Matrimonial Causes by Peter Corris

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?’
    â€˜Hardy.’
    â€˜Okay. 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Easy,’ Clark said. ‘Why are you armed?’
    â€˜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’twant to have both hands fill. 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.’
    â€˜Better not touch anything,’ Clark said.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Not a thing,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t you sniff the gun to make sure it hasn’t been fired?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Don’t know, Sergeant.’
    â€˜Try it, son. Try it.’
    There was no response to the constable’s knock, but some voices carried up the stairs.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Carl,’ I said. ‘Picks his teeth with a shotgun. So what are you charging me with?’
    â€˜Depends. Mr Perkins is receiving treatment for suspected fractured ribs. What do you have to say?’
    â€˜I phoned in about the dead woman.’
    â€˜So you did. That’s in your favour.’
    â€˜You can’t think I killed her. The blood was dry. She’d been dead for hours.’
    â€˜An expert, are you, Hardy? You could have gone back to make things look different.’
    â€˜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.