Torn Apart

by Peter Corris

  I did.

  ‘Jack Casey.’

  ‘It’s Cliff Hardy, professor.’

  ‘Good. Have you got a secure line?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘Mine is, as far as I know, but let’s keep it short. Where and when can we meet?’

  He lived in Balmain and we fixed on a Darling Street pub at 3 pm. This felt like progress of some kind. I photocopied the passage in Casey’s book, left the library and walked home. When I got there a car was parked outside my house and a uniformed police officer stepped out of it and approached me.

  ‘Mr Hardy?’

  We’d seen each other at the Glebe station. ‘You know it is.’

  He opened the rear door of the car. ‘Please accompany me to the station.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just get in.’

  I unshipped my mobile and stepped back. ‘Not until I know why.’

  ‘Under the terms of your bail you’re required to report—’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I forgot.’

  They made me wait at the station while they filled in forms, made phone calls, twiddled their thumbs. Then they read me the riot act, warning me that another violation could bring the cancellation of my bail, arrest and the loss of part of my bond. I gritted my teeth and took it. When they finally let me go there was barely time to get to Balmain to meet the professor. I was certainly ready for a drink.

  Prof Casey was no tweedy bookworm. I’d given him my description over the phone. The man who jumped to his feet and waved a copy of his book at me was late forties, of medium height, solidly built with thick hair and a bushy beard—both dark with a lot of grey. He wore jeans, a grey Harvard T-shirt and a black leather jacket. There was a carafe of red wine on his table with two glasses. Looked like he’d already made a solid start.

  ‘Mr Hardy, I’m Jack Casey.’

  ‘Cliff,’ I said. We shook hands.

  ‘I’m on the red. You want something else?’

  ‘Red’s fine.’

  We sat down and he poured. His copy of Diggers for Hire had seen a lot of work: the spine was broken and the corners of pages had been turned down and bits of paper were sticking up. I took out my photocopied page with the footnote highlighted. I took a big slug of the wine.

  ‘You said you had information about Olympic Corps.’

  ‘That’s right.’ I pointed to the highlighting. ‘I’m hoping you’ve had more luck with this.’

  He put on reading glasses and peered. ‘I get it. We’re swapping, are we? What’s your profession, Cliff?’

  ‘I was a private detective, now . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes, it comes back to me. You got the flick.’

  ‘That’s right. Now I’m investigating the death of someone I think may have belonged to this mercenary mob.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was my cousin and it happened in my house.’

  He went up in my estimation by not saying he was sorry. Why should he be? He took a swallow of wine and examined me closely. ‘Convince me you’re not a spook of some kind.’

  I laughed. ‘They wouldn’t have me, and I wouldn’t have a bar of them. I’ve met a few in my time, a couple were all right, but most of ’em couldn’t tell their arses from their elbows. They might’ve got better, of course.’

  He shook his head. ‘They haven’t—worse if anything in this paranoid climate, which I hope is cooling.’

  It was a standoff. I might have asked the same question as him. Universities have always harboured intelligence people, but Casey didn’t strike me as a candidate. I took Sheila’s photograph of Patrick in Africa from my pocket and the postcard.

  ‘This is the man I’m talking about, and this is a postcard he sent from a certain place. I’ll tell you more if you reciprocate.’

  He studied the photo, took off his glasses, wiped them on a ragged tissue, and looked closely again. ‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘This could really be something. See those inverted chevrons? I’ve seen photos of mercenaries wearing those in . . .’

  ‘Angola. That’s where P . . . he sent a postcard from.’

  ‘Right. Who is this guy?’

  I took the photo back. ‘Whoa. Give and take. Tell me why you asked me if my line was secure, and what’s all that about spooks? And I want to hear about the FOI request.’

  ‘Then you’ll tell me who he is?’

  ‘Was. I might, under certain conditions.’

  ‘That’s a hard bargain.’

  I finished off the red and poured another glass, ‘Take it or leave it.’

  He reached down for the backpack under the table and pulled out a sheaf of papers. I’d seen others like them many times before. They were governmental files but these had the identity of the department and practically the whole of their content blacked out. He leafed through the sheets, showing me that barely a sentence or two per page was complete.

  ‘National security,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me about the photos of the mercenaries you saw.’

  He pointed to the photo in my hand. ‘Who?’

  ‘You first.’

  ‘Okay. It was of a bunch of unidentified white mercenaries shackled together and apparently on their way to prison. Or maybe not.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Both sides did nasty things to each other in that war. I should say all sides because there were quite a few. I’m talking about mutilations and beheadings of the living and the dead. Killing prisoners was routine.’

  ‘His name was Patrick Malloy. Someone blew him apart with a shotgun.’

  He gulped down some more wine, took a small box from the pocket of his jacket, opened it and sniffed up a pinch of powder. ‘Snuff,’ he said. ‘Only way to use tobacco inside these days.’

  ‘I’m waiting for the sneeze.’

  ‘Doesn’t always happen. There’s a security angle to all this, obviously. But a shotgun doesn’t sound like our lot.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ I said. ‘There’s always outsourcing.’

  It was murky—maybe right up Casey’s street but not mine. I’d never cultivated contacts in what journalists called the intelligence community because, as I’d told him, I had little respect for the species. What did the CIA predict about the fall of the Berlin Wall, the break-up of the Soviet Union, the fall of the Shah, Marcos and Soeharto? Nothing, and I doubted that their Australian counterparts were any better informed. I told Casey all I could about Patrick and he was encouraged to dig deeper into the photographs he now thought could be of the Olympic Corps, undertaking to keep me informed. He agreed not to publish anything about Patrick until after I’d either found his killer or given up.

  The rough red had given me a headache. I bought some painkillers and walked down Darling Street to the water to allow them to work and me to think. Balmain had changed since I arrived in the inner west. It was no longer the habitat of waterside workers, tradesmen, boxers, footballers and bohemians. Gentrified to the max, it had been renovated, speed-bumped, mosaic-paved and priced into a middle-class haven. 4WDs lined the narrow streets and cute little lofts pushed up through the roofs to gain the all-important, property-enhancing water glimpse.

  But the water itself was still the same, despite the demise of slips and the surfeit of yachts, and was still balm for the troubled mind. I watched a ferry unload the day’s commuters and take on the evening’s city-bound fun seekers, and looked across to where lights were marking out the bridges and buildings and felt glad to be part of it, problems and all.

  With Sheila away and no obvious avenues to follow, I spent a good part of the next morning in the gym trying to make up for days missed. Wes Scott, the owner and a friend, watched me on the treadmill and shook his head when I stepped off, wringing wet.

  ‘Man, I don’t want you d
ying in my gym.’

  Wes is West Indian, a former all-round sportsman and philosopher of the human condition. When he sees someone bludging he’s gently critical, when he sees someone overdoing it he’s harsh.

  ‘Can’t think of a better place to die,’ I said. ‘Lay me down easy on a padded bench and cover me with a sweaty towel.’

  ‘Take it easy, Cliff. You’re in good shape for a man your age who’s been split up the middle. What’re you trying to prove?’

  I picked up a set of weights. ‘Wes, I’m just filling in time waiting for a brilliant idea to strike me. I thought the endorphins might help.’

  ‘Never known it to happen. My best ideas come to me in my sleep.’

  ‘Tried that, didn’t work.’

  ‘Depends who you’re sleeping with. Ah, sorry, man, I forgot about Lily and . . .’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘And would you believe, an idea just came to me.’

  He moved smoothly the way a few 190 plus centimetre, one hundred plus kilo men can, and took the weights from me. He handed me a lighter set. ‘Don’t burn it away. We’re only given so many.’

  It was Frank’s idea, really, to contact Ian Welsh and see what line the police were taking on Patrick’s case and what progress they’d made. Depending on what I was told, I’d consider whether to let them know about the mercenary angle. I phoned Welsh from the street.

  ‘Ian Welsh.’

  ‘It’s Cliff Hardy, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wonder if we could have a talk.’

  ‘About what? Certainly not the charges pending against you.’

  ‘No, your investigation of Patrick Malloy’s murder.’

  There was a long pause, so long I thought the line might have dropped out. Then I heard him clear his throat and his voice took on a less assertive tone. ‘I suppose we could do that. I suggest we meet.’

  That was a surprise. ‘When?’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Outside a gym in Norton Street, Leichhardt.’

  ‘Isn’t there a park around there?’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘I could meet you there in half an hour.’

  Why not in your office? I thought. Senior police officers don’t usually meet civilians in suburban parks. But I agreed. I walked to the park and scouted it thoroughly for vantage points and escape routes. Frank had said Welsh could be trusted, but maybe Frank wasn’t up to date. I decided to wait at a spot where I could see what cars arrived around the perimeter and from where I could slip away into a lane if I didn’t like the look of things. Drunken muggers in parks are one thing; rogue cops are quite another. It was a nervous wait.

  I needn’t have worried. Right on time, a car pulled up on the other side of Norton Street and Welsh got out. He waited for the traffic to clear and crossed quickly. No other cars arriving. No suspicious strollers or joggers. Welsh was underdressed for the cold day. He buttoned his suit coat and hunched his shoulders as he hurried up the path. I was sitting on a bench by a hedge that gave me a little protection from the wind. His hair, which I remembered as being carefully arranged to conceal its thinness, was wispy and flying, revealing his pink skull.

  He nodded and sat on the bench.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I know I’m a bit of a pariah these days, but . . .’

  ‘It’s not that. I suppose you’ve ignored my advice and have gone on looking into this matter.’

  ‘I told you I would.’

  ‘You did, and if things were . . . normal, I’d either tear strips off you or try to get you to tell me what you’ve found out.’

  ‘I was ready for both of those. So things aren’t normal?’

  He sighed and rubbed his hands together to warm them. It’s hard to put your hands in the pockets of a suit coat. Mine were tucked away cosily in the deep pockets of my zipped-up leather jacket.

  ‘The investigation into your cousin’s death has been discontinued. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if those charges against you are dropped.’

  ‘Why?’

  I could see that he was bursting to tell me and hated the fact that he couldn’t. Frank was right; this was a decent man trying to do a decent job with malign forces arrayed against him. I gave him the out.

  ‘The spooks’ve closed you down and threatened you.’

  He stood shivering in the wind and patting uselessly at his disarranged hair. ‘I didn’t say that, and this meeting never took place.’

  Two days later Viv Garner rang to tell me, as Welsh had predicted, that the charge of importing the steroids had been dropped.

  ‘Insufficient evidence,’ he said. ‘You lead a charmed life.’

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him why. I just thanked him and told him to send me his bill.

  ‘You sound depressed.’

  ‘Frustrated.’

  ‘That’s a temporary condition.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  The trouble was, I couldn’t see any way to alleviate it. I scanned the photo of Patrick into the computer and sent it to Jack Casey. He rang to thank me but said he hadn’t turned up anything new except that Patrick wasn’t one of the men in the photograph of the shackled mercenaries. I went to the gym, went out to dinner with Megan and Hank and drank too much. I had two phone calls from Sheila, which helped a little.

  Then I got an email from Angela Warburton in London.

  Dear Cliff

  You might think I’m pursuing you and maybe I am. Anyway, I’m coming back home soon. Had enough of this country with its class consciousness and all that. Looks like I’ve got a job with a documentary film-maker who’s got six projects lined up and funded. This came about because I had another crack at the photo essay on the Travellers and it turned out well. Got a bit of attention. Sean Cassidy wasn’t around. You might be interested to learn that he left for Australia a day or so after you two were here. According to old Paddy he was going to look up members of his family and attend some kind of get-together of descendants of Travellers in Kangaroo Valley this month. Wish I could be there and do a follow-up on my Irish piece, but I won’t be back till next month. I’ll look you up. Maybe we could go for a surf when the weather warms.

  Ciao,

  Angie

  I read that and sat back. Sean Cassidy, aka Seamus Cummings, who’d had an affair with Sheila, looked daggers at Patrick and had been a soldier of some kind. In Australia by the time Patrick and I got back. Could it be? I emailed the shot of him I’d taken at the céilidh to Casey asking, without giving him the name, if Cassidy/Cummings showed up in the photograph of the mercenaries in Angola.

  He sounded excited when he rang me.

  ‘It could be, could be. He’s a lot thinner, but those guys were thin and super fit. Funny thing is, it could be one of two in the group who look almost identical.’

  ‘What’re the chances, on a scale of ten?’

  ‘I’d say eight. Who is he?’

  ‘Have you got a database of known mercenaries from Australia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘It’s taken years to compile . . .’

  ‘This man is in Australia.’

  ‘Jesus, if I could talk to him.’

  I’d phoned the Kangaroo Valley Tourist Association about the date of its Travellers meeting. ‘I know where he’s going to be soon. I’m not expecting you to email or fax the bloody thing. Let me have a look at the database on your computer. Be very interesting if there’s a match.’

  ‘What if there’s not?’

  ‘I’d still want to meet him.’

  ‘You’d put me in touch with him?’

  Why not? I thought. ‘Yes, although it could be risky. You realise what you could be letting yourself in for?’ />
  ‘This could be the man who killed your cousin.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Hardy, I’m ex-SAS myself and I’ve been working on this stuff for a long time. I’ve met some very hard cases in dodgy places.’

  Not as hard as this, if he’s the man, I thought, but I agreed that we’d go together.

  ‘It’d take a day or two. Can you get the time off?’

  ‘I’d fucking take it!’

  He gave me his address in Balmain and I arranged to be there that evening.

  Jack Casey had everything a successful academic looks for—a sandstone terrace with a water view, a good-looking wife, two kids—a boy and a girl—and a book-lined study. Briskly, he introduced me to his wife and the children before taking me off to the study with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Evidently the inside smoking ban extended to the house, because the room didn’t smell of tobacco and his snuff box was on a shelf above the computer. He poured two glasses of Merlot and switched on the computer.

  I studied the room as the computer booted up. No framed degrees, no military insignia. There was a photograph of his wife and another of the two kids and one of a football team. A younger, still bearded version of Casey was sitting in the middle row holding a football. The captain, apparently. I browsed the bookshelves—orderly, but not obsessively so. A low shelf held a few copies of Diggers for Hire and multiples of two other titles by Casey—The Great Lie and After Vietnam. I pulled a copy of the Vietnam title out and turned around when I heard the keys being tapped.

  ‘You’re too young for Vietnam,’ I said.

  ‘Gulf one. You?’

  ‘Earlier. What’ve you got there?’

  ‘A list of all the Australian mercenaries I’ve been able to trace post the Korean War. This is where I learn the name of your bloke, unless I’m supposed to leave the room.’

  I laughed and drank some of the wine. ‘I wouldn’t abuse your hospitality like that, Jack. Try Sean Cassidy.’