Dunbar Case Read online

  ‘You’re drawing a very long bow.’

  ‘I’d agree with you but for one thing.’

  ‘That is?’

  ‘At one point along the line in this tale a person who was in a position to know what happened wrote it all down. No, I shouldn’t say that—is alleged to have written most of it down.’

  When someone backtracks and dilutes a story in that way it can be because they know they’re on shaky ground and don’t want to have to provide much more substance, or because they’re being honest and trying to tell it like it is. With Wakefield, it was hard to judge.

  ‘You’ve made a lot of assumptions and the documentation’s pretty flimsy,’ I said. ‘I don’t trust newspapers to do much beyond getting the date right.’

  ‘I agree with you, but in this period such things are all we have. A good deal of accepted history is built on nothing much stronger.’

  He was getting close to his chosen field of revisionary history and I didn’t want to get into that. I was sure he could out-fence me there with examples and evidence.

  ‘What exactly do you have in mind for me to do?’

  ‘Just this—talk to John Twizell in Bathurst gaol. Ask him certain questions and report back on what he says.’

  Put like that, what could I do? We signed the contract and Wakefield wrote me a cheque for a retainer that would keep the wolves from my door for the better part of a month. Generally speaking, these days I prefer a direct deposit into my working account, but with the chequebook and a silver pen in his hand I didn’t feel like objecting. He signed with a flourish and handed the cheque to me. In the old days you could arrange to have cheques cleared instantly by paying a fee. Not any more.

  ‘A question. If you’re planning to write a book about this, wouldn’t it be better for you to interview Twizell yourself? I mean, wouldn’t it add flavour? You’d be the investigator as well as the researcher. Save you money, too.’

  He shook his head. ‘Look at me, the modern, corporate, funded academic. I’d be out of my depth with someone like Twizell and likely to antagonise him. I’m assuming you know people in the . . . custodial industry—prison and parole officers, lawyers and the like?’

  Custodial industry, I thought. Well, I guess that’s what it is, more or less.

  I nodded, folded the cheque and slipped it into my wallet. ‘What’s he in for?’

  Putting the chequebook and pen away he looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Oh, didn’t I say? He’s serving a sentence for assault with a deadly weapon.’

  4

  I couldn’t remember reading or hearing about Twizell, but a few years back I’d spent ten months in the US and in my delicensed period I didn’t pay too much attention to what was happening on the dark side. With the Sydney Morning Herald online at the State Library it wasn’t hard to catch up.

  Four years earlier, when I was helping a friend prepare for championship fights in America, Twizell had been convicted of assaulting his lover, Kristine Tanner, in Newcastle. Drugs were involved and there was a fair degree of provocation. He was sentenced to seven years with five to serve before becoming eligible for parole. It was a sordid, run-of-the-mill case that hadn’t attracted much media attention. The Herald’s reports were spare and there were few photographs. Twizell, thirty-nine, was a stocky individual with a shaved head and a belligerent stare; Kristine Tanner, thirty at the time of the attack, had been hospitalised for several months and had undergone extensive reconstructive surgery.

  I printed out a couple of the reports and underlined some names. Twizell had been represented by Courtenay Braithwaite, who I didn’t know but I was sure my solicitor, Viv Garner, would. One of the police officers giving testimony was Detective Inspector Kevin Rush, who I had met under not very friendly circumstances some time in the past. I also underlined the name Tanner without quite knowing why. I was punching in Viv’s number when it came to me—Tanner was the name of the woman who’d registered the child Wakefield believed to be William Dalgarno Twizell’s son. Well, it was a common enough name. I had a feeling there was something more to the name than that but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  Viv knew Braithwaite.

  ‘Is he any good?’ I asked.

  ‘Fair to middling.’

  ‘Busy?’

  ‘He’s getting on like the rest of us. I shouldn’t think so. Loves a drink.’

  ‘Like the rest of us.’

  ‘Speak for yourself. I’m off it.’

  ‘If it doesn’t make you live longer at least it’ll feel like it.’

  ‘He can be fun,’ Viv said. He undertook to ring Braithwaite, vouching for me. I gave it a few hours and rang his chambers. I was put through to him. He said he’d been glad to hear from Viv and asked how he could help.

  ‘You represented John Twizell.’

  I heard a wheezy sigh. ‘I did. Not one of my successes.’

  ‘I have a client who has an interest in him.’

  ‘That’s understandable; he’s an interesting character in his way. What’s the nature of the interest?’

  I wasn’t prepared to tell him much until I’d sized him up. ‘Perhaps we could meet?’

  He agreed, named a wine bar in Castlereagh Street and suggested five o’clock. Early for knock-off time. Looked as if he wasn’t busy.

  The Cellar Bar was one of those below-ground joints that enjoy popularity for a while before jaded, fickle drinkers move on to somewhere else. As the name implied it had a theme defined by low beams, wooden barrels and a flagstoned floor. Drinkers could sit at tables or on benches if they wanted to feel especially authentic. The lighting was soft but adequate to see what you were drinking, and there was muted piano music playing. At 5.05pm there were only three customers—a young woman and her rather older companion, and a man on his own with a glass in front of him and a newspaper open at the racing page.

  I approached him. ‘Mr Braithwaite?’

  He looked up. He bore more than a passing resemblance to the late Lionel Murphy—thinning grey hair, bags below the eyes, jowls and a nose that glowed like a stoplight.

  ‘You’d be Cliff Hardy,’ he said, ‘the notorious private detective. I’m delighted to meet you. Can’t understand why it’s taken so long.’

  He half rose and we shook hands. I’d had a lot of time for Lionel Murphy, who I’d met once or twice, not least because I had benefited from his no-fault divorce law, and I was prepared to like his look-alike.

  ‘Don’t sit down.’ He drained his glass and held it towards me. ‘Mine’s a double brandy and soda.’

  I went to the bar and bought his drink and a glass of red for me. Braithwaite was putting the paper in his briefcase when I got back to his table.

  ‘You’re a punter?’ I said.

  He took a pull on the drink and shook his head. ‘Cheers. No, part-owner. Foolish, but it’s an interest in my declining years. You’re bearing up well after all the slings and arrows I’ve heard about.’

  ‘Just about,’ I said. ‘I’d like to have a talk about John Twizell.’

  ‘You realise I’m only talking to you because I’m interested in someone with your reputation and because Viv Garner says you can be trusted and I trust his judgement.’

  There was nothing to say to that so I just drank some wine.

  ‘Anyone else coming to me with an interest in Johnnie and I’d ring the police straight away.’

  I’d been getting ready to relax into some kind of cautious but more or less cordial interchange, but this made me sit up straight. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Outside of prison, Johnnie Twizell could count the days of his survival on one hand. Inside, he’s doing well to last this long.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  ‘You’ve heard of Jobe Tanner, surely?’

  I had, and that was the other reason the name had caught my eye in Wakefield’s text. Tanner was a high-level Newcastle crime figure. A fingers-in-every-pie type who kept the really dirty stuff at arm’s length while profiting from it. He
’d been called before two royal commissions and had been charged a few times for conspiracy and other difficult-to-prove offences but acquitted. Witness intimidation was second nature to him. Braithwaite saw me processing the name and nodded.

  ‘Kristie Tanner is his daughter. He swore to kill Twizell.’

  ‘That seems extreme. He didn’t kill the woman.’

  ‘No, but he damaged her very severely. Her injuries were so bad that I succeeded in getting the judge to withhold the photographs from the jury. Prejudicial. It was about the only success I had in the matter. Jobe Tanner has the means to do it, particularly in the persons of two very nasty sons.’

  It was a fair bet that Wakefield knew this and took it as a reason to hire someone with the right experience to approach Twizell. Megan was right: I seemed to find trouble without having to look for it. But I’d taken Wakefield’s money and I needed it.

  ‘You’d advise me to steer clear of Twizell,’ I said.

  ‘Absolutely, but I know from the look of you and your reputation that you won’t. You’d better tell me what your interest is. I owe Viv Garner a favour or two and I might be able to suggest a way to keep you out of Tanner’s clutches.’

  He finished his drink and pushed the glass towards me. ‘Listening’s hard work and you’d better have another while you consider how much to tell me.’

  He was a shrewd old bird and I liked him. I got the drinks and some nuts and settled down to give him a severely edited version of the story, preserving as many of Wakefield’s confidences as I could. He listened closely, sipping his drink and nibbling nuts, seemingly unaffected by three double brandies.

  ‘I’m not surprised that Johnnie Twizell has some interesting antecedents,’ Braithwaite said when I’d finished. ‘He’s pretty much wasted his life with drugs and gambling and women but he’s a man you feel could have done something better.’

  ‘I know what you mean; unlike a lot of people you feel have got further than they should have. Politicians in particular.’

  He laughed, setting up a wheezing coughing fit that turned his face purple. He pulled out a Ventolin inhaler and gave himself a few puffs.

  ‘And judges,’ he said when he’d got his breath back. He laughed again but suppressed it so that only a few slight coughs resulted. ‘I don’t suppose you can be more specific about this information your client is seeking.’

  I shook my head. ‘He’s playing it very close to his chest. When I confirm that I can see Twizell he’s going to text me a set of questions. From what I know it’s about something written—a letter maybe, a diary or journal, a confession.’

  ‘Intriguing. What’s in it for Johnnie?’

  ‘Money, possibly.’

  ‘He’d appreciate that.’

  ‘You like him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. He has charm. He’s amusing. Do you know what someone in his position needs above all? What we all need, come to that?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Something to look forward to. I must say I haven’t got it. Do you have it, Mr Hardy?’

  ‘I’d have to think about that.’

  ‘Bad sign. Anyway, I’m on record as Johnnie’s legal chap and I can recommend a visit for you as my representative.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Only snag is that I imagine the Tanners have a watching brief on Johnnie’s visitors. You’ll have to be careful.’

  ‘I can manage that. Another drink?’

  ‘No, three’s my limit. I’ll just sit on this one and contemplate mankind’s folly.’

  ‘Good name for a horse.’

  He raised his old man’s thick, snaggled eyebrows. ‘Don’t make me laugh. You saw what it did to me.’

  The next day Braithwaite’s secretary emailed me that an appointment had been made for me to visit Twizell in two days. A letter from the lawyer giving me his authority was attached.

  I called Wakefield to report on my progress.

  ‘I knew you were the man for the job,’ he said.

  ‘But you didn’t tell me Twizell had savagely assaulted a female member of a notorious crime family. What else haven’t you told me?’

  ‘Nothing. Let’s not get off on the wrong foot. When are you going to Bathurst?’

  ‘Tomorrow, driving.’

  ‘Call me when you arrive. I’ll text the questions I want you to ask.’

  I wasn’t happy about it; I felt manipulated, but that was nothing new in the business I was in. The thing to do is to be aware of it and be prepared to manipulate back.

  I’d got into the habit of letting Megan know when I was going to be out of town. She’d go to my house and collect the mail and sometimes she’d take Ben over to play there as a change from the flat. She needed to know that the coast was clear for that. She said she liked to be sure I didn’t have a woman installed or visiting, but it had been a while since that had happened.

  I hadn’t expected grandfatherhood to affect me the way it did. I felt enormous relief when Megan’s baby arrived safely and I thought that’d likely be the strongest emotion I’d feel. Wrong. The first time I held Ben I felt something quite different. Perhaps because I’d missed out on Megan’s babyhood I felt it more strongly than most grandfathers—a sense of the thread of life continuing.

  That feeling eased off, of course, but a powerful sense of protectiveness and interest in the boy’s development remained. I didn’t go overboard. I did an occasional baby-sit and I installed a folding cot in my spare room. A few kids’ books on the shelves down at his level and some plastic plates and eating gear.

  ‘Bathurst?’ Megan said when I phoned her. ‘Never been there. Didn’t they have some trouble about water a while back?’

  ‘Yeah, I think they held a vote on whether to recycle sewage.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘I think the nos won it.’

  ‘That’d be right. Well, take care, Cliff. How long’ll you be away?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘That’d be right, too. Should be nice out there at this time of year. Bit bracing perhaps. Be sure to take all your pills with you.’

  5

  Town planners and social engineers lament that our population is concentrated in the capital cities of each state. They say the maximum functional size of a city is about two million and it’s crazy that Sydney has five million plus people while Bathurst, only a couple of hundred kilometres away, has barely thirty thousand. It’s different in America and better, they say, where regional cities help to spread the population out. They’re probably right but it’s a bit late now to make that change.

  I was looking forward to the drive. Like most Sydneysiders, I don’t want to live west of the Blue Mountains, but I like to visit. It can be cold out there so I packed some warm clothes in a bag, a bottle of Haig scotch and a carton of Camel cigarettes. I’d stopped smoking longer ago than I could remember, but, in my experience, many prisoners still smoked and wanted the hardest hit they could get. Camels were about the only unfiltered cigarettes easily available. Some gaols will allow you to take things in to prisoners, some won’t.

  I had other things—my mobile, a laptop and a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. No Uzi, no shotgun. I hadn’t fired the .38 since I’d been relicensed to carry it and I didn’t want to start now, but Jobe Tanner had a formidable reputation. Even if Braithwaite was right and Tanner had ways to learn about Twizell’s visitors, those networks—of prisoners, ex-prisoners and gaol staff—tend to be slow, and I hoped to be in and out before he got wind of me.

  Four hundred kilometres isn’t a long round trip, but my Falcon had a lot on the clock already. Besides, there’d been times when I’d set off expecting to be back in two days and had been away for a month. I had the car thoroughly checked over. I had a worn tyre and an air filter replaced and considered whether to charge them to Wakefield. It depended on how things panned out. He was certainly up for the cost of the petrol.

  The car behaved itself and the traffic cooperated so that I made
good time on the Great Western Highway out of the Sydney basin and over the Blue Mountains. It got colder, but that works for an old engine. I stopped for lunch in Katoomba at the Blue Moon café, that carried memories—some good, some bad—and pushed on, listening to a couple of Lead Belly CDs I’d bought cheap at a garage sale in my street. eBay has cut the legs out from under garage sales and this one had been a flop as they mostly are now, but there was a good selection of CDs and DVDs and I bought some, promising myself I’d find time to listen and watch.

  Lead Belly sang: There’s a man goin’ round takin’ names and I couldn’t help thinking that’s what I did a lot of the time. The road had some rough spots and the thumping six-string guitar music seemed appropriate, especially as Huddie Ledbetter had spent a good part of his life in prison.

  I rolled into Bathurst in the early afternoon expecting that nothing much would have changed since my last visit maybe ten years before, and I was right. Bathurst was created by the gold rushes of the 1850s. Like Bendigo and Ballarat, it has expanded, but again, like them, with its solid, Victorian centre, it seems to have resisted fundamental change. I booked into the first central motel I spotted and Wakefield’s bill went up a serious notch.

  Strictly speaking, a private detective arriving in a country town would be wise to check in with the local police. But there are times to do this and times not to. Braithwaite had warned me that the Tanners kept an eye on Twizell and it was more than possible that the Bathurst police did the same. That’s not to say that the two interests intersected, but they might. The police and the crims need each other the way fleas need a host and I wasn’t keen to advertise my presence any more than necessary.

  I made sure the shower, television and radio worked, tested the bed and checked the mini-bar, a feature of Australian motels unknown in the rest of the world. The trick to countering the depressive sameness of motel rooms—the bland décor, the plastic fittings—is to make it as untidy as possible by scattering your belongings around, especially books, newspapers and magazines. Within a few minutes I had the bed rumpled, shirts hung over the backs of chairs and a table carrying a paper open at the crossword and a bookmarked copy of Lord Jim. I was going back to the old guys.