Dickersen said, ‘I propose that we liaise through DS Roberts. Share whatever information comes our way.’
‘That was weird,’ Hank said on our way back to Newtown. ‘Never said a word about you being on board, unlicensed and all.’
‘It was odd all right,’ I said. ‘They’re playing a very cagey game. I don’t imagine for one minute that they told us everything, do you?’
Hank shook his head.
‘Which was why we didn’t tell them Margaret’s guess about the drawing.’
‘Yeah, but Dickersen’s right-no real leads to follow.’
‘We’ve got the quarries and they’re bound to have something. It’s interesting.’
We were in the train we’d caught at Museum-the best way to get around the city and our part of the inner west. There were only three other people in the compartment, all Asian and, as it turned out, all bound for Central and then Newtown. Two looked like students and the other, middle-aged, groomed, in a thousand-dollar suit, looked as if he might own a sizeable chunk of King Street. He spoke in a low voice on his mobile the whole time, switching easily from an Asian language to English and French.
We were walking south along King Street when my mobile rang. I listened and broke into a run.
‘What?’ Hank said as he loped along beside me.
I stumbled, fought for balance. ‘Megan. She’s been attacked.’
9
It was the first time I’d broken into a full run since the heart business. Hank, with youth and a longer stride on his side, passed me easily but I more or less kept up with him except on the stairs, which he took three at a time. We found Megan sitting on a chair in her office with her feet on a stool being fussed over by Grant, the gay podiatrist who occupies rooms on the same level. Simultaneously, I saw the blood on the towel she was holding to her head and smelt the powerful fumes of petrol.
Hank rushed up to her, almost pushing Grant aside. She let him take the towel away to reveal a long cut on her forehead that had obviously gushed blood and was now still flowing. Hank put the towel back. Megan’s expression was alert. She showed no signs of shock, plenty of anger. She didn’t exactly shoo Hank away but she clearly didn’t want to be comforted. I stood where I was.
‘What happened?’ I said. ‘Megan. .’ Grant began, but she waved at him to be quiet. ‘I got back from buying coffee to find this fucker backing out of our space, sloshing petrol around. I threw the coffees at him and tried to kick him in the balls. He hit me with the petrol can. I got in one kick before I dropped. He fell down the stairs. I hope he broke his bloody neck.’ ‘He didn’t, love,’ I said, ‘but you did pretty good.’
Grant said, ‘You macho types. Time to call the police.’
Hank had picked up on Megan’s attitude and abandoned the solicitude. He eased Grant towards the passage.
‘We’ll take it from here,’ he said. ‘Might need a statement. Did you see this guy?’
Grant shook his head. ‘What’re you going to do about the petrol?’
‘Be careful with matches,’ Hank said.
‘Petrol and blood,’ Megan said, ‘an exciting combination.’
‘Oh, God,’ Grant said, ‘quotations.’
I took a closer look at Megan’s wound. ‘It needs stitches. Better get you up to RPA. I’ll do it, Hank, and then take her home.’
Hank hesitated, but Megan reached for his hand, gave it a squeeze, and nodded.
I heard Grant say, ‘Someone has to get on to cleaners, carpet people and the insurance company.’
I helped Megan down the stairs and we got a taxi to the hospital. An open, bleeding wound gets quick treatment and she was cleaned up and stitched and given a tetanus shot and some painkillers all inside an hour. She insisted she could walk back to her flat.
‘You helped me buy it,’ she said. ‘Time you took a look at it.’
The flat was in a narrow street two blocks south and one or two west from King Street, part of an old warehouse that had been gutted and done over. It was on the second level, had two bedrooms and a balcony looking out onto Camperdown Memorial Rest Park. The decor, furniture and everything else displayed Megan’s taste-plain, functional, unfussy.
‘Hank keeps his own flat by mutual agreement,’ Megan said. ‘Bit like you and Lily did. We divide our time between the two places.’
‘It can work. How’re you feeling?’
‘Okay. I’m going to have a drink and take a couple of these pills and then I’ll feel better until I bomb out. What’ll you have?’
‘Same as you.’
We sat on the balcony-minimal traffic, nice breeze over the park, gins and tonic.
Megan touched her forehead. ‘Honourable wound, professional hazard. Bet you took a few.’
‘I still might, the way things are going. Any regrets about. . getting involved?’
Megan washed pills down with a solid slug of her drink. ‘Thinking about it.’
‘Good. Tell me, love, does Hank have anything on his plate that’d bring this on-an attempt to wipe out his whole operation?’
She was fading fast but she made an effort to concentrate. ‘There is another arson matter involved-torching Dr McKinley’s car-but this isn’t the same style. I can’t think of anything else. It looks like the McKinley case.’
‘Hank’s not exactly going to thank me for bringing it to him.’
She smiled. ‘He thanks you for me. That’ll cover it.’
Hank phoned and said he’d be with her in an hour. He was going to lock the office up and pay a couple of local kids he’d used in the past to run messages, to keep an eye
on the building overnight.
‘Reckon we should tell the cops?’ he asked.
‘Let’s not,’ I said. ‘Let’s think about it. See if there’s some way we can make it work for us. I’m tired of stumbling around in the dark on this thing.’
I left Megan lying on her bed with her eyes closed. The G amp; T had been solid and the analgesics had kicked in. Hank wasn’t likely to get any conversation from her until breakfast time.
I was halfway down Australia Street heading back to Glebe, a bit tired but walking briskly, when a car pulled up beside me. Two men got out. I recognised one of them-Detective Senior Sergeant Phil Fitzwilliam of the City Command Unit. An old enemy, Fitz had avoided corruption charges by the skin of his teeth several times. As a young copper he’d been decorated for bravery and in his early years as a detective he’d made some significant arrests and secured some notable convictions. That reputation had sustained him in later years when he sailed close to the wind. We’d run up against each other several times, never pleasantly.
‘Hello, Fitz. How’s tricks?’
Fitzwilliam had been a lean six-footer in his prime, but beer and big dinners had inflated him and he’d lost centimetres as if he’d had to stoop to carry the weight. His pale blue eyes were sunk in creased, sagging fat.
‘You were always a smartarse, Hardy. That’s what they’ll say at your funeral. I heard you nearly booked in for one. Pity it didn’t happen.’
‘From the look of you, I’d bet on me going to yours rather than the other way around. Not that I would.’
Fitz turned to the other man. ‘See what I mean, Detective Constable? Always with a comeback. Never at a loss for words, but an arsehole just the same.’
His colleague nodded sycophantically. At a guess he was thirty, twenty years younger than Fitz, and with a lot to learn.
Fitz turned his bulk slowly and pointed to their car. ‘Come on, Hardy. We’ve got things to talk about.’
I wasn’t really worried. The old days, when cops like the famous ‘Bumper’ Farrell, and imitators like Phil Fitzwilliam, would take you somewhere quiet and beat you so the marks didn’t show, were gone. Physical intimidation was out of fashion, but there were plenty of other methods. Also, Fitzwilliam had a very uncertain temper-provoke him too much and he just might react violently. I felt fit and strong, but a broken sternum is a broken sternum and I didn’t want to be on the end of one of Fitzwilliam’s wild swings.