Peter Corris - Torn Apart

He shook his head. 'They haven't-worse if anything in this paranoid climate, which I hope is cooling.'

It was a standoff. I might have asked the same question as him. Universities have always harboured intelligence people, but Casey didn't strike me as a candidate. I took Sheila's photograph of Patrick in Africa from my pocket and the postcard.

'This is the man I'm talking about, and this is a postcard he sent from a certain place. I'll tell you more if you reciprocate.'

He studied the photo, took off his glasses, wiped them on a ragged tissue, and looked closely again. 'Fuck me,' he said. 'This could really be something. See those inverted chevrons? I've seen photos of mercenaries wearing those in…'

'Angola. That's where P… he sent a postcard from.'

'Right. Who is this guy?'

I took the photo back. 'Whoa. Give and take. Tell me why you asked me if my line was secure, and what's all that about spooks? And I want to hear about the FOI request.'

'Then you'll tell me who he is?'

'Was. I might, under certain conditions.'

'That's a hard bargain.'

I finished off the red and poured another glass, 'Take it or leave it.'

He reached down for the backpack under the table and pulled out a sheaf of papers. I'd seen others like them many times before. They were governmental files but these had the identity of the department and practically the whole of their content blacked out. He leafed through the sheets, showing me that barely a sentence or two per page was complete.

'National security,' he said.

'Tell me about the photos of the mercenaries you saw.'

He pointed to the photo in my hand. 'Who?'

'You first.'

'Okay. It was of a bunch of unidentified white mercenaries shackled together and apparently on their way to prison. Or maybe not.'

'Meaning?'

'Both sides did nasty things to each other in that war. I should say all sides because there were quite a few. I'm talking about mutilations and beheadings of the living and the dead. Killing prisoners was routine.'

'His name was Patrick Malloy. Someone blew him apart with a shotgun.'

He gulped down some more wine, took a small box from the pocket of his jacket, opened it and sniffed up a pinch of powder. 'Snuff,' he said. 'Only way to use tobacco inside these days.'

'I'm waiting for the sneeze.'

'Doesn't always happen. There's a security angle to all this, obviously. But a shotgun doesn't sound like our lot.'

'I wouldn't be too sure,' I said. 'There's always outsourcing.'

It was murky-maybe right up Casey's street but not mine. I'd never cultivated contacts in what journalists called the intelligence community because, as I'd told him, I had little respect for the species. What did the CIA predict about the fall of the Berlin Wall, the break-up of the Soviet Union, the fall of the Shah, Marcos and Soeharto? Nothing, and I doubted that their Australian counterparts were any better informed. I told Casey all I could about Patrick and he was encouraged to dig deeper into the photographs he now thought could be of the Olympic Corps, undertaking to keep me informed. He agreed not to publish anything about Patrick until after I'd either found his killer or given up.

The rough red had given me a headache. I bought some painkillers and walked down Darling Street to the water to allow them to work and me to think. Balmain had changed since I arrived in the inner west. It was no longer the habitat of waterside workers, tradesmen, boxers, footballers and bohemians. Gentrified to the max, it had been renovated, speed-bumped, mosaic-paved and priced into a middle-class haven. 4WDs lined the narrow streets and cute little lofts pushed up through the roofs to gain the all-important, property-enhancing water glimpse.

But the water itself was still the same, despite the demise of slips and the surfeit of yachts, and was still balm for the troubled mind. I watched a ferry unload the day's commuters and take on the evening's city-bound fun seekers, and looked across to where lights were marking out the bridges and buildings and felt glad to be part of it, problems and all.

With Sheila away and no obvious avenues to follow, I spent a good part of the next morning in the gym trying to make up for days missed. Wes Scott, the owner and a friend, watched me on the treadmill and shook his head when I stepped off, wringing wet.

'Man, I don't want you dying in my gym.'

Wes is West Indian, a former all-round sportsman and philosopher of the human condition. When he sees someone bludging he's gently critical, when he sees someone overdoing it he's harsh.

'Can't think of a better place to die,' I said. 'Lay me down easy on a padded bench and cover me with a sweaty towel.'

'Take it easy, Cliff. You're in good shape for a man your age who's been split up the middle. What're you trying to prove?'

I picked up a set of weights. 'Wes, I'm just filling in time waiting for a brilliant idea to strike me. I thought the endorphins might help.'

'Never known it to happen. My best ideas come to me in my sleep.'

'Tried that, didn't work.'

'Depends who you're sleeping with. Ah, sorry, man, I forgot about Lily and…'

'It's all right,' I said. 'And would you believe, an idea just came to me.'

He moved smoothly the way a few 190 plus centimetre, one hundred plus kilo men can, and took the weights from me. He handed me a lighter set. 'Don't burn it away. We're only given so many.'

It was Frank's idea, really, to contact Ian Welsh and see what line the police were taking on Patrick's case and what progress they'd made. Depending on what I was told, I'd consider whether to let them know about the mercenary angle. I phoned Welsh from the street.

'Ian Welsh.'

'It's Cliff Hardy, Chief Inspector.'

'Yes.'

'I wonder if we could have a talk.'

'About what? Certainly not the charges pending against you.'

'No, your investigation of Patrick Malloy's murder.'

There was a long pause, so long I thought the line might have dropped out. Then I heard him clear his throat and his voice took on a less assertive tone. 'I suppose we could do that. I suggest we meet.'

That was a surprise. 'When?'

'Where are you now?'

'Outside a gym in Norton Street, Leichhardt.'

'Isn't there a park around there?'

'There is.'

'I could meet you there in half an hour.'

Why not in your office? I thought. Senior police officers don't usually meet civilians in suburban parks. But I agreed. I walked to the park and scouted it thoroughly for vantage points and escape routes. Frank had said Welsh could be trusted, but maybe Frank wasn't up to date. I decided to wait at a spot where I could see what cars arrived around the perimeter and from where I could slip away into a lane if I didn't like the look of things. Drunken muggers in parks are one thing; rogue cops are quite another. It was a nervous wait.

I needn't have worried. Right on time, a car pulled up on the other side of Norton Street and Welsh got out. He waited for the traffic to clear and crossed quickly. No other cars arriving. No suspicious strollers or joggers. Welsh was underdressed for the cold day. He buttoned his suit coat and hunched his shoulders as he hurried up the path. I was sitting on a bench by a hedge that gave me a little protection from the wind. His hair, which I remembered as being carefully arranged to conceal its thinness, was wispy and flying, revealing his pink skull.

He nodded and sat on the bench.

'Look,' I said, 'I know I'm a bit of a pariah these days, but

'It's not that. I suppose you've ignored my advice and have gone on looking into this matter.'

'I told you I would.'

'You did, and if things were… normal, I'd either tear strips off you or try to get you to tell me what you've found out.'