by Martin Roth
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 wo
rd?”
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
“‘The Lord is coming with fire, his chariots are like a whirlwind; he will bring down his anger with fury, and his rebuke with flames of fire.’”
I was back home listening once again to Pastor Reezall’s chilling threats of judgment in his final broadcast. His voice was slow and measured but it was also quivering. It wasn’t just the natural tremor of an old man. He was angry, and possibly also quite stressed.
But so what? I had gotten absolutely nowhere in my meeting with Go-Go Greene. He knew he didn’t have to talk and so he didn’t. End of story.
I had reached a dead end. I really wanted to help Miriam. Perhaps this was for my own selfish reasons, but, in any case, I didn’t see that I could do more. The police take murder seriously. They would have interviewed anyone who might know anything, and they would employ their investigative and forensic skills and find witnesses. Sooner or later they would probably catch the killer.
It was nine o’clock, and time for Rad Blacken’s In Your Face radio program. Knowing the frequency didn’t help—the station didn’t reach as far as Box Hill. Never mind. It also broadcast over the internet, though I could not imagine who outside Yarra Boss might want to listen. I located the home page and clicked on the “Listen Now” button.
The show had just begun. “Now you’ll all remember last night’s special guest,” Rad was saying. “His name was Johnny Ravine.”
I raised the volume on my compact speakers.
“Well, it turned out that Johnny had come to Australia to look for his dad. The dad he’d never met. A soldier by the name of John La Vinne. So I put out a special call for John to contact me. Or anyone else who might know the admirable Admiral La Vinne. And to my complete lack of surprise…well, admit it, Rad, you were just a teeny bit surprised…we have had some response.”
I felt myself shivering. I turned up the volume even further.
“Three emails from our global audience. Thanks guys. Maybe we’ve located Johnny’s father. And now let’s start the show with some tango from Argentina.”
I took my phone and called the station. When I’d phoned the previous evening no one had replied. The lady at the wine bar intimated that no one ever answered. But this time Rad responded almost immediately. “Hi Johnny.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Oh, intuition.”
“I want to know about those emails.”
“I thought you might. That’s why I made that little announcement.”
“Can you read them out to me?”
“You’re going to have to come to the station.”
“Again? You’re joking. It’s already nine o’clock at night and it’s an hour’s drive. You know that.”
“I’ve got an extra half-hour to fill each night until they find a replacement for the pastor. And you were one of the most fascinating guests I’ve had in a while. All right—you were the only guest I’ve had in a while. Look, I have to get ready for the next song. See you in an hour.” He rang off.
I had no desire to be on that program ever again, but I did have a desire—an overwhelming yearning, a need—to learn anything I could about my father. I shut down the computer, got in the Mitsubishi Sigma and embarked on the familiar route through forests, farmlands and wineries to Yarra Boss.
Rad opened the door and led me upstairs to the studio. He pointed to the headphones, which I put over my ears. The music ended and he spoke. “Some of you will remember last night’s fascinating interview with private eye Johnny Ravine. Well, Johnny insisted on being with us again, and so, ladies and gentlemen, drum roll please, he-e-e-e-e-re’s Johnny.”
“Hello Rad,” I said with as much politeness as I could muster.
“Last night we put out the call for Johnny Ravine’s father to contact us. Well, as you know, we have a global audience, thanks to the world wide web. And we have had a flood of emails. And by flood, I mean three. Here’s the first one.”
He read from the monitor of a laptop computer on his desk. “Is Johnny tall, dark and handsome, and aged around thirty? If so, he could be my long-lost lover.”
“How about it Johnny?”
“That’s the message?”
“Yep. Is she talking about you?”
“Look, I thought you have some information.”
“We’re on air, Johnny. Is she talking about you?”
“Of course not. I’m not thirty. I’m not tall. I’m…”
“Two out of four. Getting close. Now, one more email.” He clicked on his laptop, then read: “I knew a soldier with a name that was very similar to Johnny’s dad. Rabin, I think it was. Top class military man. Became leader of Israel, as I recall.”
I stared at Rad. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Yeah, sure, that one’s a bit over the top. I can’t tell you some of the weird stuff that turns up in the station’s inbox. That’s what happens when you’re broadcasting on the web.”
“But that’s another of the three emails? You brought me out here for…?”
He wagged a finger at me. “Remember—we’re on air, Johnny. I’ll read out the third. Here it is: ‘My daughter happened to hear your show and said I should get in touch with you. It seems you have a man looking for his father, a soldier named John Le Vinne. I know this is a long shot, but I was a soldier in the US military, based in Vietnam. I was in love with a beautiful woman who became pregnant. But then I was evacuated, and we were separated. I have often wondered what happened to her and to our baby. My daughter said your guest was from Timor, not Vietnam, but in case there’s some kind of mistake I thought I’d write. Sincerely, John Raven.’”
Rad was looking at me. I wanted to leap across the desk and strangle him with his microphone cord. I think I had tears in my eyes. “I can’t believe this. I mean, I never thought you would bring me out here just to make fun of me. I really thought you had something important to tell me.”
He was silent for a short while, still staring at me. Then abruptly he started some music and removed his headphones. He indicated that I should do the same.
“Sorry mate,” he said with unexpected softness. “Yep, you’re right. Sometimes my tongue runs ahead of my brain. Most of the time, in fact. I shouldn’t have done that.” With his hulking figure and long hair he now looked like some kind of tame bear that had been caught out stealing its master’s honey.
“I’m always trying to make the show more entertaining,” he said. “Seemed a good idea at the time.” He went silent again. “Look, I’ll play a few numbers back to back and then I’ll see what I can tell you. Probably not much. But I’ll try.”
He flicked several sw
itches then turned back to me. “Look, I don’t know much about your murdered pastor. And obviously I don’t know who killed him, though I was at the fire, and it’s pretty clear that it was murder. Smelt like someone had probably poured some kind of petrol around the house. It wasn’t an accident. And, I can tell you, it is not pleasant being a volunteer firey when you have to deal with burnt bodies.”
“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t sure where this was leading.
“But he was angry at that financial planning firm. Now I don’t know exactly why, and I don’t know if they have any connection with what happened to the pastor. But I can tell you that that outfit, Go-Go Greene Financial, they’ve really shaken up this town. They’ve gotten a lot of people very worked up.”
“Worked up?”
“That Go-Go Greene, the guy running the place, he’s a colorful character, to say the least. A great talker. And he’s going round the community telling people about new ways to make money.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Green investing,” he calls it. “It involves carbon offsets. Do you know about them?”
“No, not really. Anyway, I met Go-Go Greene today. But I didn’t ask about anything like that.”
“He’s been signing up half the town. Getting everyone all excited.” He waved his large arms in a circular motion in the air, as if somehow to illustrate excitement.
“What would be exciting about carbon offsets?”
“As best I understand it, you actually don’t need to do anything. In fact, as I understand it, you don’t even need to invest any money. So long as you own property with some trees you’re in. People pay you for that. Makes you rich.”
“Are you sure?”
“Apparently. And of course round here everyone owns property with trees. Apart from a few working stiffs like me.”
