Torn Apart

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 dying 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.'

22

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 ceilidh 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?'