Torn Apart (7 page)

I'd spent a part of the previous year overseas, leaving the house in the care of a friend who'd carried out some renovations. The security system Hank Bachelor had finally persuaded me to install had malfunctioned and I hadn't got around to having it repaired. Out of the private eye business, I hadn't seen it as a priority and I had to accept that my neglect had contributed to Patrick's death. His agile killer had come in from the poorly protected back over a high fence.

Sammy Starling's information changed my thinking. In the morning I phoned Hank and asked him to come and get the system up and running again—coded alarm, sensor lights and all.

‘I wondered,' Hank said. ‘Didn't like to ask.'

‘Yeah.'

‘When do you want it?'

‘Soon as you can.'

‘How so, something happening?'

‘No, just getting around to doing what I should've done as soon as I got back from the US trip. I've been slack.'

Maybe he believed me, maybe he didn't, but he agreed to come in the afternoon with his box of tricks. I thanked him and went to the gym where I worked out harder and longer than usual. It was a sort of useless penance. After the gym session I went to an ATM and drew out a thousand dollars and went visiting.

Ben Corbett was an ex-biker and ex-stuntman, ex because he'd crashed his bike at something like two hundred kilometres per hour and lost the use of his legs. His mates from the Badlanders motorcycle gang had looked after him by making him a sort of armourer. Corbett traded in guns for bikers and others and made some non-declarable money to top up his disability pension. He was an expert at removing serial numbers and retooling barrels, magazines and cylinders to make the weapons hard to identify. I'd encountered him when working on a blackmail case in which a movie director's wife had put her favours about with the cast and crew, including Ben. Just a memory for him now.

I drove to Erskineville where Corbett lived in a flat below street level. It was reached by a steep ramp with a bend in it that Corbett could take at full tilt in his powered wheelchair. Once a speed freak . . .

He opened the door to me and the reek of marijuana and tobacco smoke blended with the smell of gun oil and worked metal.

‘Fuckin' Cliff Hardy,' he said. ‘What's in the fuckin' bag?'

‘A bottle of Bundy and a packet of Drum.'

‘Come in, mate, come in.'

We were a long way from being mates, but I admired his resilience and courage. I'd have probably been an alcoholic mess if what happened to him had happened to me. He was killing himself with drugs and tobacco, so perhaps his apparent good humour and aggression were covers for something despairing. Impossible to say. I went down the narrow, dark passage and into the room that served as his living quarters and workshop. The flat was tiny, consisting of this room, a kitchenette and a bathroom, all fitted out for his convenience. He wheeled himself behind a workbench, where he had a rifle barrel fixed in a vice.

He produced two non-breakable glasses from under the bench and set them up. A rollie had gone out in the ashtray and he relit it with a Zippo lighter. I put the packet of tobacco next to the ashtray, ripped the foil from the bottle, pulled the cork and poured. Knowing Corbett's habits, I also had a bottle of ginger ale in the bag. I topped the glasses up, more mixer for me than him. He tossed off half of the drink and I gave him a refill.

‘What can I do for youse?'

‘First off, information.'

He puffed smoke, took a sip and shook his head. ‘Fuckin' unlikely, but go ahead.'

‘Done any work on an automatic shotgun lately? Say, sawing off, making a pistol grip?'

Corbett wore a biker beard and a bandana, concealing his receding grey hairline. The greasy remnant was caught in a ponytail tied with copper wire. The ponytail sat forward on his shoulder and it jumped back as he shook with laughter.

‘Fuck you. As if I'd tell you if I had, but no. Wouldn't mind. Be a challenge. Too short and it could blow up in your face, not enough grip and you'd drop the fucker when you let loose.'

I had a drink and waited until his laughter subsided. I took the wad of notes from my pocket and fanned them. ‘I need a gun.'

He pinched off the end of his rollie, picked up the packet I'd bought, took papers from the breast pocket of his flannie, expertly rolled another thin, neat cigarette and lit it.

‘Like what?'

‘Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.'

‘You're a fuckin' dinosaur, Hardy.'

‘But . . .'

‘You're in luck. The Victorian cops are trading up. I can get you what you want.'

‘Untraceable?'

‘Yeah. What've you got there?'

‘Nine hundred.'

‘That'll do. How many rounds?'

‘A full load.'

‘Okay. Three days.'

‘Two.'

‘Okay.'

I took two of the notes from the wad and put them in my pocket. He took a drink and puffed on his cigarette. ‘You're a bastard, Hardy.'

‘I know,' I said.

Hank rang on my mobile as I left Corbett's flat. I was keeping an eye out for anything unusual—a face, a movement, a noise. I felt pretty sure that $900 would buy Corbett's cooperation, but with people caught in the criminal networks you can never be sure of their price or their other obligations.

Hank said, ‘Done, front and back. Sensor lights, a siren to strip paint and a connection to the security people. Are you going to tell me why?'

‘I told you.'

‘You encouraged me to be persistent. I think you're lying.'

‘Just send me the bill, mate, and thanks.'

I drove warily, alert to the position and speed of the cars and motorbikes around me. As far as I knew, there had never been a shooting from one moving vehicle to another in Sydney, but there's always a first time. Factor in cowboys, anxious to try what they've seen in the movies. I turned into the laneway behind my house and worked around and back up the street. Most of the parked cars were familiar and those that weren't seemed to be empty. I parked close to the house, waited and watched until two cars went harmlessly past.

I collected the mail—still nothing from the UK—keyed in the code and knew why I hadn't replaced the system. A pain in the arse. I went in and the photograph on the corkboard took my eye. The information about Frank Szabo was pushing me in another direction, into considering that the killer might've hit the wrong man by mistake. There were ways I could get a line on Szabo but it would take time. I still wasn't convinced it was the truth; the hostile stare of the man at the
céilidh
still made an impact and it was something I could follow up immediately.

I rooted through the things I'd left in my travelling bag and found Angela Warburton's card in a zipped side pocket. As she'd said, she was a photo-journalist, working for the London newspaper
The Independent
and the card carried her email address. I threw together the ingredients for chilli con carne and went upstairs to the computer while it was simmering. I emailed Ms Warburton, attached the photograph as a jpg file, and asked her if she knew anything about the man. I tossed up whether to tell her about Patrick being killed and decided not to. No point putting ideas in her head.

I washed the chilli down with Stump Jump red, watched
Lateline
on ABC, and grasped only that petrol prices were going up and no one had a clue what to do about it, and took the Hemingway I'd left behind,
Across the River and Into the Trees
, up to bed. It didn't hold me. I slept poorly. I dreamed of Lily and woke up early needing a piss and aching from the sensation of having had her in dreamland and losing her when my eyes were open.

Angela Warburton's reply was there when I logged on in the morning:

Cliff

Sorry you didn't look me up in London. We could've compared surfing notes. I'm guessing you were a surfer. We do it here on the Cornish coast and it's not too bad. Anyway, since you're all business, the guy in the photo is Sean Cassidy and he's a bit of a mystery man. He's a Traveller, that's for sure, but they say he doesn't quite belong. A military background of some kind, I learned. Paddy Malloy agreed to let me do a photo piece on his family and Cassidy fought him every inch of the bloody way. This is all after you two left. In the end it didn't work out. They're a fractious lot, which was interesting, but it wasn't worth the grief. I didn't get enough shots to make a worthwhile piece, and most of the people clammed up once the clannish shit hit the fan.

That's it. I'm back in London and the offer still stands.

Go well,

Angie

I didn't like the sound of that. A military background suggested the IRA or the Ulster lot, murderous bastards both, at their worst. Surely Patrick hadn't involved himself in that crazy sectarian business. The trouble was, the more I found out about him the more I realised that I hadn't really known him at all.

I replied to Angela, thanking her and saying I didn't know when I was next likely to be in London, but extending a similar invitation to her in Sydney. It felt vaguely ridiculous, having a penpal at my age, but there was something comforting about it as well.

Nothing much to do except wait for the packages from the UK. A search for Frank Szabo would have to stay on hold until I had the gun. It was still dark outside and I fooled around with the alarm, making sure that the sensor lights worked and that I knew how to deactivate the system and keep the code in my head separate from my PIN and the other numbers we live by these days.

I took my meds, poached two eggs and ate them and collected the paper. I was on my second cup of coffee and reading through the letters when the doorbell sounded. Unlikely that Frankie Szabo would ring the bell. Maybe it was the overseas packages—they wouldn't fit in the letterbox and the postie sometimes took the trouble to ring before dumping them on the doorstep. I used the peephole: my visitor was Sheila Malloy.

I opened the door.

‘Good morning,' she said. ‘Surprised?'

‘Very.'

I stepped back and she came in. She was wearing a navy pants suit in some silky material with a short jacket that emphasised the length of her legs and her height. Her hair had a bronze shimmer in the early morning light. Her suede bag and shoes matched her suit. She looked confident, relaxed and healthy, as though she'd slept well.

‘There's more to talk about,' she said as we moved down the passage.

‘Is there?'

She stopped when she reached the living room and took in the well lived-in décor. ‘You don't like me, do you?'

‘I don't know you. Impossible to say.'

‘Do I smell coffee?'

I waved towards the kitchen and we went through. There was enough coffee in the percolator for a couple of cups. I got another cup from the cupboard and poured.

‘Milk?'

‘Please.'

‘Be a bit cool.'

‘Microwave it. I'm not a purist.'

I smiled at that. I freshened my cup, added milk to hers, and put both in the microwave. She sat at the bench in the breakfast nook and I waited to hear the cigarettes come out and the click of the lighter. Didn't happen.

‘Very domesticated,' she said. ‘You live alone?'

‘Sometimes.'

She laughed. ‘I'm glad Paddy had a mate . . . at the end. He wasn't good at keeping friends and mostly they weren't worth keeping.'

I brought the cups over and sat. ‘How did you find me, Sheila?'

‘Come on, anyone can find anyone these days, you should know that. But there's no mystery—my agent knows you.'

‘Agent?'

‘Belinda O'Connell. You contacted her to trace some actor you were after. I'm an actress—actor, as we have to say these days.'

Maybe that accounted for the changeability. It did for the familiarity. I realised that I'd seen her in an ABC TV series with a legal theme that had held Lily's and my attention for a few episodes. And I recalled that Harvey Spiegelman had plated a minor part as a lawyer. She smiled as she saw recognition dawn on me. She got up and struck a pose, leaning on the bench.

‘The prosecution is tilting at windmills . . .'

I drank some coffee and nodded. She sat down and stirred her coffee. ‘Yeah, the poor woman's Sigourney Weaver.'

‘You weren't Malloy then. But Harvey, I remember, was still Spiegelman.'

‘Right. Sheila Lambert, stage name. I've fallen on hard times since then. There aren't many parts for women with years on the clock. Harvey's doing it tough, too. He was never much of a lawyer or an actor and I just brought him along to our meeting for ballast.'

‘You're not smoking.'

‘I'm quitting.'

I wondered if that was true or just part of the act for today. She leaned forward to push her cup away on the table and the top of her jacket gaped open. She wasn't wearing a blouse or a bra and I could see the shape of her small, firm breasts. I'd been celibate for longer than I cared to remember and I felt a stirring. I couldn't tell whether the movement was a come-on or not, but she surprised me with what she said next.

‘I want to see where he died.'

‘For Christ's sake, why?'

She shrugged; I tried not to look, but the movement stiffened her nipples under the tight jacket.

‘The man was a huge part of my life and he damaged me. I damaged him, too. Call it closure. D'you think that's sick?'

I was aroused and confused. I stood and she slid out from her seat and moved towards me, touching my arm.

‘Show me.'

We went through the door to the back bathroom. I'd had it cleaned, hadn't replaced the shower curtain, but some of the rings still hung there. Patrick's head and body had taken the full force of the blasts but there were a few chips on the tiles where stray pellets had struck. The space was white, sterile, dead—no blood, no bone, no tissue. Nothing.

She leaned against me. ‘I thought I'd feel something but I don't. This is creepy. You look so much like him and I loved him so much for so long. Off and on, I mean. God, I'm going to end up telling you my life story.'

The hard shell had well and truly cracked and for a minute we stood still. I was thinking about Patrick and I was sure she was, too. I guided her back to the kitchen.

‘I'm a good listener,' I said. ‘Look, would you like a drink? A toast to Patrick? It's a bit early but . . .'

She smiled and stayed close to me. ‘It's later somewhere. I'd like that. It's been a while since I drank wine in the morning but why not? I wish . . .'

‘What?'

‘I was going to say I wish I'd met you before Paddy. What a dumb thing to say. Sorry.'

I got a bottle of white from the fridge and poured. We both sat and touched glasses without speaking. She took a decent slug of the wine and smiled at me. She had small, even teeth and her eyes crinkled with the smile. She did everything gracefully and I wanted badly to touch her. I was suddenly aware of my scruffy appearance.

‘I'm glad you came,' I said. ‘Hard to put it into words, but . . .'

‘Try, why don't you?'

I reached out and covered her smooth hand with my battered paw. We stood. I knocked my glass over and the wine spilled. I put my arms around her. We stood in a tight embrace. I thought I could hear her heart pounding. I could definitely feel mine.

She said, ‘I thought I came just to talk, but now I'm not sure. Without knowing it I think maybe I came for this.' She pressed close against me and her hand went down to my erection.

We made love in the tangled sheets and blankets I'd left after my sleepless night. Her body was smooth, lean and pale and she was athletic and inventive with it. I found myself almost fighting to get my share of the pleasure and we were sweaty and panting when she shoved a pillow under her rump and pulled me down and into her. We fucked hard, and I don't know who came first. We rolled apart, gasping. Sweat beaded her upper lip and I wiped it off with a finger.

She laughed. ‘Yes, that happens when it's good. Not very chic.'

‘Chic's overrated.'

She traced the scar line from my bypass, not much more now than a series of discolourations. ‘There's a difference. Shit, I didn't mean . . .'

‘It's okay. We were both in the grip of something a bit weird.'

‘Are you sorry?'

‘No.'

The room was cold. The heat we'd generated was fading and I clawed up the sheet, jerked the blanket free of the tangle and covered us. The desire she'd triggered in me was still there and I pulled her close and wrapped my arms around her. She felt my unshaven chin.

‘I'm glad you hadn't shaved,' she said. ‘I'm going to have bristle rash, but I can look at it and tell myself I've had a top fuck from someone who wanted it as much as I did.'

We showered, separately, in the upstairs bathroom, got dressed and went back to the kitchen. By now it was later in the morning, late enough to have another go at the white wine. The day had improved during our lovemaking, and we took the drinks out into the courtyard where we could sit comfortably in the patch of sun protected from the wind. I told Sheila what I'd learned about the dodgy dealings of Pavee Security and the dead end I'd struck there and with the company that had bought his shares.

‘Sorry to tell you,' I said, ‘but there was no money involved. Just a share transfer.'

‘But the shares are worth money. Sorry to sound so mercenary, but I think I'm entitled. He was a psychological mess when he came back from that ridiculous soldier of fortune episode, and I just about supported him through university. Then he upped and left.'

‘Why?'

‘He became successful with his property developments. He still needed me for a while because it was edgy stuff—juggling loans and contracts, dealing with unions and politicians—but when it all sorted out and the money came in, he didn't need me anymore. I think he associated me with his earlier struggles.'

‘Why didn't you divorce him and get a share of the assets then?'

She sipped her drink and shivered. I went inside and got a jacket, the one Patrick had borrowed as it happened, and draped it round her shoulders. Our hands touched as she drew it closer.

‘Thanks. It's nice out here. I was busy then and doing pretty well. I thought it might work out. Then I went to America for a while and bombed. I lost touch with him and I was hitting the booze pretty hard. I was . . . ashamed.'

I could understand that. In my experience, at those low ebb points you can still maintain some pride even though it's not in your best interest. It feels like all you have left.

We were sitting side by side on a seat I'd constructed out of stacked bricks and pine planks—the limit of my skills. I put my arm around her shoulder and she stiffened.

‘Do you believe me about not being divorced?'

‘I want to say yes.'

‘Jesus, an honest man. Let me show you something.'

She got up and went into the house. I watched her elegant strut on her high heels and knew all my impulses were affected by the sexual experience and a hope for more. She came back and handed me a photograph. It showed a man and a woman outside the Sydney Registry Office. Patrick, in a stylish dark suit, was looking at Sheila as if he wanted to make love to her right there on the steps. She, in a low-necked sheath dress and carrying flowers, looked as if she'd oblige. Another couple, presumably their witnesses, looked almost embarrassed in the presence of such overt sexuality.

Sheila came closer, took my hand and locked it between her thighs.

‘You'd have looked just like that back then, wouldn't you, Cliff?'

‘Never had a suit that good.'

She laughed. We kissed and went back upstairs to do it again.