In all honesty, I have finished the manuscript and it has been sent to the publisher. But I feel your story deserves to be in there. If you’re keen to talk, and, depending upon what you say, then I can delete the current number 10 story and replace it with yours. Due to the publishing schedule, I’ll need an answer within 12 hours. I’ve already had some enquiries about film rights for the book. The public are certainly interested in Australia’s own tales of Catch Me If You Can.
Hoping to hear from you by tomorrow. Again, many apologies and condolences if I have misinterpreted the situation.
Kind regards, Fletcher Moncur
What the fuck? How had this journalist seen through his online stories? They were perfectly researched. But wait, Fletcher didn’t say he’d found any mistakes, just that he had ‘a feeling’ about it. A feeling—was that how journalists worked?
Fletcher Moncur. His profile picture online looked exactly like he sounded—mid-fifties, grey hair, glasses, a sports jacket. Penetrating eyes and a slight smile. Possibly clever. Luke opened a YouTube clip from the TV show.
The guy was a natural for television; he made the financial news entertaining. Luke searched again—Fletcher had written five books on a range of business topics, one on the psychology of business. On his website, there was a page about this new book—COMING SOON: Australia’s Top Ten Secret Cons: The masters who’ve never been caught.
Top ten masters—Luke liked that.
Perhaps he should be number one, not number ten. How much would he have to reveal for that to happen?
A movie. A buff actor would have to play Luke. Someone with the body and the charm to attract the ladies.
Had Fletcher Moncur really interviewed ten other con artists, or was it a ruse for Luke to incriminate himself? He would do some more digging later. In the meantime, a fast answer. He’d leave the Facebook page open for another twelve hours.
Hey, Fletch—you really know how to kick a man when he’s down. I’m donating the remainder of Gracie’s fund to the children’s hospital. If you have a spare $10K to speak to criminals, then put it towards saving sick children. The bank account details are on my FB page. It might go some way to paying for your disgusting innuendo.
42
FELIX
Mum was fuming about Helena breaking up their marriage, using and abusing Dad, and then disappearing. But to Felix, Helena wasn’t ‘abusing’ anyone—she was terrified and trying to protect her baby. Dad had been so gentle with her. And Mum was so kind to Gracie and Luke. Felix had seen the best of them both. How crazy, though, that they were looking after strangers and not each other.
Luke didn’t deserve any kindness—the psycho. Who did that stuff? Made up a whole life. Used his kid to get cash. Felix was desperate to talk to Pearl and Darcy, and get the tech heads at school on the case, but Mum had said to keep it quiet for now.
Felix decided to do some tracking himself.
Sitting at his old desk, with its view of the bush towards Manly Dam, he shoved his English books to one side. Another shitty exercise on Othello: Write a contemporary adaptation using Shakespeare’s characters, on the theme of betrayal. He’d do it later, ask Mum for help.
Opening Facebook on his laptop, he brought up the list of Luke’s six hundred and eighty-three friends. Boxes and boxes of faces. After ruling out the ones with Wirriga connections, Felix was down to half. Clicking on one woman at random, he checked the profile. A nurse from the children’s hospital in Melbourne with one hundred and fifty-two friends. Another click, a buff personal trainer from Ballarat with one hundred and fifty-seven friends. Another click, a female nutritionist with one hundred and fifty-four friends. They all had around a hundred and fifty friends. But each one seemed real. The personal trainer with exercise techniques for his clients, the nutritionist posting about supplements, the nurse complaining about a night shift. Choosing the personal trainer, Felix did a reverse image search. The photo matched an actor represented by a Los Angeles agency. When he did the same for the ‘nurse’, there was a link to a dating site in Russia. The ‘nutritionist’ was a long-distance runner from South Africa. Had Luke created Facebook profiles for these people and linked them all to his? Fake profiles, fake friends, fake posts. Woah, what a lot of work. Luke could’ve written Othello with all those characters.
Could Felix find someone on this page who knew Luke’s real identity? Or were they all fake?
On Friday afternoon, Felix answered a knock on the front door, expecting it to be Darcy dropping in after tennis. When he saw the older guy with a bunch of flowers, he wondered how fast he could slam it closed.
‘You must be Felix. Is your Mum in?’
‘No-one’s here.’ Felix edged his body back behind the door.
‘I’m sorry to miss her. I need to contact her urgently but she won’t return my calls.’
‘She’s been overseas.’
If Felix shouted for help, would the neighbours come running? Dad had assured him that Helena left of her own accord, but it was all too weird. She’d lived in fear of her ex-husband for five months, she’d barely left the house—how could she suddenly pack up and leave? Didn’t the crazy ex know that Helena had gone?
‘What time will your mother be back? Can I wait for her?’
‘She’s at the police station.’
Would that scare him off?
‘Can I ask you to pass on a message then?’
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Emmanuel. The flowers were just …’ He waved the bouquet slightly. ‘I really need to talk to her. It’s about her friend Luke.’
43
ALLISON
At the police station, Detective Sergeant Rejman had little to report. They were investigating the twelve other fundraising sites, which had brought in over ten thousand dollars each. Apart from Maz’s image, the photos had been stolen from various places on the internet and given new names. These ‘sick patients’ weren’t who Luke had said they were.
Much like Luke himself. Like Gracie.
‘We’ve got no identification on either of them,’ the detective said. ‘We’ve checked all the custody cases. No mother has reported a missing father and daughter with their description. And Gracie’s birthday date hasn’t matched up with any leads.’
Allison had worked hard to make that celebration extra special. ‘It probably wasn’t even her birthday.’
‘Probably not,’ he agreed.
‘Do you think Luke shaved their heads so they couldn’t be recognised?’
‘Perhaps. It was brazen to be photographed for the fundraising site and the newspaper.’
Allison suddenly remembered the photographs on Gracie Day. Luke saying: You don’t want me ruining the photo.
‘The journalist has contacted him through Facebook Messenger,’ Allison said. ‘Did Curtis forward you the message?’
The detective nodded. ‘Yes, Luke’s shown himself after his apparent suicide. But he’s sticking to the line that Gracie died in Chicago.’
The detective had organised photofit images of Luke and Gracie with hair. In one of them, Luke had thick brown locks, a fringe sweeping across his forehead. He could’ve been a swarthy millionaire relaxing on his yacht. They’d given Gracie a bob, just like her friend Evelyn.
‘This is a very sophisticated scam. The level of detail he’s created online, the medical information, the fake sites for his wife and the doctor …’ Detective Sergeant Rejman took off his glasses and tapped them against his palm. ‘Along with the overseas fundraising sites. It can’t be the first time he’s done this. We’re cross-referencing the photofits to see if we can link it to past fraud.’
‘Do you have any leads yet?’
‘No, but I’m guessing he has some kind of medical background.’
When Luke had discussed drugs and treatment, Allison assumed his knowledge had come from living through Gracie’s illness as a caring father.
‘Can I get an electronic copy of the photos? I’d like to se
nd them to Hythorne.’
While the detective hadn’t found any connection to Hythorne yet, Allison was sure there must be something. Luke had stolen the name of their town and the story of Rose Luxford trying desperately to save her horses from the fire. Someone might recognise new photos.
‘Sure. I’ll forward them to you,’ the detective said. ‘We’ll give Luke the chance to respond to the journalist over the weekend, and then we’re going public on Monday. We need to determine if Gracie is alive and in danger.’
As soon as Allison received the message from Felix, she phoned Emmanuel. She accepted his condolences about Gracie, not yet ready to reveal Luke’s deception.
‘Felix said you wanted to tell me something about Luke?’
‘I’m sorry to bring it up, especially now, with Gracie. But I just wondered if you—or he—had kept a key to the beach house.’
‘What’s happened?’ Had Luke dragged Emmanuel into this?
‘The other day my neighbour emailed me quotes for the new fence,’ Emmanuel explained. ‘And she sent her best wishes to my niece—the one having chemo who’d been staying there. I wouldn’t have minded if Luke had asked. I’m just worried about security.’
‘When exactly was this?’
‘They stayed there about three weeks ago.’
‘We need to check it out right now. Can you pick me up? I have to ring the police. I’ll explain on the way.’
Three weeks ago. Around the time Gracie had supposedly started the clinical trial in Chicago. Three weeks ago, Gracie had definitely been alive.
When Emmanuel heard the story, he understood why Allison had been too busy to return his calls.
‘I’ve been trying to call Luke too,’ he said. ‘And now I know why the number’s disconnected. He must have copied the key. Do you think he’s ransacked the place?’
Emmanuel had furnished his beach house with expensive items—a fancy coffee machine, flat screen TV, artworks. If Luke was setting up a new home, he’d certainly want it all.
As they drove north on the Pacific Highway and across the bridge over the Hawkesbury River, Allison prayed that Gracie was still alive. She feared for the girl’s future. And her own. Soon, she’d have to go back to work. Reassure her class and anxious Evelyn. Parents would want explanations that she couldn’t give. People would want their money back.
And bad luck to the next person looking for donations, the one who really needed money for life-saving medicine—Wirriga had been burnt. They’d all be wary next time.
‘In America, there are so many online scams,’ Allison said to break the silence inside the car. ‘People pretend they have cancer but they want the money for a motorbike or a holiday. One woman got a boob job.’
‘They have no conscience.’
‘Yep! And some of the scammers are teenagers.’ Allison shook her head in disbelief. ‘One girl had the name of a fake baby tattooed to her wrist.’
‘So strange.’
But Luke hadn’t seemed strange.
By the time they arrived at the beachside town, the local police were waiting for them, their uniforms incongruous against the backdrop of golden sand and crashing waves. Emmanuel unlocked the house and the officers went in first. Allison tagged along, scanning each room as she entered. The artworks adorned the walls, the TV was in place and the stainless-steel coffee machine gleamed on the kitchen bench.
‘Can you see anything missing?’ the female officer asked.
‘Nothing that’s immediately apparent,’ Emmanuel said. ‘I’ll have a look through the cupboards.’
In the bedroom with the bunks, Allison stripped back the doonas, lifted up the pillows, searched between the wall and the mattress. No trace of Gracie. She made the beds again, fluffing out the covers—a surf board pattern on the bottom bunk for Emmanuel’s twelve-year-old daughter and a Tardis on the top for his fourteen-year-old son. He’d talked about them fondly on their second date—his tomboy girl and his nerdy boy who were always trying to teach each other a thing or two. They lived with Emmanuel for half of the week. Four years after their divorce, Emmanuel and his ex-wife seemed to have an amicable relationship.
Allison lay down on the bottom bunk and closed her eyes. Would she and Tony ever have an amicable relationship? In three years, their son would be an adult—he’d have finished school and would be making his own decisions about his life. When Allison opened her eyes, she spotted a piece of fur poking out from the top of the wardrobe. Clambering off the bed, she reached for it. Winnie the Wombat. Their class mascot. She hugged the soft toy, its fur tickled her nose.
Winnie the Wombat, last seen on a Ferris wheel in Chicago. Luke had been meticulous. Doctoring photos, medical reports, emails. Maybe Maz was right; they couldn’t scam the scammer. He was too clever.
Through the open front door, Allison could hear the neighbour speaking to the police officers.
‘He parked the Jeep in the driveway and told us he was Emmanuel’s ex-wife’s cousin. When the man was taking the bags out of the car, I asked the girl if this was a special holiday. She said they were driving up to Movie World.’
Movie World. She texted Maz straight away: I think you were right about the Gold Coast.
But how would the police find them?
Back in Sydney, Emmanuel stayed for a cup of coffee in her kitchen. The flowers he’d given her were too big for one vase—she’d divided them into bouquets for the kitchen and the dining room table.
‘I’m sorry my coffee plunger isn’t quite up to the standard of your super-duper coffee machine.’
For the first time that day, they both laughed.
‘I’m pleased the machine is still there—it’s top of the range. Luke could’ve sold it for a thousand at least.’
Allison dreaded to think how much Emmanuel had bought it for. He had the same expensive machine in his apartment in Neutral Bay.
‘I told the police that Luke was targeting me for more money,’ Emmanuel said. ‘I’d donated a thousand dollars to Gracie’s fund but he kept asking me about investments.’
A thousand dollars for a child he didn’t even know. Luke had worked his magic on Emmanuel as well.
‘What investments?’
‘Luke said he wanted to help me after all I’d done. You know, the donation and the holiday house. He was giving me tips about stocks, offering to invest large sums for me.’
‘Oh God, you didn’t give him any money to invest, did you?’
‘No, it seemed bizarre that a gym instructor was giving me financial advice. He knows I’m a financial adviser. I think he was trying to impress me. I looked up the stocks though. They’re all legitimate and doing well.’
Allison gave him the detective’s phone number. If they could bring enough strands together, maybe they could catch this bastard.
After the coffee, Allison walked him out. Emmanuel kissed her cheek and said goodbye, but hesitated before getting into his car.
‘Let’s go out to dinner soon. I mean, when things are back to normal.’
Allison didn’t know what normal was anymore.
‘I’ll have to do a police check on you,’ she said. ‘Or at least meet your boss, your ex-wife and ten friends who’ll vouch for you.’
Tipping back his head, exposing a tanned neck, Emmanuel laughed long and hard. He gave her a jaunty wave and tooted as he drove off.
She wasn’t really joking.
Late on Friday night, Tony came over to cry about Helena. The irony wasn’t lost on Allison. She’d listen but she wasn’t going to comfort him.
‘Helena said I’d helped make her strong enough to be alone. She’s gone to her sister in New Zealand.’ Tony slumped forward, his head in his hands. ‘She couldn’t stay around here.’
‘Because of the ex-husband?’
‘Yes, her ex had a solid alibi for every stalking incident. Helena thinks he got his brother to harass her. Keep her scared.’ ‘Perhaps she was too traumatised to be in a relationship. You moved too fast.’
Bloody hell, he’d just agreed with her. Tony was in a bad way.
‘But she was so scared he’d hurt the baby,’ Tony continued. ‘Scared she wouldn’t find anywhere safe to live. She kept asking me for help. Told me she felt a connection with me. And I felt it too. She told me I was a good, honourable man who’d do the right thing by her.’
‘Honourable, huh!’
‘It’s coming out all wrong.’
‘You mean she flattered you. Made you feel useful while I took you for granted.’
‘Turning fifty was hard for me,’ Tony mumbled. ‘After Bryce’s death and Melody’s murder … life was meaningless.’
His best friend had died two months before Tony’s birthday. And then his dad got sick, but he’d recovered now. Tony had avoided talking about the murder—on her way home from work, Melody Knox had been killed by her estranged husband. A man with no record of violence. At the time, Tony had said he’d never met the woman, that she hadn’t come through one of his shelters.
‘Shit, Tony, why didn’t you tell me that you knew her?’
It must have broken him.
‘I felt so useless. But responsible, too. Unable to help, unable to change anything. Between all the support systems and the police and the law, we should’ve been able to protect Melody. And we didn’t. Then, when Helena came along with her tiny baby, I couldn’t … I couldn’t let that happen to them.’
Would their marriage have been saved if he’d confided his fears? Allison never foresaw the earth-shattering fissure that would cleave them apart.
‘Did you tell anyone at work that Helena was living with you?’
‘I … ummm.’ His guilty flush answered the question. ‘Professional standards. Inappropriate conduct and all that … But part of the reason was her husband. He’s a judge.’
The Good Teacher Page 26