The Dunbar Case

1





I was sitting in Anton’s on King, a restaurant in Newtown. French. I suppose there were Antons elsewhere but ‘on King’ is a popular tag and pretty well all Sydney diners would know from that where it was. Anton’s wasn’t the sort of place I usually ate at. Way too expensive. It had all the trimmings— the muted lighting, sound-absorbing walls and floor, white tablecloths, gleaming glass and silverware and attractive waitresses. I was enjoying the ambience because I knew I wouldn’t be paying for it. My client, Henry Wakefield, had suggested—call it insisted on—the venue.



‘Mr Hardy,’ he’d said in rounded private school tones when he rang, ‘Roberta Landy-Drake recommended you to me and I was pleased to find you online. My name is Wakefield, Henry Wakefield.’



‘That was kind of Roberta,’ I said. ‘How can I help you, Mr Wakefield?’



‘Initially, you can help by agreeing to lunch with me to discuss something.’



He proposed the day, the time and Anton’s. I asked a few questions but he fended them off, saying that it was a confidential matter. It was a very different approach to what I’d become used to—the sad requests to trace missing teenagers, the low-paid serving of demands for court appearances, the surveillance of alleged stalkers, workplace bullies and sexual harassers. That kind of work brought in a more or less steady cash flow for a private detective, but did nothing for the sense of self-worth. Nor did the jobs I’d done for Roberta Landy-Drake—mostly keeping order at her upmarket but volatile parties—but they paid much better.



From time to time there were more interesting jobs and I remained ever hopeful. Wakefield had suggested we meet in two days; no great urgency then. Another unusual feature. I awaited his arrival with interest.



‘A drink while you’re waiting, sir?’



‘Why not? A light beer, please.’



She named several brands and I picked the only one I was familiar with, I’d done a web check on Wakefield. He was a professor of history at the Independent University, an institution I knew nothing about so I had to check that out as well. Wakefield had degrees from a couple of American universities I’d never heard of, and the IU was a new outfit privately funded from corporate sources. It had a small campus in Newtown. From the photograph it seemed to consist of four three-storey terrace houses opposite a park two blocks east of King Street—just a short stroll for the prof to Anton’s. The web page didn’t say so, but from the elaborate coat of arms and the motto—’Knowledge is Power’—I got the feeling that the IU would charge pretty hefty fees. I was surprised that such a place would teach history at all, but I suppose there are lots of ways of teaching it.



I was early. I always am. I call it professional caution but it’s really an anxiety, or maybe both. The beer arrived, very cold, in a beautiful glass. As someone who’d enjoyed a public school education and hadn’t enjoyed a few years at university when it was free, I was critical of the way money dominated the sector now. I was prepared to dislike Professor Wakefield and settle for a free lunch. Jimmy Carter was wrong about that as about so many other things, particularly cardigan-wearing.



Wakefield came in precisely on time. The head-shot on the web page had flattered him a little, but he was impressively tall, with a good head of hair and a beard—both silver although he wasn’t old. He was trim and looked to be a few years short of fifty. With the day sunny and mild, he wore a lightweight beige suit. He would. I was in a light linen jacket and drill trousers myself, but Wakefield wore a stylish light blue shirt and a silk tie, while I wore a T-shirt. Clean, though.



The restaurant was filling up and Wakefield nodded to a few fellow eaters and sketched an almost bow to the waitress in charge as he advanced towards my table. No big trick to that—my mug shot was on my web page, too. Body language is very important. If you stay seated at a meeting, a natural bully or dominant type will loom over you as he extends his hand. An egalitarian will take his seat first. Wakefield hesitated just long enough to make me feel he inclined towards option one, before dropping into his chair and sticking his hand out across the snowy surface.



‘Henry Wakefield.’



‘Cliff Hardy, Professor. Pleased to meet you.’



‘Henry, please.’



A waitress was hovering and Wakefield pointed to my half-full glass. ‘The same for me, please, and don’t bother about the menu.’



He undid the top button of his shirt and slid his tie knot down. ‘Good place, this.’