‘Goodman, it’s Cardilini. A favour. Can you check if a Bradley Williamson, born August 1947, was either conscripted or enlisted? St Nicholas, that’s him. The second. What’s basic training? What’s he doing now? Rifleman, what does that mean? How intense? Where? Swanbourne? Sydney? Vietnam? When? Really? Okay. No, you’re not missing anything here, same old, same old. Yeah. Cheers. I owe you.’

Cardilini hung up and studied the notes he’d made. He dialled again.

‘Acorn. How would a second-year army recruit, who’s been doing specialist training in the rifle corps for eighteen months, suit my scenario?’ Cardilini listened then replied. ‘The one I told you about who won the state schoolboy titles two years running. Yes, but could he make that shot?’ Cardilini held his patience. ‘Could he, if he wanted to, make it? Could he? Good. Could a defence attorney find a specialist to argue against that possibility, probability? Thanks.’

Bentley

11.10 a.m. Thursday, 29th October 1965

Fifteen minutes later, with Salt driving, Cardilini travelled to a home in Bentley.

Salt pulled up beside the verge.

‘Wait here. I might only be minutes,’ Cardilini said as he got out of the car.

Cardilini opened the low, white-picket front gate. Yellow roses were blossoming the length of the front fence. Red brick paving separated two expanses of tidy green lawn and led to the front timber verandah. Cardilini knocked on the flyscreen door while he looked at the nearby potted plants and a couch and armchairs placed to face the street. He shook off images of Betty’s neglected garden.

The front door opened and Cardilini focused his eyes to see through the flyscreen into the gloom of the house.

‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice asked.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Cardilini from the East Perth Station. I wanted to have a chat to Bradley.’

‘Bradley’s in the army.’

‘Yes. I know, but isn’t he home from training before going back to Vietnam?’

‘He goes to the Swanbourne barracks every day.’

Cardilini stepped back as the flyscreen door opened. A woman of forty or so stepped onto the verandah wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her brunette hair with thin lines of grey was swept back from her forehead and tied with a ribbon. She’s been baking, Cardilini figured, a fine dusting of flour was on her apron.

She looked out to the police car with Salt at the wheel. ‘My husband’s at work.’ Unsure, pretty, hazel eyes looked up at Cardilini, ‘Do you want to come in? I can make you a cup of tea.’

‘No, thank you. Do you know when Bradley will be home?’ Cardilini asked.

‘I don’t know. Do you know when he goes back to Vietnam, Detective Cardilini?’

‘No. Sorry. Haven’t you been told?’

‘No. They won’t say. It’s very nerve-racking. Please come in, you’ve come all this way.’ Mrs Williamson stepped aside.

Cardilini looked past her down the hallway. No, he didn’t want to know these people; he wanted their son to be a murderer. He shuddered inwardly at the thought.