Matrimonial Causes by Peter Corris Page B

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.
    â€˜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 thescene—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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜This cunt was trying to go behind my back.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I’m Bob Loggins, Homicide Squad. I’m investigating the Meadowbank killing. I’m by way 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.’

11
    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.
    â€˜You might have expected that.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Jaded.’
    â€˜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.