Torn Apart by Peter Corris Page A

will you be doing, Cliff?’
    â€˜Still poking around to see if I can find out who killed him.’
    We got to the door, reached for each other and kissed hard. She moved her head until her mouth was close to my ear. Her hair smelled just faintly of tobacco smoke.
    â€˜Is that dangerous?’
    â€˜I hope not.’
    â€˜But you’ll do it anyway.’
    â€˜Don’t you want . . . justice?’
    She shook her head. ‘I’ve done a bit of Shakespeare in my time. He didn’t believe in justice and neither do I . . . I only want for you not to be hurt.’
    It was mid-afternoon and cool again as the shadows lengthened. She was driving a tired red Beetle. She revved it hard and took off slowly, smokily. I stood on the pavement and watched the car out of sight. I wanted to believe all she said, but I remembered how differently she’d appeared at first and that she was an actress. She hadn’t told me her address; but then, I hadn’t told her I was waiting for Patrick’s package from the UK.
    I rummaged through one of the cardboard boxes I keep old files in until I found the one involving Soldier Szabo. He was a career criminal, a standover man, hired by a developer who’d run into some trouble with people trying to protect old buildings. Szabo’d exceeded his brief and killed two people and would’ve killed me if I hadn’t got lucky. I looked through the notes to see if there was any useful information about him. Not much, other than that he had a wife and a flat in Norton Street, Leichhardt. That was the best part of twenty years ago, but some people stay put. Like me.
    My useful contacts in the RTA, the police and the parole services had gone along with my PEA licence. Those contacts had made locating people a lot easier than it would be now. There were too many Szabos in the telephone directory to make that useful, and none in Leichhardt. The only thing to do was ask around—risky because word could get back. Before I could do that I needed the gun.
    The excitement Sheila Malloy had caused was ebbing, but I found it difficult to think of anything else or to concentrate on other matters. Too restless to read, didn’t want to hang around Megan and Hank, a bit too early for serious eating and drinking. I realised that I hadn’t checked the mail and when I did I found two cards advising of parcels to be collected at the post office—one for Patrick and one for me. I’d seen Patrick’s signature on his passport and when he’d signed traveller’s cheques and I forged it on his card, nominating myself as his agent. Remembering that my package of books was weighty and Patrick’s had looked much the same, I drove rather than walked to the post office as usual. I presented the cards and my ID and collected the parcels.
    I had no reason to think Patrick’s parcel contained anything of particular interest but, unlike me, he’d paid hefty insurance on it and had sealed it more carefully and with heavier tape. But I’m slack about such things. I opened the long blade on my Swiss army knife and started on the job of cutting the tape on the postpack.
    I freed the flap, lifted it and emptied the contents out onto the kitchen bench. There were a couple of books—guides to Irish sights and scenes and a hardback map, a book of instruction for fiddle players, and a boxed miniature chess set. Patrick had tried to teach me the game during a dull time waiting for a flight but I’d proved unteachable. There was a surprising amount of packing, in the form of sheets from the London Times. I put the box aside and noticed that it didn’t rattle as it always had when he’d handled it. I undid the clasp. Inside, instead of the chess pieces, was a heavily taped package about the size of a couple of cigarette packets.
    The doorbell rang and for a moment I thought it might be Sheila, abandoning her audition calls and coming back to