Peter Corris - Matrimonial Causes

‘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 midsection 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 the 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 byway 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.’

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?’