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The Dunbar Case(45)

By:Peter Corris




I hadn’t formulated it fully but I did now. ‘I don’t trust him and I don’t want him to get the jump on me.’



‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I feel just like that about you.’



I nodded. Always good to know where you stand.



‘Give me the keys,’ I said.



‘What?’



‘Jack, you’re the chauffeur and guide on this trip, but you’re not the boss. Give me the keys.’



‘Fuck you,’ he said, but he tossed me the keys and I locked the Patrol and pocketed them.



‘Got your gun?’



‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said.



‘Anyone who doesn’t worry about guns is an idiot.’



‘You’re right there.’





~ * ~





19





We walked along the track keeping as quiet as we could, although I doubted we’d be walking into serious danger. After a while Twizell gestured to me and I followed him into a clearing roughly the size of a tennis court. The area had been excavated but not levelled, and it had been scoured by the flood. The surface was rocky with boulders sticking up here and there. At the end of the clearing a huge rock jutted up abruptly. The face looked smooth in spots and, while it wasn’t anything like fifty metres to the top, it was high enough and I’d have said impossible to climb.



‘That’s the fucker,’ Twizell said. ‘A cunt of a climb. I pity those poor bastards of army trainees who probably had to go up it before breakfast, lunch and dinner.’



‘Did Kristie climb it?’



He laughed. ‘She tried. Got stuck two-thirds of the way there. I had to go up and around and throw her a rope.’



‘Game of her to try.’



‘She was game all right, and a very good root.’



We rejoined the track and moved forward. Twizell kept to the edge and the tree cover and I followed. I had the .38 in a shoulder holster under the denim vest I was wearing and I hoped it’d stay there, warm and cosy. Twizell was enjoying himself and exaggerated his watchful movements as we drew closer to where he said the cottage was. Still, he seemed to know the rudiments of a covert approach. He pulled back under the branches of a spreading eucalypt and pointed.



‘The cottage is just around this last bend. What do you want to do?’



‘Stop playing Hollywood heroes and go and see if they’re there.’



‘You’re no fun.’



A helicopter passed over and Twizell looked thoughtful. ‘Probably interested in chop-chop out here. They hide it in vineyards. Nice business to be in if you’ve got the protection.’



‘Business at hand, Jack,’ I said, ‘not your entrepreneurial future.’



We rounded the bend and walked into a large clearing in front of a green-painted fibro cottage with a brick chimney. I was reminded of the derelict Tanner house at Dudley, except that this showed signs of constant maintenance— weeds slashed, cement paths swept and windows intact. A big white SUV stood near the cottage with its rear hatch wide open.



‘Nice wheels,’ Twizell said. ‘Kristie’s riding high.’



We walked towards the cottage.



‘What does this guy do?’ Twizell asked.



I didn’t reply.



The cottage door opened and Templeton stepped outside.



‘One of the things he does,’ I said, ‘is stay alert and we’d better do the same.’



I raised a hand. ‘Gidday, Rod.’



‘Hardy,’ he said. ‘And this must be Johnnie Twizell.’



‘Jack,’ Twizell said. He moved forward and stuck out his hand. I could tell he was measuring Templeton for height, weight and capability. At that point I would’ve put my money on Rod, but Jack was tricky.



Templeton shook his hand casually while looking at me, evaluating. ‘Come to see Kristie, Hardy?’



‘That’s right.’



Templeton was wearing cord trousers, boots and a flannie over a Newcastle Knights T-shirt. He hadn’t shaved for a few days but his eyes were clear and he had the look you saw in some boxers, like Ali, and some AFL players, like James Hird—perfect balance. ‘How about you, Jack?’



Twizell shrugged but I judged that he’d wisely decided he’d be over-matched against Templeton. ‘Along for the ride. Just showing Hardy the way. Is Kristie here?’



‘She is. Are you hoping to make amends for what you did to her?’



‘Maybe just explain.’



‘Fair enough. C’mon on in.’



The door led straight into a large living room with poor lighting, a threadbare carpet and furniture that looked as though it had been scavenged from the back lanes of Newtown. Through the gloom I saw a passage leading to other rooms. It was a fair bet that the kitchen would have a wood stove—the era was right and the air had the right smell.