Torn Apart

by Peter Corris

  We crossed a narrow, shallow creek on a concrete ford and then a cattle grid in front of a high gate in a high cyclone fence. Electronic. After a brief pause, the gate swung open; the booth I’d seen in the web photo looked less formidable in reality and was unoccupied. We entered what once must have been a farm of some kind: a few hectares of cleared, flattish land, with a scattering of buildings—an old timber house, a demountable that looked like a schoolroom and two Nissen huts flanking a bituminised square with a flagpole in the middle. Kennedy swung the Land Rover around to where another bitumen strip was marked out as a parking bay. I followed him, stopping beside a canopied truck that looked even more military than the 4WD.

  I had the .38 in the shoulder holster but had made sure the flannie hung loose over it and that the denim jacket didn’t promote a bulge. I got out of the car and joined Kennedy as he walked towards the house.

  ‘I’m gonna deliver the mail, check in with the CO and then we’ll hunt up Frankie. Out with a skirmish group at this time, I reckon.’

  ‘How many people here, Col?’

  ‘You know better than that, Paddy. Operational information.’

  We were close to the house and I saw a man coming through the door. His walk was a self-important strut.

  ‘Who’s the pocket Napoleon?’

  ‘Shut your fuckin’ trap!’ Kennedy snapped as we got closer.

  Kennedy presented the mail to the man who stood on the verandah the best part of a metre above him. He needed the extra height—couldn’t have topped 155 centimetres. He wore modified military dress like Kennedy, no insignia but the cut of his clothes was superior and his voice had a clipped precision.

  ‘And who is this, Kennedy?’

  ‘Old army mate, sir. Paddy . . . Patrick Malloy. First Lieutenant.’

  ‘Vietnam?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He didn’t leave the verandah, but he bent and reached down with his hand. ‘Peter Foster-Jones, Mr Malloy. Very glad to meet a fellow officer.’

  We shook hands and Kennedy explained that I wanted to talk to Francis Szabo. Foster-Jones nodded, lost interest, turned his attention to the mail. ‘Carry on, Kennedy.’

  I thought, Francis? At least there was no saluting.

  Kennedy waited until we were out of earshot before he spoke. ‘Sorry to snarl at you, Paddy, but that little prick takes all of this very seriously. Or pretends to. I’m not sure. Thing is, it’s an easy job, full bed and board and decent pay for us old soldiers. You want to think about it.’

  ‘Okay. Where does the money come from?’

  ‘Who knows? Who cares? Corporations mostly, I reckon. They send executives here for toughening up, leadership training. That shit. Most of ’em’ve never lifted anything heavier than a golf club.’

  We left the cleared area and were walking down a track into the bush. ‘Do they benefit from it?’

  ‘Some do, some run screaming back to Mummy.’

  Every hundred metres or so, the trees on both sides of the track were marked with splotches of white paint. Kennedy saw me noticing and grinned.

  ‘Orienteering,’ he said. ‘Some of them’ve got the sense of direction of a headless chook. They need marks all the way home.’

  ‘What’s Szabo’s role in all this?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  We took a narrow track leading to a creek and Kennedy gestured for me to move slowly and quietly and keep to the trees beside the path. After a minute he stopped and pointed. We were at a high point of the creek bank and, fifty or sixty metres away, I saw a group of men, camouflaged with bits of bush and leaves, wriggling forward on their bellies. They reached the water, hesitated, then kept going, still crawling and keeping their heads above the water. After crossing the creek they leapt up and charged into the bush, shouting and firing.

  ‘Pop guns,’ Kennedy said.

  ‘Real water though, and bloody cold.’

  ‘Toughening up.’

  Kennedy squatted down and lit a cigarette. ‘First of the day,’ he said, offering me the packet.

  I shook my head.

  He gave me a quizzical look. ‘You used to be a chain smoker.’

  ‘I quit.’

  ‘How?’

  I traced a line down the centre of my chest. ‘I had no choice. What’re we waiting here for, Col?’

  ‘They’ll be along soon, looking like drowned rats.’

  About twenty men, carrying weapons I couldn’t identify and answering to Kennedy’s description, appeared from the bush. They waded across the creek. A few sneezed. They set off along the path in reasonable order. Bringing up the rear was a tall, dark man whose clothes were dry. I’d never laid eyes on him but he was the image of his father: Frank Szabo, son of Soldier.

  ‘Hey, Frankie,’ Kennedy yelled.

  Szabo looked to where we were standing and waved. Kennedy motioned for him to come up. Szabo spoke to a member of the troop and they moved on. Szabo climbed the fairly steep and muddy slope in a few easy strides.

  ‘What’s up, Col?’

  ‘Want you to meet an old comrade of mine, Paddy Malloy. We were in ’Nam together.’

  Szabo looked at me and at that moment I travelled back mentally twenty years, to when I stared into the yellow, wolfish eyes of Soldier Szabo as he moved in to kill me. The eyes were the same. Szabo drew in a deep breath and balanced himself as if he might go for my throat or my balls. My jacket was open and I knew I could get the pistol quickly if I had to.

  Szabo let the breath out slowly. ‘No, he’s not,’ he said. ‘He’s Cliff Hardy, the private detective who killed my father.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  Kennedy took a step towards me. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  I kept my eyes focused on Szabo, who appeared totally relaxed. ‘I’m sorry, Kennedy,’ I said. ‘You gave me an opening and I took it. You may as well know, Patrick Malloy’s dead. He was shotgunned in my house. We were cousins, lookalikes, and I’m wondering whether this man killed him instead of me.’

  Kennedy unclenched the fist he’d been ready to throw at me and fished out his cigarettes. He lit up. ‘I was beginning to wonder about you—not smoking, and you don’t move the way Paddy did. Slower.’

  ‘He was a bit younger and he hadn’t had a heart attack. We were friends, if that means anything to you.’

  Kennedy blew smoke. ‘I don’t understand any of this. Think I’d better report to the Commander.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Col,’ Szabo said. ‘I’ll sort this out and fill you in later. Why don’t you catch up with that mob and debrief them. You know the drill.’

  Szabo spoke with a quiet authority, clearly respected by Kennedy, who stamped his barely smoked cigarette butt into the mud, shot me a furious look, and strode away.

  Szabo waited until Kennedy was back on the path. Then he pointed to my left shoulder. ‘You won’t need the gun. You shouldn’t carry that arm a bit stiff the way you do.’

  ‘I’m out of practice,’ I said. ‘Convince me.’

  ‘I’ve bashed people and cut them, kicked them and broken limbs, but I’ve never killed anyone.’

  ‘You’re a known shottie artist.’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘You made threats against me in jail.’

  He nodded. ‘Some time back. I was a different person then.’

  ‘You bought a shotgun recently.’

  ‘You have been busy. I don’t know what story you told poor Col. He’s not the brightest. I’m guessing you said something about wanting to talk to me and he took you at your word on that.’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  He unzipped his jacket. ‘Let me show you something.’

  ‘Easy.’

  He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a silver cross on a chai
n.

  ‘I’m the pastor of this flock as well as one of the trainers. I’m a Christian and I wouldn’t take revenge on you for killing my father. Revenge is for God. I forgive you, and I hope you forgive yourself.’

  ‘You bought a shotgun.’

  ‘Yeah, I did, and a box of fifty shells and I went out into the bush and fired off every last one. Then I took an angle grinder and cut the gun up into little bits, which I dumped. I purged myself of shotguns and violence. People can change, Hardy.’

  ‘Maybe. I haven’t seen it happen all that much.’

  ‘You can believe me or not, as you choose.’

  I did believe him. The gleam in his eyes wasn’t from the killer instinct his father had displayed; it was the light of redemption, the glow of the saved. I waved my hand at the bush, the creek, the muddy footprints on the path.

  ‘So what’s all this, onward Christian soldiers?’

  ‘Your cheap cynicism does you no credit.’

  Francis Szabo had picked up some education as well as religion along the way; he had the moral drop on me and I had to acknowledge it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘That’s the second bloody sorry in a few minutes. Not easy, but you can see where I was coming from when I heard certain things about you.’

  ‘Yes. If you’d inquired a bit more you’d have learned other things and saved yourself a trip.’

  We started down towards the path. I slipped and he steadied me. ‘I guess I’ve been talking to the wrong people,’ I said.

  He didn’t say anything until we were back in the centre of the compound. He guided me towards my car.

  ‘I’ll have a word at the gate and you can go through.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  It was an awkward moment and we both felt it.

  I jiggled my keys. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ he said. ‘But I’d suggest you take a good look at yourself and the way your life is heading.’

  I’d run out of candidates for making me the target and my encounter with Szabo hadn’t done anything for my confidence or self-esteem. He was right—I should have asked how old Ben Corbett and Marvis Marshall’s information was and tried to get a more up-to-date assessment. I was left with the conclusion that the killer had got the man he wanted. I now knew more about Patrick than before, perhaps more than the police knew.

  The smart course might be to turn that information over to the police. Then again, that might not be so smart. They might think I was trying to deal myself out of the drug importation charge. These thoughts ran through my head as I made my chastened way back to Sydney. It was the sort of stalemate I’d reached many times before. In the early days I made the mistake of talking it over with Cyn.

  ‘Stop beating your head against a brick wall,’ she said. ‘Drop it. Move on.’

  I never did, and wouldn’t now. I still had my conduit to the workings of the police service—Frank Parker, who’d retired as an Assistant Commissioner but was still on their books as an adviser and consultant. I’d overworked and strained the relationship when I was a busy PEA, but I’d also done him some good turns along the way (quite apart from introducing him to his wife), and we’d both mellowed in recent times. I thought I could count on Frank to at least tell me how the police inquiry was progressing. I could take my cue from that.

  The first thing I did was to return the pistol and ammunition to Ben Corbett. He’d sell it to someone else before you could turn around, but that wasn’t my problem. If a criminal wants a gun he’ll get one, and no law will stop him, or her. Corbett examined the weapon carefully.

  ‘Not fired.’

  ‘Never sniffed the air.’

  ‘Two hundred back.’

  ‘That’s a bit light on, even for you.’

  ‘Because I’m charging you for some information you’ll be interested in.’

  ‘Go on.’

  He handed me the two notes. ‘Deal?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve got this mate who’s a fuckin’ ballistics expert. He runs this little show and the cops put work his way. What’s it called, that?’

  ‘Outsourcing.’

  ‘Right. Anyway, we chew the fat and he tells me about examining these shotgun pellets taken from a bloke killed in Glebe recently. I read the papers. That’d be the hit that went down at your place, right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m thinking you wanted the .38 to go after the guy who did the job but you didn’t find him. So this information might be worth something to you.’

  ‘Good thinking, Ben.’

  ‘Not as dumb as what you thought, eh? He says the pellets were self-loaded. That’s unusual, but what’s weirder is that they were treated with some kind of poison. Get the idea? You hit some fucker at the end of the range and don’t kill him, but the poison gets him anyway. Cute, eh?’

  ‘Yes. What else? I can see you’re dying to tell me.’

  ‘My mate reckons there’s a particular mob that went in for this trick—blokes who fought in them African wars a while back. Not army, what’re they called?’

  ‘Mercenaries.’

  ‘Good money, they say. Tax free. Should have had a go at it myself.’

  ‘You have to kill women and children and burn villages.’

  ‘Whoopee!’

  I’d switched off my mobile for the trip north. I turned it on when I got home and there was a message from Sheila to say that she’d visit that evening if I confirmed. I did. I wanted to see her, not only for the shared pleasure, but because I wanted to get every scrap of information she had about Patrick. Someone out there hated him enough to make absolutely sure of killing him and the reason had to lie somewhere in his past. It was going to be a tricky balancing act—loving and interrogating—and I rehearsed some of the questions I’d put as I cleaned myself up.

  I went out for wine and bread and cheese and enjoyed the feeling of not having to watch my back. I could return the Camry, but I’d still keep my communications secure from the police, at least until I’d spoken to Frank.

  Sheila arrived about 10 pm. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and neither had she, so, after the usual enthusiastic preliminaries, we got stuck into the food and the wine.

  I decided to start by telling her about the parcel from London and the steroids and how I was facing a charge of importing them.

  She put down her glass. ‘You didn’t tell me about a parcel coming from London.’

  ‘That was when I didn’t know what you were up to.’

  ‘Now you do?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this now?’

  ‘Because I’m sure now Patrick was the target, not me, and I still want to find out who killed him. I need to know every scrap of information about him.’

  ‘Why are you so sure?’

  I told her about the trip north and the result. How I came back with my tail between my legs. Then I told her about the poisoned shot pellets. She finished her wine and held out her glass for more. She’d had one go at the bread and cheese compared with my three or four. More than most, Sheila was someone who could discipline herself.

  ‘Are you in serious trouble over the steroids?’

  ‘Hard to say. Depends on the cops. I’m hoping to get a line on their attitude to me and their investigation of Patrick’s murder. I’m not in good standing with the police, but I’ve got one friend with contacts.’

  ‘You must wish Paddy’d never turned up.’

  I looked at her. She was tired with lines showing around her eyes and mouth under her fresh makeup. Her hair was caught in some kind of bun with a few strands coming loose. She was wearing her suit again with a blouse not as crisp as before. I felt protective and lustful—a potent combination. I pushed the plates aside
, reached for her and pulled her close.

  ‘If I hadn’t met him, I wouldn’t have met you.’

  That ended the eating and drinking and the discussion. We went upstairs.

  Sheila didn’t rush away in the morning as she had before. We took our time getting up, showering, dressing and having breakfast. She saw me taking my meds and grimacing at the sweet taste of the aspirin.

  ‘Rest of your life, eh?’

  ‘However long that may be.’

  ‘I’d back you in for eighty, Cliff.’

  She said she didn’t have any meetings to do with the film for a few days, but that she was reading the script and doing research on the sort of woman her character was—the criminal matriarch.

  ‘A few of them about,’ she said. ‘You could be useful here. Ever run into one of them?’

  ‘Thankfully no. I remember what Frank Parker, the cop friend I mentioned, said when he had dealings with Kitty “Cat Woman” Saunders.’

  ‘I’ve read about her. She was a piece of work. Hang on, I’ll jot this down.’

  ‘He said, “If you ever meet one of these women run a mile, because she’ll do you harm”.’

  She scribbled in a tiny notebook. ‘That’s good. I’d like to meet this guy.’

  ‘You will. Can you answer a few more questions about Patrick?’

  She sighed. ‘I guess so. Will he always be in the room?’

  ‘No. That’s partly why I’m doing this, I realise. I want to kind of exorcise him. He was in Vietnam, right? D’you think he ever suffered the post traumatic stuff—the nightmares, the jumping at shadows . . .’

  She took a long time to answer and I saw that the memories were painful.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘if it’s too hard don’t—’

  ‘It’s okay. I got over it, just a bit hard to go back to all the pain now that things are looking up and we’re . . . Well, I got pregnant and Paddy went off his head. He said he’d walked through clouds of agent orange and any child of his would be lucky to be born with only one head . . .’