didn’t get the grades. He might have been a policeman. Standing up for his mates was very important to him,’ Mrs Williamson said with a tinge of regret in her voice.

  ‘It seems a St Nicholas trait.’

  ‘The last principal was a wonderful man, the boys adored him.’

  ‘When did Braun arrive?’

  ‘Bradley was in the fourth form, so four years ago. Sure you don’t want that cup of tea?’

  ‘And Captain Edmund?’

  ‘Same time. Both Victorians. A lot of us couldn’t understand why we were getting a Victorian principal. It didn’t seem right.’ She looked up to Cardilini with a quizzical expression, ‘He wasn’t a St Nicholas old boy.’

  Cardilini looked into her eyes and saw Betty’s. He often tried to fight the compulsion, mainly with alcohol, but sober, something in his chest wanted to reach out to total strangers. Mrs Williamson waited on his reply while viewing him curiously.

  ‘I must go,’ Cardilini said.

  ‘Please,’ Mrs Williamson grabbed his arm, ‘You’re not telling me something. Can you keep him from going back to Vietnam?’

  Cardilini saw the desperation in her eyes and felt the firm grip on his forearm.

  ‘How does your husband feel about Bradley going to Vietnam?’

  ‘He’s a man. What can he say? He supports Bradley. I used to, but I can’t anymore. He’s our only child. My only child. My son. Can you understand?’

  ‘I have a son, Paul. He’s eighteen.’

  ‘Bradley’s nineteen.’

  ‘Paul missed the call up. He’s our only child.’

  ‘Ask your wife how she feels and listen to her. She’ll know better than any man that it’s madness that sends them.’

  Cardilini turned and looked to the car. He wanted to be in it and driving away.

  ‘I can’t, she died.’

  ‘Oh. I’m so sorry.’ She let her hand fall helplessly from Cardilini’s arm. ‘I know Bradley and his mates play up a lot. Is that why you want to see him?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing really. I’ll go to the Swanbourne Barracks.’

  ‘Yes. Very well. He’s a very good boy. He’d never do anything wrong.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Cardilini said and walked to the car.

  ***

  ‘Did you get a call-up, Salt?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What do you think about our boys going to fight in Vietnam?’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it,’ Salt replied.

  ‘I bet you have. Would you have gone?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Happily?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How did your parents feel about it?’

  ‘I don’t think they said,’ Salt said looking ahead.

  ‘What does your father do?’

  ‘A farmer.’

  ‘What does he think about you being a plodder?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘He’s not happy.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He thinks it’s too dangerous.’

  ***

  Salt slowed the car at the boom gate of the Swanbourne Barracks. A corporal walked to Salt’s window.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Cardilini to see the Duty Officer.’

  The corporal walked back to his booth, made a phone call, then stepped out and put his weight on the boom gate to raise it. Salt drove through.

  Twenty-two

  Day 5

  Swanbourne Barracks

  12.15 p.m. Thursday, 29th October 1965

  A sergeant stood lean and upright on the verandah of a bungalow watching Salt park the car. The sergeant’s green uniform was ironed to shininess, his boots were mirror-black, and the brass on his buckle and gaiters shone like gold. His face was clamped as if hiding the distaste of a recent acidic meal. He watched Cardilini lumber from the vehicle and approach him, followed by Salt.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Cardilini,’ Cardilini announced.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Constable Salt,’ Cardilini added.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are?’ Cardilini widened his eyes, ‘Notes, Salt, notes,’ he snapped his fingers at Salt.

  ‘Sergeant Fowler.’

  ‘Sergeant Fowler, I was wanting to speak to Bradley Williamson,’ Cardilini asked over-politely.

  ‘Private Williamson? That won’t be possible.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Private Williamson is not available.’

  ‘When will he be available?’

  ‘There’s no way of determining that.’ The sergeant and Cardilini faced each other until Cardilini stepped into the shade of the verandah.

  ‘And you expect me to turn around and go at this point?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘I’m not. Pass that up your chain of command.’

  ‘It won’t make any difference.’

  ‘Let’s try it, shall we?’

  The sergeant stood, the distaste in his mouth clamping his face further.

  ‘If you would like to follow me.’ He turned and walked through the front door of the bungalow.

  Bare timber floorboards and walls covered in lime-green paint greeted them. A desk was strategically placed in front of the only adjoining door. Facing the desk were six rattan chairs with their backs to the wall.

  ‘Take a seat, gentlemen,’ the sergeant said and he walked to the chair behind the desk and sat.

  Cardilini looked at the chairs’ uniformly small bases with torturous arched-cane backing.

  ‘Will we be waiting long?’ he asked.

  ‘Difficult to say.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘It’s not up to me to say.’

  ‘What’s not up to you to say?’

  ‘How long you’ll be waiting.’

  ‘Who’s it up to?’

  ‘The captain.’

  ‘Where’s he?’

  The sergeant looked back mutely.

  ‘In there?’ Cardilini headed towards the door behind the desk. The sergeant stood and stepped in front of him.

  ‘Back off. Go to your chair,’ he ordered.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Back off.’ The sergeant braced himself.

  Cardilini tried to sidestep but the sergeant matched him, swiftly blocking Cardilini’s way

  ‘Very well, tell your boss I’m here,’ Cardilini said, stepping back.

  ‘He’s already aware of that.’

  ‘Why are we waiting then?’ Cardilini barked.

  ‘This is the army, sir. We don’t schedule time for impromptu visits from civilians. Surprising as that may seem.’

  ‘All right. Let’s stop crapping around,’ Cardilini threatened.

  The sergeant looked back firmly.

  Cardilini called to the door behind the sergeant, ‘Captain, I know you’re in there this is a police investigation. You have a minute to comply with an official request or I’ll leave and you can talk to your superiors about it.’

  The sergeant took a step forward.

  ‘Salt, if this man tries to interfere cuff him immediately.’

  The sergeant turned a hostile gaze to Salt.

  ‘With pleasure, sir,’ Salt replied.

  Cardilini turned to Salt in surprise.

&n
bsp; ‘Still waters, Sergeant, be careful,’ he said, indicating Salt.

  The adjoining door opened.

  ‘What’s going on here, Sergeant?’ demanded a red face thrusting from a tight-fitting uniform.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Cardilini and Constable Salt, sir,’ the sergeant snapped out.

  ‘Not prepared to wait your turn, Detective Sergeant Cardilini?’

  ‘Not prepared to be stuffed around, Captain.’

  ‘Sergeant. Why are they here?’

  ‘To interview a Private Williamson.’

  ‘Did the sergeant tell you that won’t be possible?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘So. Explain why you’re still here.’

  ‘What’s to explain? I want to see him,’ Cardilini insisted.

  ‘What part of, “It’s not possible”, are you having trouble with?’

  ‘I know he’s here.’

  ‘Yes. He’s here.’

  ‘Let me see him,’ Cardilini demanded.

  ‘Private Williamson is currently involved in a specific training program involving thirty other troops. This program will be in place until they are shipped to Vietnam. Where, I’m sure even you know, we are fighting a war. How does your enquiry match up to that?’

  ‘While he’s in Australia you know we have the authority to speak to him on legitimate police business.’

  ‘You’re a Western Australian policeman, correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve been polite to this point. This base is under Commonwealth jurisdiction. You’re not a federal policeman. No one is compelled to answer your questions. Take your complaint to the federal police where I’m sure they will put all their resources at your disposal to solve, what, a urinating in public charge? Try to get some perspective, Detective Sergeant Cardilini.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll wait until he leaves the base,’ Cardilini said.

  The captain shook his head in disgust, ‘You have a minute to get off the base or I’ll have you escorted off. And, just for my pleasure, please try to resist the men I send to help you on your way.’ He disappeared through the door.

  The sergeant smiled broadly as he picked up the phone, ‘Send Smith and Jolly to the captain’s office,’ and as he hung up, ‘hand-to-hand combat trainers,’ he said, smiling at Cardilini and Salt.

  Cardilini turned to Salt and nodded for them to go.

  ‘It would be a pleasure to have a drink with you off the base sometime, Sergeant. Pass that on to your captain too.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m sure he’ll be interested.’ The sergeant looked at his watch.

  The corporal leant on the gate without lifting it, smiling at Cardilini and Salt waiting in the car. Two thickset men jogged towards them. One went to Salt’s side, the other to Cardilini’s and pushed their pulpy faces close to the windows. The corporal held the gate a little longer and then pushed it open. Salt drove through.

  ‘That went well,’ Cardilini said to an unresponsive Salt. ‘Were you aware it was Commonwealth property?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Williamson will have to go and see his family at some point. We’ll catch him then.’

  ‘You haven’t told me why you are wanting to speak to Private Williamson, sir’

  ‘He’s an exceptional marksman that was at St Nicholas a few years back.’

  Salt sighed and increased his concentration on his driving.

  ‘Wild-goose chase. You think?’

  Salt added another level of concentration to his meticulous driving.

  ‘It’s a question. I expect your answer,’ Cardilini said.

  ‘I don’t even believe there are wild geese, sir. I think you’re inventing them.’

  Cardilini watched the passing houses.

  ‘Drop me at home,’ he said.

  Claremont

  3.50 p.m. Thursday, 29th October 1965

  Mrs Lockheed answered the door. ‘I thought I’d see you again.’

  Cardilini followed her down the passageway to the kitchen. Boxes still cluttered every space.

  ‘You want to know why I changed my story?’ She said as she sat and gestured Cardilini to take a chair.

  Cardilini watched her. She had a faint smile about her mouth as she slowly moved a strand of hair from her eyes.

  ‘No. I want to know why you sent Carmody to tell me that.’ Cardilini sat.

  ‘I didn’t send him. He’s a law unto himself.’

  ‘Why’s he so keen to convince me it was an accidental shooting?’

  ‘Ask him. But since you’re asking me, perhaps he’s thinking the same as you, that it mightn’t be an accident.’

  ‘So it’s all to save the school’s reputation?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied quickly.

  ‘You weren’t thinking of the school’s reputation when you fought for your boy.’

  Mrs Lockheed struggled for control. ‘What lengths would you go to protect your boy, Detective Cardilini?’

  Cardilini reflected on his behaviour through Paul’s troubles. ‘I’m not a good father. If that’s what you want to know.’

  ‘It’s not what I asked. I assume you wouldn’t do a lot to protect him.’

  ‘Let’s go with that.’

  ‘Just like my husband. Did your wife say anything to you?’

  Cardilini turned his head to the side as if avoiding a glancing blow then asked, ‘Do you still believe John?’

  ‘What did Carmody say to you?’

  ‘That John was lying and you knew he was.’

  ‘Carmody stood by John at every stage of this tragedy. He was a better man than John’s father.’

  Cardilini understood, and a better father than you, was implied.

  ‘Did you try to find out about the boys who died?’ She asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Mrs Lockheed shook her head ever so slightly. ‘The establishment wouldn’t approve.’

  ‘It’s not always like that,’ Cardilini said but wondered when it wasn’t.

  ‘Not even the Masters’ boy?’ she asked.

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘That was suicide. His parents found him. He’d hanged himself from the back verandah,’ she said, nervously brushing her throat with her fingertips.

  ‘Do you think there’s a connection between Edmund, the cadets, and these deaths?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘I pray there isn’t.’

  ‘John?’ Cardilini questioned gently.

  She stood up and took a deep breath. ‘Suicide isn’t the “done thing”, didn’t you know?’ She looked back nervously. She held her face firm but her eyes seemed to shudder.

  ‘Carmody asked what I thought about the execution of multi-murderer, Eric Cooke,’ Cardilini said.

  Mrs Lockheed steadily met his gaze.

  ‘Was Captain Edmund’s death an execution?’ Cardilini thought he saw Mrs Lockheed fight a smile. His eyes moved rapidly between her mouth and eyes. He sat back and ran a hand unconsciously through his thinning hair.

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculously fanciful,’ Mrs Lockheed finally said and started walking to the front door.

  Cardilini followed.

  Twenty-three

  Day 2

  St Nicholas College

  1.21 a.m. Monday, 26th October 1965

  The boy crouched in his spot looking across to the armoury door when the sliver of light disappeared. He strained his eyes, willed himself to see in the darkness; a darker hole appeared, a doorway, blacker against the black. He stopped breathing, he imagined his heart thumping his ribs apart and throwing itself at the mercy of who he might see. Nothing. Then movement, the blacker black disappeared, a dark shape, a head, appeared at the corner of the armoury, then a body, then another; the light before t
hem, tall dark shapes moving away. He ran across the space and crouched at the corner of the armoury looking out at the figures not ten yards away. They stopped, one turned and he saw the features. It was him. The boy lifted his head in the light as if to say, ‘See me’.

  ‘I see you. Go back to your dorm the way you came. After breakfast report to me in the sixth form common room. Tell no one.’ The figure turned and started walking away.

  ‘Who was that?’ his companion asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘What do you think he saw?’

  ‘Later.’

  They stayed in the shadows of the gum trees as they walked to the dorms.

  He knows me. He knows me. How? The boy sat in a trance. Does he know what Captain Edmund did to me? Fear seized the boy; he trembled wildly against the bricks, pushing his body at them, harder and harder, feeling the building trembling with him. He saw the shadow of the building shaking, he saw the roof shaking. He ran to the grass and vomited. He was helpless in the grip of the clenching fist encircling his stomach, squeezing him again and again, like his father’s fist on a cow teat.

  Twenty-four

  Day 6

  St Georges Terrace

  1.54 p.m. Friday, 30th October 1965

  Cardilini hitched a lift with a patrol car to an office at Council House, St Georges Terrace. He’d skipped lunch. He’d learnt that suicides in the state were monitored at the coroner’s office and was now knocking on a door on the sixth floor identical to the fifteen doors he’d just passed.

  A plastic tag slipped into a purpose-built slide on the door read, ‘Dr Loretta Young’. Cardilini considered the temporary nature of these name tags compared to the gold-embossed names of the police hierarchy.

  ‘Come in.’

  He opened the door. Dr Young sat with her back to a view of Langley Park and the Swan River. She stood from behind her desk and walked forward, her black hair gently curling to her shoulders, eyes dark and skin fair. Her handshake was soft and warm. She had a trim figure and dressed smartly. Cardilini guessed she was in her early forties. He automatically checked his fly and poked some straying shirt back into his trousers as she returned to her desk.

  ‘What can I do for you, Detective Cardilini?’

  ‘Suicide.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Deaths by suicide at St Nicholas College in the last six years.’