‘Dog kennel’s still here. She stuck her books inside a sort of cavity. I remember once when we pulled some out she really whacked into us. Grandpa didn’t get to see those ones. If she had anything serious to hide this’d be where, I reckon.’
‘So why did we piss around with the other places?’
He grinned and wiped a hand across his grimy face where a few scratches had bled. ‘Why should I make things easy for a bastard like you?’
I tossed away the bit of pipe. ‘Get on with it.’
‘Take it easy.’
I was getting sick of him. ‘Ever hear of Ross River fever, Jack?’
‘Sure. Why?’
‘There was a champion golfer got it around here. Blew up over 120 kilos on steroids and cortisone trying to get rid of it.’
That touched his vanity. He was proud of his physique. ‘And what happened?’
‘He got better but it buggered him for a long time.’
But in the end he was irrepressible. ‘Good for him. Getting back to the old girl, she reckoned the dog’d keep Grandpa from poking around and she was right. Claudius, she called him; bitzer with some bull terrier in him. Mean fucker, he was.’
‘Twizell.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He flexed the muscles in his arm. ‘You scared of spiders, Hardy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too. Here goes.’ He thrust his arm into the kennel and scrabbled around. He grunted and withdrew his arm. He had a mass of mouldy, cobwebbed paper in his grasp.
‘Let’s see now.’ He peeled back a few layers and let out a screeching laugh that sent birds flying out of the trees. He held out a pulpy handful to me.
‘Knitting books. The old bugger hated to see her knitting as much as he hated to see her reading and she could do both at the same bloody time.’
~ * ~
16
Hard to say who looked the bigger mess by the time we’d struggled back up the track to the cars. Twizell was bleeding from scratches to his face and legs; my shirt was a wet rag and my hands were muddy from where I’d had to clutch at the ground to stop myself from falling when the helicopter made a low pass overhead.
‘I need a drink,’ Twizell said. ‘You?’
I nodded. We drove to the Dudley pub—old style with a wide veranda supported by spindly poles. Twizell dropped into a chair outside the bar. ‘Schooner of Old, thanks.’
I had the same and we didn’t bother with salutations. We both lowered the levels quickly.
‘Do your parole conditions say anything about drinking?’
He grinned. ‘You ever know anyone bother about that one, either side of the desk?’
‘No.’
‘Right. But I’d better get back and clean myself up. I have to report to the cops.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Why? Are we pals now?’
‘No. You said you could help me find Kristie.’
He finished his drink and obviously wanted another but he looked at his watch. ‘I did say that, didn’t I?’
‘You did.’
‘This is important to you, eh?’
‘It’s why I’m here.’
The shrewd look I’d seen from him before came back into his blood-streaked face. ‘Is it really? You’ve seen her a few times, right?’
I still had half a glass left and I sipped it to buy time and think. How much of what I knew about his pre-gaol behaviour should I reveal?
‘Twice, I think.’
‘What did she tell you about me?’
‘Not much. You’re not her favourite person.’
‘She’ll get over that. How about Joseph and Hector?’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing. Just told me to deliver the message.’
‘Why would a bloke like you dance to their bloody tune?’
‘Threats.’
‘Figures. Family man, are you?’
‘Sort of.’
‘You know I’m at the Mayfield Apartments. You’ll find it in the book. I forget the number. We should stay in touch. I reckon you could be useful to me.’
I shook my head. ‘I see it the other way around. You help me find Kristie and then we see if that does you any good.’
‘I need protection.’
‘Who from?’
‘Hector fucking Tanner.’
‘You said he was in South America.’
He got up. ‘I hear a whisper that he’s not. I’ve got your card. We’ll stay in touch, Hardy.’
He practically ran to his car. I let him go.
~ * ~
I rang Marisha.
‘You’re back, good.’