by Peter Corris
I backed up and the big sergeant and a smaller man of the same rank followed me, stepping carefully around the corpse.
‘That’s far enough. My name’s Wren, I’m from the Bondi station. This is Sergeant Clark from Coogee. We got two separate calls to this address. Our information is that you are armed.’
I reached up under the tail of my shirt and produced the .38.
‘Easy,’ Clark said. ‘Why are you armed?’
‘I’m working.’
He took the gun from me, holding it by the stubby barrel. He didn’t seem to know what to do next. Wren was amused. ‘Have you got any identification?’
I pulled out my wallet and showed him my PEA licence. It didn’t make Clark any happier. He wanted to take the licence folder but he didn’t want to have both hands fill. He shot a doubtful look at Wren.
Wren sighed. ‘This is bullshit, Clarkey, and you know it. We’d better sit down and wait for the geniuses. Where’s the kitchen? I could do with a glass of water.’
‘Better not touch anything,’ Clark said.
‘I never saw a murder scene yet where anything that was found there led to a conviction. How about you, Hardy?’
I shrugged. ‘This is only my second one, Sergeant. I wouldn’t know.’
‘I’m glad to see you’re not a smartarse,’ Clark said. ‘I say we go outside and wait. Have you touched anything in here?’
‘Not a thing,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t you sniff the gun to make sure it hasn’t been fired?’
‘I was wrong,’ Clark said, ‘You are a smartarse. Out!’
Wren didn’t protest. He was older and wearier, cared less. As he went past the body he said, ‘Good figure. Wonder what the face looks like.’
We stood outside the flat. Clark propped the door open with his foot, making him look ridiculous, but neither Wren nor I nor the uniformed constable looking on smiled. Wren looked at the door of Flat 15. ‘Anyone home?’ he asked the constable.
‘Don’t know, Sergeant.’
‘Try it, son. Try it.’
There was no response to the constable’s knock, but some voices carried up the stairs.
‘Here they come,’ Wren said. He stamped his heavily shod feet. ‘I love the sound of detectives’ shoe leather.’
I was in big trouble, as Detective Coleman, the plain-clothes man, explained to me at the Bondi station. Andrew Perkins was alleging trespass, assault and coercion. According to him, I’d used force and threats to compel him to divulge the address of one of his employees and to surrender the key. Perkins had called the police emergency number giving my description and describing me as dangerous. He had corroboration from a security man at his home.
‘Carl,’ I said. ‘Picks his teeth with a shotgun. So what are you charging me with?’
‘Depends. Mr Perkins is receiving treatment for suspected fractured ribs. What do you have to say?’
‘I phoned in about the dead woman.’
‘So you did. That’s in your favour.’
‘You can’t think I killed her. The blood was dry. She’d been dead for hours.’
‘An expert, are you, Hardy? You could have gone back to make things look different.’
‘Come on.’
Coleman wasn’t young and he wasn’t keen. He knew the Homicide team would take the matter out of his hands. He was just going through the motions, but he had them down pat. ‘I like private detectives about as much as I like dog-catchers, Hardy,’ he said. ‘And I’m a dog lover. I’m tossing up whether to apply a little pressure to you. After all, I’ve got a prominent barrister as a complainant and physical evidence.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, a key, a firearm. We’ve had a look at it. Recently reloaded. Possibly recently fired.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Careful, Hardy, you’re out on a limb.’
I had only one card to play and I played it. ‘Get in contact with a Darlinghurst D named Gallagher, Ian Gallagher.’
Coleman watched me roll a cigarette, my first assertive action since coming into his care. ‘You’re one of this Gallagher’s fizzes, are you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I’m only talking to him about this. I’m not talking to you.’
The backhander he hit me with as he left the room had plenty of his weight and experience behind it. It hurt, rocked me back, tilted my chair and I dropped my cigarette, but I judged I’d won the bout on points. I sat in the dreary room for an hour with nothing to do but smoke and think. Andrew Perkins had made a pretty smart move. With Juliet Farquhar dead, there was no support for my story that I’d phoned Perkins’ office and been given the run-around. Virginia Shaw could be a problem for him, tying him back into the Meadowbank killing, but he’d seemed genuinely puzzled by any such connection. He was covered and I was exposed.
It got cold down there below ground level. I was tired, thirsty and hungry. Gallagher, you bastard. Where are you? After too many cigarettes, Coleman came back with a uniformed man. ‘Come on, Hardy,’ he said. ‘You’re getting a visitor from Darlinghurst.’
I stood up, collected my tobacco and lighter and brushed away the cigarette ash. ‘About time.’
‘Yeah,’ Coleman said. ‘Detective Gallagher wasn’t available just now. Detective Sergeant Colin Pascoe wants to have a word with you. He’s on his way.’
I slumped back down in the chair that suddenly felt very hard and uncomfortable. ‘What about a cup of coffee?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
The coffee came a few minutes later but it didn’t do me much good. It was cold for one thing, and there was no sugar to put in it. I badly needed a lift. I also needed some ideas. I didn’t like the notion of spilling my guts to Pascoe. His bull-at-a-gate methods would be likely to send Virginia Shaw running for cover and leave me facing serious charges from Andrew Perkins.
After another wait Coleman opened the door and ushered Pascoe in. Coleman hesitated but Pascoe stared at him until the door closed and Coleman’s footsteps retreated. Pascoe swaggered across the room, stepped behind me and hit me with a rabbit punch on the back of the neck. I was tense, not ready for it, and the blow had a maximum effect. My head flopped forward, my feet slid and I banged my nose on the table. Pascoe laughed. I gripped the edges of the table and levered myself back up into a sitting position. There was blood on my face and my shirt. It dripped onto the floor. I wiped at it with my hand and pushed the chair back in order to stand.
Pascoe’s kick ripped the chair out from under me and I fell heavily into the pool of blood. I tried to get up, slipped and fell again. The next time I made it up but Pascoe wasn’t finished. He picked up the chair and jabbed me in the mid-section with the back of it. I doubled up and he swore when some blood sprayed over him. Where the next punch hit me I don’t know, but I was on the floor, by a wall, and he was standing over me.
‘Now, what did you have to say to my little mate Gallagher that you didn’t want to say to me?’
I concentrated on breathing and getting some leverage against the wall and didn’t answer.
‘You’re like those fuckin’ commo demonstrators, Hardy. You don’t fight back.’ He kicked me lightly in the ribs.
I grabbed his foot the second it connected, jerked down and twisted, getting a lot of torque on his knee. He yelled and flailed for balance. I let go and staggered up as he bent over to check the knee. I lowered my shoulder and bored in on him, hammering him back against the wall. Blood was flying from my face, spattering him. He was bellowing, pinned against the wall. I kneed him in the crotch and felt the wind go out of him. He was slumping forward, retching, in the perfect position for a head butt and I wanted to spread his red-veined nose across his face. Adrenalin was rushing through me. I got set to do it.
The door hit the wall with a crash and the shout stopped me dead.
‘Back off, you! Get back!’
I stepped away. Pascoe slid down the wall until I thought he was going to hit the floor. But he straightened, wincing as t
he weight came on his knee. I wasn’t in much better shape myself, with a stiff neck, various aches and pains and blood still dripping from my nose. A tall thin man in a light grey suit had come into the room with Coleman. He stood quite still surveying the scene—overturned chair, blood-spattered walls and floor and two men looking as if they’d gone fifteen hard rounds.
The man in grey slapped the hat he was carrying against his leg. ‘Gidday, Col,’ he said.
Jesus, I thought. They’re mates. Maybe him and Coleman’ll hold me while Pascoe gets even. I checked my nose with my shirt sleeve. The bleeding had slowed. I sniffed and moved further away from Pascoe, keeping a wary eye on the other two cops.
‘Inspector,’ Pascoe said. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. Then he stumbled towards the table and leaned on it, easing the damaged knee. I’d been more of a boxer than a wrestler in my fighting youth, but I’d done a good job on that knee.
The inspector righted the fallen chair and examined it for blood before sitting on it. ‘You’re a silly bugger, Colin,’ he said. ‘This is a Homicide matter. You’d better go and clean yourself up.’
‘This cunt was trying to go behind my back.’
‘The way I saw it he was ready to do your head some serious damage. Piss off, Colin, You too, Roy. I want to have a few quiet words with Mr Hardy here.’
Coleman and Pascoe left the room, Pascoe hobbling perhaps a shade more than he needed to. I moved forward and got my tobacco and lighter from the table. Then I sat on the other chair and made a cigarette. When I’d finished the rollie had a little blood on it but I lit it just the same.
‘I’m Bob Loggins, Homicide Squad. I’m investigating the Meadowbank killing. I’m by way of being a mate of Grant Evans’.’
I expelled the smoke in a long, relieved plume. The action made the point of my jaw on the right side ache and I realised that was where Pascoe’s punch had hit me. ‘Inspector,’ I said. ‘I’m very, very glad to meet you.’
11
Chief Inspector Bob Loggins was everything Coleman and Pascoe weren’t—calm, reasonable, personally secure. Of course our mutual friendship with Grant Evans helped, but you need a little luck in this life. First, he wanted to know what had provoked Pascoe’s violence. I told him and he clucked his tongue.
‘You might have expected that.’
‘I was hoping to get at Gallagher direct.’
Loggins shook his head. ‘Col Pascoe’s been divorced twice with the third time coming up. His work’s his life. You picked him as a fat, lazy slob?’
‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Jaded.’
‘Well, you were right and wrong. I gather you’re not one of these bleeding hearts who’s got an SDS solicitor on tap—going to want photos taken of your bruises to bring a harassment case?’
I shook my head. ‘This is professional for me, Inspector, not political.’
‘Thank Christ for that. I could do with a drink. How about you?’
I stared at him. ‘I’ve got assault charges against me—trespass, coercion …’
Loggins returned the stare with cool, steady, pale grey eyes that matched his suit, hat and everything else about him. ‘Bullshit,’ he said. ‘Andrew Perkins couldn’t get the truth out past his fucking front teeth. Is it a deal? You walk out of here as sweet as a sunbeam and I buy you a drink?’
‘Deal,’ I said.
Pascoe and Coleman kept well out of the way. I was shown to a washroom and I cleaned myself up as best I could. Loggins located an old police shirt somewhere and I put it on. I had some blood on my jeans and my nose was puffy and red but you see worse in Bondi every day. We left the station and walked to the Bondi Hotel. With his hat on his head, Loggins couldn’t have been anything else but a cop. He told me he’d run me back to my car later and that we could pick up my gun after we’d had a talk. This degree of cooperation made me a little suspicious. If he paid for the drinks I’d get really toey.
We settled down in the saloon bar with middies of old, got cigarettes going and I gave him an edited version of my recent activities. I held a few things back—like that Virginia Shaw had feared for her life and left the city and that I had a contact number for her. I made it sound like a straight line from her and her fee to Perkins and then via my phone call to the shot fired in St Peters Lane and on to the discovery of Juliet Farquhar’s body. Loggins listened in silence, smoking and sipping his beer. I was tired and feeling the wear and tear of the day by the time I finished. Loggins remained silent.
‘That’s about it, Inspector.’
‘Is that what you were going to tell Gallagher?’
‘Pretty much. I was worried that Perkins was going to lay charges. I wanted someone on my side. Also, Gallagher seemed to think there was something tricky behind the Meadowbank killing. I thought he’d be interested.’
‘Thinks that, does he? What’s he got in mind?’
I hesitated. There was nothing to prevent Loggins from dropping me straight back in the shit at the Bondi station if he felt that way. A policeman’s promises are conditional on him getting what he wants. It wasn’t smart to appear as if I’d shot my bolt. ‘I think you’d better ask him, Inspector.’
‘I will, son. I will.’
I took a chance. ‘You’re investigating Meadowbank’s murder, right? How is it looking?’
‘No fucking good. No chance of this bloke at Perkins’ place being the shooter?’
I shook my head. ‘Wrong build, everything wrong.’
‘How about the one who took a pop at you?’
‘No way to know. I might know the voice if I heard it again, but I didn’t see anyone.’
Loggins drained his glass. ‘I wonder if he’ll come after you again?’
‘Why should he? I don’t know anything.’
Loggins smiled. ‘That’s as may be. But it might be possible to convey the impression that you know a lot.’
‘Jesus, ‘I said. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘Like earning a living, do you, Hardy?’
This was it—the price to be paid. ‘I’ve hardly started earning one in this game.’
‘You could be okay at it, with the right help and contacts. Or you could be back sniffing around burned-out factories and cars within the month.’
‘Shit.’
‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m joking, more or less. Look, I think we should have a little conference—you, me and Gallagher. Nut a few things out. What d’you say?’
‘I’d say this must be a big case.’
Loggins eased his chair back ‘It is. Let’s go and get your gun and your vehicle.’
Technically, when I got home in my own car with my gun in its holster, all courtesy of Bob Loggins, I was late for my phone call to Melbourne. The twenty-four hours had been up for a while. I made the call anyway and got the same male voice.
‘Hold on,’ it said.
I held. I had a glass of wine by the phone and a very full, very hot bath waiting for me and my bruises. My nose and jaw throbbed. I realised that I hadn’t been this battered since the army and before that when I’d boxed as an amateur and before that … I was recalling schoolground fights with Mickey Fussell and Brian Hobbs when that man-pleasing voice came over the line: ‘Mr Hardy? Mr Hardy, this is Virginia Shaw. Why are you calling?’
Good question. I took a gulp of wine. Hold the anger down, Cliff. Gently does it. Easier said than done. The words came out in a rush. ‘A lot’s been happening. I’ve seen Andrew Perkins. I’ve been shot at. A woman who works for Perkins is dead.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I. Look, who’s this guy who answers the phone? And would you mind telling me where you are?’
‘I … I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’
‘I’ve had to talk to the police, Miss Shaw. Several times. It hasn’t been much fun. I’ve been trying to keep you out of it as much as I can, but—’
‘Yes. Oh, yes, please! Keep me out of it, Mr Hardy. I’ll pay you well.’
‘Payment’s not the main issue. Have you ever heard of a woman named Juliet Farquhar?’
Five hundred miles apart and communicating over a wire, I could tell by the quality of the silence that she knew the name. ‘She’s dead, Miss Shaw,’ I said roughly. ‘She was shot, possibly by the same man who shot your boyfriend.’
‘God. Oh, God.’
She sounded very frightened. Also, she hadn’t asked about getting her fee out of Perkins. Offering to pay me more and not concerned so much about the money I was supposed to be bringing in. For someone in her business, that amounted to real fear. I let her stew in it for a moment. What the hell? She was underground in Melbourne with efficient-sounding protection. I was the one hanging my arse out in the warm Sydney wind.
‘Miss Shaw,’ I said. ‘The police have got me in a bit of a bind. They want to use me as some kind of a bait to get at Meadowbank’s killer. I haven’t got the details yet, but how does that sound to you?’
‘That sounds very dangerous.’
‘I think so, too. Now I’m still trying to do a job for you, but you can understand that I feel very vulnerable. Do you follow me?’
A whisper. ‘Yes.’
‘I have the feeling that you’re not a part of all this shit.’
‘I’m not! I’m not! I swear to you.’
‘I want to believe you, but you won’t tell me where you are, who you’re with or anything else.’
‘I’m too afraid.’
‘So you didn’t tell me anything like the whole story when we first met?’
‘No. I’m sorry, but, no, I didn’t. Everything I told you was true, absolutely true. But there’s more. Much more, and I can’t …’
‘Okay. I think the police have got some idea of this. God knows what it is, I haven’t got a clue. But I don’t want to be their decoy, Miss Shaw … Miss Shaw?’
There was some kind of commotion at the other end—voices raised, disputation. She sounded more resolved when she spoke again. ‘I understand. I hope the police are on the right track.’