Peter Corris - Torn Apart

The photographs were more or less in chronological order and carried captions: 'Paddy beating me at pool', 'Our wedding', 'Us at Kakadu', etc.

Sheila leaned towards me. 'I bet you looked exactly like him at the same age. What d'you think?'

'Pretty much. Just a bit more handsome.'

'Huh. Just as cocksure, if you know what I mean.'

There were several photos of Patrick in military uniform looking pleased with himself, and one near the end of the collection of him in what looked like a bushman's outfit. Not exactly fatigues, more the movie version of fatigues. He'd put on weight and grown a bristly moustache and didn't look much like me at all.

'What's this?' I said. 'I never looked like that.'

'That's his African outfit.'

'I thought you'd broken up permanently by then.'

'We had, but he turned up. He was always turning up out of the blue and causing trouble.'

'What was the name of that group? Did he ever tell you? He shouldn't have, but since he was showing off…'

'He was drunk and unhappy. He didn't care what he said. He did mention a name, but I forget-something Greek. Hercules, Parthenon.. .'

'Well, he never made it to Africa.'

'Why d'you say that?'

'He told me he quit the mercenary mob in England when he learned what they were headed for. Deserted, he said.'

'That's not true. He went to Africa, all right. Look.'

She pulled a postcard from its plastic sleeve and handed it to me. It showed a bush village with characteristic African flattop trees in the background. The message read: 'Shillelagh, glad you're not here. Love, Paddy.' The card was postmarked Luanda, Republic of Angola.

Sheila went off to Melbourne to do more research for her part, this time to talk to people with information about the female role in the gang wars. She said a member of the production team was going with her, a karate expert.

'He'd better be an expert in a bit more than that.'

'Like what?'

'Australian football, dining in Carlton, catching trams, coats and scarves…'

'I gather you don't like Melbourne.'

'Nothing good ever happened to me there. You'll be right. Have fun-not too much.'

'What're you going to do?'

'The usual. Talk to people who know things I need to know.'

A web search for Australian mercenary soldiers turned up only one useful item-a book entitled Diggers for Hire by John

Casey, published by Partisan Press in 2007. Thanks to the software loaded by Lily and transferred to my new computer, I had Sydney University's Fisher Library catalogue online and found that the book was in the research section. I walked to the university past all the restoration and enhancement work being done on Glebe Point Road to run into major work going on inside the campus. Holes in the ground, cranes, noise-not exactly the dreaming spires. I threaded my way through detours and diversions to the library, made an inquiry and was directed to the right section. A ticket that allows you to borrow costs a fortune, but there's nothing to stop you reading inside the place. The book was mercifully slim and I sat down with it and a notebook. I haven't had much to do with university libraries since my less than successful student days when I was supposed to be studying law but was more interested in other things.

John Casey was a professor at Macquarie University, a former soldier and no stylist. The introduction nearly put me to sleep in the musty, air-conditioned atmosphere and I was relieved to see that the book had an index. I worked through it looking for anything Greek, and the only likely reference was to something called the Olympic Corps. The reference was limited to one paragraph:

The Olympic Corps is a shadowy organisation that may indeed be no more than a rumour. It has been mentioned by former soldiers, but no actual member has ever been identified. All information about it is, as far as my researches show, hearsay. One person has heard something about it from another and that information is elaborated on and extended by a further account, which turns out to have no more solid foundation. Lurid stories are told of African, Pacific and Caribbean adventures having more the ring of airport fiction than reality. Official sources, with detailed information about such bodies as Sandline, are silent about the Olympic Corps, sometimes called the Corps Olympic. It may be a military myth.

In a footnote, the author said that FOI approaches to the Department of Defence and the Attorney-General's Department had met with no reply at the time of the book going to press. I emailed the professor that I had some information about the Olympic Corps and would like to meet him to discuss it. I was about to log off when the chime told me I had a message. Casey must have been at the computer when my message arrived because he'd replied immediately, giving me his phone number and asking me to contact him a.s.a.p. I did.

'Jack Casey.'

'It's Cliff Hardy, professor.' 'Good. Have you got a secure line?' 'I believe so, yes.'

'Mine is, as far as I know, but let's keep it short. Where and when can we meet?'

He lived in Balmain and we fixed on a Darling Street pub at 3 pm. This felt like progress of some kind. I photocopied the passage in Casey's book, left the library and walked home. When I got there a car was parked outside my house and a uniformed police officer stepped out of it and approached me. 'Mr Hardy?'

We'd seen each other at the Glebe station. 'You know it is.'

He opened the rear door of the car. 'Please accompany me to the station.' 'Why?' 'Just get in.'

I unshipped my mobile and stepped back. 'Not until I know why.'

'Under the terms of your bail you're required to report-' 'Jesus Christ, I forgot.'

They made me wait at the station while they filled in forms, made phone calls, twiddled their thumbs. Then they read me the riot act, warning me that another violation could bring the cancellation of my bail, arrest and the loss of part of my bond. I gritted my teeth and took it. When they finally let me go there was barely time to get to Balmain to meet the professor. I was certainly ready for a drink.

Prof Casey was no tweedy bookworm. I'd given him my description over the phone. The man who jumped to his feet and waved a copy of his book at me was late forties, of medium height, solidly built with thick hair and a bushy beard-both dark with a lot of grey. He wore jeans, a grey Harvard T-shirt and a black leather jacket. There was a carafe of red wine on his table with two glasses. Looked like he'd already made a solid start.

'Mr Hardy, I'm Jack Casey.'

'Cliff,' I said. We shook hands.

'I'm on the red. You want something else?'

'Red's fine.'

We sat down and he poured. His copy of Diggers for Hire had seen a lot of work: the spine was broken and the corners of pages had been turned down and bits of paper were sticking up. I took out my photocopied page with the footnote highlighted. I took a big slug of the wine.

'You said you had information about Olympic Corps.'

'That's right.' I pointed to the highlighting. 'I'm hoping you've had more luck with this.'

He put on reading glasses and peered. 'I get it. We're swapping, are we? What's your profession, Cliff?'

'I was a private detective, now…'

'Ah, yes, it comes back to me. You got the flick.'

'That's right. Now I'm investigating the death of someone I think may have belonged to this mercenary mob.'

'Why?'

'He was my cousin and it happened in my house.'

He went up in my estimation by not saying he was sorry.

Why should he be? He took a swallow of wine and examined me closely. 'Convince me you're not a spook of some kind.'

I laughed. 'They wouldn't have me, and I wouldn't have a bar of them. I've met a few in my time, a couple were all right, but most of 'em couldn't tell their arses from their elbows. They might've got better, of course.'