My turn to drain the bottle. I used the back of my hand to wipe my mouth. Perkins was looking more worried now than at any time so far. I had an advantage but wasn’t sure how to exploit it. When in doubt, go for the chain of command. ‘What’s Miss Farquhar’s job? How long has she been with you?’
Perkins frowned. A lot of horizontal wrinkles formed on his forehead below the red, crinkled waves of his hair-not a pretty sight. ‘A couple of months. She’s my… legal secretary. She has a Bachelor of Jurisprudence degree from Monash.’
‘Meaning that she knows a lot about the law but she’s not a qualified practitioner and she’s not doing articles?’
Perkins nodded. ‘She’s a very capable young woman.’
‘Maybe too capable. There’s something going on here. Virginia Shaw thinks that Charles Meadowbank was killed because he didn’t want to go through with the divorce. You helped to set that divorce up.’
‘Not really,’ Perkins said. ‘I’m not acting for either party. I just did Charles a favour by putting him in touch with Virginia.’
‘You might have helped to get him killed.’
‘Don’t say that! I don’t understand any of this. How do I know you’re telling the truth?’
‘Call Juliet Farquhar. She’s the link.’
His hesitation spoke volumes. Perkins wasn’t the sort of man who hesitated unnecessarily-he’d been caught out, and didn’t like it. Juliet Farquhar was coolly playing a game of her own and he didn’t want to think about what the consequences might be for him. I now had my strategy. ‘Don’t piss around,’ I said. ‘Somebody’s plans have gone badly wrong. Your Miss Farquhar could be getting you involved in something very nasty, or she could be in great danger herself. Maybe both.’
Perkins stood up and grabbed the wall phone. He didn’t need to refer to his little black book to get the number. He dialled rapidly. I opened the fridge, pulled out two more beers and opened them. I took a drink and put the other bottle within Perkins’ reach. He ignored it.
‘No answer.’ He slammed the phone back into its housing.
I shrugged. ‘She could be anywhere.’
Perkins shook his head and seized the bottle. ‘We were supposed to be going out tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Drinks at six. She’d be getting ready by now. She puts in a lot of time on her appearance.’
I took another pull on the bottle and then pushed it away. Strong. I got up and took my gun and the bullets down from the fridge.
Perkins almost choked on his next hasty swig of Heineken. It was no way to drink high quality beer. ‘What… what are you doing?’
I loaded the gun, trying not to make the action too melodramatic. ‘You’d better tell me where she lives, unless you want to come with me.’
‘I’ve been stupid,’ he said wearily. ‘She’s a very exciting woman.’
All of a sudden, Andrew Perkins didn’t look as impressive as he had on the tennis court and as he no doubt did in a courtroom. He ran his hand back over his head and feathered up his hair which was thinner than it had first looked. It was receding at the sides, too, something careful arrangement had concealed. I closed the cylinder and put the gun in its holster. The click of the mechanism made him twitch. I didn’t like Perkins lording it over me, but I didn’t want him coming to pieces, either. At that moment I could probably have got a cheque for Virginia Shaw out of him and walked away, but it had gone beyond that. Below the wall phone there was a message pad with a ballpoint pen attached to it by a chain. I tore a leaf from the pad.
‘Where does she live?’
Perkins had almost finished his second bottle. ‘In Bronte. Barker Avenue, Number 10, Unit 16.’
I wrote the information along with a description of the woman’s car and Perkins’ number on the slip. ‘You’re her employer, maybe you should come with me.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m more than that. She… knows things about me. If she’s betrayed me… I… I have a violent temper. It’s better I don’t go.’
‘Suit yourself. Have you got a key?’
He went into the sitting room and came back with a leather key holder. He detached a key and handed it over. His compliance puzzled me.
I said, ‘I’m not acting in your interests, you understand.’
He smiled and freckles stood out on his face which had lost all colour. ‘Exactly in whose interests are you acting, Hardy?’
‘Will I have any trouble from Carl if I just walk out of here?’
Perkins shook his head.
‘You stay put,’ I said. You’ll be hearing from me or the police or both.’
He shrugged and tilted the beer bottle to his flabby, moist mouth.
I didn’t see Carl, but I had a feeling he was watching me from somewhere and would have been on the job in a flash if I’d tried to steal the Alfa. Useful bloke, Carl. It wasn’t far to Bronte and the roads weren’t too busy. The exercise and the beer had given me a lift and I’d recovered some of the ground I’d lost with Perkins. I quickly rolled a cigarette while waiting for a light and got it lit at the next stop. This was getting interesting. Miss Farquhar was playing some kind of game and I was keen to learn the rules from her. If she wasn’t at home I’d just have to find her. It was one of the things I was supposed to be good at doing.
Unlike some avenues, where there isn’t a tree in sight, this one had plenty-plane trees and she-oaks on both sides as it curved up away from the beach over what must originally have been a sandhill. Mostly blocks of flats, the occasional set of semis and a few Federation cottages. The flats I was looking for were set on a big block well back from the road. A lot of houses must have come down to provide the space. There were three modern blocks built of pale brick with big windows; each containing a dozen or more units. I parked in the street and approached on foot. A wide driveway led to a series of parking bays and carports. The higher the rent the better the car protection. Perkins had told me that Miss Farquhar drove a white Mini that still carried its black and white Victorian number plates. It was sitting in its uncovered space, locked, neatly parked.
The layout of the blocks was logical and well signposted. Miss Farquhar’s place was on the second level of the middle building. There was a bit of toing and froing going on-people getting back from the beach, a man carrying two cases of beer, a young couple dressed up to party. No-one looked at me as I entered and went up the stairs. I could hear music coming from one of the flats when the beer carrier opened his door. The sound shut off abruptly when the door closed. The walls and doors were thick. It was just as well that I had the key because breaking in would have been a tricky job. The door was solid and the lock was modern and well- fitted. I knocked several times and got no response. I used the key and went in.
A woman was lying face down on the floor in the hall. When I opened the door it just cleared her outstretched fingers. She had clawed at the carpet in her death throes, and was lying at a crazy angle with her legs splayed out. She wore a tight white dress with a high neck. I let the door close behind me and bent down. Her dark hair was drawn up into an elaborate arrangement on the top of her head and she’d been shot once in the back of the neck, just below where the hair began.
10
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
