5.
Frank and Melanie Rademeyer lived out on Crescent Lane, a humble neighbourhood where an unfamiliar person could tell immediately what type of people occupied the dwellings that were dotted along the road. Every home along Crescent Lane seemed to sit on its own hill, the blocks ranging from 2 to 5 acres, and every single home was two storeys high. Most enjoyed a swimming pool in their back yards and fruit trees in the front, a couple of them even sporting rows of grape vines for amateur wine makers. A large hill, maybe 300 yards high, dominated the land on the western side of the road with Crescent Lane running north to south. The Chief’s home was the last one on the western side, the only one to have a beautiful mature palm tree growing by his driveway.
Back when I was still a young constable, the Rademeyers still lived in one of the working-class areas of Cider Hill. The Chief would commute to the station via his bicycle on a daily basis, telling me on one occasion, that the ride to and from the station was quality thinking time and gave him the brain space he needed to unwind by the time he arrived home. It also helped with his waistline, he once chuckled.
They had raised two children, a son called William who was born in 1926 and a daughter named Elizabeth who was born in 1930. The family seemed to be such a happy one when I first made the transfer to Cider Hill, meeting the family at a police Christmas barbeque, held behind the station. All the officers and families attended, Melanie holding little Lizzie by the hand while William had been hanging around his Dad. He was a doting father, proudly showing off his son’s ability to kick a football.
“Play for Carlton one day, he will,” he would say. But William Rademeyer would never play for Carlton. Or any other team. Two days after Christmas Day, in 1933, while his parents slept soundly in their room, little William decided to go into his father’s study and play cops and robbers. He took the service revolver Frank always kept in the drawer of his desk, and began to pretend-shoot make believe robbers that were hiding behind the furniture. The doctors said that little William never knew what hit him, the pistol discharging as he tried to open the cylinder. The bullet pierced his forehead just above his right eye, the crash of the gun waking his parents instantly. The neighbours told a lone reporter that they heard Mrs Rademeyer’s screams from their own kitchen, her blood-curdling cries of anguish continuing until the ambulance arrived ten minutes later.
The funeral was held at St. Johns Anglican three days later, attended by everybody in town, me included. He was buried in Hope Cemetery out on One Stump Lane, his grave next to his grandfather and grandmother. I still remember the sobbing from the heart-broken parents, the umbrellas that were held above them not enough to shield them from the prying reporters that were dotted around the small grave yard.
From what I could gather, little Lizzie Rademeyer became one of the most shielded children in Cider Hill, Melanie almost refusing to allow the little girl out of her sight. In the years that followed, there were many confrontations when Liz wanted to live a little, like spending a night at a friend’s house or attending school camp. She eventually left home to attend the University of Melbourne. I met her once at one of my book signings. I didn’t recognize her but she told me who she was just the same, looking relaxed and happy. She told me she was studying nursing and keen to travel the world. I imagined she was happy just to travel to the local shops without being watched. We chatted for a few minutes and then I signed the book she was holding, Nightmares Unhinged. I never saw her again but hoped that she enjoyed her newfound freedom.
6.
By the time Steph and I turned the Beetle into 29 Crescent Lane, dusk had turned into night, as all traces of the fiery red sunset were erased with the dark sapphire glow of night. The house stood large on its wooden stilts, towering above the surrounding landscape. The driveway was flanked by petite lights that were suspended from little poles, leading the driver towards a large circular driveway that had another palm in the middle of a round garden bed. The Chief’s own FX was parked in a car space that sat underneath the home and a patrol car was parked off to one side of the driveway. There was a large balcony above it and I could see table and chairs sitting on one side of it as well as a telescope in one of the large windows that looked out over the land. There were lights switched on in what looked like the living room, its timber ceiling beams visible from where we now sat.
I parked the Beetle behind the FX, climbed out and made my way around to Steph’s side. She climbed out and I closed the door for her. We stood looking at each other, both taking deep breaths.
“Ready for this?” I asked. She took another deep breath, exhaled, then nodded.
“Let’s do this.”
7.
When no-one opened the door after the third knock, I looked at Steph with a surprised expression.
“Do you think he forgot?” I said, getting ready to knock again. She put her ear to the door, listening for approaching footsteps. The house was made from timber and sat on stilts and I knew that any movement inside the building would be heard from here. The house sat deathly quiet, the only sound a distant dog barking at some night-time critter. When we heard no sounds, she pulled away and looked at me.
“Are they home?” she asked.
“The cars are here,” I answered, pointing below us, “and I’m pretty
