Spinning Around (21 page)

‘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 what'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.'