When I offered him coffee he shook his head.
‘No, thanks,’ he replied.
‘Tea? Something cold?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Okay, well . . .’ I had to take him into the bedroom. It was a nightmare, but what choice did I have? And of course the bedroom looked like a tip, what with the pile of dirty laundry in the corner, and the scattering of used tissues on the floor, and the junk draped over every bedpost and doorhandle: scarves, handbags, broken blind cords, one of Emily’s shell necklaces . . . Thank God I’d made the bed, is all I can say. But then we had to sit on the edge of the bed (as if I wasn’t feeling embarrassed enough) while Jim McRae’s bland, brown gaze flitted from wedding photo to anti-histamine tablets, from mangy slipper to discarded credit card receipt, from the stain above the door to the tear in the doona.
My heart was in my throat; it was like visiting a psychiatrist or a gynaecologist. He just waited, the way a gynaecologist does when you try to explain why your period’s bugging you. Personally, if I were a private detective, I’d make more of an effort. I’d try to put people at their ease, instead of watching them like a customs and immigration officer at Sydney airport.
I had to take a deep breath before I spoke, as if I was diving off a cliff into the sea.
‘Well, like I said, I’ve got this problem with my husband. I think he might be involved with someone, but I don’t know. So I want to find out.’
He nodded gravely. He didn’t ask if I had discussed the matter with my husband. Maybe he didn’t want to know all the sordid details. Maybe he’d been the recipient of too many tortuous, hysterical confidences regarding other people’s marital difficulties.
‘I think it might be the Girl With Purple Hair,’ I went on, ‘but I’m not sure. It might be nothing. A friend of mine saw them together, but this friend has a very suspicious mind, because she investigates bank frauds. And I don’t want to ask Matt myself because . . . well, because I just don’t want to.’ It was none of Jim’s business why I didn’t want to. In fact I began to feel quite cross; Jim’s silence was getting on my nerves. His equanimity was almost insulting. What right did he have to sit there with a shuttered face, while I was pouring my guts out? It was offensive. It was creepy. I thought to myself: two can play at that game, Mister Bland. I’m an investigator myself, in a manner of speaking.
So I shut up and waited, taking the opportunity to clear my clogged sinuses as I did so. After a brief pause, Jim said: ‘Who’s the girl with purple hair?’
‘I don’t know. She might be Josephine Cleary.’ I described what Miriam had seen, and my subsequent investigation into Matt’s most recent phone calls. I gave him Josephine Cleary’s address and phone number, which he wrote down in a little blue book. The little blue book really got to me; I almost started to giggle as I explained about Megan Molesdale. Then the doorbell rang, and I lost all desire to laugh.
‘Oh, for Chrissake!’ I hissed. ‘Who the hell could that be?’
‘You’re not expecting anyone?’
‘No! Jesus! It’s probably those bloody Mormons again— they’re always waking Jonah up!’
But I was wrong. When I went to the door, and opened it, I was confronted by two men in suits who introduced themselves, not as bearers of the Word of God, but as Cliff Staines and Austin Kneipp, from the Pacific Commercial Bank. They presented me with their cards. Cliff Staines, Manager, Fraud and Non-Lending Loss Administration, said one. Austin Kneipp, Manager, Investigations, said the other.
‘Are you Helen Muzzatti?’ asked Cliff, who was the older of the two. He had grey hair, a red face and a big gut. Austin was darker and slimmer, but a good deal balder.
I stared at them in confusion.
‘Yes,’ I replied faintly. ‘What—what’s up?’
‘We’re sorry to bother you,’ said Cliff, ‘but we’re looking for Miriam Coutts. We were hoping you might know where she is.’
‘Miriam?’
‘Coutts. You know her, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes. She lives in Pyrmont.’
Austin expelled air sharply through his nose, and Cliff made a wry face. ‘Not any more, she doesn’t,’ he rejoined.
I couldn’t imagine what he meant by that. And I didn’t have time to ask, because at that moment I heard a thin wail, and knew that Jonah had been roused by the doorbell.
‘Oh shit!’ I exclaimed, and they both looked quite startled. ‘You’ve woken my son!’
‘Oh,’ said Cliff. ‘Sorry . . .’
‘You’d better go in. Just go in.’ I shooed them through the door like chickens. ‘Maybe he’ll go back to sleep again, if we’re all very quiet.’
Obediently, they tiptoed down the hall, their shoulders tensing with every creak of the floorboards. Jim McRae was still sitting on the edge of my bed; when we passed the bedroom door he looked up, and raised his eyebrows.
Austin paused.
‘Hello,’ he mumbled.
Jim nodded.
‘Mr Muzzatti, is it?’ said Cliff, who was bringing up the rear.
‘No, I—no.’ It suddenly occurred to me that introducing Jim as a private detective would entail far too much embarrassing explanation. ‘He’s just a friend,’ I explained.
‘Oh.’
Too late I realised that a male friend sitting on a marital bed in the middle of the day was bound to cause speculation of a titillating type. But I couldn’t change my story at that stage. Anyway, I looked like death. My nose was running. My eyes were bloodshot. I was clasping a damp handkerchief. Why would anyone have wanted to take me to bed in the middle of the afternoon?
‘In here,’ I said, waving all my big, unwelcome visitors into the living room. ‘This is Emily.’
‘Hello, Emily.’
‘Hello, Emily.’
Emily spluttered ‘hello’ through a mouthful of ice-cream, her gaze never leaving the television screen.
I closed the living room door behind Jim, who had quietly followed us down the hallway.
‘So what’s this about Miriam?’ I inquired, my ear cocked for telltale noises issuing from the kids’ bedroom. ‘I’ve been trying to reach her. I was getting worried, as a matter of fact.’ Not so worried, however, that I’d hauled myself off my big, fat arse and visited her house. Or phoned her mum. Or even called the police. God, I was hopeless. She could have been lying dead in her kitchen, since Monday afternoon, and what had I done about it? Nothing.
I looked from Cliff to Austin, and back again. ‘Is something wrong?’ I demanded faintly, with a sinking heart.
Cliff cleared his throat. He adjusted his jacket and smoothed his tie over his ample belly. ‘Uh-hem,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me when you last saw her, Mrs Muzzatti?’
‘Why? What’s wrong? Is she hurt?’ A terrible thought struck me. ‘Is she missing? Oh my God.’
Cliff raised his eyebrows. ‘As a matter of fact, she is missing—’
‘Oh my God!’
‘So if you can tell me when you last saw her—’
‘On Monday,’ I gasped. ‘No—I mean, I spoke to her on Monday. I saw her on Friday. On Monday, I phoned her at the office.’
‘Ah.’ Cliff exchanged glances with Austin, just as it occurred to me: these guys weren’t policemen. What were two bank managers doing, investigating Miriam’s disappearance? ‘Did the police send you?’ I gabbled, between coughs. ‘What do they think? Have you spoken to Miriam’s boyfriend? His name’s Giles.’ I tried to think of his second name. God, what was it?
‘It’s Norwegian, I think. Hang on—’
‘Giles Gunnerson,’ Cliff supplied.
‘That’s it!’ So they had spoken to him. ‘What does Giles say?’
Again the two bankers exchanged a quick look. ‘We haven’t been able to question Mr Gunnerson,’ Cliff confessed. ‘The fact is, Mr Gunnerson seems to have disappeared too. All indications are that he and Ms Coutts went away together.’
I blinked. In that case, why all the fuss? ‘Then wha
t’s the problem?’ I queried. ‘If they’re both missing, they’re probably in Queensland, or something. Hamilton Island.’
Cliff shook his head.
‘The Blue Mountains, maybe.’
‘They took a plane to Los Angeles on Tuesday night,’ Austin revealed. ‘We haven’t yet been able to trace their movements after they arrived.’
Wait a minute, I thought. Trace their movements? ‘What are you talking about?’ I was getting frightened. ‘What have they done?’
Cliff hesitated, as if he was reluctant to spill the beans. It was Austin who responded.
‘They’ve stolen some money,’ he said.
My jaw dropped.
‘From our employer,’ Austin continued. ‘Approximately seventeen point—’
‘Ah-hem.’ Cliff cleared his throat again, this time with all the force and volume of a Hell’s Angel revving his engine. Either Austin was speaking out of turn, or I wasn’t supposed to know all the details.
‘At the moment we’re trying to establish their present whereabouts,’ Cliff went on. ‘We’ve searched Ms Coutts’s house, we’re going through her files—she’s burned a lot of them—’
‘That’s impossible,’ I squeaked.
‘Well, maybe not burned them,’ Cliff conceded. ‘Got rid of them. Shredded them, maybe.’
‘No—I mean, she wouldn’t have stolen anything. Not Miriam.’
Silence from the two bankers. Jim McRae’s face was a complete blank.
‘You must have made a mistake.’ I sat down. A red hermit crab was dancing and singing on the screen not two metres away; I found it hard to concentrate. ‘It must have been someone else, not Miriam. Miriam couldn’t possibly have done that.’
‘Why not?’ Cliff asked. He was still standing. So were Austin and Jim. Three men in shirts and ties, making my living room look small. Looming over me. Outnumbering me.
‘Because I know her, that’s why not,’ I said. ‘I’ve known her for years. Look—sit down. Please.’
Cliff lowered his considerable bulk onto the couch, where Austin joined him (at a carefully calculated distance). Jim kind of propped himself against the arm of the puke-stained easychair.
‘So you’ve had no indication that Miriam’s been planning any kind of fraud?’ Austin inquired, his voice very clear and precise.
‘No. Of course not.’ I shook my head, still in a daze. ‘It’s impossible.’
‘We’ve pretty much established that she did it, Mrs Muzzatti.’
‘I can’t believe that!’
‘It is hard to believe.’ Austin sighed. ‘I used to work with her myself. It’s been a real shock for us. All these years she’s been chasing down fraud, and now we find that she’s one of the bad guys. Incredible.’
I stared at him, sniffing forlornly. ‘Austin’ was not a familiar name; I couldn’t recall that Miriam had ever mentioned him.
‘We’re pretty sure she’s left the country,’ Cliff supplied. ‘It certainly looks that way—plus a lot of the funds she took seem to have been transferred to the Cayman Islands.’
‘Like Christopher Skase, you mean?’ I interrupted, and he smiled.
‘Sort of.’
‘It’s been going on for at least eighteen months,’ Austin added. ‘This scam of hers.’
‘And she’s been very smart. Ve-e-ery smart.’
‘Not smart enough, though. She had to get out in a hurry. She knew we were closing in.’
‘She left a lot of things lying about. Like her computer.’
‘That’s where we found your name.’
‘We thought you might have information that we could use.’
The two of them suddenly stopped their verbal ping-pong, and fixed their eyes on me. I saw Jim fold his arms in the background. Ariel the mermaid trilled annoyingly on the television screen.
‘Well, don’t look at me,’ I protested. ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Are you sure?’ Cliff leaned forward. ‘We’re just searching for indications—anything she might have said about a trip to anywhere . . .?’
‘No.’
‘Any friends she might have who live overseas?’
I remembered Briony. No. Out of the question.
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’ Austin pressed. ‘Her mother mentioned someone. Someone she used to live with.’
‘Mrs Coutts!’ The thought of Miriam’s mother hit me like a blow. Poor Mrs Coutts. She was all alone. She idolised Miriam. ‘Oh, this is awful! This is terrible!’ Tears pricked my eyes, as the truth finally began to sink in. ‘How could she do this?’
‘Shh! Mummy! I can’t hear!’
‘Sorry, Emily.’
‘Are you sure you don’t know anyone that she’d be likely to contact overseas?’ Austin was very persistent. ‘Anyone. No matter how unlikely.’
‘Well . . . there’s Briony. Our friend Briony. But they never really got along.’
‘Where does Briony live?’
‘In Florence. But I don’t think—’
‘Do you have her address? Her phone number?’
‘No. But I can get it. I suppose.’ I put my hand to my head. If I asked Ronnie to ask Samantha to ask Briony . . .? Aaagh. ‘It’s hopeless, though. There’s no point.’
‘Nevertheless, it would be very helpful,’ said Austin. ‘If you don’t mind.’
I told him that I didn’t mind. What else could I have told him? If I’d been obstructive, they probably would have decided that I was in on it, too. Besides, I was still in shock. I hardly knew what I was saying.
‘When you last spoke to her,’ Cliff said, ‘did she seem stressed? Was there anything odd about her behaviour?’
‘Well . . .’ I didn’t know how to phrase my response. As I cast about for the right words, I caught Jim’s eye. It was expressionless. Too expressionless. ‘We were both a bit stressed,’ I finally gabbled, ‘but it had nothing to do with money or anything. It was a personal matter.’
‘A personal matter,’ Cliff repeated, almost as if he was taking the piss.
‘Yes!’ I snapped. ‘And I’m not going to discuss it because it had nothing to do with this business.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Yes!’
Cliff raised his hands in a mock-defensive gesture. ‘Okay. Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘We really are sorry,’ Austin interjected, obviously intending to soothe my ruffled feelings. ‘It’s not a pleasant job, going around hitting people with something like this. It’s a strain for everyone. But since we were passing this way, and we knew you were a friend of hers . . .’
‘I just can’t believe she’d do it!’ I couldn’t, either. ‘She was being so helpful! She never said one word . . . there was no reason . . .’ The depth of Miriam’s deceit was only just beginning to hit me. ‘Eighteen months, did you say? She’s been doing it for eighteen months?’
‘Approximately,’ said Austin.
‘Then—then it must be Giles’s fault,’ I insisted. ‘Yes, it must be. She’s been going out with him for eighteen months—maybe a little more. He’s brainwashed her, somehow. Or blackmailed her. Something like that. There’s no other explanation.’
‘Did you ever meet him?’ Austin wanted to know.
‘Once. He was a prick.’ I was quite sure of that, by now. ‘Smart, but also a smart-arse. Rich,’ I added, and gazed at Austin in bewilderment. ‘He was rich,’ I stammered. ‘The house. The car. Why—why—?’
‘They weren’t his,’ Austin replied, almost chattily. ‘We’ve been looking through his accounts. He was deeply in debt.’
‘But she wasn’t!’ I exclaimed. ‘She couldn’t have been!’
‘She’s been giving him money.’
‘What? ’ I dissolved into a fit of coughing, whereupon Austin leaned over and thumped me on the back.
‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘It’s unbelievable, isn’t it? Miriam Coutts. I always admired her, you know—it’s tragic. Tragic. What possessed her??
??
‘Another bad boy,’ I said hoarsely, having recovered my breath. ‘She couldn’t resist them.’
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s been one after the other, ever since I’ve known her. The stalker. The library book thief. The drug dealer—’
‘Really?’ I wondered suddenly if Austin was gay. He seemed to be relishing the chance of a good gossip about Miriam’s personal life. ‘But she was always so contemptuous of the people we were dealing with.’
‘Bankers, you mean?’
‘No.’ He looked startled. ‘Con men. Scam artists.’
‘Oh.’
‘She thought they were scum. She really did. She despised them.’
‘Only because they were caught,’ Cliff suddenly observed. ‘She thought she was pretty hot stuff, that girl.’
Girl. I hate it when fat, middle-aged men call grown women ‘girls’. It puts my hackles up. ‘She was sick of her job,’ I announced sharply, wiping my nose. ‘She was sick of bankers. She told me.’
‘Did she, now?’ Cliff drawled.
‘She hated her boss—what’s his name? Vern? She was angry, because he got the job ahead of her. But . . .’ But surely that wouldn’t account for it? I was pretty disenchanted with my own boss; that didn’t mean I was planning to plunder the next payroll. ‘Could—could he have introduced her to drugs?’ I quavered. ‘Giles, I mean. Is that it?’
Austin shrugged. ‘You tell me.’
‘There’s no evidence of it,’ Cliff rumbled.
‘Then why? Why?
’ ‘Because she saw her chance, and took it,’ Cliff rejoined. ‘Simple as that.’
‘It can’t be—’
‘It is. I’ve seen her financial records. She was spending up big, she was juggling cards, she was getting to like the high life, and she knew her boyfriend was heading for a fall. So she jumped ship.’ Cliff shrugged. ‘It happens.’
‘She was a label junkie,’ Austin revealed. ‘You should have seen her wardrobe. She had a Chanel suit—’
‘Chanel?’ That was a shock. Carla Zampatti I could cope with, but Chanel? I tried to remember what her house had looked like, when I’d last visited it two years before. The furniture had been classy, but minimalist. Not much of it, in other words. Concealed lighting. European appliances. An antique bed. Architectural Digest on the coffee table. An air of ambition, in other words, but nothing insane. No Mesopotamian sculptures or gilded cornices or two-thousand-dollar French tapestry cushions. Though it hadn’t looked like Miriam, exactly (she had employed an interior decorator), it also hadn’t looked like someone with a serious case of Rampant Materialism.