Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  Secretly he sometimes went into bookshops and pulled his own book off the shelf, flicking through it like it was the most interesting thing ever written. Occasionally he would turn to the inside of the back cover and read his bio. It was accompanied by a professionally taken photograph, and he’d been so amazed at the results he’d initially accused the photographer of digitally altering the image. The young man with brown hair, blue eyes, and smooth skin was a far cry from the mess that greeted him in the bathroom mirror each morning. He’d been assured that it was him, just a him that had shaved and been put in the right light.

  Because he only had one book out and was as minor a celebrity as you could possibly be and still lay claim to the moniker, Oliver remained on school taxi service for the kids. A year ago they would have insisted he park the car and come up to their classrooms, to show off their latest and greatest piece of something. Recently however, they’d started requesting that he drop them at the gate. Oliver loved his kids and over the last few years he’d become good at faking enthusiasm for some pretty terrible art work, so he should have felt relieved. Instead he was slightly put out.

  Once Reed and Rose had exited from the car without backward glances, Oliver headed home.

  (Yer making them soft. We walked to school every day. Snow, rain, rabid dogs. Mam’d kick us out the door at 7.30am and expect us back at 3.40pm.)

  ‘It doesn’t snow in Wellington.’

  (Aye, but I wasn’t talking about here. Edinburgh, the best damn city in the world. And we never had shoes half the time.)

  Oliver sighed as he slowed to a crawl in the morning traffic. ‘Okay, I get that you grew up in a log cabin you helped your pa build, and ate cold poison for breakfast every day, but times have changed since they used to think asbestos was a good thing, so for both of our sakes, give it a rest.’

  (Impudent sod.)

  ‘You know, your accent is a bit hit and miss,’ Oliver commented.

  (What’s that mean?’)

  ‘Sometimes your Scottish accent is thick, and other times it’s almost gone. Why’s that?’

  There was a long silence as Oliver cleared the traffic and zipped up the hill to home. Their three-bedroom suburban house sat on a tree-lined street, nestled in amongst similar looking structures, with a view of yet more houses. It was the sort of place where you know some of your neighbours enough to wave to and some enough to invite over for dinner.

  Oliver deliberately ignored the weeds that flourished on both sides of the driveway. It was part of his ongoing strategy of hoping they would sort themselves out eventually. Currently along the side of the house, there was a weed that stood three feet tall. With some less than gentle nudging from Jennifer, Oliver was in the process of revising his strategy. As luck would have it, Angus showed up before Oliver had reached the point of pulling on gardening gloves.

  (The thing is, I came here when I was eight years old, so my accent had seventy years to sort of fade a bit.)

  ‘Or completely,’ Oliver replied as he unlocked the front door.

  (Aye, it was difficult back then. My dad heard there was gold to be had in New Zealand so he packed us up and sailed us across the world.)

  ‘Did you find any gold?’

  Angus laughed. (We were about ten years too late. All the gold-digging was commercialised, so we came to Wellington.)

  Oliver switched on the laptop and went into the kitchen to get a glass of water as he waited for it to boot up. ‘What did your father do for a living?’

  (He was what you might call a collector.)

  ‘Like stamps?’

  (Oh aye, there was a lot of stamping that went on.)

  Oliver scratched his head. ‘What does that mean?’

  (It means he was a nasty piece of work, working for a nasty piece of work.)

  Oliver didn’t quite know what to say next, so he busied himself searching for George’s parents. Luckily the boy had an open profile on his Facebook, apparently not caring who saw what about his life. Or not being smart enough to adjust the privacy settings. Oliver clicked on the friends list and scrolled through 1,100 names.

  (He has that many friends?)

  ‘I doubt he could pick ninety-five percent of them out of a line up. Friends has a slightly different meaning online.’

  Before Angus could respond, Oliver spotted a profile for Richard McMurry. Unfortunately it was private, but it did show that Richard lived in Wellington.

  ‘At the very least he’s a relative.’

  (Richard? Who calls their son Richard?)

  ‘It’s a pretty common name,’ Oliver replied, as he searched the online white pages and found an address for a R and L McMurry. He copied it down on a scrap of paper.

  (It’s not a Scottish name. What happened to my family? I die and they forget where they came from.)

  ‘It’s just a name.’ Oliver winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth. The last time he’d picked up a hitchhiker, the entire thing was the result of a con artist stealing Violet’s name. Since then, Oliver had developed a new understanding for the importance of names. Although he still struggled to remember them sometimes.

  Oliver and Jennifer lived about fifteen minutes’ drive from Wellington city. Or at least they would have if half the highway wasn’t being upgraded. It had been going on for so long, Oliver considered “upgraded” to be code for “endlessly digging up”.

  With Angus criticising every song that came on the radio, the twenty-five-minute trip felt more like an hour. It was like riding in the car with your grandfather. Angus threw out names like Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey as real musicians. Oliver hadn’t heard of either of them, which caused fresh outrage from his passenger.

  R and L McMurry’s house was on a hill above the university, which was also on a hill. Pretty much everything in Wellington was on a hill or within walking distance of one. The house was up some narrow concrete steps. Several steps had broken edges, or were slick with moss, making the climb an exercise in concentration. By the time he reached the top, Oliver’s brow was damp with sweat despite the cool air, which he was certain seemed a lot thinner.

  The house was old and clad in wood that appeared to be held together by a layer of flaking paint.

  (Now this is a house. Not like that stinking pile of bricks you live in.)

  Just remember you live there too, for now.

  Oliver had worked out a plan on the drive, but now that he was at the door he began to rethink it. Before he could consider for too long, the front door flung open. Oliver stepped back in surprise and for a moment teetered on the edge of the top step, before stretching out a hand and grabbing hold of a nearby bush. Unfortunately when he regained his balance, he also came away with a handful of bright purple flowers.

  Angus’s laughter filled his head. You’re as smooth as an overcooked haggis.

  A tall, thin woman stood in the doorway. She wore dark pants and a cream blouse. Her short black hair was perfectly in place, and her face covered in make-up held an amused expression.

  ‘That happens a lot,’ she said. Her voice was firm and held a trace of an accent.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Oliver replied, awkwardly clutching the flowers.

  ‘Give me those.’

  Oliver handed them over, and the woman promptly deposited them into a small rubbish bin next to the door.

  ‘I hate that bush anyway. I’ve been on at Richard to get rid of it for years. Now, if you’re a reporter we’re not interested. If you’re a salesman, you’re not getting anything but a workout on the way up and a concussion on the way down if you don’t watch your step.’

  (She’s English.)

  So?

  (We’re Scots! We don’t marry the English.)

  Oliver was about to tell Angus how ridiculous that sounded, when he realised the woman was waiting for a response.

  ‘I’m not a reporter and I’m not selling anything. I heard about George. I appreciate this is a delicate topic, but I wanted to offer whatever support I could.
’

  To his own ears the story sounded see-through thin.

  ‘And what support could you possibly offer?’ she asked with folded arms.

  ‘I have experience working beside the police on investigations. I can make sure that George isn’t railroaded by the police. They can become fixated once they have a suspect.’

  The woman considered him for such a long time he thought she’d frozen into a statue.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she finally said, in a voice quivering with hostility.

  ‘Oliver Atkinson.’

  Her eyes narrowed for a moment. ‘Oliver Atkinson? As in The Passage of a Leaf Oliver Atkinson?’

  Oh my god, she’s heard of me. Oliver nodded, failing to keep a smile from his face at being recognised.

  She held out her hand. ‘I’m Louise. You better come in.’

  Louise led him through a narrow hallway with bare wooden floors, and into a small dining room. Oliver was gratified to see his book sitting on a side table.

  George’s mother gestured for him to sit, and she did the same. ‘Let’s start by how you know about George. His name hasn’t been released by the media, and the lawyer has said not to talk to anyone, so…?’

  ‘I have a source that let me know the situation, just the bare outline, not the specifics.’

  ‘And you thought you’d rush right over and offer, how did you put it, whatever support you could?’

  Her voice was heavy with scepticism and Oliver didn’t blame her.

  (Typical English. Suspicious sods, the lot of them.)

  ‘I’m a parent, Mrs McMurry, and although my kids aren’t quite at the age where they’re likely to be accused of murder, I know I’d do anything to help them if they were.’

  ‘I told you to call me Louise,’ she replied, playing with her necklace. She glanced over at the wall and Oliver followed her gaze to several family photos. Besides George and his parents, there was a girl in most of them, roughly the same age as George.

  ‘What can you do?’ Louise asked.

  ‘It would help if I knew the details,’ Oliver replied.

  She studied Oliver, and he did his best to adopt a non-threatening, helpful expression. Finally she gave a slight nod.

  ‘My son, George, is a good boy. I know all mothers are supposed to say that, but in this case it’s true. He’s no saint certainly, but apart from some minor trouble he’s a good boy. And he loved Ashley. She was a good girl and they were happy together.’

  (She’s saying good too much.)

  Makes you wonder how much she really knows her son.

  (At last, something we agree on. Maybe you’re not a waste after all.)

  ‘So what happened?’ Oliver asked.

  She shook her head slightly, like she was trying to shake a bad memory loose.

  ‘They had a fight. It was nothing. He went out. When he came back Ashley was dead. Some busybody neighbour heard the fight and told the police. Now, instead of looking for the real killer, they’re questioning my George.’

  She trailed off, moisture forming in the corner of one eye.

  What’s she more upset about? The dead girl or that her son might be a cold-blooded killer?

  ‘Where’s George now?’

  ‘My husband took him to see the lawyer this morning.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘They’re not due home for another hour. So what do you think you can do to help?’

  (We’ll wait until the boy gets home, then you can punch him in the nose and I can go back to being dead.)

  I told you I’m not going to assault anyone.

  ‘I’d like to…’ Oliver said.

  (Help teach the kid a lesson.)

  ‘Stop!’

  When Louise looked at him strangely Oliver realised he’d protested out loud.

  ‘I’d like to stop this thing before it gets out of hand,’ he quickly covered.

  Her expression softened and she nodded in agreement.

  ‘Do you know the name of the officer in charge of the investigation?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘A horrible man,’ she responded instantly. ‘He asked all sorts of questions that had nothing to do with anything. His name is Detective Wilson.’

  Damn.

  FIVE

  (Do ye know the copper?)

  ‘I’m familiar with him.’ And he’s familiar with me.

  Thanks in part to Violet and in part to Amanda, the woman who’d stolen her name, Detective Wilson had spent the better part of a week treating Oliver as a suspect in a murder case. The subsequent disappearance of Amanda had done nothing to convince the detective that Oliver was an innocent party in the whole thing.

  ‘Of course you are,’ she replied, with a hint of a smile.

  Oliver shot her a puzzled look.

  ‘Mr Atkinson — Oliver, there are two reasons I let you into my house. The first is, I read your book and recognised your picture, so I know you are who you say you are. The second, more important reason, is that I remember the news reports from the murder trial involving that antique dealer. The papers hinted that you were more involved in the capture of his killer than the police were prepared to admit. So I believe you have experience in this area.’ She leaned forward and placed her elbows on the table. ‘I will do anything to bring Ashley’s killer to justice and to clear my son. Including using you. Are we clear?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Oliver replied.

  (I’m starting to change my mind about her.)

  ‘Could you talk to the detective?’ Louise asked.

  That’s plan Z.

  ‘It’s doubtful he would talk to me regarding an ongoing investigation,’ Oliver replied. ‘A better place to start might be with George. It would be helpful to get his side of the story.’

  ‘You mean the truth,’ Louise said sharply. Her eyes narrowed and the muscles in her arms tensed, as if readying herself to leap across the table and attack the disparager of her offspring.

  ‘Of course,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Just to be clear, Mr Atkinson, you will not talk to my son unless Richard or I are present. And nothing you hear will be used without our express permission. Do you understand?’

  (Typical suspicious Sassenach.)

  Louise mistook Oliver’s expression.

  What the hell is a Sassenach?

  ‘Was something not clear?’ Louise asked.

  (English.)

  ‘No, no that’s perfectly clear. I promise nothing will be used without your okay.’

  The woman relaxed back into her chair. ‘I loved your book.’

  Oliver breathed out in relief at the change in topic. Louise spent the next five minutes telling him how wonderful his book was, and the following ten minutes picking holes in it. By the time the door banged open and George slouched in, Oliver was thoroughly confused as to whether she liked it or not.

  ‘Who’s this?’ George asked. His face was pale with bags under his eyes.

  Louise rose from her chair and hugged her son. ‘This is Oliver Atkinson. He’s a writer, and he’s here to help.’

  ‘Yeah? Well unless he’s going to write me an alibi then he can bugger off.’

  (There’s my blood.)

  ‘George!’ Louise’s reproach lacked fire and Oliver wondered if that was the usual state of their relationship or a reflection of the criminal charges facing her son.

  ‘You’ll be surprised at what I can do,’ Oliver replied calmly.

  George gave him a sour look. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  He slumped into a seat next to his mother and moodily picked at his fingernails. ‘Me and Ashley had a fight. I went out and when I got home she was in the bath.’

  ‘She was already dead?’ Oliver interrupted.

  ‘No, she’d grown gills and was swimming around like a goldfish.’

  (Walked into that one.) Angus laughed long and hard.

  ‘I meant, was she already dead or did she die after you got there?’

  George�
�s sneer changed to one of mild embarrassment. ‘Oh, yeah she was dead. Pretty hard to breathe in mud.’

  ‘Mud?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the thing. The bath wasn’t filled with water, it was filled with mud.’

  Oliver sat back in his chair and digested the information. Who would fill a bath full of mud to murder someone?

  (Especially when you could…)

  Angus went on to list multiple ways to kill people, which both impressed and appalled Oliver.

  ‘Where did the mud come from?’ he asked.

  ‘How do I know?’ George replied with a dismissive wave. ‘Mud is mud. It’s not like there was a bag next to the bath telling me which shop it came from.’

  ‘Okay, I appreciate this is a difficult situation for you, but things will go a lot smoother if you ditch the sarcasm.’

  George opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again and nodded, before running his hand through his hair. ‘Yeah sorry. It’s been a full-on couple of days.’

  ‘What did you and Ashley fight about?’

  ‘She wanted to go to the movies and I didn’t. Stupid when you think about it. Our last words were angry because I didn’t want to see a chick flick.’ His voice cracked and for a second his indifferent expression slipped and Oliver saw genuine emotion.

  (Is he crying? What kind of soft pile of flesh have the McMurry’s turned into?)

  Oliver ignored him, focussing on George. Whatever facade he put on, it was obvious he had real feelings for his girlfriend.

  ‘Did she have any enemies?’ Oliver asked, because that’s what all the police ask on the crime shows.

  George sneered. ‘She wasn’t a spy, she was studying cultural anthropology. Cultural anthropology students don’t have enemies.’

  (What the hell is cultural anthropology?)