Peter Corris - Torn Apart (Cliff Hardy series)

PETER CORRIS is known as the 'godfather' of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see petercorris.net). In 2009, Peter Corris was awarded the Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction by the Crime Writers Association of Australia. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and lives in Sydney. They have three daughters.

For Miriam, Philip and Axel

Irish poets, learn your trade,

Sing whatever is well made

W B Yeats

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 rightI 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 serviceFrank 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 trickblokes 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 actloving and interrogatingand 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 ofnot 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 lustfula 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 wasthe 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 stuffthe nightmares, the jumping at shadows...'