by Peter Corris
‘Corris is a master at capturing the feel of the harbour city and its denizens. Some of the characterisations are so real you can almost smell the sweat or fear.’
Sun Herald
‘There is nothing slavish about Corris . . . he writes with a deceptive simplicity and clarity. Corris’s writing has developed into a clear, efficient medium. It doesn’t draw attention to itself. It knows the requirements of the genre. He isn’t moaning along with Ian Rankin and Robert Harris that crime writing is not taken seriously as High Art. Crime fiction is not High Art. It is entertainment, and Corris is an accomplished and compelling entertainer.
He has done for Sydney what Raymond Chandler and Robert Crais have done for Los Angeles, Ross Macdonald for Santa Barbara, and Robert B. Parker for Boston.’
Quadrant
‘Winner of the Ned Kelly Crime Fiction Award in 2009, Corris has been described as the godfather of Australian crime fiction because his settings and characters are unmistakably Australian. Fans of Hardy and his entourage will not be disappointed with Torn Apart.’
Courier Mail
‘As Corris’ 35th book featuring the perennial private snakes its course, we’re witnessing a master at work.’
Qantas The Australian Way
‘Once I started Torn Apart I could not put it down and hope that Cliff keeps on finding new cases to solve written in Peter Corris’ engaging style.’
Bookseller & Publisher
PETER CORRIS is known as the ‘godfather’ of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see petercorris.net). In 2009, Peter Corris was awarded the Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction by the Crime Writers Association of Australia. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and lives in Sydney. They have three daughters.
Many thanks for all kinds of help, to Jean Bedford, Miriam Corris, Ruth Corris, Tom Kelly and Jo Jarrah, and to an officer of the NSW Police media liaison unit.
First published by Allen & Unwin in 2010
Copyright © 2010 Peter Corris
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Miriam, Philip and Axel
Irish poets, learn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made
W B Yeats
The surgeon who took out the bullet that had nearly killed me told me that I needed to lead a quieter life. Interesting choice of words. After the death of Lily Truscott, my partner of several years, a heart attack and bypass surgery and a near fatal bullet wound, I agreed that I needed something. But what? A new profession? I’d been a private detective for most of my adult life, and although that was closed to me after losing my licence for various infringements, the work, for better or worse, had become part of me and I couldn’t imagine doing anything different. A new location? I’d been in Glebe so long that it felt like my habitat, my natural environment.
I’d inherited a lot of money from Lily. Guilt came with it because I hadn’t put the same faith in the relationship. I helped my daughter Megan out, fixed up the house, paid some overdue debts and lived on the capital. I didn’t really need—that word again—to work, but I didn’t know how else to occupy myself. I didn’t fish or play golf and you can only read so many books, see so many films, listen to so much music.
The solution was no solution at all, just an interim measure—a holiday. The idea gave me something to think about. The problem with inactivity is not just the inactivity itself but its accompaniment—having nothing to think about. I was used to having my head full of assumptions, misgivings, theories to do with whatever I was working on. I’d mentally trawl through cases for similarities and differences and process lists of names to help or obstruct. I missed all that.
Reading brochures and the travel sections of newspapers and magazines, recalling books set in exotic places, checking the posters in travel agency windows wasn’t a substitute for my kind of investigation, but it occupied some brain cells. Talking to people was better, tapping their memories good and bad.
‘I wouldn’t advise Iran or Iraq,’ Ian Sangster, my friend and GP, said. ‘In fact I wouldn’t leave Australia with your recent medical history. You seem to be totally recovered, very fit in fact, given what you’ve been through. But you never know, and if something went wrong your medicos’d need your bloody medical records.’
‘Thanks a lot, Ian. You reckon I should think about somewhere close and calming, like Hobart.’
We were sitting at a table outside the Toxteth Hotel having a late morning drink. Ian was smoking and already well into his first of the two packets he’d smoked every day for thirty years.
‘You might think about it. You could look for the graves of your convict ancestors.’
‘Did that once, or someone did it for me. A couple ended up in Camperdown cemetery, so they’re now under the sod where dogs shit and people do tai chi.’
‘Just a suggestion.’ He butted his cigarette and stood. ‘And another thing, don’t go off on your own. Find someone to go with you.’
That was a problem. I had other friends and I had a daughter, but no one I could think of who’d want to up stakes and take off as a travelling companion to someone who’d been knocked about as much as me. Even though I could pay.
I remembered what my mother—a hard-drinking, heavy-smoking, piano-thumping descendant of Irish gypsies—used to say when my father, a dour, sober man, bemoaned a difficult circumstance: ‘Never you mind, boyo. Something’ll turn up.’ For her, it mostly did, and right then it did for me when I met my cousin, Patrick.
He’d tracked me down somehow on the internet and when he rang me I was struck by the similarity in our voices. ‘I’m your cousin, Cliff,’ he said. ‘My grandad was your grandma’s brother.’
‘That right?’ I said. ‘She had a sister or two, I know, but I never heard of a brother.’
‘Yeah, well I gather Grandad was a bit of a black sheep.’
‘The way I heard it they were all black sheep. Gypsies.’
‘They weren’t gypsies.’ He sounded annoyed. ‘They were Irish Travellers.’
That was interesting and news to me. I’d only met my grandmother a few times when I wa
s a kid. She was old, very dark, very wrinkled. I remembered that she shook her head and told my mother that I’d have an interesting life but wouldn’t make any money. I guess she was right on both scores. I hadn’t made the money. My mother always referred to herself as a gypsy and played up to it with scarves and rings and bracelets.
‘Sorry to be so abrupt,’ he said. ‘Look, why don’t we get together and have a drink and a yarn? I can fill you in a bit about the Travellers if you’re interested. To tell you the truth, you’re the only relative I’ve got left in the world.’
Why not? I thought. I asked a few questions and learned that his surname was Malloy. That figured. It was my grandmother’s name and my mother’s, her being illegitimate. He told me his age. He was a year younger than me. We agreed to meet the following day in the late afternoon at Kelly’s Hotel in King Street, Newtown.
‘I’ll shout you a Guinness,’ he said in exactly the kind of mock Irish accent I used to put on to the annoyance of my ex-wife, Cyn.
With time on my hands and not wanting to appear too ignorant, I did some quick web research on the Irish Travellers. Not Romany at all, it appeared, but indigenous Irish, the descendants of people who took to the roads centuries ago, no one quite knows when or why. Nomadic like the gypsies, followers of appropriate trades—like dog and horse breeding and selling, holding market stalls, dealers in second-hand goods. They apparently had their own language and customs and there was a strong musical tradition among them. That fitted Granny Malloy all right, who could sing like a bird in old age and play the fiddle. My mother had the same talents and I remembered her using odd words that she said she picked up from her mother. I’d assumed this was Romany talk, but maybe not.
Kelly’s Hotel has an unusual history. It’s on the site of the only known failure of a McDonald’s franchise in Sydney. There’s too much good food at reasonable prices along King Street for the cheap burger joint to flourish. The area has become so gentrified that a booth there recorded the highest Green vote in the state. Greenies don’t go to Macca’s.
The place has a cosy feel, with a ramp sloping gently up to the bar and tables and seats on either side. It handles the Irish theme well: there’s the imitation snug and the barrels, but it’s mostly a matter of tasteful photographs of Irish scenes—not a shillelagh in sight. It does light lunches and dinners and has the inevitable trivia competition one night a week. Lily and I went in for it once with Frank Parker, my ex-cop mate, and his wife Hilde, and got cleaned up by a table of youngsters who knew all about TV stars and bands later than Dire Straits.
When I arrived there were only two tables occupied—one up near the bar and one near the front. I told the barmaid I was waiting for someone and took a seat in the middle of the space, off to one side. It’s an old habit of mine to try to get a good look at someone I haven’t met before he, or she, sees me. You can learn a bit from body language and mannerisms. I also try to be early for the same reason and because it can give you an insight into the habit of the other person: early might mean anxious, on time might mean obsessive; late might mean slack. Or not.
A lot of people passed in the street and a few came in and settled down to their drinks. I looked at my watch and about two minutes after the appointed time a man walked in with the air of someone unfamiliar with the place and hoping to be met. Two minutes late didn’t mean anything in my analysis. But it wasn’t the timing or his manner that caught my attention. This man was tall, well built, with dark hair going grey. He looked fit. He also had a beaked nose that had been broken at least once and white scar tissue from boxing threaded through his heavy eyebrows. In other words, he was a mirror image of me.
I got up and we shook hands.
He laughed. ‘You’re surprised.’
‘You aren’t?’
‘I saw a photo of you in a newspaper. I was surprised then all right.’
He insisted on shouting. We took our pints of Guinness into a corner and touched glasses.
‘So,’ I said, ‘second cousins. I didn’t know I had any. The Malloys and the Hardys weren’t exactly great breeders.’
‘Likewise. My mother was an only child and I’m the same.’
I told him I had a sister who had two children I’d scarcely ever seen because they lived in New Zealand.
‘A nephew and a niece, eh? I suppose they’re some relation to me, but I’m buggered if I know what you’d call it.’
The similarity in our voices and manner seemed to have the same effect on us, making both of us quiet, unsure of what to say. He wore slacks and a blazer with a business shirt and no tie. I was in cords, a football shirt and denim jacket.
‘Well, Patrick,’ I said, ‘there’s one difference at least—you dress up a bit.’
He laughed and that broke the ice. We finished the drinks and I got up to get a round. ‘I might . . .’
‘Make it just a middy,’ he said, patting his stomach. ‘Got to watch the flab.’
That was exactly what I was going to propose and for the same reason. I watched while the drinks were being poured. Patrick seemed at ease, very still, perhaps unusually so. The beer loosened us up and we chatted. He told me that his grandfather had been adamant that he came from a line of Travellers, not gypsies, and that recently he’d taken an interest in the subject and had looked it up in books and on the web. Malloy was a Travellers’ name, he said, but so were lots of others.
I drank and nodded, mildly interested, but with a question looming larger in my mind. Who is this guy and what is he?
He broke off. ‘I’m boring you.’
‘Not a bit.’ I touched the scar tissue above my eyebrows. ‘Weird that we’ve both got this. You boxed?’
‘In the army and very, very briefly as a pro. Saw the error of my ways and quit. You?’
‘Amateur only. Before the army and after.’
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Talk about parallel lives.’
A few stories had appeared in the papers about me in recent years, all negative and to do with the loss of my PEA licence. I’d withheld evidence, been accused of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, and been given a lifetime ban. So he knew about me. Time to get on a level footing.
‘What’s your game, Patrick?’
‘I’ve done a few things in my time, Cliff. Did a law degree after the army and worked for a couple of unions. Then I went into buying and renovating old pubs around the place. Here, there and everywhere. Made a good quid at that. Now I’ve got some investments and a share in a small security firm. That’s mostly hands-off but occasionally I have to step in and do a bit. What’re you up to these days?’
‘Nothing much. I’ve got enough money to skate along.’
He nodded. ‘Tell you what, my firm’s handling the security for the Moody/Sullivan fight on Wednesday week. It’s sold out, they tell me, but I’ve got some tickets. How’d you like to come along as my guest? Be ringside.’
The Moody he was talking about was Mick ‘Mighty’ Moody, the current Australian middleweight champion and the son of Jacko Moody, who’d held the title twenty years before. I’d had some dealings with Jacko and other La Perouse Aborigines back then, and I’d followed Mick’s career in the papers. There was talk of a non-title fight with Anthony Mundine but his management was bringing him along cautiously. Time was on his side. Mick was only twenty and these days, with better diet, training and fewer, shorter bouts, boxers can last into their thirties. I was keen to see the fight and said so.
‘Great,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ll send a car to pick you up. Parking’s a bastard at the pavilion.’
‘I can get a cab.’
‘You’d be going as my guest. It’s my pleasure.’
I thanked him and gave him the address. We shook hands again and went our separate ways. That put my holiday on hold for a while, but I hadn’t come up with a workable plan anyway. I spe
nt my time in the ways I’d begun, reluctantly, to get used to—going to the gym in Leichhardt, swimming at Victoria Park, hanging out with Frank Parker and Hilde, dropping in on my daughter and her partner Hank Bachelor. I was reading through a batch of Penguin Hemingway novels I’d picked up second-hand in Gleebooks and playing pool with Daphne Rowley in the Toxteth Hotel. And religiously taking my meds.
I was collected by a guy driving a white Commodore and wearing a uniform with patches that said ‘Pavee Security’. The word rang a bell but I couldn’t place it. His name tag read Kevin Barclay and I was glad that he didn’t say he was there to help. Too many Kevins these days did. He didn’t talk much on the drive. The fight was a big event with extensive media interest and Patrick was right—parking was a problem all around the Hordern Pavilion and the driver had to keep his mind on the job to avoid angry motorists and work his way to where only the privileged few could go. He got me close to an entrance and handed me a ticket.
‘Enjoy the fight, Mr Hardy.’
‘Thanks. Will you be inside, Kev?’
‘Some of the time.’
‘Expect any trouble?’
‘Nah, well, I could let you in on a secret.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Better not. I’m saying Moody by a knockout in the fifth.’
I puzzled over his remark as I presented the ticket and was escorted down a couple of levels and along an aisle to a seat in the second row with a square-on view of the ring. There’s something unique about a boxing program that infects the audience before it starts. You know a fight can be a long, testing affair or over in a matter of seconds. No other sporting contest is like that. The place was packed and noisy and that atmosphere of tense uncertainty drove other thoughts from my mind. The front row is too close. It spoils the perspective, and further back you miss some of the nuances. Row two is perfect.
The preliminaries weren’t much. A couple of footballers were making their debuts, one as a heavy and the other as a light-heavy. They won against opponents even less skilled than themselves. Seemed to me they should have stuck to football. The six-rounder before the main event was better. A fast, rangy Lebanese lightweight named Ali Ali boxed the ears off a stocky opponent for four rounds before unwisely deciding he could mix it in the fifth. A solid left rip to his unguarded mid-section put him down and after taking an eight count he walked into a straight right that ended his night.
