by Martin Roth
“You can trust the police. This looks like murder. They’ll be doing all they can.”
“It’d make me happy if you were also investigating.”
“Yep. Sure.” I paused. “Though I have to say that I actually know very little about your father. It’s mainly stuff that you’ve told me over the past few months.”
“That’s not a good start, is it? I don’t think I told you anything good.” She actually smiled. “And I don’t even have a photo on display to show you. I’m not a good daughter, am I?”
I ignored that. “He ran lots of orphanages, as I understand it. In Asia. Including even East Timor.”
She sipped at her tea. I could see that her eyes were still damp. “He was a man of action. He was always very impatient. Always wanting to get things done. He was a great organizer. He was a pastor in a church when Sarah and I were young. But I think he found that too restricting. He was a big-picture man. So he started an orphanage in Asia. I forget where the first one was.”
“Possibly Thailand. I think that’s what you told me.”
“Yes. Maybe Thailand. I think he was trying to help Christian refugees from Burma. It was supported by his church. But then he realized that his strength—his gift, I guess it was—was to start and run orphanages. Not to be pastor of a church. He began setting up more. Right now there’s a dozen.”
I devoured another cracker and cheese. I reflected on how I would need to grill myself a steak when I got back home. “So who killed him? You’re going to have to give me something to go on.”
“Some clues for the private detective.” She flashed another brief smile, and I recalled one of the reasons I’d been so attracted to her when we first met. It was a cheeky, almost coquettish smile that suggested a warm and vibrant personality beneath the bossy and disciplined schoolteacher exterior. “Okay. Have you been listening to his radio programs recently?”
“I’ve never listened. What is it called—Boss Radio?” She nodded. “I’d never heard of it until you told me a while ago that your dad had his own show. I tried to listen, but where I live, Box Hill, you can’t pick it up. I think it’s just a local community station for people out here in the Yarra Valley. It seems to have pretty weak transmission.”
“I used to listen sometimes to his program. Not that I enjoyed it. It was this old-fashioned, heavy religious stuff. But I wanted to make sure he was still okay.”
“And he said something unusual?”
“Last week I noticed a few times that his programs seemed a little hard and bitter. He was angry. He was always angry. But usually he was sarcastic. Or aggressive. But this time he was just angry.”
“About the world? Sin?”
“About a financial planning company in Yarra Boss. ”
“You’re joking. On a Christian radio program?”
“Exactly. Go-Go Greene Financial they’re called. They do seminars around the place. About environmentally friendly investing. They’re quite active. Some of the teachers at school have put money with them. He seemed to be accusing them of something.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t really know. It was a bit oblique. And I wasn’t listening hard. His program was on so late, and I was usually in bed or marking essays or something. I only listened because I wanted to check that he was okay.”
Suddenly she looked at her watch. “Johnny. I forgot. Jonah’s going to be back any moment. I’d rather…you know, if you don’t mind. I have to tell him. I think it’s better if no one else is here.”
“I understand.” I stood.
She looked up at me. “Hold me for just a moment, please Johnny.” She also stood, and I took her in my arms. She was the same height as me. I thought we might be about to kiss, but she placed her head on my shoulder.
For about thirty seconds I held her tight. Then she looked at me. “Thank you, Johnny. I needed that.” She smiled.
We walked to the front door.
“Call me any time,” I said. “If you need to talk. Or if you find out any more. And I’ll let you know what I find out.” I kissed her on the cheek and walked to my car. Holding her like that had been so good. She said she needed it. But I knew I needed it too.
I sat in the car and thought about Jonah, and I felt a tinge of envy. Jonah and his mother were about to share a moment of emotional intensity. Nowadays I seldom felt emotional intensity of any kind, and certainly not with a woman.
But I also felt sadness. From the little that I knew, it seemed that Jonah, like me, had never met his father. In addition, he had had something of an estranged relationship with his grandfather, the murdered pastor, even though they lived just a twenty-minute drive apart. Jonah was a fine kid—surely as fine a young man as was possible for a ten year old, thanks to a great mother—but he needed a father. I wanted to fulfill that role. Part of my desire for a relationship with Miriam was based on Jonah. I wanted to help him.
A silver Mazda 3 hatchback arrived and parked in front of me. A trim young lady wearing jeans and a white cotton blouse got out. It seemed she had several kids in the car. She opened one of the back doors and I recognized Jonah. He was a slightly stocky boy, unlike his mother, but he had her pale features, freckles and brown hair.
I watched as the lady led Jonah up the pathway to the front door. Miriam opened it and the two women talked briefly. The visitor was clearly offering condolences. Then Jonah walked inside the house, and Miriam closed the door. The lady drove off.
In my church we had a number of single mums, and I sometimes made the effort to become something of a surrogate dad to their sons. But it was difficult. Your motives were suspect. In East Timor, a man meeting a young boy for the first time will give him a big hug, pick him up, ruffle his hair and perhaps engage in some play boxing. Try doing the same in Australia and you risk finding the police and child protection authorities on your doorstep.
So, sitting in my car I decided that I was going to solve this mystery. I would be doing it as much for Jonah as for Miriam.
CHAPTER FIVE
I was lost.
Boss Radio was said to operate out of the local community center building. The radio station’s own website told me the center was right next to a park in Redgum Place, which veered off from the Yarra Boss main road, near a gas station.
In a moment of carelessness that would have seen me booted out of the private eye academy if there were such an institution, I had somehow neglected to bring my Melway street directory with me.
I’d driven up and down the main street several times, tried a succession of side roads and even driven around a couple of parks. But no Redgum Place, no community center and no Boss Radio.
Pastor Reezall used to broadcast for thirty minutes from eleven o’clock each weekday night. I wanted to talk to the guy doing the program before him. According to the website, this was a two-hour show from nine o’clock called In Your Face Radio.
I’d phoned the station, but no one answered, so here I was. My plan was to arrive fifteen minutes before the program began, to locate and talk to Mr In-Your-Face. His name was Rad Blacken. Now I was ten minutes late, and the show was presumably on air, although of that I could not be sure, as I had not been able to locate the frequency on my car radio.
The good news was that even at 9.10pm Yarra Boss was buzzing. Was this the town that never sleeps? The main street comprised about two-dozen buildings, and it seemed every second one of them was a restaurant of some kind. On this hot evening the footpaths were lined with tables and chairs, and dozens of patrons, most in shorts and T-shirts, were eating and drinking outdoors.
This wasn’t at all what I was expecting. I knew that the Yarra Valley, east of Melbourne, was one of Australia’s premier wine regions, and a small industry of restaurants, wine bars and gourmet food stores had sprung up in local townships like Healesville and Yarra Glen. Not that that meant anything to me. I didn’t drink, and preferred a steak or a hamburger to food that required a university languages degree to pronounce,
I parked outside a small bluestone church. Except that it wasn’t a church any longer. It was now a wine bar named The Steeple. As I strolled inside I couldn’t help reflecting on how blisteringly hot it remained even at this late hour. Scarier still, even though the fire that killed Pastor Reezall had been twenty-four hours earlier, and at least a mile from the shops, a strong smoke aroma lingered in the air.
The Steeple was packed. Drinkers and diners sat crowded at half a dozen tables, and on tall seats at a long counter near the entrance. The air conditioners must have been turned to their strongest setting, as the place was pleasantly cool. It certainly looked nothing like a church. How the pastors of a bygone time must have yearned for a spirited congregation like this. Or perhaps not.
A young waiter in jeans and a smart white shirt, buttoned at the top, approached. “Looking for a pew?”
I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be funny. “Redgum Place?” I enquired loudly. “Boss Radio? It’s meant to be right near here. What’s the quickest way?”
He shrugged. “I live out at Healesville. I don’t know the streets around here too well. Try the manager. Over there at the cash register. She’s a local.”
I looked. The manager was a well-dressed and heavily made-up blonde lady with olive skin in her forties or fifties who was chatting with a couple of departing customers. I paused as a group of new diners pushed past, then walked over. She regarded me expectantly.
“I’m lost,” I said in a loud voice, hoping she heard me above the din. “I’m meant to be at Boss Radio. In Redgum Place. But I can’t find it.”
She smiled. “You won’t, sweetheart. Redgum Place disappeared six months ago. Part of that new town bypass that’s under construction. A lovely park went too, along with the community center.” She looked to be soft and plump and motherly, but her voice was husky, as if she existed on bourbon and cigars. “Where did you get your information from?”
“The Boss Radio website.”
“A website? Something inaccurate on the internet? Now that’s hard to believe, isn’t it? It’s usually so totally reliable.” I smiled with her. “That radio station is run by volunteers. The website probably hasn’t been updated since 2002. And of course you phoned, but no one answered.” I nodded.
She pointed out the door to the main road. “They’ve built a new community center. Boss Radio’s there. It’s in a side street, right behind that big farm supplies store over the road. You can walk there.”
I thanked her and turned to leave, but she hadn’t finished. “What do you want with Boss Radio at this time of night?”
“There was a fire last night. Not far from here. A guy died. Pastor Jim Reezall. He used to have a late-night show on Boss Radio, and I’m hoping to find out a bit more about him. Did you know him?”
Her face seemed to harden. “He had that show. After Rad’s.”
“Did you listen to it?”
“Not if I could help it.”
“It was a religious program, wasn’t it?”
She busied herself preparing a customer’s bill which she handed to a waiter, then looked back up at me. “Usually I’m working here at night. And after work we might sit around having a couple of drinks. So I don’t get back home until after midnight. But if the place is closed I’ll listen to Rad, and that pastor comes… I mean came on right after. Full of venom. We’re all doomed. All sinners.”
“Did you know him personally? He lived in Yarra Boss.”
“He was out east, on the very edge, by the hills. I might have seen him around the shops. But most people here drive to Healesville or Yarra Glen for their shopping. That’s where the supermarkets are. Yarra Boss is mainly restaurants and craft stores and antique shops. I doubt that he spent much time in shops like that.”
“Are there other people who would have known him? Or who listened to his radio show?”
“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to listen to that show.”
“He doesn’t sound like a popular man.”
She paused, looked down at her cash register, then back up at me. “I don’t wish ill on people. We’re all pretty easy-going out here in Yarra Boss. Live and let live. But the way he talked—I’d say he got what was coming to him. It was judgment.”
“Judgment? What do you mean?”
A couple of customers, a young man and woman, both in shorts, sandals and matching multi-colored T-shirts, stopped on their way out to speak with the lady. I waited until they had left. But she seemed not to have heard my query. “There’ll be no one at the radio station at night,” she said. “Apart from Rad. He’ll be doing the show right now.”
“In Your Face.”
“That’s it. In Your Face.”
“He’s the guy I’d like to talk to.”
The lady smiled. “And I’m sure he’ll be happy to talk to you. He’s always looking for a new bunny.”
“Bunny?”
“Behind the farm supplies store. Good luck.”
“Bunny?”
A drinker seated at the counter overheard. “Victim,” he explained.
CHAPTER SIX
Bunny? Victim? What on earth were they talking about? I was about to find out.
I walked back into the hot night air. Smoke from the bushfires assaulted my nose and throat. I crossed the road to the farm supplies shop. It was of course closed, but security lights illuminated the interior, and through the long storefront window I could see tubs of horse de-wormer, udder balm and tractor oil.
I took the side road next to the store and there it was, the community center, a large, modern concrete structure, three floors high with giant tinted windows at the front—probably identical to other community centers across Australia. Spotlights shone on several colorful billboards promoting a swimming pool and gym and a plethora of other activities.
One problem: the whole place was clearly deserted. I looked around, and fortuitously discovered a small sign, unlit by the spotlights, with an arrow indicating the radio station apparently down a narrow pathway at the side of the building. This track took me right around to the back of the community center, where I discovered a special entrance for Boss Radio.
It was of course locked. I pressed a bell and tried to imagine what sort of guy did a program called In Your Face Radio. I guessed that he was big and beefy, probably unshaven with long hair and a couple of tattoos. Perhaps he would be riding a Harley Davidson.
I had to wait at least a minute. And the guy, when he arrived, was clean-shaven, and I couldn’t see a Harley. But otherwise I was remarkably prescient.
“Yeah?” he said.
“I’m looking for Rad. In Your Face Radio.”
He stared at me with small blinking eyes, as if I had woken him from a deep slumber. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt bearing the name of some pop group I didn’t recognize. Chinese characters were tattooed on two hefty arms. Thinning black hair was held in a ponytail. “Yeah, what do you want? I’m doing a program. I’m alone here, you know. Do you think we’ve got a team of receptionists at a volunteer station at nine-thirty at night? I’ve got to be back up there in a couple of minutes.”
The guy was right in my face.
“I’m a private detective.” I handed him my card. He placed it in a back pocket of his jeans without even glancing at it. “I’m trying to find out more about Pastor Jim Reezall. He had the program after yours. He died in a fire last night.”
“Yeah, I was there. Come on.”
He locked the door behind me, then led me up some stairs, taking them two at a time.
“You were where? At the fire?”
He didn’t reply.
We entered what was clearly a radio studio. It was cramped, smaller even than my living room, with a U-shaped desk oc
cupying a big chunk of the space. On the desk was a giant control panel, like three or four computer keyboards joined together, along with rows of monitors and speakers. A microphone extended out from somewhere on the side of the desk. Loud foreign pop music sounded from the speakers at the desk and from a couple more that hung from the ceiling. The room was cool—clearly an air conditioner was on somewhere in the building.
“You were at the fire?” I asked again.
He sat at the desk and did something with some of the switches on his control panel. “I’m a volunteer fireman. I had to interrupt the show. Quite a strong smell of petrol.” He thrust a burly arm behind him and struggled to scratch an itch somewhere high in the small of his back.
“But you knew him.”
“Yeah, I saw him here in the studio a lot. I got a call this morning from someone on the station committee asking me to extend my show each night for half an hour until they find a replacement. Where are you from?”
“I told you. I’m a private detective. I’m…”
“I know. You told me. But you speak fluent English with just a touch of an Aussie accent, so I’m guessing you’re from abroad. Looking at you I’m guessing Philippines, except you don’t have a Filipino accent.”
“I’m from East Timor.”
“East Timor? Great. You’re going to have a story to tell. My listeners are going to enjoy this. Sit down there.” He pointed to a chair on the other side of his desk.
“Enjoy what?”
“Anyone turns up at the station while I’m on, they do a guest spot.”
So I was the latest victim. This guy sure knew how to get in my face. Up my nose, as well.
“I’m not sure I…”
“Sit down,” he ordered, and I obeyed. “East Timor. That’s Ego Lemos. You must know him.” Next to his chair was a bench stacked with piles of CDs. He began riffling through them.
“Who?”
“Ego Lemos. He’s a hot singer from East Timor. He was on the Balibo soundtrack. You know, the movie. Are you sure you’re not from Manila? I’ve got some Freddie Aguilar.” His eyes were about the only part of him that were not big, and they blinked hard when he talked.
