Mr and Mrs Doney’s son, their only child, died in a single-car accident the previous year at Wongon Hills. Now they lived in an apartment in Forrest Street, Cottesloe, waiting for the settlement of the sale of their farm. Senior Constable Young, who’d compiled the initial report for the traffic branch, had, earlier in the year, transferred to the Fremantle branch. Cardilini organised an appointment with him for 9 a.m. at the Fremantle train station.

This suburban train station appeared a poor cousin to Perth Central. The government architect had included design characteristics of the period in the stone portico and red brick buildings, however, its size suggested little future growth for Fremantle Port.

Cardilini waited for Senior Constable Young to come from the platform. When the timber carriages rattled away, Young, a tall, angular man with short, greying hair, walked towards him.

‘We had some idiot steal a conductor’s bag and machine,’ the constable said by way of excuse for the location of the meeting. Then, ‘Aren’t you suspended?’

Cardilini had crossed paths with Young on a number of occasions, usually at crime scenes, and he knew him to be a tough but honest copper.

‘No, on leave, just tying up a few loose ends.’

‘Funny thing to be doing on leave.’

‘Yeah. Hilarious. You remember the accident?’

‘Of course.’

‘You knew the boy?’

‘I knew of the boy.’

‘You’ve seen a few accidents. Was it suicide?’

Young shook his head and said sarcastically, ‘Why don’t you get straight to the point, Cardilini?’

‘Well, was it suicide?’ Cardilini persisted.

‘Who’ll ever know?’ Young was evasive. ‘He could have fallen asleep.’

‘Do you think he did?’

Young looked to the sky and pursed his lips. ‘Highly unlikely.’

‘Did he accelerate into the tree?’ Cardilini asked.

Young looked to Cardilini as if assessing him and asked, ‘You read the report?’

‘It wasn’t mentioned.’

‘That’s right, and you know why?’ Young asked.

‘I’m not going to ask you to change your report,’ Cardilini reassured.

‘I’ve heard that before.’

‘No one will know of this conversation,’ Cardilini said.

‘Don’t shit me, Cardilini. If this didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be asking and you’d be glued to a cold beer somewhere.’

‘Stop being a hard bastard. What did you see?’

Young scratched his cheek then said, ‘I think he lined the tree up from five hundred yards away and powered into it as fast as that jalopy would go. The bloody thing disintegrated around him. I don’t know how the traffic boys handle it.’

‘Me neither.’

‘I’ll say you’re lying if you try to use that,’ Young warned, staring straight at Cardilini.

‘Fair enough. Thanks, Young.’

‘What for?’

Cottesloe

3.30 p.m. Wednesday, 4th November 1965