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.’
‘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.’