The Dunbar Case(14)

~ * ~





6





I put the first of Wakefield’s questions to Twizell. It wasn’t a response to his request, but I didn’t want to lose control of the agenda.



‘Grandpa Bob and Grandma? Jesus, they were ancient, or that’s how it felt when I was a kid. They were pretty old. He had some tatts. He’d been a sailor. There was a story that he owned some ships once but not by the time we came along. He was just a retired sailor. Not a bad old bloke. He used to give us money. Grandma? She was quiet; pretty well educated, I think. She read a lot of books. I remember that they were both pissed off at my dad. He was a loser.’



I put the next question.



‘They had an old dump of a cottage out of Newcastle near the beach. They reckoned it was historic. Grandma had a vegie garden and Grandpa Bob went fishing all the time. I suppose they had a pension, but they seemed to live on vegetables and fish. We used to stay there when Dad was off somewhere and Mum couldn’t handle us, and we got fucking sick of fish, I can tell you.’



‘Do you remember the address?’



His eyes went shrewd. ‘I might, why?’



‘Could be important. What do you know about a family Bible?’



I was watching closely and, although he tried not to react, he could not quite control his eyes. The lazy, out-of-focus stare he’d been affecting dropped away for a split second when he blinked.



‘Hey, what’re you talking about? I don’t know anything about a Bible.’



‘Yes, you do,’ I said. ‘And my client has authorised me to say that a six-figure amount could be due to you if... things work out.’



‘That’s very vague.’



‘Do you have anything more solid to think about just now, Johnnie?’



He leaned forward and all the cocky aggression I’d seen in the after-trial newspaper photograph was back in his face and body language. ‘You bet I do, arsehole—getting out of this place.’



I shook my head. ‘Year away, if you’re good.’



‘I’ve been good, bloody good, and they’ve brought my parole hearing forward. It’s on next week.’



‘Well, good luck.’



‘No, these bastards play games with you. There’ll be a hearing and you get your hopes up but they’ll knock me back for sure. You never get out on a first hearing, the blokes in here tell me. That’s unless ...’



He paused strategically.



‘Unless what?’



‘Unless someone with clout puts in a good word. Hey, I bet your guy’s rich or a museum dude or a professor or something, and you’ve got old Courtenay onside. They could swing it.’



He was a lot smarter than anyone had thought.



~ * ~



I left the prison with only Twizell’s proposal to take back to Wakefield. He wouldn’t be pleased. The odd thing was that it didn’t feel like failure. Twizell wasn’t likeable but neither was Wakefield and I’d be interested to watch the interplay between their devious minds if it went that way. It all might end right there for me, but, again, it might spin out for a time and earn me some money.



While I’d been inside the car park had filled up a bit with a variety of vehicles including vans and utes apparently making deliveries to the prison. I reached my car, felt for my keys and was suddenly aware of three men emerging from the station wagon parked next to the Falcon. They arranged themselves to block me into the space between the vehicles. One, a compact type in early middle age, wore a suit, the others jeans, T-shirts, jackets. One of them was very big, another was rangier.



‘A word with you,’ the suit said.



Two I could possibly have handled, even in the confined space, but not three. I leaned against my car with my hand not too far from the radio aerial, a possible weapon.



‘Okay,’ I said.



The suit shook his head. ‘Not here. Come with us.’



‘I don’t think so.’



I reached for the aerial but the lean, wiry one was too quick for me. He chopped down savagely on my arm, numbing it. The one behind me moved up and pulled my other arm halfway up my back. There was no space to kick or head-butt.



‘You’ve done this before,’ I said.



‘You bet we have,’ the suit said. ‘And we’ve done worse. Be smart.’



Being smart meant getting into the back seat of the station wagon between the one who bent my arm and the suit while the other guy drove. I sat, working my arm to restore the circulation, and cursing myself for not being more careful.



‘Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?’



‘There’s no pleasure involved, Hardy, not for you or us. My name’s Joseph Tanner. Who my friends are doesn’t matter.’