We retraced our steps and walked to the nearest cafe. Wakefield asked to see my contract. He looked through it quickly and took out a silver pen and a chequebook.
Very professional,' he said.
Hold on. You were going to fill me in some more before we signed up.'
I've never met anyone so reluctant to get his hands on serious money. Okay, to pick up from where we left off-a man with something to hide and wealthy people aboard the ship.'
Go on.'
One of the passengers was a man named Daniel Abrahams. A Jew, of course, he was born in America and had spent some time in South Africa. I can't begin to tell you how difficult it has been to trace his story through various sources but the upshot is this-he found diamonds in South Africa about ten years before anyone else. He'd been hired to prospect for them by one of the companies that eventually established the huge diamond mines in that country, but he ... broke faith with them. He failed to report his discovery, took a large cache of diamonds and fled to England.'
Bloody diamonds,' I said.
Excuse me?'
They've caused more trouble in the world than they're worth.'
If you say so. The point is, Abrahams seems to have thought he was in danger in England and he took a ship to Australia.'
I'd ordered coffee. Wakefield ignored it when it arrived and went on with his story.
Abrahams was aboard the Dunbar with a fortune in diamonds in his possession. He was in one of the premium cabins and Twizell was right there beside him. Both were single; they would have hobnobbed.'
I drank some coffee. I feel you're stretching things a bit.'
Not so. Almost everything I've said is documented.'
Almost.'
Just listen. Twizell's son owned three ships. How did he acquire them?'
You tell me.'
From his father, who bought them on the proceeds of selling Daniel Abraham's diamonds.'
A fifty-year-old man swam ashore when the waves were smashing the boat to bits?'
No. He left the ship at Bega when she offloaded a sick passenger. I believe that was Twizell.'
There was an inquiry, wasn't there? Was this mentioned?'
Who was there to mention it?'
The survivor.'
He wasn't asked.'
People at Bega.'
Ah, there you have it. An obscure report in a local newspaper about a sick passenger being transferred to a whaling vessel at the mouth of the bay.'
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?'