Torn Apart (14 page)

I replied to Angela Warburton, saying that I'd be glad to see her when she came to Sydney. I said I hadn't been in the surf for fifteen years but was prepared to give it a go if I could find a board long enough. What I didn't say was that I'd have to get in some practice first.

Sheila got back from Melbourne excited by what she'd picked up about criminal matriarchs. We celebrated her return in the usual ways. She gave me an impromptu performance of one of the scenes in the script and was very good. Chilling. She asked me what I'd been doing and I told her just about everything. We were in bed on a cold morning, reluctant to get up for the run to the bathroom.

She drew closer. ‘Jesus, Seamus a mercenary and an assassin. It's hard to believe.'

‘It's not proven yet.'

‘It sounds like something out of Frederick Forsyth. What're you going to do?'

‘I'm going down to Kangaroo Valley with this Jack Casey to hunt him out.'

‘Shouldn't you go to the police?'

I hadn't said anything about the security services angle. Now I did.

‘It sounds like something out of le Carré.'

‘It won't be. If he killed Patrick it'll be for some mundane reason, probably money. No glamour, no ideology.'

‘Now it sounds dangerous.'

‘Casey's ex-SAS. We'll be all right.'

We got up and had breakfast; at least I did. Sheila, noticeably thinner, was still watching the carbs and had black coffee.

‘Be careful your kidneys don't shut down,' I said.

‘Always with the jokes. Can we be serious for a minute?'

I thought I knew what was coming and I realised that I hadn't thought enough about it. A mistake I'd made too many times before. Good times, good sex, what next? But I was wrong.

Sheila finished her coffee and dabbed at her mouth, careful not to smudge the faint lip-gloss. She'd bought clothes in Melbourne and was looking terrific in a red cashmere sweater, black trousers and medium-heel boots. She was less heavily made-up than before with more lines showing. She looked mature, experienced and all the more sexy for it.

‘I want to come with you,' she said.

‘I don't think so.'

‘He'd talk to me. I'm sure he would. He might not talk to you. From what you say he just might shoot you.'

‘We'll make sure that doesn't happen.'

‘So you'll make it safe. What's the objection then? You tracked him under the name of Cummings, right?'

‘It helped.'

‘I put you on to that, Cliff. You owe me.'

‘It's not a movie.'

‘Don't insult me. I know it's not a movie, but it's about my ex-lover perhaps being the murderer of my husband. I've got a stake in this. You say you want to know why. I bloody well want to know, too.'

I thought back to when I suspected she could have been in it for the money and could have been lying about still being married to Patrick. I'd come full circle on those points. She'd barely mentioned Patrick's estate since that first encounter, and she had been helpful. It went against every instinct to take her, but my instincts have been wrong before. Perhaps she could help on the spot.

‘You're wavering.'

‘What if I say no?'

‘I'll be pissed off, and I'll think you're lacking in . . .'

‘What?'

She shrugged. ‘I don't know. Something.'

She didn't know it, but she had me cold. I wanted her with me; it was as simple as that. Or almost. What I'd said before about exorcising Patrick held true even more now. I didn't know what Casey would think of it, but I was running things, wasn't I?

‘Okay,' I said.

‘Thank you.'

‘You're crazy,' Jack Casey said when we met again in the Balmain pub.

I'd thought my excuse out beforehand. ‘She had me over a barrel,' I said, giving him the whiskey. ‘If I hadn't agreed she said she'd go to the police and tell them everything we knew.'

‘That'd stuff it for sure. Why'd you tell her in the first place? Sorry, shouldn't have said that. Not my business.'

‘That's all right. She matters to me and she's part of it.'

He nodded and we went on to the details of our expedition. I'd emailed the Aussie Irish Travellers' website with details of my Malloy grandmother and my interest in attending the gathering in the company of Sheila Malloy and John Casey. There was a two hundred dollar a head registration fee to cover administrative expenses and a dinner: I paid by credit card. Attendees who wished could camp at the farm. There were also a limited number of powered sites available on a first-come-first-served basis. A block booking at the Valley Caravan and Cabin Park had ensured cut-rate accommodation for others.

‘Cold down there this time of year,' Casey said.

‘Take a sleeping bag. You can sleep in that bloody huge SUV you drove up in. Sheila and me'll get a cabin. We can make you coffee and a hot water bottle—two hot water bottles.'

Casey smiled. ‘Fuck you,' he said.

A good start.

‘What d'you think of him?' I asked Sheila following a brief meeting with Casey before we left for Kangaroo Valley. He was still waiting for a message from his informant about the photo of the mercenaries. I had a niggling worry that if Casey and Sheila got to talking he'd find out that I'd lied to him about her threatening to tell all to the cops.

‘Too soon to tell.'

It was a two-hour drive. Casey drove his SUV and Sheila and I followed in the Falcon. We skirted the 'Gong, went west at Nowra, and began the climb before dropping down into the valley.

‘I came here once years ago,' Sheila said. ‘Bloke I was with had an old rust-bucket Holden with a dodgy clutch. He had to go up one of these steep hills in reverse.'

‘Yeah? I remember that sort of thing—old bombs with no starter motor so you had to park on a slope; broken wind- screen wipers you had to work with a couple of bits of string. All gone now.'

‘And good riddance.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘Come on, they were death traps, those cars.'

An Alfa Romeo passed us at speed on the steep road, rounding a blind bend. ‘Those aren't?'

‘Seatbelts, child restraints, breathalysers—it's all better.'

‘You're right. I drove lots of times right across Sydney half pissed when I was young.'

‘Only half ?'

‘Okay, two-thirds. Jack's going to get there well ahead of us. Let's stop for the view.'

We detoured to the lookout on Cambewarra Mountain. There was a view east across Nowra to the ocean and west across the valley. We stood at the rail, wrapped in our coats and with our arms around each other.

‘Nice,' Sheila said. ‘You ever fancy a sea change, Cliff?'

‘Yeah, sure—Bondi, Coogee, even Watsons Bay.'

She laughed. ‘That'd be right.'

By arrangement, we met Casey outside the Visitors Centre in the township where he was studying a brochure and a map and puffing on a cigar. Sheila sniffed the aroma and a look of longing crossed her face.

‘The farm's about eight k's out of town on Bendeela Road,' he said, ‘and the caravan park's on the same road a bit closer. Of course we've got the option of staying somewhere more flash. What d'you reckon?'

Sheila said, ‘Seamus is a campin', huntin', shootin' and fishin' type, or was. I think he'd be in a tent.'

‘Doesn't sound like your type, Sheila,' Casey said.

I could see his point. Sheila wore a suede three-quarter length coat over her red sweater, a stylish scarf, designer cords and boots.

‘I was younger and I could fuck in a sleeping bag with the best of them, Jack. Blow that smoke away, would you please? I quit recently.'

‘We'll go to the farm and register,' I said. ‘Maybe we can find out where Cummings is staying. He might have changed his habits. With luck it could be one of these resort joints. I'm not anxious to rough it. Weather looks iffy.'

The clear morning light was dimming with dark clouds gathering to the east.

‘Maybe we should have hired a couple of caravans or mobile homes and stayed at the farm,' Casey said.

I shook my head. ‘I doubt we could pass as the real thing. I saw these Travellers in Ireland—they've got a particular style. Not gypsy exactly, but not grey nomad either. That's what you and I'd look like, Jack.'

‘And me,' Sheila said, ‘but for superb hair product.'

Casey, who'd been carefully blowing his smoke away from her, gave Sheila an approving nod. ‘You tell it how it is, don't you?'

‘Always,' Sheila said. ‘And what exactly are you planning to do?'

‘We'll decide that when we find him,' I said. ‘We've got no proof he's our man. We'll have to see what he does and hear what he says.'

‘Circumstantial proof,' Casey said. ‘Anyway, my intentions and Cliff's aren't the same. I want to know if he was a member of the Olympic Corps.'

I don't know why, but for some reason when I'd told Sheila about our investigation and assumptions, I hadn't mentioned the name of the mercenary unit.

She snapped her fingers. ‘That's it. That's what he called it. I'm quite sure. I can smell . . .'

‘Smell what?' I said.

‘Jesus, that triggered it. He said he'd just come back from New Caledonia. In the Pacific. He was smoking Gitanes. I had one.'

Smell sets off memory, usually painful in my experience, better than almost anything else. And memory sets off emotion. Sheila leaned against me.

‘I'm not so sure now that I want to do this,' she said.

Casey dropped his cigar on the ground and put his foot on it. ‘This is amazing,' he said. ‘There was a big blow-up in New Caledonia twenty years ago and talk of mercenaries being recruited. Didn't come to anything much. I have to talk to this guy.'

Sheila had lost colour and was staring up the road, not seeing anything, looking as if she wanted to be almost anywhere else.

‘It's all right, love,' I said. ‘I'll find us somewhere you can have a rest. Jack, I . . .'

I turned around. The cigar butt was still smoking but Casey had gone.

I booked Sheila into one of the township's motels.

‘Sorry to wimp out on you,' she said.

‘It's all right. No one likes to relive the bad times.'

‘They
were
bad times. I was a mess back then, booze and drugs and blokes, and remembering that name just sort of brought it all back. Why did Jack take off like that?'

‘I don't know, but I have to find out.'

‘Sure you do. Just be careful. I'll hunker down here for a while. Maybe get some DVDs and keep doing my crunches. Call me if I can help. Promise?'

I drove straight to the farm, passing the caravan park on the way. The drought of the past few years seemed not to have affected the valley; the rolling landscape was a patchwork of lush paddocks with dairy cattle grazing. Under other circumstances the expedition would have been an interesting experience. Caravans and mobile homes and campervans were clustered around a magnificent old sandstone farmhouse. An area was set aside for tents and heavy-duty cables snaked across the ground, providing power. I could hear the thrum of a couple of generators as I got out of the car and approached the house. No sign of Casey's vehicle.

A reception area was set up on the wide front verandah with a brazier burning nearby. Early afternoon, but it was cold already with a cloudy sky and a stiff wind. A woman sat on a bench behind a table with a list in front of her and a stack of brightly coloured plastic folders and name tags on strings. People sat on chairs on the verandah or leaned against the rail, smoking and yarning. In a way they resembled the sorts of people you'd expect to find at Tamworth for the country music festival—jeans, hats, boots. But the women tended to wear more beads and bangles, like the hippies of old, and a lot of the men were fleshy, not going for the lean cowboy look.

I presented my driver's licence to the woman at the table.

She ran her heavily ringed finger down her list. ‘Welcome, Mr Hardy. You're a Malloy, I see.'

‘That's right.'

‘I'm Molly Maguire and here's your kit and name tag. Inside you'll find the events planned and a ticket to the dinner. I see you booked for two other people.'

‘Yes. My partner Sheila's not well. She's staying in town for now but I'll take her kit. She'll be up and about soon. Has Jack Casey checked in?'

‘Sorry to hear that about your lady friend.' She studied her list. ‘No, not yet.'

‘How about Seamus Cummings? Old mate of mine. I'm anxious to catch up with him.'

‘Hmm, yes, he registered earlier today.'

‘Did he say where he was staying?'

‘Oh, I remember him now. He didn't look well. He said he'd be getting a cabin at the caravan park. They're quite comfortable, I believe.'

‘D'you know what he was driving?'

One question too many. She looked suspicious and automatically glanced across to where I'd parked my car. ‘And where are you staying?'

I gave her one of my smiles. ‘Sorry to be so nosy. Doesn't matter. I'm at the caravan park.'

The smile and the apology brought her round. ‘It's just that you sounded a bit official. Not too keen on officials, us Travellers.'

‘Right. They told me in Ireland officials put bars up at a certain height on the car parks to prevent the Travellers bringing in their vans and trailers.'

‘Oh, have you been there?'

‘Very recently. I met up with quite a few Malloys.'

That won her over. ‘Perhaps you might give us a little talk about your trip.'

Not likely
, I thought, but I smiled again and nodded as I picked up my kit and Sheila's and moved away.

‘Mr Malloy . . .'

I turned back. ‘Hardy.'

‘I'm sorry. Your friend Mr Cummings should be at the caravan park by now. I'm sure you'll be able to find him.'

And so can Jack Casey
, I thought. The idea of Casey operating on his own worried me. We had different priorities, as he'd said. In a way he was as obsessed by mercenaries as Patrick had been by the Travellers. To get the inside track on the Olympic Corps could do him an enormous amount of good professionally. Mercenaries being killers by definition, Casey had had dealings with men with blood on their hands in his research. In fact it might've been part of the attraction. The fact that Cummings was probably a murderer as a civilian was something Casey should be able to take in his stride.

I drove to the caravan park and asked if Cummings and Casey had checked in. They had, both taking cabins.

‘Will you be staying, sir?' the manager, a beefy, hearty type in a flannie and beanie asked.

‘Not sure. I'd like a word with them first. Can you give me the numbers of their cabins?'

‘Thirty-one for the 4WD and thirty-three for the ute, in the third row. Better make up your mind. Them gypsies is coming in fast.'

Patrick, who would have loved the idea of the gathering, wouldn't have liked to hear that. I left my car outside the park and walked in along the gravel road. It was an orderly and well-maintained establishment. The cabins were laid out in rows, about ten in each, probably sixty plus all up. An adjacent area was set aside for powered sites to be used by cars or vans and there were a few tents over in a corner close to what looked like a shower and laundry block.

Some of the cabins had occupants, most didn't, but there were signs that they were taken—boxes, boots and sneakers on the porches, clothes on the retractable lines. I did a careful reconnoitre: cabin 33, Cummings's, was the third last in the row; Casey's was the last. I had my hands in my pockets, just strolling around, but I had a feeling of being vulnerable and an unusual sensation of wishing I was armed.

A Holden ute was parked near Cummings's cabin, 33, but there was no sign of Casey's SUV. I walked away thinking that this was all wrong. To the extent that we'd had a plan, our idea was to locate Cummings, watch him and decide what to do when we'd sussed him out. Casey's jumping the gun had blown that out of the water.

A golf cart came trundling down the road, driven by the manager. He pulled up beside me.

‘Thought I should tell you, mate, that there's only two spots left. And I just remembered that I saw the two blokes you was asking about driving off in the big 4WD a bit before you showed up. Slipped my mind, being so busy, like.'

It sometimes happens. I had absolutely no idea what to do next. Had Casey gone willingly? For that matter, had Cummings gone willingly? In either case, where? And why? With a vehicle like that, there were very few places in the whole bloody country they couldn't go. I rang Casey's mobile and was told that the phone had either been switched off or was not contactable.

I left a message
: Jack, Cliff. Where are you and what're you doing? Call me.

Couldn't put it any plainer than that.

I drove back to the township and the motel. I knocked, said her name, and Sheila let me in. The room was warm and she'd stripped down to a spencer and her trousers. She grabbed me, pulled me inside, and we kissed. She had a classical music concert playing at low volume on the TV, a bottle of white wine open and a newspaper folded to show the cryptic crossword. She broke away, went to the mini-bar for a glass and waved at the bottle. I nodded and she poured.

‘How're you feeling?' I said.

‘I'm fine. It was just an emotional glitch. I go up and down a bit as you've probably noticed. I wasn't expecting you back so soon but I'm glad. Is there anything lonelier than a motel room on your own?'

‘No. Absolutely not.'

She picked up her glass. ‘So, what's happening? What're you doing?'

I told her in detail, partly to straighten things out in my own mind. When I finished I said, ‘In answer to your second question, I haven't the faintest bloody idea.'

‘Maybe something'll come to you. Meanwhile, let's not waste this nice warm room and comfy bed.'

We made love. She dozed while I stared at the ceiling trying to work out what might have happened. As Sheila had said, Cummings looked unnaturally thin in the Irish photograph and the woman at the farm said he looked ill. Casey was solid and strong. I'd back him in a physical contest against a man who appeared to be in poor heath. But there was the matter of a shotgun and experience. You'd have to back a veteran of the Irish troubles and the Angolan civil war over a cotton-wooled Gulf War I participant.

Sheila stirred and came awake. She saw me staring into space and elbowed me lightly in the ribs. ‘I've remembered something.'

‘Mmm?'

‘I don't think Paddy ever mentioned anything about this Irish Traveller stuff . . .'

‘I think he only found out about it after you split.'

‘. . . but Seamus did. He knew about it. He told me about moving around in Ireland from one place to another. Some- thing about dogs and horses. He said he missed it. I think I made fun of it, said something about gypsies, and he got angry. He did that a lot—got angry. I gave him reason, but he was angry by nature. Which made him exciting, back then, as screwed up as I was.'

‘Well, I gather they had a hard time, the Travellers, until fairly recently. A sort of minority. The kids' education would've been buggered up, and Ireland was in a mess until the IT and the tax people got together.'

‘Yes, but the point is, he's come here for this gathering and paid good money for it. And you say he looks unwell but he came anyway. If he's got any say in it, I reckon he'd be at this dinner. Don't you?'