Torn Apart

by Peter Corris

  Sheila Malloy, if that’s who she really was, presented a problem. I’d met women I’d found difficult to believe many times before, but she was a mixture. Her frankness about her interest in Patrick’s death was one thing; her denial of their divorce was another. She used the name Paddy naturally, convincingly, but her picture of the man was very different from mine. People can change over time, but Sheila appeared to be able to change from one minute to the next.

  I stopped at the Toxteth for a drink and ordered a Jamesons, Patrick’s favourite tipple. I was thinking I preferred scotch when a man dropped into the chair next to mine.

  ‘On the hard stuff, eh, Cliff?’

  I knew him but couldn’t immediately put a name to the face. He raised his own glass and it came to me.

  ‘Gidday, Sammy. Good to see you again.’

  Sammy Starling nodded. ‘As Keef says, it’s good to see you—good to see anyone.’

  Sammy had been out of circulation for almost seven years, serving a sentence for manslaughter. He’d been a private detective and a good one, but a gambling problem had forced him to cross the line and become a standover man, working for gamblers. One night he went too far and the man he was putting extreme physical pressure on died. Sammy hadn’t completely lost his moral bearings and he turned himself in. It was more than his life was worth to name the people he’d been working for, though that would have earned him a lesser sentence, so he served nearly the whole term. I’d put some work his way before he went off the rails, and given a character reference when he was up on the charge.

  ‘I heard you were out,’ I said, ‘but I thought you were an eastern suburbs type.’

  ‘I am. Give me Bondi any day; but I’ve been hanging around here hoping to see you.’

  ‘I’m out of the business, Sammy.’

  ‘I know that. But you always played square with me and stood up when I was in the shit, so I want to return the favour.’

  I finished the whiskey and held out my glass. ‘Buy me a drink and we’ll call it quits.’

  He dropped his voice and looked around to be sure he couldn’t be overheard. ‘This is serious. Do you remember Soldier Szabo?’

  I nodded. Szabo was a hardcore crim who’d come after me and I’d shot and killed him in the living room of my house. Even after scrubbing at it and years of wear and tear, there was still a faint stain on the carpet where he’d bled. He was a vicious murderer and I felt no remorse, just the natural empty, stomach-churning reaction at the time.

  Sammy leaned closer. ‘He had a son named Frank. He was in Bathurst with me, doing time for armed robbery. He got high on ice one day and said he was going to kill the man who killed his father.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About a year ago, bit less. I didn’t think too much about it because they all go around making threats, especially when they’re high, but when I heard about that bloke being killed at your place I thought I should tell you.’

  I got up and bought two drinks. Sammy never drank anything but scotch and ice so I didn’t have to ask. I sat down and looked at him. He was ten years younger than me and medium-sized. A welterweight, say. For someone who’d been inside for so long he looked more lined, greyer, but pretty good—he must have worked out and kept a limit on the starches.

  ‘He’s out, is he?’

  ‘A month ago, maybe two months.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘An animal, and a crack-head. And, Cliff, his weapon of choice was a sawn-off automatic shotgun.’

  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 f
rom 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.