Peter Corris - Torn Apart

'Because I'm sure now Patrick was the target, not me, and

I still want to find out who killed him. I need to know every scrap of information about him.'

'Why are you so sure?'

I told her about the trip north and the result. How I came back with my tail between my legs. Then I told her about the poisoned shot pellets. She finished her wine and held out her glass for more. She'd had one go at the bread and cheese compared with my three or four. More than most, Sheila was someone who could discipline herself.

'Are you in serious trouble over the steroids?'

'Hard to say. Depends on the cops. I'm hoping to get a line on their attitude to me and their investigation of Patrick's murder. I'm not in good standing with the police, but I've got one friend with contacts.'

'You must wish Paddy'd never turned up.'

I looked at her. She was tired with lines showing around her eyes and mouth under her fresh makeup. Her hair was caught in some kind of bun with a few strands coming loose. She was wearing her suit again with a blouse not as crisp as before. I felt protective and lustful-a potent combination. I pushed the plates aside, reached for her and pulled her close.

'If I hadn't met him, I wouldn't have met you.'

That ended the eating and drinking and the discussion. We went upstairs.

Sheila didn't rush away in the morning as she had before. We took our time getting up, showering, dressing and having breakfast. She saw me taking my meds and grimacing at the sweet taste of the aspirin.

'Rest of your life, eh?'

'However long that may be.'

'I'd back you in for eighty, Cliff.'

She said she didn't have any meetings to do with the film for a few days, but that she was reading the script and doing research on the sort of woman her character was-the criminal matriarch.

'A few of them about,' she said. 'You could be useful here. Ever run into one of them?'

'Thankfully no. I remember what Frank Parker, the cop friend I mentioned, said when he had dealings with Kitty "Cat Woman" Saunders.'

'I've read about her. She was a piece of work. Hang on, I'll jot this down.'

'He said, "If you ever meet one of these women run a mile, because she'll do you harm".'

She scribbled in a tiny notebook. 'That's good. I'd like to meet this guy.'

'You will. Can you answer a few more questions about Patrick?'

She sighed. 'I guess so. Will he always be in the room?'

'No. That's partly why I'm doing this, I realise. I want to kind of exorcise him. He was in Vietnam, right? D'you think he ever suffered the post traumatic stuff-the nightmares, the jumping at shadows…'

She took a long time to answer and I saw that the memories were painful.

'Sorry,' I said, 'if it's too hard don't-'

'It's okay. I got over it, just a bit hard to go back to all the pain now that things are looking up and we're… Well, I got pregnant and Paddy went off his head. He said he'd walked through clouds of agent orange and any child of his would be lucky to be born with only one head…'

She burst into tears and I comforted her as best I could. After some sniffing and nose-blowing she recovered. 'He made me have an abortion, and he went straight out and had a vasectomy. Is that the sort of thing you mean?'

I wanted to ask about his dealings with the mercenary brigade, whatever it was, but I'd pushed her far enough. She went to the bathroom and repaired her makeup while I tidied away the breakfast things thinking that I was hitting more faults than aces lately. I reproached myself-sports metaphors are too easy. I was getting involved with this woman and wounding her in the process. She came back, smelling of too much perfume. We kissed and she left. A shaky parting.

I returned the Camry, collected the Falcon and drove to Paddington to see Frank. The drive took longer than it should have because the Pope was in town for a few days with a couple of hundred thousand of his admirers and the traffic patterns had been changed to make them even more unfriendly than they already were. I'd rung and Frank was expecting me, meaning he had a couple of bottles of Heineken to hand.

We sat by the pool in a patch of sunshine.

'His Holiness brought good weather,' Frank said as he lifted the caps.

'He did; hope he leaves it behind him when he goes.'

'I can read you like a book, Cliff. Who is she?'

'What do you mean?'

'You get a certain look when you're on with someone.'

'Shit, not smug and self-satisfied I hope.'

'No. Sort of pleased and grateful.'

'That'd be right.'

The beer was going down well. I filled Frank in on all the developments, including my relationship with Sheila, but with a certain amount of editing-about the. 38 for example. There was still enough of the straight-as-a-die cop about him for that information to have pissed him off. When I told him about the poisoned pellets, without mentioning the extra bit of knowledge I had on that, he nearly choked on his beer.

'How the hell do you know that?'

'Outsourcing is another word for leaking.'

'You're right. So Frankie Szabo's born again. D'you believe that?'

'I believe it for now. He didn't kill Patrick. Whether it'll hold when the born-again thrill wears off's another question. They find it hard to hack the normal.'

'Like you. You should leave this alone, Cliff. There's some good people working on it.'

I shook my head. 'Time's passing. You know how it is; the longer it takes the harder it gets. I need to know if they're making any progress. I need to know how hard they're trying. They've got Patrick pegged as a steroids importer. That lowers their interest. Serves him right.'

'It's you facing that charge.'

'That's bullshit. You know it and they must know it.'

'I dunno. You liked this bloke. You might have done him a favour.'

'I didn't like him that much. Just tell me this, is that the line they're working on-the steroids?'

He shrugged. As far as I know. If you've got another line, Cliff, you should talk to them. You've got no standing, no protection.'

'When did I ever have?'

'You had more than you knew. One tip. I know how you work; you're not a complete cowboy. Ian Welsh's a good man. If you get in too deep contact him.'

'Will you be talking to him?'

'All depends. It's a strange world we live in.'

'You're right,' I said. 'Three hundred thousand people at Randwick racecourse, and not a horse in sight.'

They've cracked down on steroids in sport. About bodybuilding, I wasn't sure, but my feeling was there was less interest generally in that these days than in the past. Maybe because Arnie had gone political and Sly and Rocky and Rambo were winding down. But I knew of one area of activity where they were still used and where I had contacts.

I'd worked a few times as a bodyguard for film and television actors and in that role I'd naturally fallen into conversation with stuntmen like Ben Corbett. Corbett was what was known in the film and television world as a 'wheelie', specialising in motorised stunts, but there were others, particularly 'swingers', who performed athletic jumping, falling, hanging-essentially gymnastic-illusions. They had to be strong and quick and they regularly injured themselves but needed to keep working because they weren't well paid.

They used steroids to build strength but, more importantly, to recover from strains, pulls, dislocations. These people, mostly men but including a few women, paid very high insurance premiums and the movie production companies did the same to safeguard themselves against lawsuits in the event of accidents. The stunters had to pass frequent medical tests and it was a fair bet that they'd try to mask their use of steroids. Patrick's pills could look attractive in that context.