'Nine hundred.'
'That'll do. How many rounds?'
'A full load.'
'Okay. Three days.'
'Two.'
'Okay.'
I took two of the notes from the wad and put them in my pocket. He took a drink and puffed on his cigarette. 'You're a bastard, Hardy.'
'I know,' I said.
Hank rang on my mobile as I left Corbett's flat. I was keeping an eye out for anything unusual-a face, a movement, a noise. I felt pretty sure that $900 would buy Corbett's cooperation, but with people caught in the criminal networks you can never be sure of their price or their other obligations.
Hank said, 'Done, front and back. Sensor lights, a siren to strip paint and a connection to the security people. Are you going to tell me why?'
'I told you.'
'You encouraged me to be persistent. I think you're lying.'
'Just send me the bill, mate, and thanks.'
I drove warily, alert to the position and speed of the cars and motorbikes around me. As far as I knew, there had never been a shooting from one moving vehicle to another in Sydney, but there's always a first time. Factor in cowboys, anxious to try what they've seen in the movies. I turned into the laneway behind my house and worked around and back up the street. Most of the parked cars were familiar and those that weren't seemed to be empty. I parked close to the house, waited and watched until two cars went harmlessly past.
I collected the mail-still nothing from the UK-keyed in the code and knew why I hadn't replaced the system. A pain in the arse. I went in and the photograph on the corkboard took my eye. The information about Frank Szabo was pushing me in another direction, into considering that the killer might've hit the wrong man by mistake. There were ways I could get a line on Szabo but it would take time. I still wasn't convinced it was the truth; the hostile stare of the man at the ceilidh still made an impact and it was something I could follow up immediately.
I rooted through the things I'd left in my travelling bag and found Angela Warburton's card in a zipped side pocket. As she'd said, she was a photo-journalist, working for the London newspaper The Independent and the card carried her email address. I threw together the ingredients for chilli con carne and went upstairs to the computer while it was simmering. I emailed Ms Warburton, attached the photograph as a jpg file, and asked her if she knew anything about the man. I tossed up whether to tell her about Patrick being killed and decided not to. No point putting ideas in her head.
I washed the chilli down with Stump Jump red, watched Lateline on ABC, and grasped only that petrol prices were going up and no one had a clue what to do about it, and took the Hemingway I'd left behind, Across the River and Into the Trees, up to bed. It didn't hold me. I slept poorly. I dreamed of Lily and woke up early needing a piss and aching from the sensation of having had her in dreamland and losing her when my eyes were open.
Angela Warburton's reply was there when I logged on in the morning:
Cliff
Sorry you didn't look me up in London. We could've compared surfing notes. I'm guessing you were a surfer. We do it here on the Cornish coast and it's not too bad. Anyway, since you're all business, the guy in the photo is Sean Cassidy and he's a bit of a mystery man. He's a Traveller, that's for sure, but they say he doesn't quite belong. A military background of some kind, I learned. Paddy Malloy agreed to let me do a photo piece on his family and Cassidy fought him every inch of the bloody way. This is all after you two left. In the end it didn't work out. They're a fractious lot, which was interesting, but it wasn't worth the grief. I didn't get enough shots to make a worthwhile piece, and most of the people clammed up once the clannish shit hit the fan.
That's it. I'm back in London and the offer still stands. Go well, Angie
I didn't like the sound of that. A military background suggested the IRA or the Ulster lot, murderous bastards both, at their worst. Surely Patrick hadn't involved himself in that crazy sectarian business. The trouble was, the more I found out about him the more I realised that I hadn't really known him at all.
I replied to Angela, thanking her and saying I didn't know when I was next likely to be in London, but extending a similar invitation to her in Sydney. It felt vaguely ridiculous, having a penpal at my age, but there was something comforting about it as well.
Nothing much to do except wait for the packages from the UK. A search for Frank Szabo would have to stay on hold until I had the gun. It was still dark outside and I fooled around with the alarm, making sure that the sensor lights worked and that I knew how to deactivate the system and keep the code in my head separate from my PIN and the other numbers we live by these days.
I took my meds, poached two eggs and ate them and collected the paper. I was on my second cup of coffee and reading through the letters when the doorbell sounded. Unlikely that Frankie Szabo would ring the bell. Maybe it was the overseas packages-they wouldn't fit in the letterbox and the postie sometimes took the trouble to ring before dumping them on the doorstep. I used the peephole: my visitor was Sheila Malloy.
10
I opened the door.
'Good morning,' she said. 'Surprised?'
'Very.'
I stepped back and she came in. She was wearing a navy pants suit in some silky material with a short jacket that emphasised the length of her legs and her height. Her hair had a bronze shimmer in the early morning light. Her suede bag and shoes matched her suit. She looked confident, relaxed and healthy, as though she'd slept well.
'There's more to talk about,' she said as we moved down the passage.
'Is there?'
She stopped when she reached the living room and took in the well lived-in decor. 'You don't like me, do you?'
'I don't know you. Impossible to say.'
'Do I smell coffee?'
I waved towards the kitchen and we went through. There was enough coffee in the percolator for a couple of cups. I got another cup from the cupboard and poured.
'Milk?'
'Please.'
'Be a bit cool.'
'Microwave it. I'm not a purist.'
I smiled at that. I freshened my cup, added milk to hers, and put both in the microwave. She sat at the bench in the breakfast nook and I waited to hear the cigarettes come out and the click of the lighter. Didn't happen.
'Very domesticated,' she said. 'You live alone?'
'Sometimes.'
She laughed. 'I'm glad Paddy had a mate… at the end. He wasn't good at keeping friends and mostly they weren't worth keeping.'
I brought the cups over and sat. 'How did you find me, Sheila?'
'Come on, anyone can find anyone these days, you should know that. But there's no mystery-my agent knows you.'
'Agent?'
'Belinda O'Connell. You contacted her to trace some actor you were after. I'm an actress-actor, as we have to say these days.'
Maybe that accounted for the changeability. It did for the familiarity. I realised that I'd seen her in an ABC TV series with a legal theme that had held Lily's and my attention for a few episodes. And I recalled that Harvey
