Dunbar Case

by Peter Corris

  Watson grunted. ‘That was sensible.’

  ‘He won’t be happy.’

  ‘Why d’you care whether a crooked old fart like Jobe Tanner is happy?’

  Marisha flared, recovering a good measure of her composure. I tried to soothe them both by getting Marisha to describe anything she could about the person who’d fired the shot.

  ‘Two shots,’ she said. ‘I think the second one was for me but Jobe pulled me down despite . . .’

  The shakes returned. After more whisky she repeated what she’d said to me. She had a feeling Joseph Tanner was responsible for the shooting.

  ‘A feeling?’ Watson said. ‘That’s not worth a—’

  ‘Based on what?’ I said.

  ‘On how he looked at me at the hospital and what Jobe’s told me.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Watson said. ‘If you’ve got inside information on a war between Jobe and his sons, I want to know about it.’

  ‘One son, probably,’ I said.

  Watson was swilling the last of his drink and almost spilled it. ‘What the fuck do you know about it?’

  It was a tricky moment. The more I learned and heard about the Tanners, the more I seemed to get drawn into their machinations and steered further away from what I’d been hired to do. I had dangerous information myself—knowledge of the cop inside the Tanner network and the sister’s role in the scheme of things—and I didn’t feel able to reveal any of that. On the other hand, I wanted to get as clear of it all as I could and coming semi-clean to Watson was a way to do that.

  Watson wasn’t dumb. ‘I can see your beat-up brain working, Hardy. You’re wondering how many lies to tell.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m wondering how to protect Marisha and myself and my client’s interest first and then how to help you.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘I’d like you to nail whoever killed Pete McKnight.’

  ‘Oh, that’d be a sort of bonus, would it? You’re a scavenger, Hardy.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ Marisha said.

  I looked at Watson.

  ‘There’s a hotel we use. You’d both be safe there.’

  I put my hand gently on Marisha’s slumped shoulder. ‘And you’d be able to keep an eye on us.’

  ‘Give me something, for Christ’s sake,’ Watson said.

  I wanted to talk to him about stolen millions and a missing backpacker, to get some corroboration of Templeton’s and Kristine’s story, but it wasn’t the right time.

  13

  The hotel was of a higher standard than I expected. There was room to move around, good lighting and fittings, and even white terry-towelling bathrobes. Marisha took a very long shower and wrapped herself in a robe as she watched me making coffee.

  She was rapidly regaining her confidence. ‘Put yours on and we could be like Bob and Blanche.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You ever think of getting married again, Cliff?’

  ‘Don’t see the need. Look at Julia and what’s-his-name.’

  ‘Tim. You’re right, I never felt the need, ever. Why did you say Joseph might be at war with Jobe but not Hector? What dealings have you had with them?’

  ‘Is this research or . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, shit. I’m sorry. It must sound like that. No, I just want to know to help me work out what to do next.’

  What to do next, I thought. Good question. I was sick of holding everything in and I told her pretty well the whole story, stressing that she’d have to get my okay to publish some of the stuff I’d spoken about relating to Wakefield and the supposed Dunbar documents.

  Colonial history didn’t interest her; she homed in on the present. When I finished she said, ‘I’d like to talk to Kristie.’

  More single-mindedness. ‘So you’re going on with the Newcastle underbelly stuff?’

  ‘Hell, yes. I need a book to my name. I want to get back to Sydney. I thought I’d had enough of it and coming up here was the right move, but I miss it.’

  I could understand that. Couldn’t live anywhere else myself, and the prospect of her being back there was attractive. At my age you need all the friends you can get. I decided I’d help her as much as I could, hope the Tanners would resolve their differences one way or another and leave the way clear for me to persuade Kristie to help in Wakefield’s quest. It was all a bit speculative but the best I could do.

  We ordered a room service meal. Marisha spent a good hour fielding phone calls. She told her editor she’d be filing tomorrow. She fended off other journalists and reassured a few people she was all right. I phoned Templeton. Again, he said he could talk for a short time.

  He said, ‘I’m about to drive Hector to Newcastle to see his father.’

  I said, ‘There’s a whisper that Joseph fired the shots.’

  ‘He wouldn’t. He hires people for that kind of work, mostly. Unless it’s very personal. He hired the hit on McKnight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m putting this together from bits I’ve overheard and things Clem’s told me when he’s pissed. Joseph thought McKnight was edgy. He got someone to pressure him and he learned that McKnight was all set to talk to some journalist Jobe was talking to. Joseph’s got too much to hide to let that happen.’

  That made it likely Joseph was behind the attack on his father and Marisha. I asked Templeton if he had enough to get Joseph arrested.

  ‘Almost. Things are happening; gotta go.’

  Marisha and I went to bed, sleeping comfortably together like a married couple without the need for sex. But it was a different story in the morning.

  After a leisurely breakfast we left the hotel soon after ten o’clock and I was surprised that there was no sign of a police presence.

  ‘Some protection,’ I said.

  Marisha didn’t answer. She was staring at a poster outside a newsagency: GANGLAND BOSS KILLED—SON ARRESTED. The story, with photographs, occupied the whole of the front page: Jobe Tanner had died of his wounds in hospital overnight. Joseph Tanner had been arrested on a charge of conspiracy to murder. Hector Tanner was being sought by police.

  part two

  14

  Marisha worked her phone, contacting everyone she knew who might know what had happened and what the official line was. She learned that everything had changed in a few hours overnight. Jobe had identified the man who’d shot him. The police picked him up. Charged with wounding at that time, he had rolled over and named Joseph as the one who’d commissioned the hit. He’d be pissed off and worried later when the charge was upgraded to murder.

  From Templeton I heard that there had been a violent confrontation between Joseph and Hector involving threats and weapons. Hector took himself off before Joseph was arrested and Templeton claimed not to know where he’d gone. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. The Tanner crime network fell apart in a matter of days without the lynchpins.

  Marisha filed several stories drawing on some of the information she’d had from Jobe. They were picked up by other media and her profile rose sharply. With the threat from the Tanners reduced, she went back to her flat and started serious work on her book. I hung around for the next day with her and we got on well, but her focus was on the book and the rewards it might bring her. I’d developed very strong feelings for her and, in the game of who-can-help-who we seemed to have fallen into, I had one card to play—Kristie.

  ‘I really want to talk to her,’ Marisha said.

  We were eating breakfast on her balcony on a mild morning with the sun filtering through light clouds and the waves enough to tempt some surfers—black dots out beyond the breakers.

  ‘So do I,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘You’ve got her number.’

  ‘Yeah. She’s in the book. I tried the landline and went to the address. Nothing. Same on her mobile and the number for her undercover mate.’

  ‘Whose name is?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You’re a detective, aren�
�t you?’

  ‘Yes, and do you know what we do a lot of the time? We stir a bit and wait for things to happen.’

  ‘Great.’

  It was shaping up as that kind of relationship: good but combative. I’d told her something about the Wakefield matter and my hope that Kristie could be useful. She was only mildly interested. I’d also sketched in a bit about Johnnie Twizell and the buried money. That interested her more as a sidebar to the Tanner story.

  ‘When’s his hearing?’ she asked.

  ‘Yesterday. I’m waiting for a result.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘If he gets out I’ll see if he can help with the Wakefield thing. He might even know where Kristie is. They were together for a while.’

  ‘What about the buried money?’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about it.’

  ‘I do.’

  I reached over and stroked her arm. ‘So we’d better stay in touch.’

  I drove back to Sydney, checked on things at home and in the office, visited Megan and phoned Wakefield to bring him up to speed.

  He struggled to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘Are you saying this woman knows about a set of family papers?’

  ‘That’s what she said. I think I believe her.’

  ‘But you don’t know where she is now.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘My God, Hardy, you haven’t exactly carried all before you.’

  ‘There were distractions.’

  ‘Yes, well, I registered the name Tanner and the connection with Twizell. Were you involved in all that gangland business?’

  ‘Peripherally. Did you make representations to the parole hearing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We should hear results from that soon. Johnnie Twizell knows something about the family history but not as much as Kristine.’

  Disappointment replaced excitement. ‘So what do you propose to do now?’

  ‘You want me to stay with it? Costs are mounting. You’ve just about run through your retainer.’

  ‘Of course I do, and that’s what you have a reputation for, isn’t it—seeing things through?’

  ‘I like to think so.’

  ‘I’ll make a deposit into your account. Email me the number. Please try to find that woman.’

  ‘If I do and she has what you’re after, she’ll want a share if there’s money involved.’

  ‘I’ll be delighted to discuss it with her.’

  More or less out of curiosity I rang Ted Power, the old cop whose name Templeton had given me as a reference. You don’t discuss such matters over the phone and Power, a resident of Ultimo, agreed to meet me at my office after he finished work that evening.

  I remembered him as superficially calm but underneath highly strung from his own years of undercover work. He’d been shot at least once and bashed a few times and bore the scars like badges. His face was lumpy, ugly. He accepted a large scotch in a plastic glass gratefully.

  ‘Tough day, Ted?’

  ‘Cheers. Tough enough.’ He glanced around the room. ‘You’ve picked up a bit since your St Peter’s Lane days.’

  ‘So’s the rent. I’m glad to have a drink with you, Ted, but I won’t piss around—an undercover guy I met up in Newcastle gave me your name as a reference. It was enough to make me trust him, sort of.’

  He raised his glass. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m going to need to talk to him again so I thought I’d better follow up and get your assessment.’

  ‘You have this place swept?’

  ‘Regularly. Hank Bachelor did it yesterday.’

  ‘I know Bachelor, he’s good.’ Out of long habit his voice dropped several notches. ‘Okay, name?’

  ‘Rod Templeton.’

  Power eased his back in the hard chair and took a swig of his drink. ‘Roderick Fitzjames Templeton, BA, bronze medal Olympian.’

  I raised my eyebrows. Didn’t say anything.

  ‘Judo,’ Power said.

  I rubbed my arm. ‘It still hurts where he chopped me.’

  ‘Thought you said you were onside.’

  ‘As far as it went. What else can you tell me?’

  ‘Very tough, very bright.’

  ‘Incorruptible?’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Come on, Ted.’

  ‘It’s hard to draw the line in that game. Undercover police sometimes have to do criminal things in the course of their duties.’

  ‘I know that, but there are rules about how far they can go and what restitution has to be made, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  He drank, I drank. He stared out the window, then he cleared his throat. ‘All I’ll say is that he pushes the envelope, pretty much the same way you do in your business, Cliff.’

  ‘So you’d advise me to be careful in my dealings with him.’

  He nodded.

  ‘There’re no bugs here, Ted.’

  He finished his drink and got up. ‘He’s done some very good work and I don’t think he feels fully appreciated. Enough said.’

  I saw him to the lift and went back into the office and topped up my drink. Pill time. I kept a corresponding supply at the office to those at home, some in the fridge. I squeezed them out of the foils into my palm and took them with a mouthful of scotch. Supplies were low. A chemist in Glebe had half a dozen of my prescriptions on file. Once, feeling resentful, I told him I’d thought of chucking all the stuff away and letting nature take its course.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ he said, ‘I’ve got children to support.’

  I smiled at the memory.

  I did my usual Sydney things—paid bills, went to the gym, filled prescriptions, checked that Wakefield had deposited money. He had. Towards the end of my second day back I got a phone call. I didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Hardy.’

  ‘Hey, Cliff, this is Jack Twizell.’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yeah, a new me. You did it, man. I’m out tomorrow and I’ll be heading back to Newcastle.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘You bet. I want to buy you a drink to thank you.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘And to talk about your proposition.’

  ‘I thought you said Kristie was the one to see about that.’

  ‘Two heads are better than one. Did you see her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t get far, eh?’

  He was riding high, cocky, about to be released and no doubt feeling that the threat from the Tanners was past. Couldn’t blame him. I knew I’d have to deal with him but I wanted it to be on my terms as much as possible.

  ‘Only so far,’ I said.

  ‘Look, I’m guessing, after all that shit with Jobe and Joseph, that she’s not walking around in the sunshine, am I right?’

  I had to niggle him. I had very ambiguous feelings about Johnnie/Jack. I didn’t like him much, didn’t trust him at all, but I needed him. He was a key player in the game. I wanted him confident and willing to help but not too confident, not feeling a sense of absolute independence. It’s not hard to touch a nerve with someone in his position.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘on the loose, like Hector.’

  It didn’t work. He chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, Hector’s in South America by now, or some such fuckin’ place. Kristie’s a home girl. I can find her. Why don’t you come up to Newcastle? Meet me tomorrow and we can talk things over.’

  I’d printed out my bank statement with Wakefield’s substantial deposit ensuring my survival for another stretch of time. Money confers an obligation; not as big as love or friendship, but an obligation nevertheless. I said I’d see him. Jack had made his plans; he had a place to stay lined up. He gave me the address as if he was installed already and prepared to be hospitable.

  15

  I drove to Newcastle, booked into a motel and phoned Kerry Watson.

  ‘You again,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve got some business to do with John
Twizell. You knew he was out?’

  ‘You bet I knew. He has to check in with us twice a week and report to his parole officer in Newcastle. I doubt he’ll have time for anything else. What sort of business?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the Tanners. It’s family history.’

  ‘The family history’s bad—his old man was a crook and Johnnie was lucky he didn’t kill that girl. He was a small-time crim himself. Don’t tell me Bathurst rehabilitated him.’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. What I’m interested in goes way back. I just thought I should let you know I was around, the way I’m supposed to do.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh, Hardy. You want something. Spit it out, I’m busy.’

  My guess was he was always busy—one of those people—but if he had been busy he might know what I wanted to know.

  ‘Any news of Hector?’

  ‘Thought you said you weren’t interested in the Tanners.’

  ‘I’m thinking about Marisha Henderson. You probably know by now she’s working on a book and I don’t imagine Hector wants it to see the light of day.’

  ‘Hector’s got bigger problems.’

  ‘Why? I hear he had a big blue with Joseph. Probably very pissed off at having his father shot.’

  He sighed. ‘Hardy, you know more than you should and you’re more fucking inquisitive than’s good for you. I’m certainly not going to discuss operational police matters with you. But I’ll tell you this—we don’t know where Hector Tanner is and if you happen to stumble across him in your fucking around you’d better let us know at once.’

  ‘I won’t be looking and I would. I’ve got a couple of other questions, not strictly related to what we’ve just been talking about.’

  ‘Have you now? You’ve got a bloody nerve. Do you know how much work I’ve got piled up here?’

  I didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. A conscientious policeman like Watson can’t suppress his curiosity.

  ‘Go on, then. Make it quick.’

  ‘What can you tell me about a cover-up of a couple of million dollars of stolen money?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just a rumour.’

  ‘How about a British backpacker missing in the Newcastle area?’