"Yeah, roughly. Depends on the traffic."

"Will you leave now? I'm sure I'll be finished by the time you arrive. I'll be needing some company after talking about the funeral."

"I'll be as quick as I can."

We rang off. I wolfed down the remainder of my breakfast and set off in the car. Many thoughts flashed through my brain concerning the emails, and unfortunately most of them were not pleasant.

Much of Pastor Reezall's work involved young people in Asia. He apparently made frequent trips to the orphanages. Was some sexual scandal about to emerge? Something involving the pastor and children? Had there been a long period of sexual misconduct? Did some aggrieved victim, now an adult, travel to Australia with the express purpose of killing the pastor? It would certainly be one explanation for what had happened.

I tried to think about the pastor. I still knew relatively little about him. He was tough, dogged, outspoken. What about his relationship with women? Miriam said his wife-Miriam's mother-died about five years earlier. I vaguely recalled that "docile" was the word Miriam had used to describe this lady. Were there other women in his life-women in Asia? Was a blackmail scandal about to explode?

I was on the Maroondah Highway approaching Healesville when I heard a siren behind me. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a couple of fire engines bearing down on me. I pulled over and let them pass. I wondered if Rad might be on one. Probably not. He was based at Yarra Boss. I scanned the horizon, but could see no smoke. I hoped it was something minor.

No cars were outside Miriam's house, and I presumed the funeral people had left. I walked to the door and she quickly arrived. I kissed her cheek and she led me to the kitchen.

"Johnny, I'm so happy to see you. I've been talking about the funeral. I couldn't help getting weepy again. I'm crying more often now than when I first heard the news. And I've got Jonah home today. He's playing computer games. He says he's got a stomachache. Actually, he's a mummy's boy." She smiled. "I think he's fine. But he could see that I was upset, and so he thinks he has to stay home. To look after me."

I waited for her to explain the reason for summoning me.

"Those emails have really shaken me up," she said. "I still can't believe it."

I raised my eyebrows, encouraging her to keep talking.

"It's the orphanages," she said. "That my father established."

Oh no, I thought.

"There are a dozen of them, as far as I know. In seven countries. Well, yesterday I sent emails to six of them, those I could find the email addresses for, telling them that my father had died. Saying that I wasn't sure of what financial arrangements he had with them, but that I would do all I could to make sure that my father's money would continue to reach them. But that there might be some delays."

She stood, appeared to be planning to take something from a cupboard, but then sat down again.

"Well, this morning, I turned on the computer to check my email. And there were four messages, from four of the orphanages. They all said essentially the same thing. That they'd received hardly any money for years. That my father almost never visited them. That they existed thanks to the generosity of other donors."

A financial scandal. Not sexual. Thanks goodness for that. "Four emails?"

"Four. Each saying pretty much the same thing."

"I guess there wasn't as much money coming in as everyone assumed."

"There was a lot of money coming in. Lots. I saw it when I was involved with his charities. I've no reason to think that it had diminished. Quite the opposite. He had money coming in from all over the world."

"Well, he wasn't spending it in Australia, from what I can see. But what about overseas. Maybe he was staying at posh hotels. Flying first class. Eating at the top restaurants."

"No. I know he wasn't. Look, I'm sure he was getting one or even two hundred thousand dollars a year. A huge amount of money. I wouldn't be able to spend that much on myself every year. He certainly couldn't. I know where he stayed. He didn't know the meaning of good food. He would never spend money on himself. Or on his wife or daughters," she added bitterly.

I looked at Miriam. "A mistress? Lots of mistresses? In various countries?"

"Johnny, the idea is just laughable. I simply cannot believe it."

"A lot of people have secrets that surprise those closest to them."

"I wouldn't believe it anyway, but certainly not now. Not at his age."

I thought hard, but was stuck for answers. "Can I see the emails?"

"Of course."

She led me to her spare bedroom, full of boxes, books and a table with a computer. She brought up her email inbox.

"Here, look." She double-clicked on one message. "This is from India."

I read.

Dear Miss Reezall, Thank you for your email. We are sorry to hear the news about your father. Our condolences to you. Although your father was actively involved in the establishment of our ministry we seldom saw him in recent years. He came occasionally, and seemed to welcome the chance to have his photo taken with the children at our orphanage, but he had given very little money.

I read another, from the Philippines: Hi Miriam Reezall. My sincere condolences concerning the sad news about your father. He was a great man, and I have many happy memories of working with him when he founded our orphanage. However, as you will know, he withdrew from active support some years ago. Nevertheless, it was always a delight to meet again when he paid us occasional visits, usually with some small gifts, and he seemed to enjoy the chance to pose for photographs with our children.

Two more were in similar vein. I looked at Miriam. "I don't know what to make of this."

She raised her eyebrows. "And neither do I."

"I think I should try to talk to some of those people. Do you have any phone numbers?"

"I've got a file of stuff related to my father's work. Most of it's from eleven years ago. I really struggled to find the email addresses. For some of the places I had to do Google searches. I think you might need to do the same, to get the phone numbers."

"How many orphanages was your father associated with? Twelve, you said?"

"When I was involved eleven years ago it was twelve. It seems it's probably still the same as far as I can make out from his latest fund-raising pamphlets. But I could only find half-a-dozen email addresses." She handed me a pink cardboard folder. "It's all in here."

I opened the folder. A pile of papers was inside. On top was a list of a dozen institutions. Miriam pointed to it. "That's the list I made up last night. All the places I knew my father had been involved with. Addresses, phone numbers, email addresses for six of them. I've emailed those six. The others I'll have to write a letter to." Miriam might have imagined herself to be a carefree, footloose, devil-may-care woman, but at times like this her true-and, to me, very attractive-schoolteacher character shone through: methodical, organized, disciplined and diligent.

I scanned the list. Twelve institutions around Asia. Dili Children's Home in East Timor. His House Children's Village in Thailand. Little Lambs House in India. And more, in four other countries.

"I'd like to phone as many of them as possible," I said. "Do you mind if I run up a few overseas calls on your phone bill?"

"Of course not. I want to find out what's going on. And I need to do some shopping. The kitchen cupboards are empty. And with Jonah at home it's awkward. Johnny, can I ask you another favor? Could you look after him, while I shop?"

"Of course. I'd be happy to." I meant it.

She led me to the living room. Jonah was in his pajamas and dressing gown playing with a Sony Playstation. "That's normally just for special occasions," said Miriam quickly. "But today he's very sick." She flashed a sly smile at me. Then she went and gave Jonah a kiss. "Be back in forty minutes, sweetie. Johnny will look after you."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

I saw Miriam to the front door, then rejoined Jonah. "What's the game?"

Without taking his eyes of the screen he muttered: "Spider-Man."

I knew little about computer games. "Got a high score?"

"Yeah," he muttered, again without looking at me. I could take a hint. I turned to walk out of the room, but then he said: "I'm almost at the next level. I've never been there before."

I smiled. "So being sick has advantages. You get to play for a long time."

He didn't answer. I wanted to prolong the conversation-if that's what it could be called. "What happens at the next level?"

"I'm not sure." He was muttering again.

"Sounds pretty difficult."

"It's getting a bit boring. But Mum won't let me play anything with too much blood and violence."

"Mums know best. Maybe we can play Spider-Man together some time. You'd have to teach me."

"Yeah, two people can play this game. But Mum never wants to play."

So that was how to form a relationship with a ten-year-old boy. "Mate, I'm going to your mum's spare bedroom to make some phone calls. Do you need anything? Something to drink? A snack?"

"No thank you."

"Okay. Give a shout if you need anything."

I walked to the computer room and opened Miriam's folder again. I riffled through the contents and pulled out a brochure that contained several photos of the pastor posing with kids at orphanages in several countries.

He was a man of medium height, strongly built, beaming in one of the photos, serious in the others. He looked intelligent and caring. But devious? Dishonest? A crook? No, it was impossible to discern that or much else from these blurred, amateur snaps. In fact, it was hard to make out much detail. Fund-raising literature for Christian charities tended to be produced cheaply, so as not to offend potential donors who resented their money being spent on something flashy. Blurry photos were the norm.

The first phone number was Little Lambs House in India. I read again the email that Miriam had received, then I phoned. I asked for Mr Gupta, the director and the sender of the email. I had forgotten about time differences, but I was in luck. Mr Gupta lived on the premises and was eating breakfast. I explained why I was calling.

"I am sorry that Mr Reezall has died," said the man in a soft, sing-song voice. "I believe that he helped start this orphanage many years ago. Before I was here. Last night I looked at some of the old photos on the walls of our conference room, and I found him. This was thirty years ago."

"So how long have you been the director?"

"About ten years."

"And have you been supported by Pastor Reezall's charity?"

"No. Hardly at all. I think every year there has been a little money coming from him. Perhaps a thousand dollars. But that's all. Most of our support comes from churches in the United States."

"Pastor Reezall used to mention your orphanage as one of the places that he managed. That was how he raised money. From people who thought that he ran all these places like yours."

"He was deceiving them."

"I think it's possible he even used photos of your orphanage in his pamphlets, trying to raise money."

"We never received that money."

"Have you met him?"

"No. Never."

"Did you know that he was using your name and photo on his material?"

"No."

"So you wouldn't know what was happening to the money?"

"It wasn't coming to us."

"But he was supporting you for a while?"

"My predecessor told me that Pastor Reezall was a generous man who worked very hard to help establish Little Lambs House. But it seems that at some point he said that he was no longer able to provide further funds."

"Did he say why?"

"I don't know. I was just a student then."

"How long ago was this?"

"Oh, probably at least twenty years ago."

"It must have been quite a blow. Having the money suddenly stop."

"Perhaps he phased it out gradually. I'm not certain. But we are used to operating on little."

"And you don't know what he was doing with the money?"

"I have no idea. No idea at all."

I thanked him and tried Tears of Hope and Grace in the Philippines. The director, who sent the email, was not available. I spoke to a member of his staff.

"I thought he died many years ago," she said. "I know that it was a long time ago that we stopped getting much money from him."

"Did he say why he was stopping? What he planned to do with the money?"

"I wasn't working here then. Actually I was here. I was raised here. I'm one of the orphans. But I don't know why he stopped giving money."

"You were raised there. You must have met the pastor."

"Oh yes, when I was little. He often visited. He was a very kind man. Very funny. Always telling funny stories. And giving out lots of presents. We always loved it when he came. I have many happy memories of Pastor Reezall. I am so sorry that he has died. Though as I explained, I thought he died many years ago."

I tried Joy House in Malaysia and heard the same. At His House Children's Village in Thailand a man with little English managed to tell me that they had been nearly forced to close when the pastor's money diminished to a trickle.

I heard Jonah in the kitchen. I walked in. He was pouring himself a glass of orange juice.