Peter Corris - Matrimonial Causes

‘Why not?’

‘First, you’d have to explain to Loggins how you went to me without talking to him first. That’d be hard and Pascoe’d love it. Suppose you got past that somehow, I’d deny everything. Then you’d be in the possession of information with no way of accounting for it convincingly. It would have to occur to Loggins and Pascoe that you’d been talking to people you shouldn’t, and without keeping a record. I’d be in the shit, sure, but you’d be in it with me, Ian.’

He flashed the Redford grin. ‘Pretty smart. OK, why don’t you take the information to Loggins?’

‘I don’t trust him. I’ve got this nasty suspicion that what some Homicide detectives are best at is arranging homicides.’

‘That bespeaks a shocking want of confidence in the police force. Not that I’m saying the organisation’s perfect, mind. I’ve got a law degree from the University of New South Wales, did you know that?’

‘I had the feeling you didn’t go straight from your school certificate into the academy.’

‘Right. It’s held me back in the force, the LL fucking B. Isn’t that amazing? So, Cliff, you don’t trust Pascoe because he’s a nong, and you distrust Loggins because he’s a Homicide squad heavy, but you do trust me?’

‘No, I don’t, but you’re in the same boat as me, approximately. People are trying to use and manipulate you and you don’t like it. Same here. Our interests sort of intersect on this.’

Gallagher nodded. ‘You wanted undertakings. Like what?’

‘Not much. I want to know everything Loggins says when you see him today.’

Gallagher laughed. ‘Call that not much, do you? That’s my fucking job, right there. What do I get in return?’

‘The name of the killer and the chance to get hold of him and give him a shake while he’s not expecting anything. Tonight.’

‘Alleged killer.’

‘An awful lot of things about him fit. I saw him, remember.’

‘Such as?’

‘Uh huh,’ I said. ‘All that comes later.’

Gallagher stood up. I noticed for the first time that his suit was an expensive piece of tailoring and fitted him very well. He didn’t fiddle with cuffs or creases though. ‘OK, Hardy,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back at five this afternoon. I see Bob Loggins at three. Just now, I’ve got a time sheet to falsify.’ He gave me a business-like nod and stalked towards the door. When he opened it I fancied I heard a noise outside, but it was probably only Jack the rat.

I rang the Cairns number Cyn had given me but the person who answered told me that Ms Lee was spending the whole day at the site. I left the message that Ms Lee’s husband had called and would call again. Cyn had kept her maiden name for professional use. She joked that if we had a son we should call him Lee Hardy. I suggested adding Proprietary Limited, but she didn’t seem to think that was funny. Having children wasn’t a subject that came up often and, when it did, my reaction was almost always to make a joke of it. The thought of a son chilled me. How can you teach someone to behave properly when you don’t know how to behave yourself?

I answered the phone a few times through the day. Work was coming in. I lined up interviews for later in the week, explaining that I had a job on hand that was taking all my time but I would be free soon. The prospective clients were promising-a missing person case, not a child, thank God, and a Double Bay restaurateur who doubted the honesty of his partner. Sounded as if there could be a free meal or two in that one, but first, I had to stay alive and in business. I went out and had a slice of pizza and a coffee for lunch, in keeping with my resolve to make it a dry day. The Falcon was sitting nicely on Primo’s slab and only dripping a tiny amount of oil.

I bought a paper which occupied a very small part of the afternoon. I knew that up-coming divorces had to be listed somewhere, possibly for public consumption. But I didn’t know where. I was acutely conscious of being new at the game. Ernie Glass had told me that a private investigator needed a ‘tame’ cop-it seemed to me that a tame lawyer, motor mechanic and dentist would come in handy, too. I was trying not to admit it, but a tooth in the vicinity of where Coleman’s backhander had landed was sending out signals. I puzzled about the keeping of notes. It didn’t seem wise to make a record of conversations with Maxwell and Joan Dare, and exactly where would I file them, anyway? They didn’t really belong under Meadowbank or Shaw and I hadn’t got so desperate as to open a file called ‘Survival’. I blew dust from the office Gregory’s and looked up the addresses for Teacher and his boss, Max Wilton. Joan said something about the name nagged at her and I had the same feeling, as if there was a connection between various bits of information to be made. It eluded me, though.

I smoked too much and was thinking seriously about a drop of red to ease the rough throat when the phone rang at about 4.30. Temptation put aside, I answered it.

‘Hardy? This is Bob Loggins. I want to see you at College Street at ten sharp tomorrow morning. OK?’

‘How did the ballistics work out?’

‘Ten o’clock. On the dot.’ He hung up. He was short on charm, long on confidence that I’d do what he wanted.

The phone rang again soon after. It was Gallagher this time, sounding tense and worried. He told me to meet him in a park in Norton Street, Leichhardt in half an hour.

‘I thought you were coming here?’

‘I changed my mind. You be there, Hardy. I’ve gone out on limb for you. You better have something good for me.’

It was my day for being ordered around by coppers. I said I’d be there. I took the. 38 out of its drawer, checked it over and strapped it on. Before I left I took a quick one from the cask. They call Leichhardt Little Italy, and when in Rome…

It took me longer than half an hour to get to the park but I didn’t mind keeping Gallagher waiting-no sense letting him have things all his own way. The traffic crawled along Parramatta Road and I had to wait three cycles of the lights before getting around at Norton Street. The Italian flavour was struggling to get through the Australian ingredients, but a few of the restaurants had tables placed outside and many of the businesses had signs up in both local languages. The post office and town hall are solid pieces of Victoriana, like the pubs, but there was no such thing as a pasticceria in grandma’s day. Cyn and I occasionally ate in Leichhardt, always at my bidding. She said once she thought I’d be happy with a dish consisting of pasta in red wine. Cyn’s preference was for the kind of French cuisine which left me wondering if the tablecloth might be edible.

I like suburban parks and the Pioneer Memorial in Leichhardt was a beauty. It had all the essential features-a militaristic arch and a memorial stone listing the names of the fallen residents of the municipality in two world wars, an acre or so of grass with cement paths through it and a few battling flower beds. The trees and shrubs either weren’t really trying or didn’t get enough water, and the white smudges on the grass indicated where dogs had shat. The backyards of Leichhardt were, typically, small and cemented over. The dog-owners had to have somewhere for nature to take its course. My familiarity with the park stems from a few hours I spent in it after a fight with Cyn in a nearby restaurant. She walked out. I took the remainder of the Moyston claret to the park and absorbed alcohol, tobacco and the atmosphere.

I parked alongside the adjacent high school and entered the park from the eastern side, near the bus depot. People were strolling and sitting; the dog-lovers were indulgently watching their charges sniffing at tree trunks and rubbish bin support posts. I was comforted by the sight of every one of them, the long and the short and the tall. The Hardys, Pettigrews, Flanagans and Fanous-my antecedents-have been in Sydney for a long time. A Fanou, or a Le Fanou as my sister Tess prefers it, was shot dead by the constabulary in The Rocks in the early 1860s. He was a publican, although Tess insists he was also a police undercover agent. Whatever the truth of that, I had no wish to emulate him, and the best protection against a police shooting, accidental or otherwise, is the presence of solid citizens.