by Martin Roth
“You mean, it’s illusory?”
“Exactly. When you buy shares in a company you’re buying a part of a real, living company. If you invest in gold or oil or wheat or sugar or whatever you’re buying a physical product.” He tapped the sugar dispenser, as a visual aid. “But governments in various countries have created these things called carbon credits, that are”—he flicked his thumb and middle finger as if he were a magician performing a disappearing act—“nothing.”
“They must be something.”
“They’re units of carbon emissions. They’re new financial instruments. They’re supposed to regulate carbon emissions into the atmosphere. They tell a company how much carbon it can emit. If they want to emit more they have to buy more permits. But tell me something Johnny, have you ever smoked marijuana?”
I smiled. “No. Never.”
“I guess East Timorese freedom fighters lead different lives from the wayward young of Oz. Anyway, my point is, if the government made marijuana legal, would you smoke it?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it. But I might try it.”
“Exactly. You might try it. And you might like it and keep using it. If the government legalized marijuana lots more people would start using it. When the state government legalized prostitution it made it mainstream…”
“It’s not exactly mainstream.”
“Well, when upstanding citizens like you and me frequent brothels…”
His voice tailed off. I smiled. Rohan and I had actually met inside one of Melbourne’s legal brothels. We were both investigating the same case. After some rivalry we become allies, and later friends.
“My point is, there are a lot more people using brothels today than when they were illegal. It’s the same with carbon credits. They’re essentially a license to pollute. Just pay the price. And speaking of price, every big bank and stockbroker in the world now has a green division, just to reap the rewards of this explosive new bonanza. Full of hot-shot executives on million-dollar salaries and bonuses. They’re all busy creating new financial instruments as we speak, instruments that are far too complicated for even brain boxes like you and me to comprehend. How do you like all that?”
I realized it was a rhetorical question. I did not need to answer.
Rohan continued: “It’s becoming a giant market like sub-prime was in the States. That started off with banks lending money to people so they can buy houses, but then it evolved into derivatives and derivatives on derivatives and all sorts of complicated financial instruments that about one person in the world can understand. And then the whole lot blew up. At least with the sub-prime mess there were actual houses there at the end of it. With carbon credits there’s nothing.”
“And Go-Go Greene is into them?”
“He’s into it. And his particular shtick is carbon offsets. Do you know those?”
“That’s what Rad mentioned. He’s a guy with a radio show out at Yarra Boss. So I’ve been educating myself about them. But you’re going to have to bring me up to speed.”
“It’s how rich pop singers salve their consciences. Hard to believe, but some pop singers have consciences. And politicians too, like Al Gore, who apparently lives in a mansion that uses as much power as a small African village. So they buy carbon offsets. Usually it means some project designed to reduce carbon emissions. It’s organized through a kind of broker. That person organizes a project that reduces carbon emissions, like the planting of a new forest or building a wind power plant, and then the rich and guilty pay a fee.”
“It sounds laudable.”
“Nothing wrong with new forests. But when you have complex new financial instruments and brokers looking for new business and stockbrokers hungry for their million-dollar bonuses then you have corruption. You know, there’s a group that’s been trying to make billions by creating carbon offsets out of the Amazon rainforest.”
“So Greene is a broker?”
“He’s selling carbon offsets quite aggressively. Based on forestry projects in Yarra Boss. Quite what these projects are I’m not sure. I thought the place was already pretty thoroughly forested.”
“So maybe that’s what he’s selling.”
“Yes, but there’s one little twist to this carbon offset caper. You need something called additionality. It has to be a new project. It has to be something that wouldn’t have happened were it not for the ability to sell the carbon offsets. Now the trees in the Yarra Valley aren’t new. So I’m not sure where all these projects are that Greene’s selling.”
I thought about all this.
“But so what? There’s nothing actually illegal about it, as far as we know. What was the pastor threatening to expose?”
Rohan shrugged and finished his coffee. “Beats me. I’m off.” He rose from his seat, then paused. “Just remembered. One more thing. My contact at the bank, a lovely lady whom I used to know well, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more. She’s married now, but will still do me the odd favor. She was able to get a quick look at the late pastor’s bank statements. It seems all his money was being paid to Go-Go Greene Financial.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Another drive out to Yarra Boss, another fire. This time I actually passed it, off the Maroondah Highway, a small blaze in scrub. Warning signs slowed the traffic and allowed me to catch a glimpse of a dozen distant firefighters, like toy soldiers, working to extinguish it. I hoped Rad was not among them, but fortunately he was waiting at our appointed meeting place, the Lily of the Valley coffee shop.
“Shouldn’t you be fighting fires?” I enquired. “I’ve just a passed a small one, about five miles south of here.”
“No, I’m not required. It’s another small one.”
“You’re a specialist? They only call you out for the big towering infernos?”
A smile crinkled across his big face. “They call out everyone for the big infernos. And for the little ones they call out whoever happens to be on the roster.”
“It’s good of you to see me at short notice.”
“Yeah, well, happy to help. I’ve never met a private detective before. Plus I still vaguely feel I owe you one, after teasing you with those emails. And you had quite a yarn to tell when you were on my show. Could probably use you again. We didn’t even get into all the stories you must have about when you were a freedom fighter. With two hours every night—well, two and a half now—that’s a lot of time to kill. I mean fill. Even I’m getting sick of some of the music I’m playing.”
We got into my car and Rad directed me down a side street and then along a short series of country lanes, bordered with tall gum trees.
“Who exactly are we meeting?” I enquired.
“I’m taking you to a woman who’s invested in carbon offsets. Through Go-Go Greene.”
We drove to a small farm. At the end of a driveway was a modest creamy-colored weatherboard bungalow with a neat cottage-style garden at the front. Rad walked straight inside, through the unlocked front door. “Hey ho,” he called. “It’s your good-time fellow.”
We were in a small hallway with walls lined with what appeared to be family portraits. A woman arrived, followed by a fluffy white Pomeranian dog. I recognized her immediately—she was the woman I met at the wine bar when I was lost and was looking for Boss Radio. “Hi handsome,” she said to Rad. “So you’ve come to spend a little time with a lonesome old lady.”
“I happen to know you’re happily married to a wonderful man, and that you’ve even got a handsome and hugely intelligent son. I’ve come with my new best friend Johnny Ravine. He’s a private detective.”
“You mean your new bunny,” she said, and the two of them burst into laughter.
“Johnny, meet my mother,” said Rad. “Mom, this is Johnny.”
She looked at me with twinkling eyes. “Nice to meet you again, Johnny. I do remember you. I never forget a handsome man.” She was strikingly handsome herself, despite her plump figure, in designer jeans and a bright red blouse with Spanish-typ
e frills at the front. Again she was heavily made up. “Rad said you want to find out about our carbon offset nest egg.”
She led us into the living room, the walls of which were also covered with family photos. We sat in large armchairs, and immediately the dog started yapping around my ankles. I thought back to my freedom fighting days. When food became especially short we readily dined on stray dogs.
“Put her outside,” she said to Rad, who picked up the dog and pushed it into the hallway and then closed the door.
I explained the background to my enquiries.
“Go-Go Greene arrived in town a few years ago,” she said. “He started promoting all these different investments. He’s got a real manner. But the one he said was best was this carbon offset program. I’m sure that when he arrived in town no one had heard of carbon offsets. Now we’re all experts.”
“I hadn’t heard of them until this week. And I’m becoming an expert too. But I’m still not completely clear how Go-Go Greene’s program works.”
She looked at her son and winked. “Should I tell him?”
“That’s why I’ve brought Johnny here. It’s hardly a secret.”
“It’s a bit of a secret.” She giggled. “Here in Yarra Boss most of us own reasonably big properties. Small farms, five-acre blocks, whatever. Many people have a lot more. And of course we have lots of trees. And trees are good for the environment. We were all taught that at primary school. Arbor Day. Plant a tree. Did you have that?” She looked at me. “I’m not sure where you’re from.”
“East Timor. No we didn’t plant trees.” The enemy used to napalm trees to expose our hideouts, I could have said.
“So Go-Go—I love calling him Go-Go, I tease him about his name whenever we meet—he said that rich people around the world need to buy carbon offsets so they can travel on airplanes with a clear conscience, things like that. And trees can be used as offsets.”
“Just like that?”
“We all have to be part of some sort of financial program. We’re registered. And if you don’t have enough trees yourself then I think Go-Go was joining several properties together.”
“So you’re getting paid to grow trees? Or even just to have trees growing on your property?”
“Yes, pretty much.”
“But I understood that something more was required. Technically it’s called”—I tried to remember what Rohan told me—“I think it’s called additionality. Have you heard of that? Lots of people have trees. You need to show that without the money being paid—the carbon offset money—you wouldn’t be growing the trees. Something like that.”
She smiled. “This is where I think Go-Go has been a little naughty.” She looked at Rad and smiled conspiratorially.
At that moment his cellphone rang, playing a samba melody. He answered. “Yeah, sure. Sure.” Then in a loud whisper he said to us: “I’ll talk outside.” He went out the door, to join the still-yapping dog.
His mother watched him leave, then she said in a low voice: “What about being a private detective?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What sort of job is it?”
I shrugged. “It has its moments.”
“Rad needs a good job. He was effectively laid off by the farm supplies store—he’s just casual now—and he hasn’t had proper work since then. That’s why he started that silly radio show. To give himself something to do. He used to sit in his room listening to his CD collection all day and night, then someone told him they were looking for people for the station. Do you listen?”
“I’m in Box Hill. I can’t pick it up.”
“You can get it on the internet. I think that’s where most people listen. I don’t know anyone local who does. But he’s got a lot of fans around the world. He’s always getting funny emails.”
“Yes, apparently.”
“And he calls the show In Your Face. That’s his own private joke, showing what he thinks of all the locals after he lost his job. He acts all aggressive, but he’s really just a big kid. A bit too passive. I think nowadays he’s happiest when he fights fires. He kind of loses himself in it all. He needs to try a bit harder to make something of his life. Maybe you could train him to be a private detective.”
“Yes, sure, I’m happy to talk about it with him.”
“You know, it’s actually very sweet music that he plays. It’s not rubbish—not all that loud head-banging stuff. It’s music from lots of different countries. You should listen. You’re from abroad.”
“Maybe I’ll try.” Was she trying to divert me from my questions?
“He needs a good woman too. Thirty-two and still living at home. I think I ought to hire you to find him one. Are you expensive?”
At that moment Rad walked back in.
“Johnny was just saying he’d be happy to talk to you about becoming a private detective,” his mother said to him.
“My mom’s always trying to sort out my life for me.”
“Thirty-two and still living at home.”
“Yes, Mom. No, Mom.” He sat down.
I returned to our original conversation. “You were saying that Go-Go Greene has been a little naughty. Concerning the carbon offset money.”
“Oh yes. That’s right. Well, what’s happened is he’s arranged with the Yarra Boss council to designate all our properties as suitable for land clearance.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are pretty strict rules around here about cutting down trees. But I think Go-Go went and had a quiet word with people at the council—and of course they all own land here as well—and they quietly changed the land-use designation for us.”
“So now all your properties are designated as suitable for land clearance?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“So you can chop down all your trees if you want?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“It doesn’t sound naughty. It sounds illegal.”
“No, no. The point is, no one’s going to chop down their trees. Why do people come to live in Yarra Boss? Because they love nature and trees. They want more. And then if you chop down your trees you won’t be eligible for the payments from Go-Go’s program. In fact, thanks to the program, people are growing more trees than ever before.”
“Instead of fruit and vegetables,” muttered Rad.
His mother ignored him. “What the council’s done is absolutely irrelevant, practically speaking. It’s just on paper. Not even on paper. Somewhere on the council’s computer. It’s a council regulation or bylaw or something. I don’t know what they call it. But it means we can claim our trees as carbon offsets. And it’s all legal.”
“But no one knows about it?”
“We all know about it. Everyone who’s involved. Though I think most people aren’t bothered with the details. They’re just happy to be getting the money. And that’s the way Go-Go likes it.”
“But…” I struggled for the words. “It doesn’t seem ethical. Getting paid to grow trees, which you’re doing anyway. Changing the rules just for that purpose. Pretending your land might be subject to some kind of clearance, when that’s never ever going to happen. And then getting money from people who think they’re helping the environment.”
“It’s all legal,” she said, ignoring my suggestion that it was unethical. “I’m sure if you spent a few hours at the council chambers going through all their records you’d find out what they’ve done. It’s in the public domain.”
I thought hard.
“So I wonder if this is what the pastor was planning to expose.”
“Nothing to expose. The council can change the rules. As I just said, it’s got to be there somewhere, on some bylaw or council minute or something.”
“But it wouldn’t have looked good for Go-Go—Mr Greene—if it became known what he was doing.”
“It possibly would have brought him more business. Who knows? Though, yes, I doubt that Go-Go would have wanted it on the front page of all the papers.” She
paused. “You’re not suggesting that Go-Go had something to do with that pastor’s death, are you?”
“Do you know that the pastor—shortly before he died—was quite vehemently threatening to expose Go-Go Greene? On Boss Radio? He seemed to be implying that he knew something the regulators would not be happy about.”
“It sounds like blackmail. Are you suggesting it’s what led to the pastor’s murder?”
“I’m just wondering aloud. I have to think about all the angles.”
“You should talk to my friend Debbie. She’s also got an investment with the carbon offset program. She works during the week, so you won’t be able to talk to her today. But tomorrow’s Saturday. I’m sure she can make some time. She said she did it because Pastor Reezall told her to.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“What’s the point of living in the Yarra Valley if you don’t enjoy the wine?” said Debbie, refilling glasses with a local chilled chardonnay. I wondered if this was a dig at me. I was sticking to lemonade.
She had met us at the door of her home with a half-empty glass in her hand and quickly escorted us onto a backyard patio with spectacular forest and mountain views. “It’s not every Saturday morning that I have three handsome men arrive on my doorstep,” she had declared. “I might not allow you to leave.”
Now we were discussing Pastor Reezall’s death. “That was really scary,” she said. “People say that the house burned down in minutes. And took a lot of trees with it. We don’t like to hear about that kind of thing around here.” Whitney Houston sang from The Bodyguard soundtrack over a pair of mounted speakers on the patio.
“It was deliberately lit,” said Rad. “I helped put it out. Someone poured petrol around the house.”
“It’s still scary.” Debbie was a straw-haired thirty-ish tax accountant, driving forty minutes to Melbourne’s eastern suburbs each day for her work and relishing the country lifestyle at weekends. She lived alone in an old home on land surrounded by young trees.
