Peter Corris - Matrimonial Causes

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.

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.’

‘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.’