Torn Apart Read online

  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 body-building, 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.

  Toby Fairweather had done some of the stunts for one of the actors I’d bodyguarded in a film that involved a lot of climbing, swinging, jumping and diving. I’d been impressed by the careful way he’d gone about setting everything up to minimise the risks. He was a disciplined guy, didn’t drink when working, and was a fitness fanatic. But he admitted that his body had taken a battering over the years and that he used steroids to keep going. I thought he’d know how the market stood, how high the stakes were.

  When Toby’s not stunting or working out in the gym, he conducts early morning and late afternoon classes in Chinese fighting sticks, conducted in Camperdown Park. Good little earner, low overhead. I threaded through the traffic and the singing, dancing pilgrims and got there when a class was in full swing. There were four pupils, two men and two women, and Toby was putting them through their paces, switching them from one-on-one combat to a sort of all-in melee and then cutting one out and taking that one on himself. The pupils were young, in their late teens and early twenties; two Asian, two not. Toby is forty plus but was clearly faster and more deft than any of them, although they all showed promise.

  I sat on a seat and watched as the light faded. The clatter of the sticks and the grunts and occasional screeches attracted a few bystanders. When the session finished, some of the watchers clapped before drifting away. Toby bowed, all style. He collected the sticks, spoke briefly to the youngsters, picked up his bag and sauntered over to where I was sitting.

  ‘Hi, Cliff. Great exercise and very calming. You should try it.’

  ‘Gidday, Toby. I’ve been hit on the head too many times already, thanks, and I’m calm enough.’

  He sat and tied the sticks into a bundle with a length of cord and put them into his long bag—the kind cricketers use. ‘You’re never calm,’ he said. ‘You don’t have a calm aura.’

  ‘I do my best. I need some information, Toby. Do you want to go somewhere up King Street for herbal tea?’

  He laughed. ‘Love to take the piss, don’t you? No, I’m happy here. I’ve got a stunt rehearsal to go to soon. What’s up?’

  I told Toby as much as he needed to know about Patrick’s steroids. He listened intently while squeezing a rubber ball in each of his hands as a wrist strengthening exercise. I suppose you need strong wrists when hanging from bridges and swinging on ropes across rivers.

  ‘Built-in masking agent, you reckon,’ he said. ‘Those things would be worth a lot of money. Didn’t happen to hang on to a handful, did you?’

  ‘Who’d want them, apart from would-be suicides like you? Athletes? Footballers?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not worth it, but lots of people—truckies with injuries and getting too old for the game; tuna fishermen, same thing; police rescue boys and girls; mountaineers, rock climbers, cavers—you name it.’

  I thought about Patrick’s remark: I have a thought or two. ‘Is there enough money in it for someone to get killed for doing the wrong thing?’

 
‘You mean ripping off a consignment?’

  ‘Something like that, or horning in on an established market.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s organised enough for that. More a matter of people seeing an opportunity and grabbing it, but I could ask around. Who’s got the stuff we’re talking about now?’

  ‘Dunno. Police or Customs.’

  ‘It’ll filter through, then, at least some of it. I’ll keep an eye out.’

  I thanked him and had got up to leave when he pushed me down and pointed to the suture scar just showing above the top button of my shirt.

  ‘That what I think it is?’

  I nodded. ‘Bypass.’

  ‘What did I tell you when I saw you tucking into steak and chips on that movie set?’

  ‘The catering was too flash to resist.’

  ‘Things’ve changed. It’s pies and sausage rolls now, if you’re lucky. Doesn’t bother me of course. Well, see you, Cliff. Glad you’re still in the land of the living, even though you don’t deserve to be.’

  Toby is a vegetarian. He loped away and I watched him disappear into the gathering gloom. I was hearing that sort of news too much lately from people in various professions—restricted services, belt tightening.

  As I got up and stretched, joints cracking, two men came slouching towards me. One was about my height and build, the other shorter and wider. They were both young and carrying stubbies.

  ‘Hey, mate, got a spare smoke?’ the taller one said.

  ‘No, sorry.’

  Shorty said, ‘Got a light?’

  ‘Why would I have a light if I haven’t got a cigarette?’

  ‘You’re a smartarse,’ Shorty said.

  ‘And you’re a nuisance. Go away.’

  The taller one said, ‘I bet he’s got a wallet.’

  ‘Go away before you get hurt.’

  He reached out and grabbed the lapel of my jacket. Bad move. Two free hands will usually beat none. I hit him hard over the heart. He dropped to his knees and vomited. The other man swung at my head with his bottle. Another mistake—too small a target and a head can duck. Go for the body first. I gave him a right rip to the ribs and when he sagged I lifted my knee and caught him under the chin. He collapsed and his bottle hit the graffiti-covered brick wall and smashed.

  I bent down, lifted him, and propped him against the wall under a peace sign. ‘Look after your mate. He’s not feeling well.’

  I walked away. The confrontation had taken a matter of seconds and the few other people in the park were too far away to see what happened.

  I drove home. Sheila’s VW was parked across from my house. She got out as I arrived; we embraced in the middle of the street, and she stepped back sniffing.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Funny smell.’

  We went into the house and when we were under the light she pointed to my pants below the knee. ‘Ugh, you’ve got chuck all over you.’

  I’d been massaging a bruised knuckle. She noticed. She put down her bag with a thump. ‘What happened, Cliff?’

  ‘Couple of wannabe muggers.’

  ‘Did they hurt you? No, you hurt them, didn’t you?’

  ‘They were young and inexperienced and probably drunk. It’s nothing to be proud of. Let me get cleaned up. Did I say I was glad to see you?’

  ‘No, but you will be. I’ve pulled myself together and I’m ready to tell you everything I can about Paddy and to show you a few things as well.’

  I changed my clothes and we sent out for Vietnamese food. Sheila was animated, almost hectic, high on the prospect of the film and fascinated by the character she was playing. Her research had gone well and reports from the producer, getting the money together, and the director, scouting locations, were good. She drank a few glasses of wine and hoed into the fish and vegetables but scarcely touched the rice. I’d never mastered chopsticks; Sheila was adept. She tried to instruct me as others had done but I was hopeless. The sore hand didn’t help.

  ‘You must really have belted him,’ she said. ‘You were a boxer like Paddy, weren’t you?’

  I was glad we’d reached the subject. ‘He was a pro, I was an amateur.’

  ‘Mr Modest.’ She got up, fetched her bag and sat on the couch. ‘Come over here.’

  I drained my glass and went. The extra weight in her bag turned out to be a hefty photograph album. She opened it over our close-together knees. Sheila was a keen photographer and a good one. She’d kept an extensive photographic record of her tortured relationship and marriage to Patrick Malloy from the days of their meeting at a party to the final split—a shot of Patrick storming off towards his car. Good times and bad times; smiles and tears; presents and the aftermath of rows—smashed glasses, scattered books, broken furniture.

  ‘You can see how it was,’ she said. ‘We’d break up, go off with someone else and get back together again. Look, here’s Seamus Cummings and here’s one of the women Paddy was fucking, one of many. I took that without her knowing, jealous as hell.’

  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 flat-top 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 th
at 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 Depart- ment 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.