Private Sydney (Private 12)

Thankfully, Gillies’s threat hadn’t intimidated the man who worked closest with Moss.

‘Any idea what sort of trouble Eric could be in?’

Oliver scratched his neck. ‘The guy’s a monk. Doesn’t drink, smoke, gamble, take drugs or date. It’s offensive the way Gillies’s acting like he didn’t ever exist. He’s got to know where Eric went.’

This could be the only opportunity I had to ask. ‘Were you two having an intimate relationship?’

The assistant smirked. ‘You think Eric and I were an item? God no, he’s way too serious for me. Besides, he was married to this place. From what I can tell, he wasn’t interested in either sex. It was like he was asexual.’

I asked Driscoll if he could tell me who looked after the accounts.

He hurried back to his office and wrote down the name of the chief financial officer who Moss dealt with. ‘She’s fond of Eric and due to retire in a few months. She won’t have much to lose by talking to you.’

He collected Moss’s diary. The information was only in hard copy, nothing electronic. Once Gillies got it, any leads would be kept from us.

‘Any chance I can get a quick look before you hand that over?’

‘Better than that.’ He glanced around to ensure no one was in earshot. ‘I’ll photocopy it first.’ He held the diary to his chest.

I couldn’t walk out with papers now and it was unlikely I’d ever be allowed back in.

‘Can you courier the copies to our office?’

‘I can’t see me getting away until late. Maybe I can drop them off before I check in with Eliza.’

r />

‘How well do you know Miss Moss?’ I asked.

‘Sometimes when we were working late, Eliza would bring dinner and eat with us. They’re both really good people.’

We left the office with the diary still in Oliver’s hands.

As he closed the door behind us the assistant said, ‘Lang Gillies may come across as a buffoon but he has a lot of powerful friends. You’d never want to cross the vindictive SOB.’

Chapter 15

FROM THE FOYER, I called the financial officer’s number.

Renee Campbell listened as I introduced myself and explained that there were concerns about Eric Moss’s whereabouts.

Oliver Driscoll, however, had beaten me to it.

She agreed to meet us in Martin Place in five minutes and suggested a café that made great flat whites.

As the coffees arrived, a small woman in her late sixties approached. She had short, wispy grey hair and wore a pink crocheted vest over a navy skivvy and skirt.

She took a seat and thanked us for meeting her.

‘I can’t believe he’s gone.’

‘It sounds like his leaving shocked almost everyone. Do you have any idea where he went?’

She stared at the coffee. ‘No. I couldn’t believe it when I heard he’d resigned. We were supposed to meet that afternoon.’

‘Was there a problem with accounts?’

She wrapped both hands around the cup and took a sip before answering.