Torn Apart ch-35

by Peter Corris

  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.

  He settled in a chair a metre away from mine with a small metal desk between us. He looked at me, swore and left the room, coming back a minute or two later with a file. He opened it and cleared 'Interview with…'

  'You haven't turned on the recorder,' I said. 'Light's not showing.'

  He had the misfortune to have a fair complexion, which showed his blush. He switched on the recorder and cleared his throat. With his hand on the file, he began again.

  'Interview with Mr Cliff Hardy by Acting Detective Sergeant Kurt Reimas, Surry Hills… '

  He stated the date and looked up.

  'I'm not saying a word without my lawyer being present.'

  'That can be arranged, of course,' he said. 'But I'd encourage you to cooperate in this preliminary interview…'

  I shook my head. 'I've been through this many times, Acting Sergeant. Not another word.'

  What I said seemed to encourage him. He closed the file and turned off the recorder. 'I'm sure you have,' he said. 'Served a sentence at Berrima, I see, stripped of an investigator's licence… but things have changed. You can be held for some time now without charge or access to legal advice.'

  'To do with terrorism.'

  He smiled. 'That's subject to wide interpretation. You've recently returned from overseas in the company of a person who has been murdered in a brutal manner, and you've been found in possession of an imported illicit substance. Do you want to reconsider?'

  'No.'

  They took me to the lock-up and put me in an observation cubicle, one of a set, with a perspex wall and a heavy metal door. Nothing there but a cement bench to sit on and a metal toilet. I was the only resident. I knew this had to be temporary. If the intention was to keep me for days this wouldn't do. You couldn't sleep there. It was meant to scare me but it didn't; I'd been in worse places.

  After a few hours I was moved to a cell with a washbasin, a toilet and a set of metal bunks. A man was lying on the top bunk. He sat up as I came in and his head almost hit the low roof.

  'Got a smoke, mate?' he said.

  'No. Sorry.'

  'Fuck.' He lay back down and those were the only words I ever heard him speak.

  I sat on the bunk and prepared myself for a long wait. I doubted that Reimas would try to invoke the terrorism provisions against me. It'd be a thin case and, after recent failures, the police would be wary of taking that course. It might have been different if the substance was anthrax or something similar, but I couldn't see Patrick as a terrorist. Heroin or cocaine were more probable, I supposed, but the UK didn't seem a likely source. Also, the terrorism accusation meant involving the federal police, something state cops were always reluctant to do. Sooner or later they'd have to charge me and take me before a magistrate. Couldn't do that without allowing me legal representation.

  It was a long night. My companion snored and coughed and climbed down three or four times to piss. Prostate trouble and emphysema. At 6 am a Corrective Services officer told him he was going to Parramatta. He groaned and took one last intermittent, trickling piss and was gone.

  Ten minutes later I was given a cup of tea and two slices of toast, both cold. I ignored them. I'd missed my evening and morning meds. I didn't think that would do me any great harm, but I disliked the feeling of dependency. By ten o'clock the inactivity and lack of human interaction were eating at me. I felt dishevelled and dirty after sleeping in my clothes. I hadn't shaved for forty-eight hours and my face itched. I was thinking of asking for a razor when I was handed a mobile phone.

  'You look dreadful,' Viv Garner said.

  We were in an interview room like the one I'd been in before except there was no recording equipment and we both had cups of reasonably acceptable coffee.

  'I'm not at my best,' I said, but in fact I felt all right, mostly due to relief at being, if not at liberty, not in a cell.

  'I thought when you were… forcibly retired, things would calm down. But here we are again.'

  'Keeps you on your toes.'

  'Don't joke, Cliff. This could be serious.'

  'What was in the chess box?'

  'Steroids. Powerful steroids with built-in masking agents. State of the art or better. Highly illegal. Worth a fortune.'

  'What about this terrorism stuff?'

  'Bluff, to scare you.'

  'They can't think I had anything to do with steroids.'

  'You're a gym goer and you've had a bypass. You could be looking to regain your former fitness.'

  'Bullshit.'

  'Cliff, they've got you forging a signature and opening another person's mail. And they're talking about a withholding evidence charge-your old bugbear.'

  I knew what he meant, the failure to tell Welsh about the packages posted from London, and a charge I'd once been convicted on.

  'That's thin though, isn't it? I could say I didn't know about them, or I forgot.'

  Viv shook his head. 'For some reason, God knows why, they must've tracked the parcels. I'm betting they know the stuff was posted from the same place at the same time. You didn't know much
about this cousin of yours, did you?'

  'That's putting it mildly. Has Sheila Malloy, his wife, been in touch?'

  'She has, and it's another thing that doesn't look good if it became known. I only spoke with her on the phone, but from the way she sounded, I'm guessing-'

  'All right, all right. What are they more interested in- nailing me on these Mickey Mouse charges or finding out who killed Patrick?'

  As soon as I said that I saw the connection. If Patrick was involved in a lucrative steroid racket and hadn't given satisfaction, he could have been a target. But you'd expect a bashing or a wounding, not a brutal killing. But then, there was always 'roid rage to consider.

  'Both,' Viv said.

  'So what's likely to happen now?'

  Viv checked his watch. 'We're due for a magistrate hearing in twenty minutes. You'll be charged with illegal importation and possession, with other charges pending. I'll reserve the right not to enter a plea until a full charge with evidence is forthcoming.'

  I'd been through it before and had lost, but that time I was guilty as sin. 'Then what?'

  'I'll apply for bail. The police won't oppose it because they want you on the loose, but on a chain to see if you lead them somewhere more important. My guess is-surrender of passport and fifty thousand surety.'

  'I can make that,' I said, 'thanks to Lily. And I wasn't planning on going anywhere.'

  We went up before the beak in Liverpool Street and it worked out pretty much as Viv said. I agreed to hand my passport in at the Glebe station and to report there each week. I signed a document pledging my security and that was it. The police prosecutor appeared to be just going through the motions.

  'What about Sheila?' I asked Viv when we were outside the court.

  'She has no problem, unlike you. All she has to do is apply to the Probate Office for Letters of Administration. Once granted, that ensures her right to the estate.'

  'Did she tell you that Patrick said they were divorced?'

  'She did. Again, that's pretty simple. Divorce proceedings are a matter of public record. She initiates a search to support her contention. She probably doesn't even have to do that if no other claims are made. If another claim is made what Patrick told you becomes relevant, but I don't suppose you'd want to bring that up. Am I right?'

  'I'm not sure.'

  We were in George Street, heading for a bus stop. Like me, Viv saw public transport as the only sensible way to get around in the city. Unlike me, he had a Seniors card. When we reached the bus stop he gave me a searching look.

  'You don't believe her?'

  'I don't know. I want to believe her.'

  He shook his head. 'You have a knack for trouble on several fronts.'

  A Leichhardt bus that'd get us both close to where we wanted to go arrived and we caught it. At that time of day it was only half full and we were able to talk without annoying anyone or being overheard.

  'Can Sheila jump through those legal hoops herself?'

  'She could, but it'd be better to get a solicitor-quicker, easier.'

  'And more expensive.'

  'Not very. Look at me, I'm travelling by bus.'

  'You've got a Beemer at home. Did she ask you to act for her?'

  'An old one. Yes, she did, but I declined. I'm not taking on new clients, Cliff. My wife won't let me, and I've got all the hassles I need with the few I've got. I'll send you an invoice.'

  I got off in Glebe Point Road. The pub beckoned but a shower and a change of clothes beckoned more. There's something about Corrective Services sleeping quarters, and I've been in a few, that seems to taint your clothes, your hair, your skin. I went home, stripped off, showered and shaved and dressed in clothes that were moderately fresh. I've always liked Nick Nolte's line in Forty-Eight Hours, when his girlfriend hands him his shirt after she's been wearing it and he puts it on to go to work. She says, 'If you'd let me sleep over at your place you could at least go to work in a clean shirt.' Nolte says, 'What makes you think there's any clean shirts at my place?'

  I had clean shirts but what was making me think of movies, actors? Sheila.

  13

  With his apparent involvement in steroid smuggling and my uncertainty about Sheila's game-she wouldn't be the first to arrange the convenient death of a spouse with money as the motive-it looked increasingly as though Patrick was the true target for the man with the shotgun. But the threat from Frank Szabo couldn't be ignored.

  The possession of an unlicensed handgun is a serious offence and with my record almost certainly meant jail time. And for someone on bail with heavy charges pending, it would compound the trouble. I had no choice, but I took Viv's warning about possible police surveillance on board and arranged for Hank to check my landline for bugs. I bought a new mobile phone in a Telstra shop-new SIM card, new account, new number. If the powers that be could monitor mobiles as they can in the movies, they'd get only innocuous stuff from my old mobile. Anything important or potentially incriminating I'd reserve for my new phone.

  The first call I made was to Sheila. I left a message that she should only call me on the new number. It felt like paranoia, but paranoia can be protective. Ever since the initial suspension of my licence, the subsequent cancellation, denial of my appeal and lifelong ban, I'd felt threatened. I'd played fast and loose with the authorities for many years and there were some policemen and bureaucrats who would have loved to even the score. I booked the Falcon into a garage for an unnecessary service and hired an anonymous Toyota Camry. I drove to Erskineville to visit Ben Corbett.

  'Ex-police,' Corbett said, handing me the pistol. 'Must've got lost somehow. Mint condition. Only ever fired on the fuckin' range and not much then. All identification removed. Barrel retooled. Fully loaded with first class ammo. Yours for twelve hundred.'

  I put the weapon down and gave him the extra money. 'You're a crook.'

  'That's right, and now so are you.'

  I examined the. 38; broke it open, removed the cartridges, spun the cylinder and sighted down the barrel. What Corbett said was true. The pistol hadn't seen any serious action and I hoped it would stay that way. The twelve hundred dollars implied an unspoken contract-Corbett would never tell anyone that he'd supplied me with the gun and, if I got caught with it, I'd never reveal the source. Doing deals with criminals isn't comfortable, but sometimes there's no other way. Nobody knows that better than the cops and the lawyers.

  I still had the chamois leather shoulder holster I'd used when I was licensed to carry a firearm and I'd worn it to the meeting. I slipped the pistol into it and adjusted the holster with a shoulder shrug I'd done a hundred times before, but not lately.

  Corbett grinned as he relit one of the extinguished rollies wedged around the sides of his ashtray. 'Small of the back's better.'

  'If you want to shoot yourself in the arse.'

  'Goodbye, Hardy. If I never fuckin' see you again it'll be too fuckin' soon.'

  'That's no way to talk. I'll be right here to sell it back to you when I finish this little bit of business.'

  'It'll cost you.'

  'Everything does, Ben, everything does.'

  Then it was a matter of doing the rounds to get a line on Frank Szabo. It meant the outlay of a fair bit of money and the consumption of a fair amount of alcohol. The money wasn't a problem but the booze was. The last thing I needed was to be picked up for DUI with an illegal pistol under my arm. That was a sure way to go where Frank had recently been. So I had to take it in stages and spread the work out over a couple of days.

  If Frank Szabo had been after me he'd know by now that he'd killed the wrong man. If he was as psychopathic as his father it wouldn't bother him too much and he'd stick around for another try. It was an uncomfortable feeling but I had one thing in my favour-to kill with a shotgun you have to get close. On the evidence of Patrick's murder, the killer wanted to be close to see the results of his work. I'd done some sniping in the army and it's basically a mathematical business: adjust the weapon for range, t
rajectory and terrain; allow for wind, fix the target in the crosshairs and fire. You hit or you miss and that's that. You take the emotion out of it if you can. If you can't, you're not a sniper. I was for a while; then I wasn't.

  These days, you don't go looking for underworld people by asking questions in pubs, clubs, brothels or at racetracks. The old days when they accumulated at defined and known places are gone. They disappeared in Sydney some time back, lingered on in Melbourne through the gangland wars, but now respectability rules. But some things remain the same. The underworld is as riven with competition, vindictiveness and payback as politics, and there is no loyalty that money won't overcome. Fear is a factor though, and it's best to have it on your side.

  I trawled through the people I knew-the ones I'd met in jail and in the course of my work; the ones who'd come to me with information in the past and the ones I'd had to handle when all they wanted was to crack my skull. Some I liked, some I almost liked, most I disliked intensely. I met them in offices, in restaurants, in pubs, in hospitals and a couple in jail visits. It was like panning for gold with nothing showing. Then there was a nugget in the form of Marvis Marshall.

  Marshall, an African American, had come to Australia in the eighties to play basketball for the Sydney Kings. He'd played a season or two in the American league but hadn't made the grade and Australia offered him a chance to play successfully at a lower level. He did well for a season, injured his knee as so many do and that was the end of his career down under. During the year he'd met and married an Australian woman and had a child, so his citizenship was assured. In retirement, he operated for a while as a player agent and manager but suspicion arose about him attempting to influence players to tank games and he was warned off the basketball scene.

  At 199 centimetres and a hundred kilos going up, he was scary big and he found work as a bouncer and enforcer for gamblers and a car repossesser for some of the more dubious dealers. He was charged with assault several times but evaded conviction by intimidating witnesses. His bad character was equalled only by his charm and I had got, warily, to know him, at the Redgum Gym in Leichhardt where he lifted weights with the pin in the bottom slot. After those he'd known in Chicago and Detroit, he had contempt for Sydney crims. He made fun of them and would tell tales about them if he was in the mood and the beer was flowing.