And me,' Sheila said, 'but for superb hair product.'
Casey, who'd been carefully blowing his smoke away from her, gave Sheila an approving nod. 'You tell it how it is, don't you?'
'Always,' Sheila said. And what exactly are you planning to do?'
'We'll decide that when we find him,' I said. 'We've got no proof he's our man. We'll have to see what he does and hear what he says.'
'Circumstantial proof,' Casey said. 'Anyway, my intentions and Cliff's aren't the same. I want to know if he was a member of the Olympic Corps.'
I don't know why, but for some reason when I'd told Sheila about our investigation and assumptions, I hadn't mentioned the name of the mercenary unit.
She snapped her fingers. 'That's it. That's what he called it. I'm quite sure. I can smell…'
'Smell what?' I said.
'Jesus, that triggered it. He said he'd just come back from New Caledonia. In the Pacific. He was smoking Gitanes. I had one.'
Smell sets off memory, usually painful in my experience, better than almost anything else. And memory sets off emotion. Sheila leaned against me.
'I'm not so sure now that I want to do this,' she said.
Casey dropped his cigar on the ground and put his foot on it. 'This is amazing,' he said. 'There was a big blow- up in New Caledonia twenty years ago and talk of mercenaries being recruited. Didn't come to anything much. I have to talk to this guy.'
Sheila had lost colour and was staring up the road, not seeing anything, looking as if she wanted to be almost anywhere else.
'It's all right, love,' I said. 'I'll find us somewhere you can have a rest. Jack, I…'
I turned around. The cigar butt was still smoking but Casey had gone.
24
I booked Sheila into one of the township's motels. 'Sorry to wimp out on you,' she said. 'It's all right. No one likes to relive the bad times.' 'They were bad times. I was a mess back then, booze and drugs and blokes, and remembering that name just sort of brought it all back. Why did Jack take off like that?' 'I don't know, but I have to find out.' 'Sure you do. Just be careful. I'll hunker down here for a while. Maybe get some DVDs and keep doing my crunches. Call me if I can help. Promise?'
I drove straight to the farm, passing the caravan park on the way. The drought of the past few years seemed not to have affected the valley; the rolling landscape was a patchwork of lush paddocks with dairy cattle grazing. Under other circumstances the expedition would have been an interesting experience. Caravans and mobile homes and campervans were clustered around a magnificent old sandstone farmhouse. An area was set aside for tents and heavy-duty cables snaked across the ground, providing power. I could hear the thrum of a couple of generators as I got out of the car and approached the house. No sign of Casey's vehicle.
A reception area was set up on the wide front verandah with a brazier burning nearby. Early afternoon, but it was cold already with a cloudy sky and a stiff wind. A woman sat on a bench behind a table with a list in front of her and a stack of brightly coloured plastic folders and name tags on strings. People sat on chairs on the verandah or leaned against the rail, smoking and yarning. In a way they resembled the sorts of people you'd expect to find at Tamworth for the country music festival-jeans, hats, boots. But the women tended to wear more beads and bangles, like the hippies of old, and a lot of the men were fleshy, not going for the lean cowboy look.
I presented my driver's licence to the woman at the table.
She ran her heavily ringed finger down her list. 'Welcome, Mr Hardy. You're a Malloy, I see.'
'That's right.'
'I'm Molly Maguire and here's your kit and name tag. Inside you'll find the events planned and a ticket to the dinner. I see you booked for two other people.'
'Yes. My partner Sheila's not well. She's staying in town for now but I'll take her kit. She'll be up and about soon. Has Jack Casey checked in?'
'Sorry to hear that about your lady friend.' She studied her list. 'No, not yet.'
'How about Seamus Cummings? Old mate of mine. I'm anxious to catch up with him.'
'Hmm, yes, he registered earlier today.'
'Did he say where he was staying?'
'Oh, I remember him now. He didn't look well. He said he'd be getting a cabin at the caravan park. They're quite comfortable, I believe.'
'D'you know what he was driving?'
One question too many. She looked suspicious and automatically glanced across to where I'd parked my car. 'And where are you staying?'
I gave her one of my smiles. 'Sorry to be so nosy. Doesn't matter. I'm at the caravan park.'
The smile and the apology brought her round. 'It's just that you sounded a bit official. Not too keen on officials, us Travellers.'
'Right. They told me in Ireland officials put bars up at a certain height on the car parks to prevent the Travellers bringing in their vans and trailers.'
'Oh, have you been there?'
'Very recently. I met up with quite a few Malloys.'
That won her over. 'Perhaps you might give us a little talk about your trip.'
Not likely, I thought, but I smiled again and nodded as I picked up my kit and Sheila's and moved away.
'Mr Malloy…'
I turned back. 'Hardy.'
'I'm sorry. Your friend Mr Cummings should be at the caravan park by now. I'm sure you'll be able to find him.'
And so can Jack Casey, I thought. The idea of Casey operating on his own worried me. We had different priorities, as he'd said. In a way he was as obsessed by mercenaries as Patrick had been by the Travellers. To get the inside track on the Olympic Corps could do him an enormous amount of good professionally. Mercenaries being killers by definition, Casey had had dealings with men with blood on their hands in his research. In fact it might've been part of the attraction. The fact that Cummings was probably a murderer as a civilian was something Casey should be able to take in his stride.
I drove to the caravan park and asked if Cummings and Casey had checked in. They had, both taking cabins.
'Will you be staying, sir?' the manager, a beefy, hearty type in a flannie and beanie asked.
'Not sure. I'd like a word with them first. Can you give me the numbers of their cabins?'
'Thirty-one for the 4WD and thirty-three for the ute, in the third row. Better make up your mind. Them gypsies is coming in fast.'
Patrick, who would have loved the idea of the gathering, wouldn't have liked to hear that. I left my car outside the park and walked in along the gravel road. It was an orderly and well-maintained establishment. The cabins were laid out in rows, about ten in each, probably sixty plus all up. An adjacent area was set aside for powered sites to be used by cars or vans and there were a few tents over in a corner close to what looked like a shower and laundry block.
Some of the cabins had occupants, most didn't, but there were signs that they were taken-boxes, boots and sneakers on the porches, clothes on the retractable lines. I did a careful reconnoitre: cabin 33, Cummings's, was the third last in the row; Casey's was the last. I had my hands in my pockets, just strolling around, but I had a feeling of being vulnerable and an unusual sensation of wishing I was armed.
A Holden ute was parked near Cummings's cabin, 33, but there was no sign of Casey's SUV. I walked away thinking that this was all wrong. To the extent that we'd had a plan, our idea was to locate Cummings, watch him and decide what to do when we'd sussed him out. Casey's jumping the gun had blown that out of the water.
