by Peter Corris
‘Beer if you’ve got it.’
‘Think so.’ He opened the fridge and rattled around inside it, coming up with two bottles of Heineken. It seemed to me that he’d taken longer about it and made more noise than was necessary, but I was too slow to react. I felt something metallic press into the base of my skull and then move away to the left.
‘This thing behind your ear is a shotgun,’ a calm voice behind me said, ‘and you should stand very, very still.’
9
I did as I was told. Perkins put the beer on the kitchen table and let out a long breath.
‘Thanks, Carl,’ he said.
‘OK, Mr Perkins. What now?’
‘I’m not sure.’
I felt a hand move down my spine and then the gun was pulled from its holster. ‘Carrying a gun,’ Carl said.
‘I’ve got a permit.’
Perkins laughed, well in charge of the situation now, the way he liked to be. ‘It still extends my options, if you see what I mean.’
I saw, and didn’t like it.
‘The question is, do I ring the police or let Carl deal with you out the back… or do something else?’
He was a dangerous customer. I could see him almost tasting the violence, wondering how far he could go with it. All the way? Just possibly. Armed private detective breaks in, assaults prominent barrister, causing physical injury. I hadn’t seen Carl yet but he sounded capable and willing. It was one of those times when you have to do something to take the initiative, whatever the risk. I turned slowly, reached up and moved the barrel of the shotgun, still without looking at Carl. I was eye-locked with Perkins.
‘Don’t make it worse than it is,’ I said. ‘Let’s call it square for now. Where was the buzzer? In the garage or up here?’
‘Both,’ Perkins said.
‘Neat. You take all the points. We still have to talk. Tell Carl to put my gun in the fridge or somewhere and go away. You probably want that beer as much as I do.’
Perkins was a quick decider. He nodded and took a bottle opener from a hook on the wall. ‘It’s all right, Carl. There won’t be a problem.’
‘What about the gun, Mr Perkins?’
‘Unload it and leave it here.’
Carl was a heavily-built type with wide shoulders, not a candidate for the Meadowbank job. He leaned his shotgun against the fridge and expertly released the swing-out mechanism of the. 38. He up-ended the gun and the cartridges dropped into his hand. He put the lot on the top of the fridge, picked up his twelve-gauge and left through a back door without speaking again.
‘Man of few words,’ I said.
Perkins levered the tops from the bottles. ‘But of efficient action. He keeps watch on this set of houses twenty-four hours a day. Don’t ask me how he does it.’
‘He doesn’t. It’s not possible. But if he’s there when he’s needed that’s all it takes.’
‘Hmm.’ He handed me a bottle. We sat at the table and drank. Very convivial. Perkins had regained his composure and had his innate nastiness under control. He appeared to be thinking as he drank. He tore off a section of paper towel and wiped his mouth. ‘Something you said interested me.’
‘Virginia Shaw, I…’
‘No, I may or may not talk about that matter. I haven’t decided. You said you rang my office.’
‘Yesterday, about 10.00 a.m.’
‘And spoke to whom?’
‘A woman.’ I searched my memory. ‘Julie… Farnham?’
‘Juliet Farquhar. And what was discussed?’
‘Nothing much. I said I wanted to speak to you re Miss Shaw. She said you had no client by that name and that I should try some other Perkins. I said I wanted to talk to you anyway. I got the impression she consulted you. Then she said you’d be out of town on business for a while.’
‘You didn’t believe her and you persisted?’
‘After someone took a shot at me and yelled at me to stay out of the Meadowbank thing. Seemed to me you had to be behind that.’
The beer was cold and good. We drank at about the same pace and I had the odd feeling that we were thinking at about the same pace and along the same lines. Perkins put his empty bottle down on the table and used the paper towel again. He had thick lips and a problem with keeping them dry. ‘I can appreciate the reason for your intrusion and aggression,’ he said. ‘But I wasn’t in my office at that time yesterday, and Miss Farquhar didn’t mention your call to me.’
‘And you do have a client named Virginia Shaw?’
‘Not… officially.’
‘Would Miss Farquhar know about this unofficial client?’
‘Until now, I would have thought not.’
My turn to drain the bottle. I used the back of my hand to wipe my mouth. Perkins was looking more worried now than at any time so far. I had an advantage but wasn’t sure how to exploit it. When in doubt, go for the chain of command. ‘What’s Miss Farquhar’s job? How long has she been with you?’
Perkins frowned. A lot of horizontal wrinkles formed on his forehead below the red, crinkled waves of his hair-not a pretty sight. ‘A couple of months. She’s my… legal secretary. She has a Bachelor of Jurisprudence degree from Monash.’
‘Meaning that she knows a lot about the law but she’s not a qualified practitioner and she’s not doing articles?’
Perkins nodded. ‘She’s a very capable young woman.’
‘Maybe too capable. There’s something going on here. Virginia Shaw thinks that Charles Meadowbank was killed because he didn’t want to go through with the divorce. You helped to set that divorce up.’
‘Not really,’ Perkins said. ‘I’m not acting for either party. I just did Charles a favour by putting him in touch with Virginia.’
‘You might have helped to get him killed.’
‘Don’t say that! I don’t understand any of this. How do I know you’re telling the truth?’
‘Call Juliet Farquhar. She’s the link.’
His hesitation spoke volumes. Perkins wasn’t the sort of man who hesitated unnecessarily-he’d been caught out, and didn’t like it. Juliet Farquhar was coolly playing a game of her own and he didn’t want to think about what the consequences might be for him. I now had my strategy. ‘Don’t piss around,’ I said. ‘Somebody’s plans have gone badly wrong. Your Miss Farquhar could be getting you involved in something very nasty, or she could be in great danger herself. Maybe both.’
Perkins stood up and grabbed the wall phone. He didn’t need to refer to his little black book to get the number. He dialled rapidly. I opened the fridge, pulled out two more beers and opened them. I took a drink and put the other bottle within Perkins’ reach. He ignored it.
‘No answer.’ He slammed the phone back into its housing.
I shrugged. ‘She could be anywhere.’
Perkins shook his head and seized the bottle. ‘We were supposed to be going out tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Drinks at six. She’d be getting ready by now. She puts in a lot of time on her appearance.’
I took another pull on the bottle and then pushed it away. Strong. I got up and took my gun and the bullets down from the fridge.
Perkins almost choked on his next hasty swig of Heineken. It was no way to drink high quality beer. ‘What… what are you doing?’
I loaded the gun, trying not to make the action too melodramatic. ‘You’d better tell me where she lives, unless you want to come with me.’
‘I’ve been stupid,’ he said wearily. ‘She’s a very exciting woman.’
All of a sudden, Andrew Perkins didn’t look as impressive as he had on the tennis court and as he no doubt did in a courtroom. He ran his hand back over his head and feathered up his hair which was thinner than it had first looked. It was receding at the sides, too, something careful arrangement had concealed. I closed the cylinder and put the gun in its holster. The click of the mechanism made him twitch. I didn’t like Perkins lording it over me, but I didn’t want him coming to pieces, either. At that mome
nt I could probably have got a cheque for Virginia Shaw out of him and walked away, but it had gone beyond that. Below the wall phone there was a message pad with a ballpoint pen attached to it by a chain. I tore a leaf from the pad.
‘Where does she live?’
Perkins had almost finished his second bottle. ‘In Bronte. Barker Avenue, Number 10, Unit 16.’
I wrote the information along with a description of the woman’s car and Perkins’ number on the slip. ‘You’re her employer, maybe you should come with me.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m more than that. She… knows things about me. If she’s betrayed me… I… I have a violent temper. It’s better I don’t go.’
‘Suit yourself. Have you got a key?’
He went into the sitting room and came back with a leather key holder. He detached a key and handed it over. His compliance puzzled me.
I said, ‘I’m not acting in your interests, you understand.’
He smiled and freckles stood out on his face which had lost all colour. ‘Exactly in whose interests are you acting, Hardy?’
‘Will I have any trouble from Carl if I just walk out of here?’
Perkins shook his head.
‘You stay put,’ I said. You’ll be hearing from me or the police or both.’
He shrugged and tilted the beer bottle to his flabby, moist mouth.
I didn’t see Carl, but I had a feeling he was watching me from somewhere and would have been on the job in a flash if I’d tried to steal the Alfa. Useful bloke, Carl. It wasn’t far to Bronte and the roads weren’t too busy. The exercise and the beer had given me a lift and I’d recovered some of the ground I’d lost with Perkins. I quickly rolled a cigarette while waiting for a light and got it lit at the next stop. This was getting interesting. Miss Farquhar was playing some kind of game and I was keen to learn the rules from her. If she wasn’t at home I’d just have to find her. It was one of the things I was supposed to be good at doing.
Unlike some avenues, where there isn’t a tree in sight, this one had plenty-plane trees and she-oaks on both sides as it curved up away from the beach over what must originally have been a sandhill. Mostly blocks of flats, the occasional set of semis and a few Federation cottages. The flats I was looking for were set on a big block well back from the road. A lot of houses must have come down to provide the space. There were three modern blocks built of pale brick with big windows; each containing a dozen or more units. I parked in the street and approached on foot. A wide driveway led to a series of parking bays and carports. The higher the rent the better the car protection. Perkins had told me that Miss Farquhar drove a white Mini that still carried its black and white Victorian number plates. It was sitting in its uncovered space, locked, neatly parked.
The layout of the blocks was logical and well signposted. Miss Farquhar’s place was on the second level of the middle building. There was a bit of toing and froing going on-people getting back from the beach, a man carrying two cases of beer, a young couple dressed up to party. No-one looked at me as I entered and went up the stairs. I could hear music coming from one of the flats when the beer carrier opened his door. The sound shut off abruptly when the door closed. The walls and doors were thick. It was just as well that I had the key because breaking in would have been a tricky job. The door was solid and the lock was modern and well- fitted. I knocked several times and got no response. I used the key and went in.
A woman was lying face down on the floor in the hall. When I opened the door it just cleared her outstretched fingers. She had clawed at the carpet in her death throes, and was lying at a crazy angle with her legs splayed out. She wore a tight white dress with a high neck. I let the door close behind me and bent down. Her dark hair was drawn up into an elaborate arrangement on the top of her head and she’d been shot once in the back of the neck, just below where the hair began.
10
More death. Too much death. I felt as if I had absolutely no control over my movements, feelings and decisions. I was crouched over the body, locked there, with everything surging and washing around inside me. She was obviously young, slender and scarcely formed, like the village children I’d seen in Malaya, caught in the crossfire. The combination of memory and harsh, present reality was too much. I reeled, reached for the wall to support myself. Don’t touch that! You’ll leave sweaty prints as if you’d signed your name and added your date of birth and the colour of your eyes. I regained my balance and stayed there, poised over the lifeless body like a vulture deciding where to peck. A cramp was building slowly in my left leg. I let it build, enjoyed the mounting pain.
The soft buzz of the telephone probably stopped me from shouting and lunging for the door handle. The insistent noise came from inside the flat, past the awkwardly sprawled body. I uncurled and gasped as the cramp gripped and relented. I staggered towards the sound.
The telephone was on a low table, just where the hallway let into a dim space that smelled of stale tobacco and alcohol and something else.
I lifted the receiver.
‘Hello, hello…’ It was Andrew Perkins’ voice and I was almost glad to hear it.
‘Juliet? Juliet?’
‘This is Hardy,’ I said. Juliet’s dead. She’s been shot. I’m calling the police.’
‘Hardy! Don’t…’
I hung up on him and dialled. While I waited I poked around in the flat. Juliet Farquhar had some expensive clothes and shoes, a collection of law books and not much else. A few paid and unpaid bills in a drawer indicated that she hadn’t been in Sydney very long. The flat was large and pleasant with two bedrooms and a good balcony. It was very sparsely furnished. She had a six-month lease and had borrowed the bond money and some start-up capital from one Henry Farquhar, her father, who lived in Newtown. They’d drawn up an arrangement, signed by them both, whereby she was to pay him back in monthly instalments. I made a note of his address. There was no sign of her handbag or anything else that might have carried the day-to-day things like make-up, cigarettes, keys, appointments book.
The expected knock came on the door. I opened up and would have been flattened in the rush if I hadn’t been well braced. There must have been eight cops, arguing among themselves, but all eager to get at me. In my anger, I shoved the first two back before I saw that they had drawn their sidearms. ‘The body’s right here! D’you want to walk in over it?’
That quietened them down. I held the door open and they stared at the dead woman for a few seconds before doing some quick conferring. Most of them then backed away. A big sergeant put his pistol back in its holster and gave me his mess-with-me-and-you’ll-be-sorry look. ‘Are you Hardy or Perkins?’
‘Hardy.’
‘OK. Have you got the key to this place?’
I’d instinctively put it in my shirt pocket. I handed it over and he put it in the lock. ‘Right. Back up inside, Mr Hardy.’ Over his shoulder he said, ‘Come on, Sergeant. The rest of you piss off and wait for the D’s.’
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 full. 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.’