Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  ‘No,’ Oliver replied.

  ‘What about the ones you don’t want to tell me about?’

  Oliver took a step closer. ‘Look, Detective Wilson, I have no desire to get involved in an official police investigation.’

  ‘And yet, it seems you are,’ Detective Wilson interrupted.

  Oliver desperately wanted to tell the man everything, but he felt too wound up in the strands of the case, and a faint chill of fear suggested if he tugged too hard at one the whole thing would strangle him.

  The detective sensed his hesitation and raised his hands in an open gesture. ‘If you’re being forced into something I can help you Oliver.’

  Can you help me with the voice in my head?

  (Hey!)

  Something about the way he used Oliver’s name for the first time made Oliver even more nervous.

  (He doesn’t care about you – he just wants to find the killer. And I think he still suspects Amanda.)

  ‘I’m not being forced to do anything, and I’m not doing anything illegal – and I assure you I won’t get in the way of your investigation.’

  The two men stared at each other, Oliver desperately trying to keep his gaze steady, and the detective assessing Oliver’s words and expression for signs of deceit.

  Finally Detective Wilson broke away, disappointment etched on his features.

  ‘You’re involved in this, either more than you know or more than you’re willing to admit, so let me be frank. I’m keeping a close eye on you and if you put one foot wrong, you’re mine. Clear?’

  Oliver nodded.

  Satisfied that he’d made his point, the detective strode back to his car. Oliver waited until the man had driven off before letting out the breath he’d been holding.

  ‘Jesus, this whole thing is going to give me a heart attack,’ he said to the empty garage. His cat slunk around the corner, saw Oliver, and bolted.

  (Even the cat knows not to be around you.)

  ‘Try not to sound happy about it,’ he muttered.

  Before he could analyse the visit further another car pulled up to the house, and Victor emerged from the driver’s seat. Oliver took a deep breath and went down the driveway to meet him.

  Twenty seven

  There was a smile on the man’s face that reminded Oliver of psychopaths in the movies. The ones who would tell you it was okay that you’d made a mistake, then beat you to death with a baseball bat. Oliver’s nerves ramped up to maximum, threatening to overload and shut his body down. His fingers tingled and he shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the shaking.

  ‘Good morning Mr Atkinson.’

  (Have you noticed that this guy and the cop both call you Mr Atkinson?)

  Oliver hadn’t, but he added it to the list of things worth pondering should he survive the morning.

  ‘Good morning.’ Oliver’s voice was steady.

  Victor peered at his watch and held up a hand. The seconds ticked by, then the man smiled at Oliver. ‘It is precisely eleven o clock. Do you have the painting?’

  (Just follow the script, Oliver, the one Amanda told you.)

  I can’t remember the damn script.

  (I do.)

  ‘I don’t. Not yet. But I’m close, I just need more time.’

  Victor considered him emotionlessly. ‘That’s disappointing Mr Atkinson. I thought we understood each other.’

  ‘We did – we do. But I told you I didn’t know where the painting is. I’m having to start from scratch, and it’s not easy. Especially when your boss threatens my wife’s livelihood.’

  That elicited a fraction of movement in Victor’s eyebrows. Before he could reply Oliver’s phone beeped. He ignored it, but then it beeped again. Oliver pulled it out and read the message from Jennifer.

  Meeting cancelled. Boss says all sorted. No idea what’s happening. Love you babe.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Oliver apologised. ‘My wife had an emergency meeting with her manager this morning. She just let me know it’s been cancelled. Apparently it was a misunderstanding.’

  This time the surprise was clearly evident, but Victor quickly recovered and tapped his finger and thumb together thoughtfully. ‘It seems I may have misread the situation. How much time do you need to procure the painting?’

  ‘Three days.’

  ‘You have two. And Mr Atkinson – since you seem to know who my employer is, you should know that his reach is wide. Don’t disappoint me a second time.’

  Oliver nodded, and Victor got back into his car and drove off. Immediately Oliver’s phone rang.

  ‘All good?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘How the hell did you sort that?’

  ‘Easy, you don’t think the deputy prime minister rang Jennifer’s boss, do you? There was a phone call from an advisor at the Ministry of Health, telling her manager to have an emergency meeting with Jennifer to discuss potential cut backs. And a few minutes ago her manager received a follow-up phone call from a different advisor telling them it was a misunderstanding, and not to proceed.’

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate it. But you’ve only bought us two more days.’ He relayed what Victor had said.

  ‘That’s fine. If we can’t find the painting in two days then chances are we’ll never find it.’

  ‘What happens to us then?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Then I skip town and you’re on your own.’

  (Bitch.)

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Sorry, Oliver, but part of running a con is knowing when to cut your losses.’

  ‘What about me and my family? Victor doesn’t seem like the sort to let things go.’

  ‘He’s not. We’ll just have to think of something between now and then.’

  ‘I’m not taking a lot of confidence here.’

  There was silence from the other end of the phone. ‘Can you meet me in the city? I think we should pay the grieving widow another visit.’

  Oliver wanted to say no. He wanted to tell her to go to hell – but he knew if he was to have any chance of getting out of this situation he needed Amanda. ‘Give me twenty minutes,’ he sighed.

  He stewed on her words the entire drive into the city, egged on by Violet’s outrage that this woman would leave them high and dry.

  (I was just beginning to like her.)

  ‘We need to make sure we find the painting before Victor’s deadline. Then it’s a moot point.’

  Amanda was leaning against her car when he arrived. Today’s attire was a business suit, white blouse, and hair tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Very business like,’ Oliver answered.

  She nodded in satisfaction. ‘We know she’s lying to us about something. Saturday was good cop – now it’s time for bad cop.’

  ‘Only you aren’t a cop.’

  ‘I’m not good either,’ she grinned. ‘Besides, it’s just an expression, Oliver. And not being a cop works in our favour.’

  ‘How?’ he enquired as they walked to the front door.

  ‘It means I’m not restricted by what I can persuade her with.’ She winked.

  Charlotte answered the door immediately, bag clutched in one hand and keys in the other. She seemed flustered to see them.

  ‘Oh, I was just on my way out.’ She made to step around them but was blocked by Amanda.

  ‘We’ll keep it short then, Charlotte.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You were only here a couple of days ago. What do you want?’

  Amanda leaned in close. ‘Theft, Charlotte.’

  Charlotte’s eyes widened and she glanced at Oliver. ‘Theft? I don’t understand,’ she repeated.

  ‘Let’s go inside. This won’t take long, and depending on your answers you may never have to see us again.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ Charlotte replied, jerking her hand impatiently.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist,’ Amanda said in a cold voice.

  Oliver struggled to not look surprised.
/>
  (Wow, that’s a voice I never want used on me.)

  Charlotte’s face flushed and she retreated into the house, closely followed by Amanda. Oliver closed the front door and trailed them into the dining room.

  ‘Let me text my friend to say I’m going to be late.’ They waited while she punched out a message, then slipped the phone back into her bag. ‘Now what’s this about?’ Charlotte insisted.

  Amanda gestured for her to take a seat and she reluctantly complied. Amanda sat opposite, but when Oliver went to take a third chair she indicated he should stay standing. Puzzled, he complied.

  ‘Your husband was going to buy a painting from me. I left it at his shop, and now it’s gone.’

  ‘And so is my husband!’ Charlotte cried, her lips quivering.

  Amanda held up her hand. ‘That would be more convincing if you weren’t having an affair with his sister, and he hadn’t been planning on divorcing you.’

  Charlotte’s hand went to her mouth.

  ‘Stop play acting,’ Amanda snapped. ‘You knew about it, didn’t you?’

  Charlotte continued looking shocked for a moment longer, then her face relaxed and she shrugged. ‘I figured it was something like that. I was being super careful because of my thing with Kristin – otherwise I might have missed the signs. He was becoming secretive about his work, and there were some phone calls he didn’t want me listening into. It didn’t occur to me at the time that he was cheating on me, which I guess is ironic given I was cheating on him. It wasn’t until the murder that I started thinking about it.’ She smiled hopefully at Oliver who stared blankly back. The smile broke and fell apart.

  Amanda leaned forward and placed her hands flat on the table. It was a move that reminded Oliver of the detective in the interview room.

  ‘Charlotte, I’m going to say some names, and I want you to tell me if they mean anything to you. Are you ready?’

  The woman gave a hesitant nod.

  ‘Walter Carrington, Jean Pagey, and Kelvin Baker.’

  ‘Kelvin was a business rival. He came to the funeral, and afterwards offered to go through the shop and appraise some of the stock for me. He was…’

  She paused, searching for signs of encouragement.

  Amanda waited patiently.

  ‘He was creepy, and I didn’t trust him.’

  ‘What about the other two?’ Amanda prompted.

  ‘I’ve never met the first man, Walter, but I’ve heard Peter talk about him. The woman I’ve never heard of. Who is she? Is she the woman he was sleeping with?’ She managed to appear indignant but got zero sympathy from her audience.

  ‘I loved Peter, in a way. I know that sounds funny but I’ve always been interested in both sexes and I’ve known Kristin for years and it just sort of happened. And I love her too.’ Charlotte sighed. ‘The whole thing’s quite messy isn’t it?’

  (That’s an understatement.)

  I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.

  (Nothing, seems to be working for now.)

  ‘Charlotte, to be completely honest I have no interest in who you love or sleep with. I’m only interested in my painting, so I need you to think very carefully about the day Peter died. Did you talk to him, text him – anything that might help.’

  Suddenly eager to please, Charlotte dug into her handbag and pulled out her phone. ‘He texted me at lunchtime. We texted once or twice a day, but it was usually silly stuff, like remembering to pick up something on the way home. But there was this one.’ She pressed some numbers, then handed the phone over. Oliver leaned over Amanda’s shoulder to read the screen.

  JackPot, come tomorrow, usual time.

  ‘Any idea what it means?’ Amanda asked as she pushed the phone back across the table.

  No,’ Charlotte replied with a shake of her head. ‘I asked him about it later and he laughed it off, said he meant to send it to a potential buyer instead.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  She shrugged. ‘Sure, he used to send texts to the wrong people all the time. Besides, I was otherwise occupied when it came in.’ Her face flushed and she avoided eye contact.

  (Somebody was being naughty in the daytime. Lucky!)

  Oliver let the comment slide, knowing Violet was just trying to wind him up.

  (When was the last time you were naughty in the daytime, Oliver?)

  He continued to ignore her, but couldn’t help thinking the last time was pre-children. The echo of Violet’s laugh brought a tinge of red to his own cheeks.

  ‘And when he left to go back to the shop that evening, what exactly did he say?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I’d had a glass of wine…’

  (Or three.)

  ‘…and I was tired. Something about needing to check a recent purchase because it might be more valuable than he originally thought.’

  Amanda sat back in her chair and studied Charlotte carefully, the other woman wilting under the scrutiny.

  ‘Okay. Thank you for your time.’ Amanda stood up and indicated to Oliver they were going, but he remained where he was.

  ‘Charlotte, apart from us, has there been anyone else here wanting to know about the painting?’ he asked.

  Amanda turned back, surprise on her features. Charlotte shook her head, but there was a micro hesitation.

  ‘Who?’ Oliver insisted.

  ‘No one,’ she replied.

  Amanda stepped around the table and towered over the woman. ‘Who else has been asking about the painting?’

  She looked around wildly, as if contemplating a break for the door. ‘The police,’ she stumbled out.

  ‘The police wouldn’t elicit this reaction. Who was it?’ Amanda pressed.

  ‘Fine, it was Eugene Darcy. ‘He promised me a lot of money if I found out where it was and told him. I’ve got expenses,’ she whined.

  ‘That little shit,’ Amanda swore. ‘Come on Oliver.’

  They got as far as the footpath outside the front gate. Suddenly Oliver was grabbed from behind and shoved against a car.

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ growled a voice.

  Twenty eight

  Oliver placed both hands on the car and pushed as hard as he could. He moved an inch, then was slammed back. Hands grabbed both shoulders and spun him around. He found himself staring into the angry face of a man in his early twenties. The stranger’s nostrils flared, and his breath stank of beer and garlic. He wore a tight T-shirt that showed off pumped arm muscles.

  (Kick him in the balls.)

  I can’t do that, Oliver told her. It’s not in the man code.

  (Screw the man code, just kick him in the balls and let’s get out of here.)

  Oliver glanced to the left and saw Amanda in a similar position, with a virtually identical assailant. Unlike Oliver her face was a picture of calm.

  (I bet she’d kick him in the balls.)

  ‘I’m not kicking anyone in the balls!’

  The man in front of him retreated a pace in surprise, and his friend seemed equally startled at Oliver’s outburst. Then Oliver’s assailant poked a finger into his chest. It felt like being poked by a steel rod, with dirty fingernails.

  ‘That’s right – you’re not.’

  (He’s not the brightest, is he?)

  ‘You’re coming with us.’

  ‘No we’re not,’ Amanda replied.

  This seemed to confuse them, as if she wasn’t following the script.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ said the guy in front of Oliver.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Because we have his daughter,’ the man leered.

  (Now are you –)

  Violet didn’t have a chance to finish. Oliver brought a leg up sharply, the solid bone of his knee cap connecting with the softer area every man dreads injuring. Air exploded from the man’s lungs, Oliver grabbed his T-shirt, twisted out of the way, and rammed the man’s head into the side of the car. There was a dull thunk, and Oliver pushed him away, his whole body vibrating with rage, vis
ion narrowing to pinpricks. His ears roared, and fists were clenched so tight all the colour had leached from the knuckles. He wanted to pound the man over, and over, and over.

  Someone was saying his name. He looked over to see Amanda’s assailant dancing on his toes as she gripped, squeezed and turned, playing origami with the man’s groin.

  (Oliver! That’s enough.)

  Oliver’s assailant was on the ground, struggling to decide which bit hurt the most.

  (He’s beaten. Stop, please.)

  It was the please that did it. He always told Rose and Reed to use their manners and the word pierced his anger. Slowly it drained away.

  (Now I know what gets you going.)

  Oliver felt nausea sweep his lower stomach, then it touched the remnants of anger and evaporated. The guy should never have mentioned Rose.

  ‘Do you need to check on your daughter?’ Amanda asked, giving her victim an extra squeeze and being rewarded with a strained yelp.

  Oliver pulled out his phone and rang the children’s school. As he’d expected they confirmed Rose was safely still in class. With a promise to explain later he hung up and fought a desire to haul the man to his feet and deliver another knee.

  ‘I thought you said Victor didn’t use violence?’ he asked Amanda.

  ‘No, I said he doesn’t do it himself, but this isn’t his work anyway. These two don’t even qualify as amateurs. Who sent you?’

  The man managed to find an extra few millimetres in the tips of his toes, stretching towards the sky like he was trying to touch the clouds. A strangled sound emerged from his lips.

  (He sounds like a dying cat I found once.)

  Out of the corner of his eye Oliver saw a curtain twitch. When he turned, Charlotte jerked her head back from view.

  ‘I think we already know the answer to that,’ he guessed. ‘Charlotte didn’t text her friend to say she was going to be late – she texted Eugene Darcy, who sent dumb ass One and Two here.’

  ‘Is that true?’ The man’s face was a deep purple and it was unlikely he was currently capable of even a three-letter response. ‘Just move your head,’ Amanda said impatiently.

  The man vigorously nodded. Amanda released her grip and he collapsed to the ground next to his friend.