Torn Apart

'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.

11

Sheila asked me if I knew anything about making a claim against an estate where there was no will. 'I think the spouse automatically inherits.'

'You said Paddy told you we were divorced.' 'Right.'

'He might've told other people the same. That could… complicate things.'

'Would Harvey be up to sorting it out?'

She shook her head and I gave her the name and number of my solicitor, Viv Garner, who I thought could advise her.

We were downstairs, behaving slightly awkwardly. She'd told me she was sharing a flat in Balmain but didn't say who with. She gave me her mobile number but not the address. I gave her my number.

'I've got a couple of auditions to go to over the next few days. I'll try to see Mr Garner and I'll give you a call if I learn anything useful.'

'Call me anyway.'

We moved down the passage.

'What will you be doing, Cliff?'

'Still poking around to see if I can find out who killed him.'

We got to the door, reached for each other and kissed hard. She moved her head until her mouth was close to my ear. Her hair smelled just faintly of tobacco smoke.

'Is that dangerous?'

'I hope not.'

'But you'll do it anyway.'

'Don't you want… justice?'

She shook her head. 'I've done a bit of Shakespeare in my time. He didn't believe in justice and neither do I… I only want for you not to be hurt.'

It was mid-afternoon and cool again as the shadows lengthened. She was driving a tired red Beetle. She revved it hard and took off slowly, smokily. I stood on the pavement and watched the car out of sight. I wanted to believe all she said, but I remembered how differently she'd appeared at first and that she was an actress. She hadn't told me her address; but then, I hadn't told her I was waiting for Patrick's package from the UK.

I rummaged through one of the cardboard boxes I keep old files in until I found the one involving Soldier Szabo. He was a career criminal, a standover man, hired by a developer who'd run into some trouble with people trying to protect old buildings. Szabo'd exceeded his brief and killed two people and would've killed me if I hadn't got lucky. I looked through the notes to see if there was any useful information about him. Not much, other than that he had a wife and a flat in Norton Street, Leichhardt. That was the best part of twenty years ago, but some people stay put. Like me.

My useful contacts in the RTA, the police and the parole services had gone along with my PEA licence. Those contacts had made locating people a lot easier than it would be now. There were too many Szabos in the telephone directory to make that useful, and none in Leichhardt. The only thing to do was ask around-risky because word could get back. Before I could do that I needed the gun.

The excitement Sheila Malloy had caused was ebbing, but I found it difficult to think of anything else or to concentrate on other matters. Too restless to read, didn't want to hang around Megan and Hank, a bit too early for serious eating and drinking. I realised that I hadn't checked the mail and when I did I found two cards advising of parcels to be collected at the post office-one for Patrick and one for me. I'd seen Patrick's signature on his passport and when he'd signed traveller's cheques and I forged it on his card, nominating myself as his agent. Remembering that my package of books was weighty and Patrick's had looked much the same, I drove rather than walked to the post office as usual. I presented the cards and my ID and collected the parcels.

I had no reason to think Patrick's parcel contained anything of particular interest but, unlike me, he'd paid hefty insurance on it and had sealed it more carefully and with heavier tape. But I'm slack about such things. I opened the long blade on my Swiss army knife and started on the job of cutting the tape on the postpack.

I freed the flap, lifted it and emptied the contents out onto the kitchen bench. There were a couple of books-guides to Irish sights and scenes and a hardback map, a book of instruction for fiddle players, and a boxed miniature chess set. Patrick had tried to teach me the game during a dull time waiting for a flight but I'd proved unteachable. There was a surprising amount of packing, in the form of sheets from the London Times. I put the box aside and noticed that it didn't rattle as it always had when he'd handled it. I undid the clasp. Inside, instead of the chess pieces, was a heavily taped package about the size of a couple of cigarette packets.

The doorbell rang and for a moment I thought it might be Sheila, abandoning her audition calls and coming back to carry on where we'd left off. But the peephole showed me that it was a man wearing a suit and a serious expression. I opened the door.

'Cliff Hardy?'

'That's right.'

He held up his warrant card and produced a document he unfolded and waved in front of me.

'I have a warrant to search these premises on the grounds of suspicion of the importation of illicit items, as specified in the Customs Act.' part two

PART TWO 12

They read me my rights and then it was back to Surry Hills again. I knew I was in trouble. My standing with the police, never high, these days was positively poor. They had me red-handed for forging a name and opening a package not addressed to me. The fact that Patrick had been murdered in my house didn't help. Their behaviour would depend very much on what the illicit substance was, and I had no idea.

I was ushered into an interview room and left for the best part of an hour. Standard procedure, but I knew they'd be digging out bits of paper and talking to people like the cop in charge of the investigation into Patrick's death. I struggled to remember his name. In the past I'd have entered it in the notebook for the case I was working on. Not now. Trying to remember the name gave me something to do. I tried the usual tricks: visualising the person; running through the alphabet hoping a letter would trigger the memory. My mental image of him was too vague to be helpful. I got it on the third run-through-W for Welsh, Detective Inspector. First name forgotten, but that didn't matter. They'd be talking to him for sure, and he'd remember that I'd said nothing about parcels coming from the UK.

If I'd been expected to read the name on the arresting officer's warrant card, I hadn't: I'd been given no names since. When he came back into the room and turned on the recording equipment, I saw that he was looking nervous, fumbling the switches. I hadn't noticed it before in the surprise and the speed of the proceedings, but he was young.