"But didn't you want to get married? Make your father happy?"

"I think that marrying Grapper would have made my father even angrier. One of his friends. His own age. Twenty-five years older than me, or whatever. Actually, I don't even know his exact age."

"And Grapper was happy to have a child at that age?"

"After I got pregnant I was able to contact him. He's not an easy man to find. He moves around a lot. I got in touch and told him I was pregnant with his baby. He wrote and said he couldn't come back to Australia."

"Come back?"

"He's Australian. Didn't you know?"

"No I didn't. I only met him once, and we didn't talk much. And probably it was all in whispers. I'm pretty good with accents now, but at that time I doubt that I would have recognized an Australian accent. And I remember that he even spoke a few words of my native language. But why can't he come to Australia?"

"It seems he has problems here. I don't know what kind..."

"Maybe a string of Australian mistresses."

She laughed. "Maybe that's it." I had been trying to make her angry, but it seemed she relished the notion of being one of a string of mistresses. "He's a real man of mystery. I had the most exciting three weeks of my life with him and now I've got beautiful Jonah. But we never had any sort of future together. It's better that he can't come here."

"So he's never met Jonah?"

"No, never."

"Does he try to support him? Do you send photos? Christmas cards?"

"No, no and no. I've completely lost contact. I think my father still saw him now and again. But it seems Grapper has no interest in Jonah. That's sad, I guess, but really, in some ways it suits me. I can look after myself. I have a good salary. Marriage with Grapper would never have worked. And I'm happy that I don't have to share Jonah and fight Grapper for custody. It sometimes seems that half my friends have been involved in custody battles at some point in their lives. That's not fun."

She went silent. I brooded on all this. "Did he ever tell you any details about when he visited East Timor to supply guns?"

"He had so many stories." She thought. "Yes, I think it was East Timor. He told me how the first time he went there he met the commander of the freedom fighters." She laughed. "He said this guy was so uptight and rigid and unbending that it seemed he was walking around with his rifle stuck up his backside. He told me he was the most humorless guy he'd ever met, that he..." Suddenly she paused and put her hand to her mouth. "Oh Johnny, I'm sorry. Was it you? It must have been. I wasn't thinking..."

"Yes, it must have been me," I muttered.

I had come here seeking clues concerning the pastor's slaying. Instead I had learned far more than I ever expected about Miriam. I changed the subject. "Your father's attack on the financial planner, during his radio show, it's so vague. But right now it's about all we have to go on."

"I can't think why my father would have any connection with a financial planning firm. He's never had any money of his own. He doesn't even have superannuation or private health insurance or anything like that, as far as I know. He always said God would look after him."

I shrugged. "Families are complicated. I've come from talking to my own pastor. He thinks we put too much emphasis on family. He said it leads us away from God."

"I think having a pastor as a father led me away from God. Have you heard of Philip Larkin?"

I shook my head.

"He was a famous British poet. We do a bit of his stuff in the students' final year of school. But one of his most famous poems we don't do, although it seems some of the kids already know it. It says: 'They mess you up, your mum and dad'. Except that he doesn't use the word 'mess' but another word, beginning with f, that I'm not going to say. And then the poem says that your parents pass on all their faults to their kids. That's what happened to me. With my dad. He messed me up. And it's what I'm trying so hard to avoid with Jonah. He doesn't need a dad who'll mess him up. He's better off without Grapper."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"Don't forget. Today is another day of total fire ban. And we have reports of another outbreak, two miles north of the town. The latest news is that it's under control, but we'll keep you posted."

The announcement from Boss Radio came just as I rounded a sharp bend and spotted a funnel of smoke, somewhere in the far distance, above all the trees. It gave the appearance of a miniature white tornado, twisting slowly through the still air to the sky. I wondered if experts could look at the smoke and discern something about the fire, the way that meteorologists could decipher clouds.

Thanks to some intense study of the Melway book of maps I was now confidently maneuvering my way through the twisting lanes that linked Healesville with Yarra Boss. I had also succeeded in locating Boss Radio on my car audio and was listening to a woman announcer who played hip hop music that was even more in-your-face than Rad's program. Did anyone actually listen to this station?

I arrived at Yarra Boss and quickly discerned that the main street was considerably more alluring at night, when all the restaurants were brightly lit and patrons spilled out onto the footpaths. Now, in the bright sunlight, it could be just another Melbourne suburban street, albeit one with a farm supplies store at one end, and a preponderance of antique stores and upmarket drinking spots.

Certainly it was a strange mix. Many of the buildings-such as the one housing the farm supplies store-were new. But others were old stone structures that spoke of an earlier age and revealed a grand heritage. One greystone building had engraved above the door 'National Bank.' But it had been transformed into a restaurant. Then there was the gracious old stone church, now The Steeple wine bar.

I couldn't help wondering about this place. Some perfunctory online research at home that morning suggested that Yarra Boss was once a dignified country town, dedicated to serving the prosperous farmers of the region. Hence the stately old buildings. So how would the farmers of old have regarded this transformation of their town into an expensive watering hole for lawyers and stockbrokers who come here to frolic after tours of the Yarra Valley wineries during the day?

For that matter, how did the farmers of today regard the change? I guess they welcomed it. I certainly didn't see any protest signs. Presumably the visitors brought welcome money to the town.

Go-Go Greene Financial was a few doors down from farm supplies, just past a new age store with scented candles and tarot cards in the window. A large green sign with the name written in some kind of ornate calligraphy hung above the street, but a black curtain slung across the window prevented people from peering inside.

Attached to the window were posters. "Nuclear Power Is Going To Blow Up The Planet," said one. Another featured a photo of world leaders with the slogan: "We're Sorry. We Could Have Stopped Climate Change, But We Didn't."

I pushed open the door and entered a space like a doctor's waiting room, only much smaller, with just a couple of seats and a low table with some magazines. On one wall was a large Perspex holder full of brightly colored brochures, and on another were more posters. A prim-looking middle-aged lady sat at a desk. She was wearing a smart knee-length cotton skirt, and I could easily envisage her as a teacher at Miriam's school. She looked up from her computer. "Good afternoon."

"Johnny Ravine," I said. "I phoned this morning. I have an appointment."

With efficiency she checked an appointments book, then stood and walked out through a door that was behind her. She returned almost immediately. "Please go in."

Now I found myself in a spacious suite, with a large antique desk, four chairs and shelves of books. It seemed more like the chambers of a prosperous city barrister. To complete the impression, the stocky, balding man who rose to shake my hand was wearing what appeared to be tweed trousers, a pink shirt and a polka dot bow tie. I couldn't even begin to wonder what sort of impression he made on the laid-back Yarra Boss greenies.

I handed him my card. He glanced at it and smiled. It was a cheesy smile that seemed to veer between unctuous oiliness and hearty salutation, as if the man himself could not decide which was the required facial tone for his new guest. "A private detective. We don't get many of them." An even bigger smile. "In fact, you're the first. But I understand you're not here to open an account but to ask questions. So I don't need to ask you to sign any disclosure documents."

He handed me his card, and beckoned me to a seat. He sat at his desk. I looked at the card. All it said, in large green letters, was Go-Go Greene Financial, in the same calligraphy as the writing on the outdoor hoarding.

I looked at him. His piggy eyes peered back at me with what appeared to be cool indifference. "I'm a little confused," I said. "Go-Go Greene? Is that you or is that your business?"

"Go-Go Greene Financial is the business. And I'm Go-Go Greene."

"You're Go-Go Greene?"

He nodded.

"That's your name?"

A look of horror suddenly flashed across his face. He slapped the side of his head. "Oh no. Don't tell me. You've got the same name. I thought I was unique." Then he smiled. "No, I forgot. You're..." He looked at my card. "You're Johnny Ravine."

"But it's your real name?"

"Ah ha! Well done. Well spotted." He tapped his nose with his forefinger. "No wonder you're a private detective. Can't put one across you. Actually I changed it. So it is my real name. But not my original name."

"And that's what people call you? Go-Go?"

"My good friends call me Go."

I was getting nowhere. "It's about Pastor Jim Reezall. You know that he died on Monday night."

"Yes, I heard that. Local people are very upset. We are all aware of how vulnerable we are to bushfires. The Yarra Valley is one of the most fire-prone regions in the world."

"Someone poured petrol around his house."

"Yes, so I heard. There's a lot of consternation in Yarra Boss. The fire spread so quickly. A lot of trees were burnt."

"Is there consternation that someone was murdered? That the police are looking for a killer?"

"Of course, Mr"-he looked again at my card-"Ravine. We are human beings. But it also spread incredibly fast. It was night, when it should have been cooler and a little more humid. And there was no wind. Imagine what would have happened if there'd been a strong wind, which is often the case around here in summer?"

"It's the murder side of things that I'm here to talk about. I understand that Pastor Reezall was a client of yours." This was bluff. I actually understood no such thing. In fact, Miriam had told me her father had no money. But then why would he be attacking this financial planner on his radio program?

The man paused for a long time. He scratched his chubby nose and appeared to be thinking. "He was a client," he said at last. "But you understand that I can't discuss his affairs."

I ignored that. "How long had he been a client?"

The man hesitated. "I'd have to check the files, but certainly less than a year."

"Do you have many pastors as clients?"

The man smiled. "Come on, Mr Ravine. You can do better than that. You know I can't talk about my client list. I'm under no obligation to do so. Certainly not to you. But I don't mind telling you that we don't have any others, although we do have lots of clients of very limited means. We are a local business, trying to help anyone who lives around here. Even pensioners and others who need to sort out their financial affairs-superannuation and all that-we're happy to help them."

"So what was the nature of Pastor Reezall's business with you?"

"That, Mr Ravine, is confidential. I can't discuss it with outsiders."

"But he is dead."

"So I shall provide the necessary details to his lawyer, when required."

"You may be required to provide them to the police. This is a murder investigation."

"I shall do what I have to do. But you are not the police, and you must understand that I cannot reveal details to anyone else."

"I have been told that Pastor Reezall had nothing. And I mean nothing. He lived off gifts from church supporters. He didn't have superannuation. Why on earth would he need to use a financial planner?"

"Mr Ravine. I am sorry, but I cannot give that information."

"We are trying to catch a murderer here. Perhaps he had some assets we don't know about. Something that someone was interested in? His daughter has asked me to investigate. You must know his assets. You need those when you draw up a financial plan. Did he own anything that might have attracted a thief?"

"I shall provide all information to lawyers and to the police-whatever I am legally obliged to do. But there are issues of confidentiality here. I appreciate that you say you are working for his daughter, but my responsibilities are to Jim Reezall, to his estate and to the police perhaps, but not to you."

I changed the topic. "You know that Pastor Reezall had a radio program? On Boss Radio. Your local station."

"Yes, I knew that. I must have listened all of once or twice. For at least two minutes each time."

"You know he was attacking you."

"Me? Attacking me?"

"Attacking this company. Over the past week or so. Before his death. On Wednesday night last week he said that there's a company in Yarra Boss called Go-Go Greene Financial, and he asked what will happen when the regulators find out what they're doing."

"And what will the regulators do?"

"That's what you clearly need to answer."

"He must have said something more than that, Mr Ravine. A few clues, perhaps..."

"The next night, Thursday, he said he had been hoping you might have been listening to him and responded with goodwill."

"Listening to him? Gosh-oh-golly. If I don't know that he's going to talk about me then I'm not going to be listening, am I? Does he think the whole of Yarra Boss is tuned in, hanging on his every word?"

I actually suspected the pastor might have imagined exactly that.

"He was on really late, wasn't he?" asked Greene. "Midnight, or something..."

"Eleven o'clock."

"Whatever. I'm normally in bed by then. I get up at five o'clock each morning to meditate. And I doubt that many other people were listening."

"And then on the Friday night, his last program before he was killed, he said that God would judge your company."

"Oh my goodness."

"With fire."

A thin and unpleasant smile flickered across his pudgy face. "Well, talk about irony..."

"What did he mean when he suggested the regulators might be interested in you?"

"In happier circumstances I would say that you'll have to ask him. So all I can say is that I have no idea."

"The pastor attacked you. Your company, by name. Suggested you are in trouble. And a few days later he is murdered. Do you not find that troubling? Aren't you a bit nervous about the implications people might draw? Why should he be saying these things?"

"Perhaps we shall never know."

I waited, but it seemed clear that I was going to learn nothing more. I stood to leave. "Thank you Mr Greene," I said. I could not bring myself to address him as Go-Go.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.