the pistol quickly if I had to.
Szabo let the breath out slowly. 'No, he's not,' he said. 'He's
Cliff Hardy, the private detective who killed my father.'
'Right,' I said.
Kennedy took a step towards me. 'What the hell's going on?'
I kept my eyes focused on Szabo, who appeared totally relaxed. 'I'm sorry, Kennedy,' I said. 'You gave me an opening and I took it. You may as well know, Patrick Malloy's dead. He was shotgunned in my house. We were cousins, lookalikes, and I'm wondering whether this man killed him instead of me.'
Kennedy unclenched the fist he'd been ready to throw at me and fished out his cigarettes. He lit up. 'I was beginning to wonder about you-not smoking, and you don't move the way Paddy did. Slower.'
'He was a bit younger and he hadn't had a heart attack. We were friends, if that means anything to you.'
Kennedy blew smoke. 'I don't understand any of this. Think I'd better report to the Commander.'
'Don't do that, Col,' Szabo said. 'I'll sort this out and fill you in later. Why don't you catch up with that mob and debrief them. You know the drill.'
Szabo spoke with a quiet authority, clearly respected by Kennedy, who stamped his barely smoked cigarette butt into the mud, shot me a furious look, and strode away.
Szabo waited until Kennedy was back on the path. Then he pointed to my left shoulder. 'You won't need the gun. You shouldn't carry that arm a bit stiff the way you do.'
'I'm out of practice,' I said. 'Convince me.'
'I've bashed people and cut them, kicked them and broken limbs, but I've never killed anyone.'
'You're a known shottie artist.'
'Was.'
'You made threats against me in jail.'
He nodded. 'Some time back. I was a different person then.'
'You bought a shotgun recently.'
'You have been busy. I don't know what story you told poor Col. He's not the brightest. I'm guessing you said something about wanting to talk to me and he took you at your word on that.'
'Yes. So?'
He unzipped his jacket. 'Let me show you something.'
'Easy.'
He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a silver cross on a chain.
'I'm the pastor of this flock as well as one of the trainers. I'm a Christian and I wouldn't take revenge on you for killing my father. Revenge is for God. I forgive you, and I hope you forgive yourself.'
'You bought a shotgun.'
'Yeah, I did, and a box of fifty shells and I went out into the bush and fired off every last one. Then I took an angle grinder and cut the gun up into little bits, which I dumped. I purged myself of shotguns and violence. People can change, Hardy.'
'Maybe. I haven't seen it happen all that much.'
'You can believe me or not, as you choose.'
I did believe him. The gleam in his eyes wasn't from the killer instinct his father had displayed; it was the light of redemption, the glow of the saved. I waved my hand at the bush, the creek, the muddy footprints on the path.
'So what's all this, onward Christian soldiers?'
'Your cheap cynicism does you no credit.'
Francis Szabo had picked up some education as well as religion along the way; he had the moral drop on me and I had to acknowledge it.
'I'm sorry,' I said. 'That's the second bloody sorry in a few minutes. Not easy, but you can see where I was coming from when I heard certain things about you.'
'Yes. If you'd inquired a bit more you'd have learned other things and saved yourself a trip.'
We started down towards the path. I slipped and he steadied me. 'I guess I've been talking to the wrong people,' I said.
He didn't say anything until we were back in the centre of the compound. He guided me towards my car.
'I'll have a word at the gate and you can go through.'
'Thanks.'
It was an awkward moment and we both felt it.
I jiggled my keys. 'I don't know what to say.'
'Neither do I,' he said. 'But I'd suggest you take a good look at yourself and the way your life is heading.' part three
Peter Corris
CH35 – Torn Apart part three
18
I'd run out of candidates for making me the target and my encounter with Szabo hadn't done anything for my confidence or self-esteem. He was right-I should have asked how old Ben Corbett and Marvis Marshall's information was and tried to get a more up-to-date assessment. I was left with the conclusion that the killer had got the man he wanted. I now knew more about Patrick than before, perhaps more than the police knew.
The smart course might be to turn that information over to the police. Then again, that might not be so smart. They might think I was trying to deal myself out of the drug importation charge. These thoughts ran through my head as I made my chastened way back to Sydney. It was the sort of stalemate I'd reached many times before. In the early days I made the mistake of talking it over with Cyn.
'Stop beating your head against a brick wall,' she said.
'Drop it. Move on.'
I never did, and wouldn't now. I still had my conduit to the workings of the police service-Frank Parker, who'd retired as an Assistant Commissioner but was still on their books as an adviser and consultant. I'd overworked and strained the relationship when I was a busy PEA, but I'd also done him some good turns along the way (quite apart from introducing him to his wife), and we'd both mellowed in recent times. I thought I could count on Frank to at least tell me how the police inquiry was progressing. I could take my cue from that.
The first thing I did was to return the pistol and ammunition to Ben Corbett. He'd sell it to someone else before you could turn around, but that wasn't my problem. If a criminal wants a gun he'll get one, and no law will stop him, or her. Corbett examined the weapon carefully.
'Not fired.'
'Never sniffed the air.'
'Two hundred back.'
'That's a bit light on, even for you.'
'Because I'm charging you for some information you'll be interested in.'
'Go on.'
He handed me the two notes. 'Deal?'
'Why not?'
'I've got this mate who's a fuckin' ballistics expert. He runs this little show and the cops put work his way. What's it called, that?'
'Outsourcing.'
'Right. Anyway, we chew the fat and he tells me about examining these shotgun pellets taken from a bloke killed in Glebe recently. I read the papers. That'd be the hit that went down at your place, right?'
I nodded.
'I'm thinking you wanted the. 38 to go after the guy who did the job but you didn't find him. So this information might be worth something to you.'
