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.