The Easy Sin by Jon Cleary

Financial Review , wouldn't it?”
    Magee remembered reading once about the relationship that had grown between kidnappers and kidnappees in the terrorist days in Beirut. He had been in London then and there had been a Lebanese working in the same office whose father had been kidnapped and killed. So there could be a relationship verging on friendship, yet it could still end in murder.
    He couldn't imagine himself ever becoming friends with this lot, but the atmosphere had certainly improved since this morning. Maybe it was just this one guy; the other one, who had sounded younger, was another case altogether. Mum had sounded as cold and hard as any woman could get to be; and he had known a few in his time. The younger woman (these guys' sister?) had sounded as if she might have a sense of humour. The atmosphere might improve, but he was kidding himself if he thought they would be friendly . With him, who had never encouraged friendships.
    They went back to the room. “Do you have to tie me up?”
    â€œSport, we're in business. Do you trust people in business?” He hadn't, but he wasn't going to say so. “Most of the time, yes.”
    â€œNot here, sport. Sorry. Here—” Corey had gone to an old-fashioned wardrobe, taken out a pair of jeans and an old wrinkled football jersey—“get outa that dress.”
    Magee pulled on the jersey and jeans. “South Sydney?”
    â€œMy old man played for them years ago. Don't get any ideas about trying to trace us. A thousand guys played for Souths. You follow league?”
    â€œNo, I'm not a football fan. I'm not sports-minded.”
    â€œHow come you know that's a South's jersey?”
    â€œI-Saw did some research for the lawyers when they were trying to wind up Souths.” The club had been dropped by the league's administrators and there had been huge demonstrations by the club's supporters. He had not understood the supporters' anger, but he was sure his parents would have. His father, though not a rugby league fan, would have been writing letters to the newspapers decrying the death of real sport. “I wish you'd believe me. I-Saw is broke. Skint. If you hadn't grabbed me, I'd be on the dole next week.”
    â€œErrol—” Corey was tolerant, like a master to a pupil. He began to tie Magee up again. “I think you're having us on. Don't stretch your luck. If that bank of yours don't come good, you're in the shit, sport. There. Comfy?”
    â€œUp yours,” said Magee, suddenly brave out of desperation and despair.
    Corey chuckled behind the hood. “That used to be South's old motto.”
    He went out, closing the door again. Gloom settled on Magee and the room.
    Out in the kitchen Corey took off his hood. “Mum, what we gunna do with him if, like he says, there's no money?”
    Shirlee Briskin was making corned-beef-and-salad sandwiches. She had once worked in a delicatessen, when Clyde had been doing time again, and she made sandwiches with professional skill. “If he gives us trouble, we'll have to get rid of him.”
    Corey, occasionally, had trouble accepting his mother's approach. He had dug the pit in the timber up behind the house and buried his father after his mother had poisoned him. He had never had any time for his father, but he would never have killed him. He might have beaten him up and told him to get lost, but he would never have murdered him, certainly not with arsenic fed to him over two days. The police had never come near them, because the family had never reported Clyde's disappearance. Some of the family's friends had asked what had happened to Clyde and they had been told that he, you know what a bastard he was, had gone off with another woman and Shirlee, dry-eyed, was glad to see him go. One or two of the women friends had nodded and said, good riddance .
    He remembered the agony, spread over two days, in which his father had died. It had been messy, with vomiting and