Peter Corris - Torn Apart

'He was a bit younger and he hadn't had a heart attack. We were friends, if that means anything to you.'

Kennedy blew smoke. 'I don't understand any of this. Think I'd better report to the Commander.'

'Don't do that, Col,' Szabo said. 'I'll sort this out and fill you in later. Why don't you catch up with that mob and debrief them. You know the drill.'

Szabo spoke with a quiet authority, clearly respected by Kennedy, who stamped his barely smoked cigarette butt into the mud, shot me a furious look, and strode away.

Szabo waited until Kennedy was back on the path. Then he pointed to my left shoulder. 'You won't need the gun. You shouldn't carry that arm a bit stiff the way you do.'

'I'm out of practice,' I said. 'Convince me.'

'I've bashed people and cut them, kicked them and broken limbs, but I've never killed anyone.'

'You're a known shottie artist.'

'Was.'

'You made threats against me in jail.'

He nodded. 'Some time back. I was a different person then.'

'You bought a shotgun recently.'

'You have been busy. I don't know what story you told poor Col. He's not the brightest. I'm guessing you said something about wanting to talk to me and he took you at your word on that.'

'Yes. So?'

He unzipped his jacket. 'Let me show you something.'

'Easy.'

He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a silver cross on a chain.

'I'm the pastor of this flock as well as one of the trainers. I'm a Christian and I wouldn't take revenge on you for killing my father. Revenge is for God. I forgive you, and I hope you forgive yourself.'

'You bought a shotgun.'

'Yeah, I did, and a box of fifty shells and I went out into the bush and fired off every last one. Then I took an angle grinder and cut the gun up into little bits, which I dumped. I purged myself of shotguns and violence. People can change, Hardy.'

'Maybe. I haven't seen it happen all that much.'

'You can believe me or not, as you choose.'

I did believe him. The gleam in his eyes wasn't from the killer instinct his father had displayed; it was the light of redemption, the glow of the saved. I waved my hand at the bush, the creek, the muddy footprints on the path.

'So what's all this, onward Christian soldiers?'

'Your cheap cynicism does you no credit.'

Francis Szabo had picked up some education as well as religion along the way; he had the moral drop on me and I had to acknowledge it.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'That's the second bloody sorry in a few minutes. Not easy, but you can see where I was coming from when I heard certain things about you.'

'Yes. If you'd inquired a bit more you'd have learned other things and saved yourself a trip.'

We started down towards the path. I slipped and he steadied me. 'I guess I've been talking to the wrong people,' I said.

He didn't say anything until we were back in the centre of the compound. He guided me towards my car.

'I'll have a word at the gate and you can go through.'

'Thanks.'

It was an awkward moment and we both felt it.

I jiggled my keys. 'I don't know what to say.'

'Neither do I,' he said. 'But I'd suggest you take a good look at yourself and the way your life is heading.' part three

Peter Corris

CH35 – Torn Apart part three

I'd run out of candidates for making me the target and my encounter with Szabo hadn't done anything for my confidence or self-esteem. He was right-I should have asked how old Ben Corbett and Marvis Marshall's information was and tried to get a more up-to-date assessment. I was left with the conclusion that the killer had got the man he wanted. I now knew more about Patrick than before, perhaps more than the police knew.

The smart course might be to turn that information over to the police. Then again, that might not be so smart. They might think I was trying to deal myself out of the drug importation charge. These thoughts ran through my head as I made my chastened way back to Sydney. It was the sort of stalemate I'd reached many times before. In the early days I made the mistake of talking it over with Cyn.

'Stop beating your head against a brick wall,' she said.

'Drop it. Move on.'

I never did, and wouldn't now. I still had my conduit to the workings of the police service-Frank Parker, who'd retired as an Assistant Commissioner but was still on their books as an adviser and consultant. I'd overworked and strained the relationship when I was a busy PEA, but I'd also done him some good turns along the way (quite apart from introducing him to his wife), and we'd both mellowed in recent times. I thought I could count on Frank to at least tell me how the police inquiry was progressing. I could take my cue from that.

The first thing I did was to return the pistol and ammunition to Ben Corbett. He'd sell it to someone else before you could turn around, but that wasn't my problem. If a criminal wants a gun he'll get one, and no law will stop him, or her. Corbett examined the weapon carefully.

'Not fired.'

'Never sniffed the air.'

'Two hundred back.'

'That's a bit light on, even for you.'

'Because I'm charging you for some information you'll be interested in.'

'Go on.'

He handed me the two notes. 'Deal?'

'Why not?'

'I've got this mate who's a fuckin' ballistics expert. He runs this little show and the cops put work his way. What's it called, that?'

'Outsourcing.'

'Right. Anyway, we chew the fat and he tells me about examining these shotgun pellets taken from a bloke killed in Glebe recently. I read the papers. That'd be the hit that went down at your place, right?'

I nodded.

'I'm thinking you wanted the. 38 to go after the guy who did the job but you didn't find him. So this information might be worth something to you.'

'Good thinking, Ben.'

'Not as dumb as what you thought, eh? He says the pellets were self-loaded. That's unusual, but what's weirder is that they were treated with some kind of poison. Get the idea? You hit some fucker at the end of the range and don't kill him, but the poison gets him anyway. Cute, eh?'

'Yes. What else? I can see you're dying to tell me.'

'My mate reckons there's a particular mob that went in for this trick-blokes who fought in them African wars a while back. Not army, what're they called?'

'Mercenaries.'

'Good money, they say. Tax free. Should have had a go at it myself.'

'You have to kill women and children and burn villages.'

'Whoopee!'

I'd switched off my mobile for the trip north. I turned it on when I got home and there was a message from Sheila to say that she'd visit that evening if I confirmed. I did. I wanted to see her, not only for the shared pleasure, but because I wanted to get every scrap of information she had about Patrick. Someone out there hated him enough to make absolutely sure of killing him and the reason had to lie somewhere in his past. It was going to be a tricky balancing act-loving and interrogating-and I rehearsed some of the questions I'd put as I cleaned myself up.

I went out for wine and bread and cheese and enjoyed the feeling ofnot having to watch my back. I could return the Camry, but I'd still keep my communications secure from the police, at least until I'd spoken to Frank.

Sheila arrived about 10 pm. I hadn't eaten since breakfast and neither had she, so, after the usual enthusiastic preliminaries, we got stuck into the food and the wine.

I decided to start by telling her about the parcel from London and the steroids and how I was facing a charge of importing them.

She put down her glass. 'You didn't tell me about a parcel coming from London.'

'That was when I didn't know what you were up to.'

'Now you do?'

'I hope so.'

'Why are you telling me this now?'