Dunbar Case

by Peter Corris

She nodded and stood. ‘I’ll get my stuff.’

  ‘Let’s hope Rod didn’t disable Jack’s car.’

  He hadn’t. He was banking on us not knowing where Jack’s cave was. Safe enough for me, but I didn’t know about Kristie. She’d brought all she wanted to take from the cottage in a backpack. I unlocked the car and we climbed in.

  ‘This is Johnnie’s?’ she said.

  I nodded.

  ‘I wonder where he got the money.’

  ‘I do, too.’

  ‘How long after he got out before you caught up with him?’

  ‘Day and a bit.’

  ‘Long enough for him to do a deal with someone else about getting the money and getting something in advance. He’d have been thinking about it from day one, inside.’

  I’d had a similar thought myself, but then I wasn’t worried about the money. It loomed as more important now and Marisha’d want to know the outcome, if any. I started the car and got moving. I’d had a fair amount of brandy but I’d blotted it up with the bread and cheese and there was still a way to go before any chance of being breathalysed. I felt clear-headed, but Kristie had been through the wringer; she fell asleep and snored.

  She woke up when we hit the paved road.

  ‘Did I snore?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Ever since those bloody operations. What now?’

  It seemed to be as good a time as any. ‘Do you know where Twizell buried the money?’

  She laughed. ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘Did Templeton ask you?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about him. I did a flit from my flat, owing rent, and chucked my shitty job. I missed Dad’s funeral because of that bastard and now I’ve got nowhere to go. Shit I’m a mess.’

  ‘I’ve got a friend . . .’

  ‘You’ve got a friend? That surprises me. You’re a hard case.’

  ‘You’d know. Anyway, she’s a tough nut, too. She’s a journalist working on a book about your family. She’d like to talk to you. She had the inside running with Jobe until Joseph . . .’

  I let her sit for a while. She stared out the window as if she was reviewing her life from who knows when to that point. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘Why not? The things I could tell her.’

  ‘She won’t pay you, but she’d put you up for a bit, give you some breathing space.’

  I drove through the suburbs, careful not to attract any attention. I was probably still over the limit and a booking for DUI was a complication I didn’t need. Kristie was silent, picking at the flaking paint on her fingernails. She had a lot to think about—a dead father, a brother in gaol and one on the loose; two ex-lovers and a lot of money. What I wanted her to think about was the Twizell papers, but they seemed secondary to everything else.

  I headed towards Redcliff but pulled over.

  ‘What?’ Kristie said.

  ‘I’m calling Marisha.’

  ‘Marisha. Bloody pretentious name. Where does it come from?’

  You have to know when to just let the talk flow. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Could be Russian.’

  ‘Remember when everyone was all worried about Russia?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Before my time. Were you worried?’

  ‘I was just as worried about the Yanks.’

  ‘Are you worried about the Muslims now?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’re divided among themselves, I think. They’ll squabble.’

  ‘I haven’t heard that.’

  ‘People are saying it. It’s not original.’

  Cars passed us as we stood with the wheels just out of the drainage gutter. A hoon with his radio blaring broke her pensive mood.

  ‘You know how to talk to people, don’t you?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s what I do—talk, and listen.’

  ‘You really want to know about old Granny Twizell’s papers, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She smiled. ‘You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’

  21

  Marisha was at home and hard at work but she was happy to be interrupted to meet Kristie. The two women circled each other warily. When Kristie indicated her willingness to be interviewed and to comment on some of the material Marisha had assembled, things went better. There was a small sunroom off the living room which Marisha used for storage, but it contained a divan and they arranged for Kristie to sleep there for a few nights while they did their business and she worked out what she wanted to do next.

  But I had business of my own with Kristie and when Marisha went out to buy some supplies I tackled her.

  ‘You were going to tell me more about the Twizell family papers when you got the news about Jobe. I want to hear what you have to say. It’s what I came up here to work on before things took the turn they did.’

  ‘I’d just about forgotten that.’

  ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten where they are.’

  ‘It’s a funny thing; I was quite prepared to go on disliking you but you’re really a nice bloke under all the can-do stuff, aren’t you?’

  I shrugged. ‘Hope so.’

  ‘I’d be interested, except that you’re hot for Marisha, right?’

  ‘Yes, with reservations.’

  She sighed. ‘Story of my life. Missing out on right blokes and taking on wrong ones. I’ve moved around a lot in the last few years after coming out of hospital. Short-term rentals and sub-lets. Had to go back into hospital a few times. I didn’t want to haul a lot of stuff around with me. I’ve got a rented storage locker in town. When Granny Twizell died I was sort of unofficial executor. I helped cleaning out her stuff. Hec and Joseph weren’t interested. I took most of it to Vinnies and the Smith Family but I kept those papers, as you call them. They’re in storage along with some of my clothes and books and uni notes and like that.’

  ‘Will you let me look at them?’

  ‘Sure. Didn’t you say there could be a dollar in it? Give me a day to settle in here and see how things go with your girlfriend and I’ll take you to them.’

  I phoned Wakefield with the possibly good news.

  ‘That’s marvellous. Well done.’

  ‘We don’t know that they’re what you want yet.’

  ‘From what you say there’s a good chance. I’ll drive up tomorrow. I take it Ms Tanner won’t object to me being present?’

  ‘I think she’ll be delighted.’

  ‘Good. I hope you’re staying clear of all that messy business with the other Tanners.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What about Twizell? Is he involved at this point?’

  I didn’t want to go into that with him and gave a vague answer. There was excitement in his voice and he mentioned a bonus. All in all, a very satisfactory phone call.

  Kristie said her car was out of action and asked if she could use Jack’s.

  ‘Not a good idea,’ I said. ‘If Jack did some sort of deal with people about the money and they financed him into the 4WD they’ll be on the lookout for it when he doesn’t show up.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll need some money to get my car out of hock.’

  I didn’t want her running around freely just yet. I told her the man backing my investigation was coming up to look at the papers and that if they proved to be what he hoped, I was sure he’d give her some money.

  ‘That raises the stakes,’ she said. ‘What’re you going to do now?’

  ‘Leave the Patrol somewhere, go back to my motel and wait for your call tomorrow.’

  ‘What about Johnnie and Rod?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Work with Marisha and see what happens about the papers. A new start.’

  ‘Who’s this client of yours?’

  ‘Professor Henry Wakefield.’

  ‘Is he a spunk?’

  I laughed. ‘You’re recovering fast. I’m off. Tell Marisha I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘I bet you will.’

 
I drove back to the CBD, left the Patrol in a parking station and handed the keys in to the attendant. If it ran up an overdue bill that wasn’t my problem. Twizell’s abduction was my problem, sort of, and I decided I had to come clean about it. I phoned Kerry Watson and arranged to meet him at a pub near my motel. He arrived fifteen minutes after the appointed time, tired and in a bad mood. He flopped down in a chair at the table I’d picked and looked at me with bleary eyes.

  ‘I’ve had a shitty day,’ he said. ‘Are you going to improve my mood?’

  ‘I’ll buy you a drink, a couple maybe.’

  ‘That’s a good start. Double scotch and something to munch.’

  I wasn’t planning to do any more driving so I ordered two doubles and bought a packet of crisps and one of nuts. Watson didn’t bother with the preliminaries. He took a swig and split the packets open with his big, blunt fingers. He munched a fistful of both and washed them down with more whisky.

  ‘Did you ever see In the Heat of the Night?’ he said.

  ‘Of course. Great picture.’

  ‘Remember what Steiger says when he answers the phone?’

  ‘“Talk to me.”’

  ‘Right.’

  I told him everything he needed to know—about my and Twizell’s encounter with Hector and Clem, about Twizell and the money, about Kristie and Rod Templeton, about me falling into the trap of Kristie being the bait and about Templeton’s grabbing of Twizell with the money as his object.

  Watson ate and drank and said nothing. When I’d finished he pushed his glass at me and I got him a refill.

  He sipped, cautiously. ‘You should’ve told me you’d met up with Hector.’

  ‘I had no idea where he’d go.’

  ‘Then you and Twizell hare off to find the sister and this is all about something you haven’t explained.’

  ‘It’s separate. It’s non-criminal.’

  ‘Everything’s criminal, Hardy, with the Tanners concerned and with you, I suspect.’

  ‘Hector said he had places to go to that no one knew about. I asked Kristie if she knew about them and she said no.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You think. Okay.’ He took his notebook out. ‘Rego number of the 4WD this Templeton took off in?’

  ‘I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Great help. What else do you know about him?’

  ‘Not much. He used the name Roger Tarrant when he was working for the Tanners.’

  I knew more, but I’d leave Watson to find that out for himself from internal sources.

  Looking disgusted, he scribbled a few notes. ‘No idea where to look for him?’

  ‘Where there’s caves.’

  ‘Fucking caves everywhere.’

  ‘Twizell’s a local boy.’

  He put the notebook away. ‘Thanks a lot, Hardy. Just what I need. You’ve given me a rogue cop and someone under duress who’s going to be forced to violate his parole and no idea where to find them. Plus Hector Tanner out in the wind with a heavy who’s prepared to do nasty things with a bolt-cutter.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So you’re just opting out and getting on with your own cosy little business?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  He got up and finished off his drink. ‘I doubt it. You’re at the Maritime, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks for the drinks. Stay there. You’ll be hearing from us.’

  He walked out, moving very steadily the way you do when you have a heavy, but not too heavy, load on.

  I went back to the motel, checked Twizell out and tried not to think about him. I couldn’t help thinking about Templeton, weighing him up the way Twizell had. I had a score to settle with him from back when I didn’t know he was a cop and I felt I owed him something more now. It was only luck that I hadn’t caught some of the shotgun pellets and it only takes one in the right spot to do a lot of damage.

  I tried to put myself in his shoes and, as I sifted through the things he’d done, I knew what I’d be worried about—certainly Hector Tanner, the police service he’d deserted and possibly the people who’d stolen the buried money in the first place. And the difficulty of recovering it if Twizell talked, as he probably would. He might have to use Twizell and if he did, the odds might shift.

  I’d had enough to drink and had no interest in food. A motel room can be one of the loneliest places in the world. I watched the news on television but my interest in the royal wedding was less than zero and it seemed to be blotting everything else out except the death of Bin Laden. Pakistan was getting shitty about it, but an American commentator made the point that it had probably assured Obama of another term.

  ‘Is that why he did it?’ the interviewer asked.

  ‘Look,’ the commentator said, ‘he took a big risk and it came off. The American people like that.’

  ‘What? Taking a risk?’

  ‘No, the risk coming off. That’s seen as leadership.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  I picked up Lord Jim and lost myself in it for an hour. I’d set myself to read some of the classics—Conrad, Hardy, Trollope—and I’d been doing it with pleasure for a while. Couldn’t come at Henry James, no matter how hard I tried. I was jerked out of the nineteenth century and the jungle and all the moral dilemmas by my mobile.

  ‘Cliff, you bastard, it’s Marisha. Why’d you take off like that?’

  ‘Things to do. Knackered after a hard day, and I wanted to let you and Kristie get acquainted and get to work. How’s it going?’

  ‘Oh, right, change of subject. Cliff deftly avoids emotional difficulty. Lily told me about that. Well . . . pretty good. I’m out on the balcony now and she’s having a shower so I can talk. She’s cagey but she’s given me some good stuff and I’m sure there’s more to come. It’s one of those times when you get on to something and realise you couldn’t have done without it. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I do. That’s good. I’m hoping she’s going to take me to the documents my client’s interested in tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay. What about Twizell and the cop and the buried money?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m not so interested in all that.’

  ‘Bullshit. You’re interested and so am I.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘I wish you were here. I’d like to fuck you, but I guess it’ll keep. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow?’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Goodnight, Cliff.’

  She put a lot into that, but I was beginning to realise that Marisha put a lot into everything and you never knew what really mattered to her and what didn’t matter quite so much.

  22

  Watson summoned me to the police station and I made a full statement of my dealings with Hector and Joseph Tanner, my meetings with Twizell and the encounter with Templeton. They recorded it on video and provided a transcript. I signed it. I handed in Hector’s Beretta. Nothing pleased them and I didn’t expect otherwise. I was instructed to contact the police immediately if I heard from Hector, Twizell or Templeton and threatened with prosecution if I didn’t.

  There was a message from Wakefield at the motel. I phoned Marisha’s number and spoke to Kristie. She said she’d take us to her storage locker. I phoned Wakefield. He arrived in his Mercedes and we picked up Kristie. I told Marisha I’d be back after this bit of business.

  ‘For a celebration?’ she said.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Kristie was impressed by well-groomed Wakefield in his suit and behind the leather-padded wheel of his Merc. She rode up front with him. We drove to Broadmeadow to a concrete yard enclosed by a cyclone-wire fence. It housed about fifty lockable sheds ranging from the size of three-car garages to ones like Kristie’s, not bigger than a decent-sized garden shed. God knows what secret and illicit things were inside the sheds. Kristie had a key to the gate and we drove in a
nd parked beside her spot. She unlocked the door and stepped aside.

  ‘I haven’t been here for a while. It’ll be musty.’

  ‘What did you do with the stuff from your flat?’ I said.

  ‘I told you, I did a flit. I dumped it. I thought I was starting a new life and here I am, back with the old stuff.’

  ‘It could still be a new beginning for you,’ Wakefield said, ‘if what’s here is what I’m looking for.’

  I started to move some cardboard boxes. ‘How’s that, Henry?’

  ‘Well, I’m thinking about a book and a film and selling the manuscript itself. It could amount to quite a lot of money and Kristine and I would have a contract.’

  That surprised me. I hadn’t thought Wakefield was the sharing kind, but he had seemed to find a quick rapport with Kristie. He took off his suit jacket, tucked his silk tie inside his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

  ‘Now, what are we looking for?’ he said.

  ‘A trunk, a sort of sea chest,’ Kristie said.

  ‘Of course.’

  We moved boxes and large Chinese zipped laundry bags until we reached the chest. It was a small version—more like a woman’s travelling trunk than a sea chest, but it had faded stickers on it and was tied around with rope. Wakefield picked it up almost reverently and carried it out into the light.

  ‘Fingers crossed,’ I said. I offered my Swiss army knife but Wakefield insisted on untying the knots. Then he stood back and invited Kristie to open the trunk. Impeccable manners.

  Kristie squatted, undid the clasp and lifted the lid. She took out some letters tied with faded ribbon and then a heavy object wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘This is it.’

  She eased the paper away to reveal the black, gold-embossed cover of a large Bible. Most of the pages had gone and the covers were used to protect and keep together some more letters, some photographs and a stained, bound notebook, quarto-sized. She presented it like a votive offering to Wakefield, who held up one finger.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  He put the notebook on the concrete and took a pair of surgical gloves from his suit jacket. He pulled them on and opened the notebook. He turned several of the closely written, yellowed pages carefully. He closed the notebook.