The Girl In The Skip Bin

By Bob MacDonald

It is the year of 1965 and Detective Sergeant Earp of the West Australian Police Force's CIB Branch finds himself banished to a dingy office, shuffling papers during the day and drinking to excess during the night.

Earp's fall from grace came to fruition on account of an unfaithful partner and his practice of not doing things by the book when carrying out investigations. His downward slide cumulated when his wife abandoned him for the allure of a younger man. That she'd taken off with another, unfazed him but her actions of taking their two young children with her, caused him no end of angst.

Despondency was on the verge of capturing control of his soul when the superintendent in charge of the branch, and with being a life saviour, came up with a proposal he couldn't refuse.

The offer saw him promoted to the rank of Detective Inspector; together with the post of OIC of the Armadale's CIB office. The superintendent made no bones of the matter that no-one else had applied or been ready to accept the position.

Armadale, being a low socio-economic suburb, was well known for its high crime rate and low-class Government Housing Authority homes. The sprawling estates housed many single mothers who in turn attracted past violent partners. The neighbourhood had rightfully earned the title of being the domestic violence hub of the region. Needless to say, it did not feature prominently in the 'places to be' list for budding detectives.

Read how Earp comes to grips with troublesome staff and an ex-wife and her demands for extra money by way of spouse and child support. No sooner has he settled in when a young black girl's body turns up in a skip bin behind a local hotel. An investigation into the death, which proved to be a murder, reveals the victim to be an aboriginal girl from Central Australia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob MacDonald
• Release date: Jan 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393020998

Bob MacDonald

Bob MacDonald is a retired West Australian Police officer of thirty years experience. Bob's last day at school was his 14th birthday - commencing work, the very next day, in a timber mill in his home town of Pemberton, West Australia.He later self-educated and enlisted in the West Australian police force, retiring as a superintendent in the Internal Investigations Branch of the Professional Standards portfolio.Since retirement Bob has been working at remote aboriginal communities in Central Australia, Papua New Guinea and the Solomon Islands. He also did a tour of duty on the island nation of Cyprus with the United Nations Blue Beret Peacekeepers.Bob, a keen sportsman continues with various sporting activities; which also includes fishing and camping trips. Writing articles for various magazines and now venturing into anecdotal short story compilations and fictional manuscripts ensures Bob leads a busy life.

Book preview

Chapter 01 - An Appointment with George

Detective Sergeant Wyatt Earp of the Perth Criminal Investigation Branch sat looking out through the grime-covered window of his cramped workstation. The CIB building comprised a rabbit warren of dingy office cubicles, narrow passages and creaking stairways. Set on three levels, the weatherboard and corrugated iron building, erected more than a hundred years ago, no longer proved adequate for modern policing.

Earp, a name he demanded his colleagues use when addressing or referring to him, pondered his future. His missus had grasped the opportunity, during his absence in Melbourne for an extradition case, to do a runner on him. She’d taken off with a no-hoper unemployed singer (an unemployed busker, for Christ’s sake!). But the yodelling crooner, being in the range of fifteen years her junior, gifted her fragile ego the liberty to show off a toyboy.

They’d both taken off to a town somewhere in Queensland; taking his two children along the way. And the hefty spouse and child maintenance payments which the Family Law Court ordered he pay, kept him close to the breadline; while his ex and her toyboy lived the good life at his expense. When did he last speak to his kids - bloody months ago? He looked into going through the courts in an endeavour to get sole custody of the youngsters, but a lawyer (after slugging him a packet) advised him of the folly in making such an application.

He learnt that if his ex-wife objected to his bid to get the kids, he may expect little sympathy from the case’s presiding Family Law Court judge. Evidence outlining his poor financial position, his unsuitable current accommodation (a two-bedroom unit in a high-rise apartment building) and the shit he’d been in (both with his ex and his job), shaped as achieving nothing other than costing him a quid or two.

*

A smiling cadet interrupted his thoughts with a cheerful greeting and dumped a pile of buff-coloured envelopes on his desk. Here y’are, Earpy. There’s a fair slab of work in this lot, I’d say.

Earp smiled to himself as he replied, Piss off, you cheeky young bugger. It’s nearing knock-off time; why didn’t you leave your mail run until the morning?

Nah, I get rid of the late mail before I bugger off, so I cop it easy the next day. Up here for thinkin’ and down there for dancin’,’ hey? he answered, while first tapping his head and then pointing to his shoes.

You’ve certainly been blessed with the right outlook to become a good copper, Smithy. But I will not open up any of this lot, today. Otherwise, I’ll get stuck into whatever files they have blessed me with and be here till well after knock-off time. And I’ve got an appointment at 4:30 which I can’t miss.

Haha, who are you seeing? Someone by the name of George, I bet.

*

Half an hour later, Earp sat at the bar of the nearby George Hotel with a double measure of Scotch whisky in front of him. Yes, the cadet had picked him in one when he nominated ‘George’ as being the focal point of his after-work appointment. But, on thinking it over, a person did not need to be gifted with the investigative skills of Sherlock Holmes to track him to the saloon bar of the George, each evening following work.

He’d taken to drinking heavily to cope with the loss of his wife and the two kids. Well, no, he didn’t miss his nagging missus, but the removal of the children inflicted a deep feeling of melancholy. Now, instead of watching his son playing junior Australian Rules football and his daughter flitting about on the netball court, he hit the pubs to drown his sorrows.

One of the regular bar-flies greeted him as he entered the barroom. Once again he smiled to himself as he realised he’d become more recognisable to the city’s warbs than he was to the run-of-the-mill copper. He tried to convince himself that he frequented the George, because of its proximity to his workplace. But if the truth be known; he avoided patronizing the police canteen, at the rear of the Central Station in East Perth, to avoid the scrutiny of fellow officers - especially those of senior rank.

The booze at the canteen sold for prices much cheaper than at the George, but his run-ins with members of the department’s top echelon in the past still weighed heavily on his mind. Over-indulgence in the grog lay behind the reason for him now stuck at a desk job in an office. No more associating with the public, or with his colleagues. No chance of any call-outs on overtime to supplement his already depleted pay packet.

‘Yes,’ he mused aloud, ‘All work and no play make Earp a dull boy.’

What did ya say, Earp? queried the bar-fly, Were ya talkin’ to me?

Nah, Charlie, just mumbling to myself, he replied. And then not to appear stand-offish, asked, What do you think of the country going metric next year?

Metric? What’s that?

Haven’t you heard the ad on TV? That jingle they keep playing, the one regarding ‘the 14th of February 1966? Well, that date is going to strike us in just over five months, and then when you buy a swig of your rotgut plonk you will hand over dollars and cents; and not pounds, shillings and pence.

Ah, well. I’ll don my worry-cap when the time comes, and with a lift of his glass, added, Cheers, mate, I’ll drink to the good old days. I can see that any change in the way we are now livin’ will end up costing me a quid ….. and my peace of mind

Yeah, you may be right. Cheers.

Chapter 02 - The Golden Stairs

Earp never forgave his parents for labelling him with the first name of Wyatt. After marrying a timber mill labourer with the surname of Earp, his mother had become infatuated with the history and antics of the famed United States western lawman, Wyatt Earp and his brothers Virgil, Morgan, Warren, James and Newton.

At least he could be thankful she did not lumber him with Wyatt’s full handle - being Wyatt Berry Stapp Earp. As far back as his memory permitted, his friends had ragged him over his moniker. Playmates at school never grew tired of shaping their fingers to represent cowboy’s sixguns and mouthing ‘bang, bang’ when meeting up with him.

The same applied during the police training school and never a day passed without one or more of his fellow recruits subjecting him to the old ‘cowboy-bang-bang’ trick. Experience had taught him to grin and bear it when exposed to such banter. He’d learnt that if he ignored the ribbing, those being most active soon tired of their capers and moved on to something, or someone, else.

Nowadays he merely introduced himself as ‘Earp.’ To senior police personnel, he answered to rank and surname only. One exception he’d not been able to dodge occurred when he needed to give evidence in a court of law. Most times he escaped by supplying just his surname and rank, but on occasions, he found himself called upon to state his full birth details. Such instances never failed to bring a glimmer of a smile to the faces of the jury panel, court clerks and other witnesses.

Not many within the department knew his given name. Those who did refer to him as Wyatt believed the calling represented a nickname, as colleagues with the surname of Kelly, copped being called Ned, after the infamous Australian bushranger Ned Kelly. Likewise, with ‘Davey’ Crockett, ‘Dick’ Turpin, ‘Robin’ Hood and so forth.

*

The next morning resulted in Earp fronting up for duty with a thumping headache and a mouth feeling the same as the bottom of a cocky’s cage. He looked at the pile of work in front of him and wished he’d followed the lead of the branch cadet - instead of spending so much time in the George. Just a glorified office Johnny; that’s the sum total he amounted to nowadays. No responsibilities, no decision making; a civilian may well replace him.

No wonder he drank in excess. He had no missus or kids to greet him at home when he knocked off, no-one. He could look forward to nothing but an empty flat to receive him when he stumbled home; feeling sad and sorry for himself. A while back, a couple of his mate attempted to match him up with a sheila on a blind date, but he couldn’t bring himself to galvanise any enthusiasm and peeved the girl with his dead fish disposition. No more did anyone give a rat’s arse regarding his love life, or lack thereof.

*

The harsh ringing of his desk phone jolted him back into reality. He rarely received calls other than from unidentified civilian clerks in the main office, inquiring as to an overdue file. So, with a sore head, a foul mouth and a nasty temper, he snatched up the handpiece and barked, Earp.

Should I ring back later after you’ve got rid of your shit on the liver? asked the caller.

Jesus Christ! The person on the other end of the line happened to be Superintendent Mike ‘Hippa’ Rae - the Officer-in-Charge of the state’s CIB section. Jeez, I’m sorry, boss. I’ve got no excuse to offer for my rude behaviour. I hope I can make it up to you by complying with what you may wish of me.

Don’t worry yourself over it. Get your arse up here to my office. I want you to arrive here at 10:00 am on the dot, coz that’s when the tea lady does her rounds. I have something important to discuss with you and we’ll chat while having a brew. Okay?

For sure, Earp promised, I will be there.

*

As he counted the steps leading from the level of his workstation to that of the superintendent’s office, Earp wondered the reason for the summons. Might he be in the shit again? No, nought sprung to mind. In giving it thought he recognized his current job entailed nothing that a public servant couldn’t do. Yes, that must be the motive; to be told of another dead-beat position, where to be soon shanghaied. And most likely one involving plenty of night shifts and weekend work, he should imagine.

He’d left his post early enough to make sure not to be late for the ten o’clock appointment. He cooled his heels for a few minutes and soon spotted the tea lady trundling her trolley along the passage. When she entered the super’s office, he followed in on her tail.

Ah, good to see you made it on time. Tell Sadie your poison and then join me for a seat, said Rae.

Earp placed his order of a mug of strong black tea with just a smidgen of sugar. He grabbed two ginger nut biscuits as he hadn’t found time for breakfast - mainly because there’d been nothing in his pantry cupboard at his flat.

Well, Earp, I suppose you’re on edge wondering why I called you here. First, have you ever been up to this office before this visit? I know when the last couple of times you shit your nest, you fronted at the commissioner’s office.

No. It’s the first time I’ve been in here.

Is that so? In that case, please tell me how many steps you needed to climb to reach here?

What? The number of steps? Well, I counted twenty, but I had other thoughts on my mind when coming here. I may have miscounted.

"Haha. Very impressive. You’re spot on with your tally. Human nature is a funny thing. I’ve found that since being lumbered with this job and being stuck in this office, those who visit me while thinking they are in the shit tend to count the steps. I imagine it to be a subconscious exercise of the mind.

By the way, did you know they call that set of rickety stairs, ‘The Golden Stairs’? When I first hear them referred to by that name, I thought it meant the stairway to Heaven. But no, ‘The Golden Stairs’ is a painting. Oh, well, better than being mentioned as ‘The Stairway to hell!

Hippa, as many good-naturedly referred to Rae, came to be of similar vintage to Earp, regarding time served in the police force. Rae, a competent investigative officer, had progressed with his promotion, unhindered until being appointed chief of the CIB. On the other hand, Earp, because of his excessive drinking and ‘not-by-the-book’ policing methods, caused several negative and unfavourable entries to be endorsed on his ‘Personal File.’

He, by the skin of his teeth, just managed to cling to his standing of detective sergeant. In a perfect world, he’d now be holding the rank of inspector - and even be in line for the position of superintendent. Okay, hitting the booze, as of late, hadn’t done him any good. For that, he offered no excuses - wholly his fault. But on the occasions, he’d fronted the commissioner on Defaulter’s Sheet offences, colleagues, to save their own arses, had blabbed and dobbed him into the featherfeet.

He copped it on the chin and wore the punishment (by way of fines and transfers) without a word of complaint. He too may have spilt his guts and told of the roles played by his workmates - thus lessening the blame on him. But, no, he didn’t operate in that manner. Little did he know, but the reason why the commissioner did not bust him netherward from a sergeant to a constable, was that he admired Earp’s loyalty to his colleagues (even if undeserving) and commitment to the job.

Chapter 03 - On the Move

Rae invited Earp to take a seat at a coffee table and four chair set-up away from his work desk. Then, dunking a biscuit in his tea, smiled and said, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. I have a position to offer you which will get you back out on the street banging heads together again. So far, are you interested and do you care for me to continue?

Yes, for sure; please carry on, I’m all ears.

"Okay, and during our talk I want you to look upon me in the same light as before I got landed with this job and you received an arse-kicking. Forget rank and say what’s on your mind - coz that’s what I intend doing.

Nonetheless, the proposition I wish to put to you is for you to leave your current posting and move to the Armadale CIB office. I will authorise the brevet status of inspector for you to adopt while there. And if you succeed in doing what I ask of you, then there stands a very good chance the commissioned officer rank will be confirmed and become permanent.

Jeez, Hippa, I’d happily take on that position - with or without the inspectorship sweetener.

"Hey, be careful of what you say, and don’t tempt me. I’ll explain the circumstances. Crime is getting out of hand in that region. Well, I tell a lie – it is out of hand. No, maybe an exaggeration on my part, but the uniform guys out there need more help from us. The sergeant who you’ll be replacing couldn’t make the grade. He failed in man-management and for one reason or another; the office is two demons short.

"I intend sending a Dickless Tracy to fill one of the vacancies. A female officer should prove to be a godsend