Murder in Paint (Hitchhiker Book 1)

by Rodney Strong

  ‘I am not cheating. I would never cheat on you. Why would you even think that?’

  Jennifer squirmed uncomfortably. ‘Forget it.’ She switched off her light and lay down.

  Oliver watched his wife helplessly. Sliding down next to her, he groped around under the covers and found her hand. ‘You are the only woman I love, the only woman I want or need. I would never hurt you.’ He leaned in to kiss her, felt the blankets tangle behind him and hold him back and struggled to get free, suddenly shooting forward and smacking Jennifer on the nose with his chin.

  Violet cracked up with laughter.

  Jennifer clutched her nose, laughter and tears fighting for dominance. A mortified Oliver clutched his chin and stammered out an apology.

  And in walked Reed, rubbing sleep filled eyes. ‘Dad?’

  Oliver beckoned him over. ‘Sorry buddy, did we wake you?’

  Reed climbed into bed next to him and snuggled into his arms. ‘How was jail Dad?’

  Oliver explained that he hadn’t actually been in jail, and Reed’s face fell. He could see his story for show and tell at school becoming less cool by the second.

  ‘Did they put handcuffs on you?’ Reed asked hopefully.

  Oliver shook his head. ‘But they let me interview a suspect.’

  Reed’s eyes bulged. ‘Awesome. So are you like a detective or something?’

  Oliver saw the shine on his son’s face, then glanced over at Jennifer who seemed just as interested in the answer. ‘Unofficially buddy.’

  Reed seemed unsure about the response.

  ‘It means I don’t have a badge, but I get to help solve the crime.’

  This temporarily satisfied him, at least enough to go back to his own room. In the silence that followed Oliver and Jennifer looked at each other, neither sure what to say next.

  ‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow,’ he replied.

  ‘We will. Love you, babe.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  It took him a long time to get to sleep, and almost as soon as he had, Rose was jumping on the bed declaring it was time to get up.

  With a groan he pried an eye open and saw it was just after six o clock.

  ‘Go into the lounge and come and get Daddy when it’s seven o clock.’

  Rose dutifully climbed off the bed and padded down the hallway while Oliver closed his eye again. Five minutes later she was back.

  ‘It’s not seven o clock yet honey.’

  ‘Daddy, I can’t tell the time.’

  Get up lazy lump.

  Reluctantly he stumbled out of bed, threw on his dressing gown, and followed his daughter down the hall, into a room with every single light on. He turned off the unnecessary ones, then settled down on the couch with Rose. Oliver kept waiting for her to ask about the night before, but she seemed more interested in watching the unicorn cartoon, so he closed his eyes. Only to open them twenty minutes later when Reed came in, and Rose whacked Oliver in the stomach and asked for an apple, peeled, cored, and cut up into six equal parts.

  She’s quite particular.

  She knows what she wants that’s for sure.

  I don’t think you’re going to have to wait ten years before you’re in trouble.

  Oliver watched Rose push her brother off the couch, then give her Dad the angelic look of innocence. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said.

  It was Saturday morning, which meant swimming lessons. They were only two minutes late, a personal best. Despite having all the time in the world to get ready, the children always found something to delay departure long enough that Oliver spent the entire trip glancing at the clock and tapping his fingers.

  He and Jennifer sat on opposite sides of the pool, each watching a child. Halfway through the thirty-minute lesson they swapped.

  Violet seemed astounded at the concept of swimming lessons. I never learned to swim. There was no need. And if I had wanted to learn properly, my father would have taken me down to the local pool and thrown me in. You pay people for this? Why don’t you do it yourself?

  Oliver started to reply, then tailed off, realising he didn’t have an answer. He thought back to when he was growing up, and how his mother had taught him to swim at the local school pool. Somewhere along the way it had become more socially acceptable to pay someone else to do the job you could probably do yourself.

  Leave it to the experts, he eventually said.

  So someone else teaches them to swim, dance, read, write, and all that. What exactly do you do?

  Mainly make sure they get there on time.

  After swimming they went to a local café where the kids magically turned a small scone into a large mess. When threatened with never being taken out again, both children sincerely apologised, but no one at the table was fooled.

  We should be out there doing something, finding the painting.

  It’s family time, we’ll look later.

  Later proved to be sooner though. When they pulled into the driveway there was a dark Nissan Leaf parked outside their house.

  By the time Oliver had switched off the engine, and climbed out of the car, a man had emerged from the Nissan and was waiting patiently by their letterbox. Impeccably dressed in a black suit, light blue business shirt, and black shoes, he wore glasses and his head was devoid of hair. There was nothing remotely intimidating about his appearance, yet there was something unsettling about the way he just stood there.

  I don’t like him.

  Oliver exchanged glances with Jennifer and shrugged to indicate he had no idea who their visitor was. He gestured for her to take the kids into the house, then walked down the drive.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Up close he could see the man was shorter than him, wore a gold stud in one ear, and two plain gold rings, one on each hand.

  ‘I certainly hope so, Mr Atkinson.’

  Oliver felt a slice of cold touch the back of his neck and sweep down to his toes. ‘Do I know you?’

  The man tilted his head slightly and revealed perfectly white teeth. ‘Not yet, Mr Atkinson. My name is Victor and we have a mutual acquaintance. Violet Tumbleton.’

  This is the man she was scared of?

  Oliver glanced back at the house, reassuring himself that his family was inside. ‘I don’t care what she told you, I don’t know where the painting is.’

  The man’s smile broadened. ‘Excellent, I feared we would have to go through the whole dance about not knowing what this was all about. My employer is very interested in recovering the painting Ms Tumbleton stole, and she’s advised us that you know its whereabouts.’

  ‘I don’t! Why don’t you go to the police? I’m sure they will be able to get it back for you.’ Oliver made to turn away but was stopped by a little cough.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, don’t disappoint me. Ms Tumbleton knows the problems associated with lying to me. If she says you know where it is, then I believe her.’

  Why are you worried about this guy? You could take him with one hand tied behind your back. Heck, I could take him and I’m dead.

  I’m not a fighter.

  There was another small cough. Victor was viewing him with polite curiosity and Oliver realised he had been standing there having an internal conversation.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, you recently gave up full time employment did you not? To start a career in writing. A noble pursuit, but one that currently isn’t paying anything.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Oliver asked.

  Victor just smiled and continued. ‘I have been authorised by my employer to provide a ten-thousand-dollar finder’s fee to anyone who can return the painting to its rightful owner.’

  Ten thousand dollars!

  ‘I honestly don’t know where the painting is,’ Oliver replied weakly.

  Victor studied him, then gave a tiny shake of his head. ‘Mr Atkinson, you have a wonderful house, and a wonderful family.’

  The way he said it sent a shiver down Oliver’s spine. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It w
as merely an observation.’ Victor stepped closer. His mouth twitched, revealing a gleam of white.

  ‘I need the painting, Violet says you know where it is, therefore you will get it for me, and I will pay you ten thousand dollars, and your wife can stop worrying about money.’

  Just then Rose came running down the driveway. Skidding to a halt next to her father, she slipped her hand into his.

  ‘I don’t like you,’ she stated to Victor.

  Victor smiled at her. ‘So you shouldn’t either, my dear. Mr Atkinson, in forty-nine hours I will return and you will have the painting ready for me. Nicely wrapped too, I think.’ He made to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ Oliver called out. ‘Honey, go back into the house, I’ll be right there.’ Rose skipped away and Oliver narrowed the gap between himself and Victor.

  ‘What happens if I can’t get the painting?’

  ‘Forty-eight hours and fifty-nine minutes Mr Atkinson.’

  As he watched the man get into his car and drive away, Oliver replayed the conversation, unsure if he’d just been threatened or not.

  He strode into the house, fear and anger jostling inside him. Halfway down the hallway Reed’s remote-controlled car zoomed out of his bedroom right at Oliver’s feet. He stumbled, jamming an elbow on the cupboard door handle, and hit the ground in an untidy heap. Instantly his mood changed to sore and angry in equal parts. Reed shot out into the hall and froze at the sight of his dad on the floor. His eyes darted between the car and Oliver’s face, his six-year-old mind calculating the odds he was about to lose the toy.

  Oliver felt anger winning over pain, then heard Violet laughing, and slowly the black mood faded. He grinned. ‘Wasn’t my smoothest move, was it, buddy?’

  Reed laughed with relief. ‘Sorry Dad.’

  Oliver grabbed the boy by the arm, pulling him over and dumping him on the ground, where he immediately tickled him. Reed’s squeals attracted Rose, who jumped on her dad’s back. Jennifer wandered into the hall, saw what was happening, and wandered back out. After a minute of non-stop tickling, the two kids crawled away and Oliver climbed slowly to his feet. His elbow throbbed, but the anger was gone, replaced with uncertainty.

  How the hell are we going to find the painting?

  I don’t know. But we need to think of something quick. There’s less than 49 hours.

  SIXTEEN

  Oliver didn’t want to worry Jennifer any more than necessary, so when she asked him who their visitor had been, he gave her the bones of the story.

  Her look implied she knew he was hiding something, but he chose to ignore it.

  ‘So how are you going to find the painting?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

  ‘Do you think this woman killed the antique dealer?’

  Oliver hesitated, then shook his head.

  ‘Do you think finding the painting will put you in the sights of the killer?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ he admitted.

  ‘Is staying at home an option?’

  He thought of Fake Violet, and the one residing in his head. Then he thought of Victor and Detective Wilson. ‘Honey, if burying my head in the sand would work I’d be out the back already, shovel in hand.’

  Jennifer studied him for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. ‘Okay, go find the painting, but don’t put yourself in danger, or your family, and be home in time for dinner, you promised to make the kids spaghetti. Oh, and the car needs petrol, and make sure your phone is charged, in case you need to call the police, or an ambulance.’

  ‘Are you seriously sending me out after a killer?’ He was half hoping she was kidding.

  ‘No, I want you to stay as far away from the killer as you can.’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

  She patted him on the arm. ‘You’ll think of something.’ Jennifer walked down the hall calling for the kids to get their shoes on. The usual choruses of protest quickly changed to a flurry of action when they heard they were going to their grandmother’s.

  Once the house was empty Oliver wandered from room to room, unsure of his next course of action.

  ‘We can’t investigate a murder. The police already think I’m involved, and if they find me poking around the murder scene then I’ll be straight back to the police station.’

  It sounds like the painting was the only thing taken, which means someone was after it. Maybe the owner wasn’t supposed to be there. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to die.

  ‘Possibly, or maybe he was right where he was supposed to be, and the killer was making sure anyone associated with the painting was removed.’

  Which means Fake Violet could be in danger.

  ‘Exactly. Luckily she’s in police custody, so she should be safe for now.’

  At which point Oliver’s cell phone rang, proving you should never make bold statements.

  ‘Oliver, how’s the hunting going?’

  ‘It’s not. I’m struggling to know where to start.’

  ‘Fair enough. Put your shoes on – I’ll be outside your house in two minutes,’ Fake Violet told him.

  Oliver glanced at his feet. ‘I’ve already got shoes on.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you in one minute.’ She hung up.

  I guess she’s not safe after all.

  Precisely sixty seconds later a black SUV pulled up, Fake Violet behind the wheel. Oliver got in the passenger seat, and barely had his seat belt on before she stepped on the accelerator.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in jail?’

  Fake Violet laughed. ‘What for? I took a painting to a shop to sell, it went missing, and there is no evidence at all that I still have it, or that I killed the owner. There was only so long they could hold me.’

  ‘Weren’t they suspicious when they discovered Violet Tumbleton isn’t your real name?’

  She smiled. ‘How would they discover that? I’m very good at what I do.’

  ‘So?

  ‘So I am Violet Tumbleton, at least as far as the police are concerned. In fact as far as anyone is concerned, except for you. Why is that?’

  Because I’m Violet Tumbleton you rotten bitch.

  ‘I have a friend who knew the real Violet Tumbleton.’

  ‘Your friend must be quite old.’

  Oliver barely resisted the urge to wave a finger in the air and shout “Aha”. In his head Violet was doing the verbal equivalent of the “I told you so” dance.

  ‘She acts younger than she is,’ he replied. ‘I can’t call you Violet, so what’s your real name?’

  Fake Violet seemed to consider the question as she wove her way through the suburban streets and onto the motorway. ‘You can call me Amanda,’ she finally said.

  ‘Is that your actual name?’ he asked suspiciously.

  She gave another laugh. ‘It’s what you can call me when we’re alone. When other people are around I’m Violet, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Amanda. I had a visitor this morning – a man called Victor.’

  Amanda’s face went pale, then she quickly regained her composure. ‘He’s working faster than I expected. What did he say?’

  ‘He made some observations, and gave me a deadline. Is he dangerous? Is my family in danger?’

  Amanda shook her head. ‘No, they aren’t in any physical danger,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry Oliver, I truly am. What was the deadline?’

  Oliver glanced at the car clock. ‘I have just over forty-eight hours to find the missing painting.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Exactly.

  Why are you worried? It’s my life on the line.

  Okay, first he never threatened your life, so don’t be melodramatic. Second, I don’t know what happens to me if you die, and I’d rather not find out.

  ‘What’s so special about the painting? I searched it online and it’s only worth a few thousand,’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Actually, it’s worth millions.’

  Oliver’s jaw dropped. ‘I don’t understand. The websites I looked at said it was valued at a
fraction of that.’

  ‘It’s a little more complicated than that,’ Amanda replied slowly.

  Oliver waited expectantly.

  ‘The painting is a forgery.’

  Holy moly!

  ‘You mean it’s not the real “Sunset over the Island”?’

  Amanda abruptly changed lanes, earning an angry car horn and a flourished fist, to which she politely waved back. ‘I mean, there is no “Sunset over the Island”, at least not one painted by Gordon Fairbrother.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying someone forged the painting back in the 1950s and passed it off as one of Fairbrother’s work?’

  Amanda nodded.

  ‘But wouldn’t that make it less valuable?’

  ‘Normally it would, but in this case the forger has become well known. He used to find an artist, someone who’d just successfully broken into the art world, then he’d paint something and pass it off as that artist’s. He was unique, flawless, and his work is worth millions.’

  ‘Who was the artist?’

  ‘A guy called John Strong.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Holy…

  ‘John Strong,’ Oliver repeated.

  Amanda nodded, then looked at him sharply. ‘Are you familiar with him?’

  ‘I’ve recently become aware of his work.’

  This is getting weirder by the minute.

  Amanda seemed like she wanted to ask a follow up question, then changed her mind. ‘The story goes he was a failed artist. A good one, but he was trying to make a living during the depression and the second world war, neither of which was a good time to convince people they needed a painting for their lounge walls. Rumour has it he resorted to trading paintings for things, like food, shelter…’

  Sex.

  ‘After the war things started picking up in the art scene, but he still struggled. One day he saw a story in the local paper about an artist who just sold a painting for a record price. A week later he took a painting by the same artist into a gallery and sold it for enough to live on for six months. By the time anyone figured out it was a forgery John had done a runner.’

  ‘And that’s what he did with “Sunset over the Island?”’