Peter Corris - Torn Apart

'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

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.'