Everyone in This Bank Is a Thief: A Novel

Of the more legitimate avenues, some had never heard of me and thought the idea of a detective agency was too old-fashioned. I'd been prepared for that. What had shocked me was the response from those who had heard of me. Rather than prove I was a good detective, my books, it was repeatedly explained to me, captured a series of risky near-death experiences. One banker told me my books were only shelved in bookshops as 'murder mysteries' because there isn't a section for 'insurance nightmares'. I'm not oblivious to my frequent perils: I'd signed up to be an organ donor after my most recent scrape with death, just in case. But now I understood why the eyes of the lady who handed me my donor card lit up like a cartoon character with dollar signs for pupils, accompanied by a near audible ka-ching sound effect, as if my inevitable demise filled all her quotas at once. No bank could invest in someone whose every case might be their last. Of the many annoyances of dying as I write this, this might be the worst one: proving those very busy men right.

And not only is this case killing me: I worked it for free, too. Again.

The offer to come into Huxley's Bank for a meeting had been a rushed, and out of the blue, lifeline. Winston had asked how fast we could get here, so we'd driven overnight for our 10 a.m. It was well and truly our final shot.

It all bubbled over. I pushed myself out of the chair and went full method, pressing my finger on the table with each point. 'Three murder'ers'. Over a dozen murders, thank you very much. Huxley's Bank could help save lives. I've been on talk shows, radio, national news. My phone number leaked a few months ago and I was so inundated with calls I had to get a new one. But that's not the most important thing here.'

Juliette was trying to control the twitch of a smirk. 'What is, then?'

'I solve impossible crimes. People don't want to hire me. People need to hire me.' I collapsed back into the chair, spent.

'I knew that was in there somewhere.' Juliette reached over and squeezed my shoulder. 'How could he say no?'

'Like everyone else, I guess  gleefully.' I reached for the banana bread, but Juliette slapped my hand away. I was reluctantly dieting for the wedding; given the number of times I've been stabbed, it helps to have a little extra protection around the middle. But a new suit would, even without the photographer, tip the wedding budget perilously close to the magic thirty-six. Besides, eight months' recovery had gone twelve rounds with my savings. Sure, I had royalty cheques from the memoirs, but they were dwindling. And TV money isn't all it's cracked up to be. I was told by my agent that the producer who optioned the rights was coming off an enormous stinker and 'needed a low-budget project to right the ship; you're just what he's looking for'. I think she meant it as a compliment. Laurence Birch was the only thing of any value attached to the project. And now he'd carked it.

'How'd he die?' I changed the topic, wanting to get my mind off money and onto the far more comfortable topic of death, as we stood up and joined the queue to pay.

The family I'd noticed had split up; the mother and daughter had headed off and the father was in front of us itching for the cashier to hand over his change. He kept rolling his neck and checking his watch. I caught a glimpse of the digital display: 5.30. Whatever he was in a hurry for, he needn't have worried; his watch was four hours behind. It was currently 9.30. Receiving his change, Mr Twitchy knocked my shoulder on his way past, several of his coins spinning on to the floor. He didn't bend to pick them up, just surged towards the exit as if on a wave of stress. A quick note: just like people don't drop dead in first chapters of mystery novels without consequence(hello, Laurence Birch), neither do people bump into each other in coffee shops. I didn't know it yet, but this was the start of Bryce Fredericks' very bad day.

'Birch? Uh.' Juliette shook her head in light memory. 'Hit by a delivery van or something, yesterday. Article said they switched off his life support half an hour ago.'

'You talking about that actor?' The cashier, ponytail tight and high like a cat's tail, piped up. 'That happened near here. Over in Byron Bay.'

Near is a relative term in the countryside. Byron Bay was over the mountain range and on the coast, two hours' drive. Brisbane, at least ninety minutes away, would be described by plucky real estate agents as practically next door. Byron Bay is a gentrified beach oasis populated by equal parts spiritualists and backpackers, amid multi-million-dollar mansions. It's where positive thinking meets negative gearing and people walk barefoot to connect with Mother Nature, provided that Mother Nature is the name of their wi-fi network. In recent years Byron's popularity had exploded, and it boasted a bit of a celebrity portfolio. Evidently Laurence had chosen it as his Australian base.

'Settle a bet,' I said to the cashier, cutting in ahead of Juliette to tap my card. Even broke, I wanted to pay for things. 'Do I look like Birch?'

'Nah.' She sized me up. 'You're too tall. Bigger shoulders too. Dude's tiny.'