‘Who was that lady?’ Paul asked.
‘It’s the mother of a boy who hanged himself this year.’
‘Jesus, Dad. Not so matter-of-fact,’ Paul rebuked looking towards the neighbour’s house.
‘Sorry.’ Cardilini stood waiting.
‘How old?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Jesus Christ. Nineteen! Why?’
Cardilini wandered over to Paul and stood by him watching the water fall on the soil. The water wasn’t penetrating the earth but beading and running off into little pools. ‘I think he might have been abused by a teacher,’ Cardilini said.
‘How?’
‘Sexually.’
‘Jesus, and you’re going to catch the teacher?’ Paul turned to look at his father.
‘Someone caught him.’
‘Good.’
‘They shot him.’
‘Jesus. So what’re you doing?’
‘Trying to find out who shot him.’ They both watched the water. ‘That water isn’t going in,’ Cardilini said. Paul looked at his dad for a moment and then went back to his watering. ‘What?’ Cardilini asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘You think he shouldn’t be caught?’ Cardilini asked.
‘I didn’t say that.’ Paul put his finger on the nozzle to spray the water.
‘But do you think that?’
‘No, but, what if the teacher did it again?’
‘He did, a number of times, causing two other possible suicides.’
‘Oh my god. Possible? Can you find out for sure?’
‘I was thinking I should. Just wasn’t looking forward to it,’ Cardilini replied.
‘But, if it’s your job?’
‘Yep.’
Cardilini was conscious of his son looking at him, conscious that the alcohol had given him a haggard look. He knew there were times Paul would turn away rather than look into his eyes. And he knew why, as he too had seen the beaten, lost look in them.
Paul said, ‘The water pooling like that used to happen for Mum too, but she used to do something about it.’
‘Do you remember what she did?’ Cardilini asked.
‘No.’
They stood watching the water pool.
‘I still might go to Aunty Roslyn’s,’ Paul said curtly without turning.
‘I know. I hope you don’t. But I know I’ve been worse than useless,’ Cardilini said and walked towards the house.
A church
6.30 p.m. Sunday, 1st November 1965
The place Mrs Masters had chosen for her meeting with Cardilini was a church. A bell tower soared square and solid beside its gabled roof. Cardilini walked around the side to the rectory as instructed. It was built in the same cream stone as the church yet still looked as though it clung to its side incongruously. Cardilini knocked on the door. A priest in his clerical clothing and collar opened it.
‘Detective Sergeant Cardilini?’
‘Yes.’
‘Father O’Reilly. Come in.’
The front door led into a parlour furnished with five mismatched armchairs, a small writing desk and an excessive number of standard lamps shedding pools of yellow light. Mrs Masters sat in one of the armchairs. The flesh on her face hung from her eyebrows as if too heavy or too beaten to stand firm. Thin shoulders arched forward, timid fingers moved continuously on a cup and saucer. Cardilini’s stomach sank.
‘Mrs Masters, Detective Sergeant Cardilini,’ Father O’Reilly said.
Cardilini nodded, as did Mrs Masters.
‘We’re having tea. Would you like a cup?’ Father O’Reilly broke the silence.
‘Yes, please,’ Cardilini said despite his stomach making every indication it would be unwise to drink anything. He sat beside Mrs Masters.
‘How do you do.’ He held out his hand. Mrs Masters left her cup alone for an instant to put her hand limply in his. He held it while he said, ‘I’m sorry for what you have suffered.’ She withdrew her hand and looked to Father O’Reilly.
‘Mr Masters isn’t aware of this meeting.’ Father O’Reilly said. Cardilini nodded.
‘He lost his faith,’ he said smiling at Mrs Masters then continued to Cardilini, ‘Mrs Lockheed spoke about your visit to her house and about your questions.’
Cardilini nodded, Mrs Masters kept her eyes on O’Reilly.
‘We’re hoping you might be able to help us understand why Geoffrey took his own life.’ O’Reilly finished.
Mrs Masters turned her attention to Cardilini.
‘What reasons did Geoffrey give for leaving the cadets?’ Cardilini asked her.
‘He was asked to leave,’ Mrs Masters said.
‘Why?’
‘Is this to do with Geoffrey taking his life?’ O’Reilly asked.
‘It could be.’
‘I don’t see how,’ O’Reilly said.
‘Mrs Masters, what did Geoffrey say to you?’
Mrs Masters turned to O’Reilly who answered for her, ‘We’re not sure that it is relevant. We believe some boys made up accusations.’
‘Did you believe your son, Mrs Masters?’ Cardilini asked ignoring O’Reilly.
O’Reilly persisted, ‘Detective Cardilini, Mrs Lockheed said you might have information to help us understand …’
‘In a moment. Did you believe your son, Mrs Masters?’
‘The school is in my parish. Captain Edmund was a member of this parish.’ O’Reilly inserted.
‘Mrs Masters.’
‘Yes.’ She looked at her cup.
‘Did your husband believe your son?’ Cardilini asked Mrs Masters.
‘I don’t know. He was angry with Geoffrey. I think he believed the principal,’ Mrs Masters said.
‘Had your husband attended the school as a student?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has Mrs Lockheed told you what her son, John, said,’ Cardilini asked slowly, ‘about the discipline inflicted by Edmund?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it similar to your boy’s account?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. No. No. Impossible!’ O’Reilly exclaimed.
‘Could it be true?’ Mrs Masters whispered.
‘No,’ O’Reilly insisted.
‘Prior to your son, two other boys died,’ Cardilini said.
‘From our school? The country boys?’ Mrs Masters asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Tragic accidents,’ O’Reilly asserted.
Looking directly at O’Reilly, Cardilini spelt it out. ‘The boys who spoke up are either lying or they’re telling the truth. As abhorrent as it maybe to you, Father O’Reilly, it can’t be ignored.’
‘No, it can’t be ignored. But can any good come of it now?’
‘There could be other boys. Revealing the truth could help them,’ Cardilini said turning his eyes to Mrs Masters. She looked up hopelessly.
O’Reilly walked away then turned and addressed Mrs Masters. ‘Geoffrey had left the school two years ago. Had he ever said anything else about his allegations?’
‘No, but he was never the same. He was never the same.’ She brought a handkerchief up to her eyes.
O’Reilly looked accusingly at Cardilini.
‘I will try to find out as much as I can, Mrs Masters, and I will keep you informed.’ Cardilini said. She accepted this with an upward look. Cardilini could see the woman was half- dead. He knew the instant she had died was the moment she saw her son hanging; it was still in her eyes. Cardilini felt he was looking at the image himself. Two half-people looking at each other. He swallowed the sorrow in his throat.
‘I’m so sorry you lost your wife,’ Mrs Masters said. Cardilini thanked her and turned the hollowness of his eyes towards the door. Mrs Masters grabbed at his hand, holding it for
a moment. When released, Cardilini walked to the front door and O’Reilly followed.
Outside, Cardilini put a cigarette into his mouth, lit it and inhaled deeply. O’Reilly did the same. They could hear Mrs Masters weeping. O’Reilly gently closed the front door.
‘It’s very fresh for her. I was sorry to hear about your wife, also,’ O’Reilly said. Cardilini exhaled. O’Reilly continued. ‘You’ve been a topic of conversation since your arrival at the school. The community around the school is very tight, very protective.’
‘So, who are you protecting?’ Cardilini asked without turning.
‘No one.’
‘You mightn’t think so but you’re possibly protecting a predator whose victims are only revealing their injuries in death. Have a think about that,’ Cardilini said and walked to his car.
‘What if you’re wrong?’ O’Reilly called after him. ‘A good man’s reputation.’
‘What if I’m right?’ Cardilini said and climbed into his car.
Twenty-eight
Day 9
Kilkenny Road
5.50 a.m. Monday, 2nd November 1965
On his front porch with a cup of tea in his hand, Cardilini appraised the work he and Paul had done. The front yard was beginning to reflect the hand of authority again. The rosebush branches peeked courteously above the fence palings, the dirt of the lawn area was now firmly contained and sodden. Every edge of footpath paving was weed-free and he had weeded and watered every garden bed. He wasn’t sure why he watered the bare soil but felt the better for it.
All the while the image of Mrs Master’s face inserted itself between him and what he was working on. Her sorrow was so raw, so all-consuming and so familiar. He sighed heavily. Was it possible the Masters’ boy committed suicide for reasons independent of Edmund? He didn’t know if he was chasing a killer or the truth, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to catch either.
At 8.45 Cardilini made a call. ‘Mrs Pass, this is Detective Sergeant Cardilini.’
‘Yes?’
‘Hi. I was just wondering if you had a look at those files you gave me?’
‘No,’ she replied crisply.
‘The coroner only confirmed suicide in one case.’
‘The boy who hanged himself?’ she enquired, all business.
‘Yes. In your experience of dealing with the records, are the others suicide?’
‘I would have to re-read them. If the coroner isn’t one hundred per cent convinced he’ll always say “Death by Misadventure”, “Accidental”. However, he’s careful in his wording. He’ll indicate the probability of suicide without stating such. He’s hopeful that someday the number of our young men dying will be investigated.’
‘Could you have a look at those files?’
‘Those three?’
‘Yes.’
‘Possibly. Why?’
‘I’ve lost objectivity,’ Cardilini confessed.
‘Easy to do.’
‘Could you?’ Cardilini asked and waited.
‘There’s a teashop half-way up London Court called The Bell. I’ll be there at ten-thirty.’ Mrs Pass said.
‘Thanks. So will I.’ Cardilini hung up and stood looking at the phone. Mrs Pass puzzled him.
London Court
10.30 a.m. Monday, 2nd November 1965
City workers and shoppers walked the pavement. So many faces in thought. Cardilini imagined what each one’s expressions concealed: loved ones, sunny days, beaches, work, movies, family gatherings, or a nesting evil that could erupt at any moment. He tried to hunt it out in a face, a gesture, a tone, a posture. It was an occupational addiction. He saw Mrs Pass walking up from St Georges Terrace. She moved like the others, independent but inexplicably joined to everyone around her. Cardilini envied the innocence.
‘Detective Sergeant Cardilini.’ Mrs Pass stood in front of him. Her face and her tone held the office composure. She had applied lipstick and brushed her hair making Cardilini wonder about how his own hair looked. He ran a casual hand over his chin to check if he had shaved: he had.
‘Mrs Pass. Lead the way.’
She turned without speaking and marched to a doorway. Tables suitable for four crammed the space in front of a curved glass display cabinet. Occupants of several tables sat close together conversing over their cups and saucers.
‘Tea or coffee?’ Mrs Pass asked Cardilini when she reached the counter.
‘Tea.’
‘Two teas, thanks.’
‘I’ll pay,’ Cardilini said.
‘No, you won’t.’ The firmness of her reply surprised Cardilini. He turned to see if anyone else had witnessed Mrs Pass’s strong response. A couple in their thirties glanced from Cardilini to Mrs Pass.
‘I expected to pay for any drinks,’ Cardilini couldn’t resist when they were seated.
‘That’s usually the case. I understand that,’ she replied.
‘Then?’
‘I’m a widow.’
Cardilini took a moment to assess her face.
‘I’m sorry to hear.’
‘It’s been years.’ She turned straight to business. ‘I read the files. This is not my opinion, this is the intended reading by the coroner.’ Mrs Pass clearly stated, ‘A fatal single car crash with a young male at the wheel often means the coroner investigates further. If the road is an isolated country road but well known to the driver, and the car for no apparent reason swerves into a tree, he will make observations that won’t state suicide directly and also won’t result in an open verdict. But a cautious reader will understand there’s a possibility the person took their life. The shooting accident verdict read the same.’
Cardilini exhaled heavily.
‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’ Mrs Pass asked.
‘No, but it’s what I thought.’ Cardilini turned his attention to his tea.
‘Did the families think it suicide?’ Mrs Pass asked with some gravity.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Does anyone else think this besides yourself?’
‘Not as far as I know.’ Cardilini looked for her reaction.
Mrs Pass stirred her sugarless tea and said, ‘We decided to wait before having children. I regret that now.’
Cardilini leant forward, toying with his cup before taking a sip.
‘What’s your opinion of the coroner’s findings?’ He asked.
‘My opinion is quite worthless, Detective Cardilini.’
‘You’re the most informed person in the state, besides the coroner,’ Cardilini corrected.
‘The coroner’s secretary?’ She said archly.
‘Okay, the coroner’s secretary then you. What do you think?’
‘The suicide rate of our young is alarming. Particularly in the country,’ she said looking directly at Cardilini.
‘Yes?’
‘There are three ways to view these files. One, the St Nicholas College community suffered two tragic accidents and one suicide in four years. Two, the St Nicholas College community is experiencing an exceptional cluster of suicides. Three, somewhere between one and two. However, all three are frightening and must be investigated. That’s my opinion.’
‘Thank you.’ Cardilini took a sip of his tea. ‘I’m a widower,’ he said and immediately wondered why he did.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Twelve months.’
‘Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. Children?’
‘Paul, eighteen.’
‘Eighteen?’
‘Yes,’ Cardilini replied, suddenly feeling guilty about the person he had been for twelve months.
‘My name’s Colleen.’
‘Robert. But call me Cardilini.’
‘So what’re you going to do now? You said previously the information would help you catch a murderer?’
�
��Yes, I did. If you identified the person responsible for these boys taking their own lives, what would you do?’ Cardilini asked.
Colleen avoided his gaze and asked, ‘Do you believe one person is responsible?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re calling the person responsible a murderer?’ Colleen reasoned.
‘No.’
‘So what will you do about him?’
‘He’s dead, recently shot.’ Cardilini replied.
‘The death of the teacher at St Nicholas was accidental. I know.’ She leant forward and said in hushed tones. ‘It’s shortly to go to the coroner.’
‘That’s what everyone thinks,’ Cardilini said.
‘But not you?’
‘No.’
‘Is a parent responsible?’ She asked, frowning.
Cardilini shrugged. Colleen held him with questioning eyes.
‘What?’ He asked.
‘If a parent was guilty what would you do?’
Cardilini fingered his teacup without answering then rose from his chair as Colleen stood.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I shouldn’t have asked that. I hope I’ve been of some help though. Goodbye, Detective Sergeant Cardilini.’ She started to walk away but paused, her eyes softening. ‘I don’t envy your task.’
Cardilini mumbled a goodbye. He sat and sipped his cold, milky tea. His gaze fell to the lipstick on Colleen’s cup. I miss that, he thought.
Twenty-nine
Day 10
Williams
6.50 a.m. Tuesday, 3rd November 1965
A fragile blue sky prepared for the hard heat of day.
Cardilini allowed two and a half hours to drive a distance of 100 miles to the south-west town of Williams. His plan was to stop at the Halfway House for breakfast, although food had lost its appeal since he had stopped drinking.
The police report that the state coroner received in 1963 stated that Colin Sheppard had died of accidental gunfire while carrying a rifle. The coroner, according to Colleen, had left an open finding. Senior Constable Saunders who completed the report was still stationed at Williams and expected Cardilini early morning. Mid-morning he would drive 15 miles to the Sheppard wheat and sheep farm to meet Mr and Mrs Sheppard.
Man at the Window Page 15