Torn Apart (13 page)

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.'

‘I was ready for both of those. So things aren't normal?'

He sighed and rubbed his hands together to warm them. It's hard to put your hands in the pockets of a suit coat. Mine were tucked away cosily in the deep pockets of my zipped-up leather jacket.

‘The investigation into your cousin's death has been discontinued. I wouldn't be at all surprised if those charges against you are dropped.'

‘Why?'

I could see that he was bursting to tell me and hated the fact that he couldn't. Frank was right; this was a decent man trying to do a decent job with malign forces arrayed against him. I gave him the out.

‘The spooks've closed you down and threatened you.'

He stood shivering in the wind and patting uselessly at his disarranged hair. ‘I didn't say that, and this meeting never took place.'

Two days later Viv Garner rang to tell me, as Welsh had predicted, that the charge of importing the steroids had been dropped.

‘Insufficient evidence,' he said. ‘You lead a charmed life.'

I didn't have the heart to tell him why. I just thanked him and told him to send me his bill.

‘You sound depressed.'

‘Frustrated.'

‘That's a temporary condition.'

‘I hope so.'

The trouble was, I couldn't see any way to alleviate it. I scanned the photo of Patrick into the computer and sent it to Jack Casey. He rang to thank me but said he hadn't turned up anything new except that Patrick wasn't one of the men in the photograph of the shackled mercenaries. I went to the gym, went out to dinner with Megan and Hank and drank too much. I had two phone calls from Sheila, which helped a little.

Then I got an email from Angela Warburton in London.

Dear Cliff

You might think I'm pursuing you and maybe I am. Anyway, I'm coming back home soon. Had enough of this country with its class consciousness and all that. Looks like I've got a job with a documentary film-maker who's got six projects lined up and funded. This came about because I had another crack at the photo essay on the Travellers and it turned out well. Got a bit of attention. Sean Cassidy wasn't around. You might be interested to learn that he left for Australia a day or so after you two were here. According to old Paddy he was going to look up members of his family and attend some kind of get-together of descendants of Travellers in Kangaroo Valley this month. Wish I could be there and do a follow-up on my Irish piece, but I won't be back till next month. I'll look you up. Maybe we could go for a surf when the weather warms.

Ciao,

Angie

I read that and sat back. Sean Cassidy, aka Seamus Cummings, who'd had an affair with Sheila, looked daggers at Patrick and had been a soldier of some kind. In Australia by the time Patrick and I got back. Could it be? I emailed the shot of him I'd taken at the
céilidh
to Casey asking, without giving him the name, if Cassidy/Cummings showed up in the photograph of the mercenaries in Angola.

He sounded excited when he rang me.

‘It could be, could be. He's a lot thinner, but those guys were thin and super fit. Funny thing is, it could be one of two in the group who look almost identical.'

‘What're the chances, on a scale of ten?'

‘I'd say eight. Who is he?'

‘Have you got a database of known mercenaries from Australia?'

‘Yes.'

‘Can I see it?'

‘It's taken years to compile . . .'

‘This man is in Australia.'

‘Jesus, if I could talk to him.'

I'd phoned the Kangaroo Valley Tourist Association about the date of its Travellers meeting. ‘I know where he's going to be soon. I'm not expecting you to email or fax the bloody thing. Let me have a look at the database on your computer. Be very interesting if there's a match.'

‘What if there's not?'

‘I'd still want to meet him.'

‘You'd put me in touch with him?'

Why not?
I thought. ‘Yes, although it could be risky. You realise what you could be letting yourself in for?'

‘This could be the man who killed your cousin.'

‘Right.'

‘Hardy, I'm ex-SAS myself and I've been working on this stuff for a long time. I've met some very hard cases in dodgy places.'

Not as hard as this, if he's the man
, I thought, but I agreed that we'd go together.

‘It'd take a day or two. Can you get the time off?'

‘I'd fucking
take
it!'

He gave me his address in Balmain and I arranged to be there that evening.

Jack Casey had everything a successful academic looks for—a sandstone terrace with a water view, a good-looking wife, two kids—a boy and a girl—and a book-lined study. Briskly, he introduced me to his wife and the children before taking me off to the study with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Evidently the inside smoking ban extended to the house, because the room didn't smell of tobacco and his snuff box was on a shelf above the computer. He poured two glasses of Merlot and switched on the computer.

I studied the room as the computer booted up. No framed degrees, no military insignia. There was a photograph of his wife and another of the two kids and one of a football team. A younger, still bearded version of Casey was sitting in the middle row holding a football. The captain, apparently. I browsed the bookshelves—orderly, but not obsessively so. A low shelf held a few copies of
Diggers for Hire
and multiples of two other titles by Casey—
The Great Lie
and
After Vietnam
. I pulled a copy of the Vietnam title out and turned around when I heard the keys being tapped.

‘You're too young for Vietnam,' I said.

‘Gulf one. You?'

‘Earlier. What've you got there?'

‘A list of all the Australian mercenaries I've been able to trace post the Korean War. This is where I learn the name of your bloke, unless I'm supposed to leave the room.'

I laughed and drank some of the wine. ‘I wouldn't abuse your hospitality like that, Jack. Try Sean Cassidy.'

He hit the keys. ‘No match.'

‘Try Seamus Cummings.'

‘That name rings a bell. Here we go. Bingo. Yeah, I remember now—Seamus and Liam Cummings.'

Casey printed out two short dossiers:

Seamus Kelly Cummings, d.o.b. 2.1.56, Galway, Republic of Ireland, emigrated to Australia 1964; Australian Army (Sgt) 1975, discharged 1978; I.R.A. 1980–4; imprisoned 1984-7; rumoured mercenary Namibia 19xx (see interview 12a/765). Whereabouts unknown.

Liam Kelly Cummings, d.o.b. 1.10.56, Galway, Republic of Ireland, emigrated to Australia, 1964; Australian CMF 1976 -?; rumoured I.R.A. ?—?; rumoured mercenary Namibia 19xx (see interview 12a/765). Whereabouts unknown.

‘A couple of boyos, to be sure,' Casey said. ‘Practically twins. Has to be them.'

He got the photograph of the captured mercenaries on the screen and blew it up. We studied the faces of the two who resembled my photo of Cassidy/Cummings. Making allowance for weight loss and the different conditions under which the photographs were taken, I was reasonably sure that one of the men was a match.

‘Which one?' Casey said.

‘Take your pick. What's this interview you've cited?'

‘It was with a guy who claimed to be a sort of recruiting agent for an English organisation providing mercenaries for Africa.'

‘Claimed to be?'

‘That's why I labelled his information as rumour. He seemed to be on the level, but I couldn't get confirmation.'

‘What did he say about the photograph?'

‘No, that came from another source, not the recruiter. This bloke was a camera freak but pretty solid, I thought. I'm ahead of you—he might be able to throw some light on it. We're still in touch. I could probably see him soon.'

‘How soon?'

Casey took a pinch of snuff, didn't sneeze and swigged some more of his very good wine. ‘You said you know how to locate this Cummings. When are you going to do that?'

As I'd anticipated, we were back to dealing. Fair enough. I told him about the Travellers meeting and suggested that he Googled it because his web research skills were better than mine. It didn't take him long to find that ‘descendants of the Irish Travelling families now living in Australia were invited to gather at the O'Loughlin farm in Kangaroo Valley on the weekend of 2–3 August to celebrate their heritage'.

‘A week off,' Casey said.

‘Can you get to your informant before then?'

‘I'll try.'

‘Tell you what, I've got two bottles of Jamesons we brought back, in case he happens to be Irish.'

‘That'd help and he is. How'd you know that?'

‘I didn't, but there's nothing but the bloody Irish in this thing. Casey, for God's sake.'

He laughed. ‘It's an Anglicisation of something Polish and unpronounceable, but I've been known to trade on it. I'll get busy. Jesus, something solid on Olympic Corps, that'd be a coup.'

‘A footnote?'

‘An article at the very least, maybe an update of the book, and a poke in the eye for those FOI bastards.'

‘Don't get carried away. If he's the man who killed Patrick, talking soldiers to him won't be my first priority.'

‘I understand. He must have survived that shackling. I wonder what happened to his brother?'

That was one of the questions in my mind, though not the most important. I'd come to trust Sheila and had resolved the concern about Szabo. I was off the hook on the steroids charge and should have been able to concentrate on Cassidy/Cummings and his links with Patrick. But now I had a question about Casey. He seemed to have everything he needed, so why the naked ambition? Wasn't professor as high as you could go before becoming a bean-counting bureaucrat?