‘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.