Matrimonial Causes by Peter Corris Page A

‘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.’
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜Oh, a key, a firearm. We’ve had a look at it. Recently reloaded. Possibly recently fired.’
    â€˜Bullshit.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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 mid-section 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, butI was on the floor, by a wall, and he was standing over me.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜You’re