I thanked the man and rang off. I recalled that my own pastor, describing Pastor Reezall as a hothead, had suggested that sometimes he had not followed God, or that he had thought God wasn't acting fast enough.

I knew that my pastor didn't sleep until late, despite even his stroke and confinement to a wheelchair. I walked to his home, and found him at his desk still preparing his sermon for the following morning's service.

I briefed him on my enquiries into Pastor Reezall's murder. "You said that he might have felt God was not working fast enough. Something like that. And you said you had stopped giving money to his charity work. What did you mean by that?" Esther arrived with a cup of coffee.

"I am sorry, Johnny, but I am not going to speak ill of a colleague. I had my reasons." The table lamp created a halo around his head.

"But you stopped giving money for some reason. You had heard something?"

"No I hadn't. But I had certain feelings about Jim and his operations. That's all. God-given feelings, perhaps. Who knows?"

"And you thought that maybe he felt God wasn't working quickly enough?"

"Johnny, you know I always try to help you. So I said a few things the other day. I wanted to give you background to Jim's work, and how I regarded it. But I suspect you're reading too much into my words. I don't have any particular information that might help your enquiries."

"Did Pastor Reezall really trust God?" I persisted.

The pastor maneuvered his wheelchair until he directly faced me. He was silent for a time. Then he looked me in the eyes. "Do you trust God?"

I smiled. I wasn't going to let him catch me out this time. "Of course I do."

"If, God willing, you at last found your father-that has been your greatest prayer, hasn't it?-if you found him but he wasn't at all what you were expecting, would you still trust God?"

"We're getting into hypotheticals here."

"Think about it, Johnny." I waited, but the pastor had nothing more to say. I finished my coffee and left. As I walked home in the hot night air I thought about it.

Of course I knew to trust God. But can we always be sure about what God wants? How do we trust and follow someone with complete certainty if we cannot be really sure what he wants?

My pastor was an old man. He had spent several decades in the Northern Territory, working to help the Aboriginal people. He had helped start schools, clinics and churches. He had no doubt that he was doing God's work. Yet pick up any newspaper nowadays and it quickly becomes evident that a social crisis has engulfed our Aboriginal people. Who can possibly argue that conditions are better today than in the past?

My pastor had also worked all his life to promote Christianity in Australia. He believed unquestionably that he was doing God's work. Yet Australia is vastly more godless now than when he started.

So I could not help wondering whether my pastor-or any of us-really knows what God wants. Is it enough just to keep performing our good deeds and trusting all the time that whatever happens-good or bad-is His will? Might it not be the case that Christians in the West have become too smug and self-satisfied and weak even to hear God correctly?

In East Timor, when the enemy took our land, we fought back. It cost us dearly. Yet we won. Was God on our side? Were we doing God's work? I don't know.

But doesn't God expect us to fight for what is right? And I really mean fight.

CHAPTER TWENTY -THREE.

"That's pretty good client service, meeting you on a Sunday morning," I told Miriam. I had skipped church to drive with her to meet Go-Go Greene. "Somehow I imagined financial planners kept lawyers' hours."

"He said he has to be in the office to catch up on some work. He mentioned that he gets a lot more done on a Sunday when he doesn't have clients. So he'll see me briefly. It's lucky Sarah's staying with me, so I could leave Jonah with her."

"Briefly? But will he tell us anything?"

"I asked on the phone about my father's finances. He said it was confidential. He can't reveal details of a client. So we'll see. My father's dead. At some point he has to turn over all the papers to a lawyer. I had the feeling on the phone that he might talk to me if pushed."

"And if money's gone missing, big sums of money, money that was meant to go to charities, that's a police matter. He'll have to answer a lot of questions about what was happening to that money. I'm sure he doesn't want that. We might be able to put a bit of pressure on him."

"A bit of pressure on him. So that's how private detectives work. A bit of pressure. I wonder what that means."

"You hired me."

"I'm not sure that I hired you to intimidate people. I assume that's what a bit of pressure means."

We parked in the Yarra Boss main street and walked to the office. It was locked. We knocked on the door, but no one came.

"So much for pretty good client service," I muttered.

"He promised me," said Miriam. She banged on the door and the window.

"Do you know his number? Try phoning. He's not open for normal business. So maybe he's inside with the door locked but can't hear. Or maybe he hasn't arrived yet."

"I've got a card somewhere." She fished around in her handbag and pulled out a card and her cellphone. She phoned. "No answer. No message. Nothing. What a jerk. Are we supposed to just stand here waiting in this heat?"

She looked at the card again. "I wrote down his home number here. I'll try that." She phoned again. This time someone answered. She had a brief conversation, a puzzled look on her face.

"He's meant to be here," she said. "That was his wife. She said he told her he had an appointment today with me, so he should be here. She said to look for a green Prius parked somewhere. That's what he drives, apparently. Do you know what a Prius looks like?"

"That's it. Over there." I pointed to a car that was parked just a little up the road, near ours, by The Steeple wine bar. "So that should mean he hasn't run off with all his clients' funds."

"Maybe he popped out for a coffee. Or he's in the bathroom. Whatever." She tried banging on the door again. Still no one answered.

"This is strange," I said. "Very strange. I wonder if there's some kind of back entrance."

We walked past a few shops until we came to a tiny pathway between two of them. We went down it and came to what appeared to be some kind of narrow service road, running behind the row of shops. We walked back to what was almost certainly the financial planning office.

We knocked on the door. Nothing. I tried opening it and to my surprise it was unlocked. It swung open and I found myself in a tiny storeroom. Papers littered the floor.

I heard a muffled sound. I opened a door that led into Greene's office. And to my shock, there was Greene, lying on the ground, bound with cords, a gag across his mouth.

I tore off the gag.

"It was an old man," he gasped. "An old man named Grapper."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

I found scissors in a drawer of Greene's desk and sliced through his cords. Miriam located the bathroom and fetched him a glass of water.

"Do you need a doctor?" I asked. "An ambulance?"

He raised himself unsteadily to his feet and shook himself like a dog emerging from a swim. "No, he didn't do anything to me. Only tied me up." He was wearing jeans and what appeared to be a white golfing shirt, and looked to be in surprisingly good condition.

"Miriam's just called the police," I lied. "They'll be here soon. While we're waiting, what's this about Grapper?"

He sat at his desk and downed most of the water in a gulp. Miriam and I also sat. "He said that that's his name. Grapper. Something like that." I glanced at Miriam. She was clearly unsettled by this turn of events.

"What did he look like?" she asked.

"He was old. That's what got me. Like a pensioner. In his seventies. Shabby and unshaven. He started pushing his way inside, and when I resisted he had this incredible strength. He was amazingly strong for an old guy. And such a short guy."

"He was short?" I enquired.

"Maybe just a little taller than you. But very stocky."

"And his face?"

"What can I say? A round face, pretty weather-beaten, lots of lines.

When he was tying me up I noticed a long scar near one of his ears. And a deep, rough voice. I remember thinking that he was probably quite handsome when he was young, but now he just looked old."

"Bald? Thinning hair?"

"He was wearing a hat. A baseball hat, something like that. Orange and white, I think. I know there was some writing on the front of it, but I can't remember what it said."

I looked at Miriam. She shrugged. "Could be him," she muttered.

"I should call my wife," said Greene.

"You're okay," I said. "My advice is that you don't call her yet. If she hears what's happened she'll panic. Wait until you've talked to the police and then drive home and tell her. I'll drive you if you're still a bit shaken up. But it seems you're pretty much okay. Why frighten her? What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

He seemed to think this sound advice. Probably he wasn't thinking at all, and just agreed to whatever was being said to him.

"Now tell us what happened," I said.

"I was working on some of our accounts. Then someone knocked on the door. I assumed it was you." He looked towards Miriam. "You're Jim Reezall's daughter, right?" She nodded. "I wasn't expecting anyone else. I'm not open on Sundays. No one would even know I'm here. I opened the door and this old guy was waiting. I assumed he must be a client, although I didn't recognize him. We have a lot of pensioners. Except he looked pretty rough. I even thought he might be some kind of vagrant, though you don't normally see people like that on the streets of Yarra Boss. I started saying that he'd have to come back tomorrow, but he just barged in with this incredible strength and pulled a gun on me. He locked the door and then told me to sit down." With both hands he brushed at his hair.

"How did he know you were here? On a Sunday?"

"I'm sure he was following me from home. There was a car behind me all the way."

"But he didn't hurt you?"

"No, not at all."

"So what did he want?"

"He started asking a lot of questions. About Jim Reezall. I made a joke that I'd been expecting a woman named Miriam Reezall to be asking those questions. I don't think he appreciated that."

"What did he say?"

"He said he'd be meeting her soon enough." From the corner of my eye I saw Miriam put a hand to her mouth. "But anyway, he wanted to know where all Jim's money had gone. He said he needed it. That's why he came to the office."

"And what did you tell him?"

The man paused.

I thought fast. "Go-Go," I said, using his given name for the first time. "Something big is going on. The police are involved already, and they're going to be even more involved now that this guy has attacked you. I'm trying to solve the pastor's murder. I don't care about anything you've been doing. I'm not out to get you. But it's pretty clear that something has been going on with you and the pastor. He's been investing lots of money with you. Money that was meant to go into his charities. It's been diverted to you. There could be a major fraud investigation."

I stood and paced the small room, hoping to add some drama to my words. Greene was sitting hunched at his desk.

"I'm going to find out what's been happening," I continued. "And you're involved whether you like it or not. This is a police matter. It's going to be in the papers. The best thing you can do is tell me everything, and I'll do all I can to keep your name out of it. I'm not out to get you. But this guy Grapper-he might be back. I'm trying to stop him. I need to know everything. So, first of all, what was your connection with Pastor Reezall?"

For some reason he seemed to think all this made sense.

"Jim came to me right out of the blue last year. He was living locally, and it seems someone gave him my details. He told me bluntly that he needed big money urgently. He said he had to make a big payment, and didn't have the money."

"Why did he need this money?"

"He didn't tell me that."

"Weren't you curious?"

"No. These things are none of my business. Most of my clients are investing for the future, or for something important like buying a house. But I also have clients who want to make big money quickly. I don't ask them why."

"So you put him into your carbon offsets."

"No, no, of course not. Those give you a steady long-term income, but they're not for making big money quickly. Anyway, he didn't own any trees. He didn't own any property, from what he told me." He looked around his windowless office. "Why are the police taking so long? There's no crime in Yarra Boss. They should be here immediately."

"My guess is that the local station is unmanned on a Sunday. They might have to send people from Healesville. Maybe even from Melbourne. Anyway, what sort of investment did you recommend to the pastor?"

"I said that buying shares on margin was one of the quickest ways to make money quickly."

I recalled Rohan talking to me about that. He said that Greene had specialized in this type of investment when he was in working in Western Australia. "Buying on margin?"

"It just means borrowing to buy shares. If you buy the right shares, they'll go up. And because you're using borrowed money your profits can be huge."

"And if the shares go down?"

"Yes, that's the trouble. I explained all the risks to him. I had to. It's the law. He said he understood, and he signed all the papers to confirm that he understood all the risks. But then the market crashed. His shares sank. And unfortunately when you buy on margin there are certain trigger points."

"Trigger points?"

"You've borrowed money to buy the shares. So if they fall in price below a certain level you effectively have to repay part of your loan. Not all, but part. If you don't, then the lender sells some of the shares. And of course they're being sold at way less than you paid for them. So unless you have a financial base to see you through a big market downturn-to repay part of your margin loan without being forced to sell your shares-you can be wiped out. And that's essentially what happened to Jim."