Dunbar Case

by Peter Corris

‘My God,’ he said softly. ‘It’s the journal of William Dalgarno Twizell.’

  I didn’t know whether the courtly gesture was an act or whether it came naturally to him, but he took big Kristie Tanner in his arms as if she was a fragile ballerina and kissed her on both cheeks. She liked it.

  Wakefield insisted on stopping to buy champagne on the way back to Marisha’s flat. Kristie sat with the little trunk on her lap and kept stroking the faded, peeling surface.

  ‘How did you hear about it, Henry?’ Kristie asked.

  Henry now, I thought.

  ‘Diligent research,’ he said.

  By whom? I wondered.

  Wakefield explained that there had been occasional mentions of the Twizell papers in Hunter Valley newspapers in the late nineteenth century and again later when there was a family dispute over land.

  ‘Just a hint,’ he said. ‘Just a clue, but with a lot of hard work and a little luck nuggets can be found. By the way, thank you, Cliff. You’ve done superbly well.’

  I doubt Jack Twizell would agree, I thought, but I didn’t say anything. All jobs have rough edges.

  It was 1pm when we got back to Marisha’s place and we had a party. Marisha was happy with her morning’s work and she cheerfully went domestic, laying out biscuits, pate and cheese as we cracked Wakefield’s expensive champagne.

  ‘No flutes?’ he asked Marisha as she got out glasses.

  ‘Don’t believe in them. Too small.’

  He laughed. ‘You’ve got a point.’ He poured the glasses full, spilling some. He put his arm around Kristie’s broad shoulders. ‘Kristie—to you!’

  ‘Are you sure the journal’s genuine?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll have to have it thoroughly authenticated, of course, but I’m pretty confident.’

  ‘What about the letters and other stuff?’

  ‘Playing devil’s advocate, Cliff?’

  ‘Someone has to.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Pulling on another set of gloves, Wakefield took the papers from the trunk, handling them very carefully. He unfolded one and swore when flakes of it fell away. ‘This isn’t the time or the place. As I say, I’m confident there’s a remarkable story to be told.’

  He smiled at Kristie as he replaced the papers, putting the yellowed flakes inside on the gloves and restoring everything to the trunk. Then he picked up his glass and took a swig.

  Wakefield relaxed his academic manner after a few drinks and told some good stories about his students and colleagues. He took off his tie and seemed to get younger with the wine and with basking in Kristie’s admiration. She drank her share and was the most at ease I’d seen her. When Marisha slyly took advantage of this and slipped in a few questions, Kristie responded with some information about the Tanner enterprise that opened Marisha’s eyes. Tipping me the wink, she slipped away to make some notes.

  We had Van Morrison on the stereo and Wakefield surprised us all by singing pretty good harmony with him—not easy to do.

  Marisha came back and we partied on. After a while, with a considerable buzz on, Marisha and I went for a walk on the beach. We took off our shoes, rolled up our pants and splashed along in the cold shallows.

  ‘Things seem to be working out pretty well, Cliff,’ Marisha said.

  I grabbed her and kissed her. ‘I’d say so. Are we past our little . . . emotional difficulty?’

  ‘Yeah, let’s hope we have some more.’

  ‘Bound to.’

  We walked in companionable silence until the wind got colder and we agreed it was time for coffee. When we got back to the flat we found that Wakefield, Kristie and her belongings, and the Twizell papers and the trunk had gone.

  Marisha and I tidied the flat, stacked the dishwasher and went to bed. We surfaced in the early evening and turned on the television news. After the usual political lies and gossip there was a report of a car crash on the highway south of Newcastle. A Mercedes sedan carrying a man and a woman had collided with a petrol tanker. The tanker driver was unhurt, but the car and its occupants were incinerated. The car was identified as having belonged to Professor Henry Wakefield of the Independent University.

  part three

  23

  The university turned on an elaborate funeral service for Wakefield. I didn’t go. Our relationship had improved over the time I’d known him but that was as far as my feelings for him went. His death brought home to me again the fragility of life. You take your pills, do your exercises, watch what you eat and drink, and a faulty tyre or a patch of oil on a road can make it all meaningless.

  I stayed in Newcastle for Kristie’s funeral and to comfort Marisha, who took the death hard. She’d lost a valuable informant, but also someone she’d come to like and admire in the short time they’d had together.

  ‘She’d been through a lot,’ Marisha said as we stood in the rain at the cemetery, ‘and she was still in there pitching.’ I agreed.

  The day was cold, grey and wet the way it should be for a funeral. It was a big affair and the second in a short space of time for the Tanners and their many connections.

  There was a heavy police presence on the lookout for Hector but he didn’t show. Joseph, who’d been indicted and was awaiting trial, was allowed to attend. He was closely guarded but not under restraint. He saw me and scowled, or perhaps he was scowling at Marisha. Anyway, he didn’t hold the expression long. There were a lot of cameras around and he didn’t want to look too threatening on the front page of the Newcastle Herald.

  We didn’t go to the wake. Without saying so we were both aware that the last wake we’d been at was Lily’s and that, with all due regard to the love we’d had for her, was something we wanted to put behind us.

  Kerry Watson fronted up as we were leaving the cemetery. He looked as worn out as ever.

  ‘Going to the booze-up?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Duty calls, but the Tanners have given me a lot of grief over the years. I’ll be glad to get a drink out of them.’

  ‘Nothing on Templeton and Twizell?’ I said.

  ‘To tell you the truth, we’ve been too busy with other things to bother much. See you, Hardy, Ms Henderson.’

  There hadn’t been a lot to say about the documents lost in Wakefield’s car. Whether the journal he’d found was real or a fake, or whether it was supported or not by the letters and other papers, no one would ever know. The story of the Dunbar would remain as it was.

  Marisha was quiet on the drive back to her flat. We hadn’t spoken about it but we both knew I’d be heading back to Sydney soon. We’d been getting along very well and, in the way that people do when they find mental and sexual compatibility, we each had a good idea what the other was thinking about.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘there’s something on your mind about Templeton and Jack Twizell, right?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not interested in following it up, are you?’

  ‘No, not much.’

  ‘Because there’s no money in it?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘What if there was?’

  ‘Are you offering to pay me again?’

  She touched my arm. ‘No, I don’t think either of us’d like that much, and I couldn’t afford you for very long.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘Let me think about it.’

  We got back to the flat, hung up our wet coats and agreed we should have a drink for Kristie. Marisha got out the vodka that was Kristie’s favourite tipple and built two big ones with tonic and ice and slices of lime. We stood by the window looking out at the grey, misty view, and touched glasses.

  ‘Kristie!’

  We drank.

  ‘Hector Tanner,’ Marisha said suddenly.

  ‘Jesus Christ, are you having dealings with him? He’s bloody dangerous. How did you contact him?’

  ‘He contacted me. I have to admit it was scary. He rang me and it was clear he knew a lot about me and what
I was doing. I nearly pissed myself but all he wanted was to help me.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. All Hector Tanner would ever want to do is help himself.’

  ‘You’re wrong. Listen to me. He’s not as bad as Joseph, not really. Don’t forget I got a lot of stuff from Jobe and Kristie. Hector never killed anyone. He was more of an organiser, an administrator, if you will.’

  ‘You’re kidding yourself.’

  ‘Maybe, and I’m being super-cautious.’

  ‘You better be. How long has this been going on?’

  Her laugh was unlike her usual full-bodied guffaw, more uncertain. ‘Just since yesterday.’

  ‘What’re you hoping to get from him?’

  ‘Whatever I can. More to the point is what he wants from me.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘He wants help from you.’

  ‘From me?’

  ‘Yes, he’s been in touch with Templeton, who he calls Tarrant, but same bloke. Templeton says Twizell won’t tell him where the money is.’

  ‘Oh, so he wants Hector to come along with Clem and the bolt-cutters.’

  ‘No. According to Hector, Twizell says he knows he’ll be killed if he tells Templeton what he wants so he doesn’t care what Templeton or anyone else does to him. He wants to negotiate a safe passage and wants you to supervise the deal. Broker it, as it were.’

  ‘That’s crazy. Why would I do that?’

  ‘Twizell trusts you and Hector and Templeton respect you.’

  ‘You’re snowing me.’

  ‘No. That’s what they say and I believe it. Anyway, they thought the proposition’d have a better chance with you coming from me.’

  ‘Who thought that?’

  She shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  I’d been so astonished by this that I’d neglected my drink. The ice had melted. I took a long swig and Marisha did the same.

  ‘Ever feel manipulated?’ I said.

  ‘Manipulated and manipulating—I’m a journalist.’

  And maybe that’s all you are, I thought, but I didn’t say so. Marisha took her drink into her study. I paced around as the light dimmed outside and the air cooled in the room. In the few days since Wakefield and Kristie had left I’d stayed in the flat and had got used to its workings. But I’d left Marisha alone to write while I checked my emails, rang Megan, did things. We hadn’t been in each other’s pockets. Plenty of chances for her to contact people and be contacted. Hector Tanner and who else?

  I finished the drink and resisted the urge to have another. I needed a clear head for thinking. One thought was a repeat of what I’d had a couple of times before—Jack Twizell was a smart cookie and a game one. No comfort there—in my experience smart, brave men are usually at their smartest and bravest when they’re looking out for themselves.

  Then I had another thought. What if Templeton wasn’t a rogue cop after all? What if all this was an act to get hold of Hector Tanner and clear up a nagging rumour about a lot of missing money? And resolve what had happened to a British backpacker?

  Marisha came out of her study long enough to give me Templeton’s mobile number—different from the one I already had and which hadn’t answered the last few times I’d tried it.

  ‘Going to ring him?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good.’ She went back to work.

  I knew what an upright citizen should do—go to Watson and have him set up the system they use to locate the source of mobile phone calls. Why didn’t I do it? Partly out of respect for Templeton’s intelligence and resources. For all I knew there were ways someone could know he was being tracked and Templeton might have sources still within the police force to keep him informed of what was being done to catch him. I couldn’t see a pair like Templeton and Tanner positioning themselves where a police raid would be effective.

  I punched in the numbers.

  ‘This is Hardy.’

  ‘Just you?’

  ‘Just me.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘No, we’re not going to play it that way. If you’ve got someone watching me, have him come in and I’ll give him a drink.’

  Templeton laughed. ‘Okay. Your girlfriend’s put you in the picture, has she?’

  ‘Just barely. Speaking of girlfriends, I suppose you were sorry to hear that Kristie burned to death.’

  There was a pause before he came back on the line. ‘You want to make this hard or easy?’

  ‘I don’t want it at all, but I feel partly responsible for Jack Twizell being in the shit and I’ve got scores to settle with you and Hector.’

  ‘This isn’t about settling scores. It’s about money.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. All you have to do is exactly what you’re told and everything will go smoothly. Twizell walks away, Hector and I take the money and you get on with whatever. Oh, and your girlfriend writes her book.’

  It’s a funny thing, but as he spoke these words I knew it was never going to be anything like that. I didn’t know why, but I knew. The reference to Marisha was a sort of clue that the net was spread wider than he wanted me to believe.

  ‘This is the deal,’ Templeton said. ‘We meet up on the highway and go north up the coast. That’s all Twizell will say at this point.’

  ‘Terrific. How is Jack? Rough him up much?’

  ‘No, he has to stay fit. He’s got work to do. One other thing—you’re going into the cave with him.’

  ‘I’m claustrophobic.’

  ‘Too bad. That’s our condition. You bring him and the money out. I don’t want him disappearing into a cave system and coming out somewhere west of Woop Woop.’

  ‘What’s to stop you and Hector bumping us off there and then?’

  ‘We won’t. We’re not killers.’

  ‘Just thieves.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Are you finding Hector useful?’

  ‘He will be when we need to launder the money.’

  ‘What if I bring the police along?’

  ‘We’d know.’

  ‘What if I do nothing?’

  ‘If that happens, your girlfriend’ll never write her book. I wouldn’t hurt her but I guarantee you every note she’s taken, every tape she’s recorded, every photo, will go up in smoke and it’ll be all your fault. Happy to live with that? This is a clean operation, Hardy. Win, win all around.’

  ‘With a lot of trust involved.’

  ‘Some, yes.’

  ‘I want a safeguard. Is Hector listening to this?’

  ‘You bet he is. Like what?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we get to where we’re going.’

  Again there was a pause before he replied. ‘You’re a tricky bastard, Hardy.’

  ‘Dealing with people like you I have to be.’

  His short laugh was harsh. ‘Okay, go north, cross the bridge over the channel and you’ll see us. One hour.’

  That made time tight. I collected a few things and told Marisha what was happening in bare outline. She took it in her stride.

  ‘Ring Hector,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it. He’s good at all this. Hasn’t put a foot wrong so far.’

  She tried.

  ‘Nothing.’

  I tried the number she’d given me for Templeton but there was no answer.

  ‘Throwaway phones,’ I said.

  ‘As you expected.’

  ‘Yeah. Templeton’d be able to organise cheap pay-as-you-go phones under false IDs. He’d have had the training.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He will, I hope.’

  Her hard shell seemed to crack. She put her arms around me and pressed close against me. ‘You’re not doing this for me, are you?’

  I’d come this far and I wanted to see it through. I told her the truth—that I was doing it for me.

  24


  In the car I reached into my pocket for my keys and to check that I had my phone and found that Marisha had slipped a miniature tape recorder in there. Always working, Marisha. The phone rang.

  ‘On the way, Hardy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t fuck up.’

  I did as I was instructed, crossed the North Channel and saw a white SUV stopped at the side of the road. It was pulling a trailer carrying a Bobcat earth mover. I pulled up fifty metres behind it. Templeton stepped out just long enough for me to identify him and then the SUV, a Mitsubishi Triton, I now saw, moved off. Traffic was light and we edged at just a notch below the speed limit. I drew up close enough a couple of times to be sure there were three men in the car. The last thing I wanted to see was Clem with his bolt-cutters. But somehow I thought the delicacy of this operation would rule Clem out.

  Following the Bobcat that swayed a bit on the trailer wasn’t a comfortable feeling. I’m not particularly claustrophobic, but I didn’t much like the idea of going down into a cave that had proved unstable and had to be dug out. It’s not unusual when I faced unpleasant situations that something I’ve read pops into my mind. Driving along I recalled Henry Lawson’s story ‘His Father’s Mate’, in which a boy falls into a shaft when a windlass breaks. The story touched me when I read it as a schoolkid and the memory wasn’t welcome now.

  We passed Nelson Bay and other bijou Central Coast playgrounds and pushed north to a stretch where the road moved away from the coast. Templeton signalled and we turned off the highway down a secondary and through some heavy bush that was almost like rainforest. It couldn’t have been far from the coast but it felt more like the Blue Mountains, with tall trees and outcrops of weathered rock. Well, Australia’s like that, with patches of mini-climate and accompanying vegetation.

  The paved road ended abruptly and poorly graded gravel took over. A sharp turn, which the Mitsubishi and trailer negotiated carefully, and we were on a bush track that only ran for a hundred metres before there was a gate.

  Again, I pulled up short of the others. I thought of taking the .38 out of its compartment but changed my mind. I had another idea. I watched while Hector Tanner, looking not quite like himself out of his suit and in casual clothes, climbed down, glanced briefly back at me and opened the gate. A battered sign said PRIVATE PROPERTY KEEP OUT, but from the length of the grass on the track it didn’t look as though anyone had been there in quite a while.