Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  Oliver glanced at the constable who was trying hard not listen in.

  ‘I...um…well, technically I said I could ring you myself. I never said I was ringing you.’

  ‘Have you heard from Violet Tumbleton recently?’ the detective switched topics.

  ‘No I haven’t,’ Oliver replied in relief. It wasn’t a complete lie. The real Violet Tumbleton had been dead for over seventy years, and the woman the police knew as Violet was a con artist whose name may or may not be Amanda. Oliver hadn’t seen or heard from her for a year and a half. It was a particular sore point with the police. Detective Wilson hadn’t taken it well when Amanda disappeared, and not just because he had lost one of his key witnesses in a murder trial.

  Oliver endured several grillings on her whereabouts. Eventually he’d managed to convince Wilson that Oliver didn’t know where she was.

  ‘Please don’t tell me you’re mixed up in this murder too,’ Detective Wilson commented.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Mr Atkinson, those two words do not fill me with warmth.’

  Behind the detective, Oliver could see the constable grin.

  (Tell him to mind his business.)

  ‘I mean, I’m not involved in any way. I’m here in a professional capacity,’ Oliver replied. He was quite proud of how important that sounded and hoped that the detective wouldn’t ask the natural follow up question.

  ‘And what profession is that?’

  ‘As a writer.’

  An eyebrow was raised, and Oliver hurried on. ‘I am writing a murder mystery and a relative of George McMurry got in touch and asked me to act on behalf of the family.’

  (Asked!) There was the sound of laughing in Oliver’s head.

  ‘In a writing capacity?’

  Oliver nodded, aware he was seconds away from being escorted back to the police station for questioning. He vividly remembered the horrible few hours he’d spent in the interrogation room.

  (We’re on the street, the copper can sod off if he thinks he can get rid of me.)

  He’s not getting rid of you.

  ‘How exactly do you think you can assist the family? In a writing capacity.’

  Oliver searched the words for sarcasm, but only found polite interest, which was more intimidating.

  ‘I won’t know until I gather more information,’ Oliver replied with as much confidence he could muster.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, the last time you gathered information, I discovered that you kept a great deal of it to yourself. In fact, it was only a successful conviction against a murderer that convinced me not to press charges against you.’

  The detective paused to make sure Oliver was paying attention. Satisfied, he continued. ‘So let me be clear, Mr Atkinson. I’d prefer that you stayed as far away from my investigation as possible. As long as you don’t interfere you aren’t technically breaking any laws. You can gather whatever information you like out here,’ he gestured to the street, ‘but you don’t go into my crime scene. And you don’t go near my witnesses.’

  ‘How will I know who your witnesses are?’ Oliver asked genuinely.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, as far as you’re concerned, everyone is a witness. However if by some miracle you find anything out I want to know about it immediately. I trust that’s clear?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘So let’s start with what Sean Francis said to you.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Oliver replied. ‘I mean something, obviously. He didn’t hear much the night of the murder, except a strange whistling sound.’

  Detective Wilson nodded, and Oliver had a smug feeling that this was new information.

  ‘I don’t expect to see you again unless the words coming out of your mouth are I know who did it and here’s the concrete proof you need.’

  ‘Believe me, Detective Wilson, I would be extremely happy to never see you again.’

  That comment earned two raised eyebrows.

  ‘I mean…’ Oliver paused.

  ‘Good bye,’ Mr Atkinson.’

  Oliver walked away quickly before he said anything else stupid.

  (Aye, ye should be hopping with that foot in yer mouth.)

  ‘Shut up,’ Oliver muttered. He glanced over his shoulder to see Detective Wilson talking to the constable. The uniformed officer didn’t look happy about it, and Oliver felt guilty that he was probably the cause.

  (What’s next?)

  Oliver checked his watch. It’s time to pick the kids up from school.

  (Picking the kids up? Isn’t that a woman’s job?)

  There’s no such thing as women’s work anymore. Oliver started the car and headed back through the city.

  (Aye? What about childbirth?)

  ‘Okay, that’s not what I mean. Women don’t have a choice on whether to give birth, they’re designed that way.’

  (So if you had the choice you’d pop a sprog out?)

  Oliver flashed back to Jennifer in labour with Rose, and the finger crushing pain that accompanied it. ‘Hell, no. My point is that it’s not uncommon these days for roles to be reversed, and fathers to stay at home while women have a career.’

  (And you’re alright with that?)

  ‘Of course.’

  (But that means you spend more time with the children.)

  Oliver stopped at a set of traffic lights and tapped the steering wheel in time with the radio. ‘So? I love my kids.’

  (This is madness. Are you sure I’m not in hell?)

  ‘If you don’t like kids that much, why are you back from the dead to help one.’

  (Not by choice! But if I have to be here then I’ll not have the McMurry name dragged through the mud.)

  ‘Didn’t you say your dad used to work for a gangster? How clean can the name be?’

  They pulled away from the traffic lights and entered the tunnel at the start of the motorway.

  (I may have exaggerated a little. He mostly drank for a living.)

  Oliver couldn’t think of a follow up question that didn’t lead to an awkward conversation, so lapsed into silence the rest of the way to school. He parked and walked the short distance to the front gate. Though the children preferred to be dropped off in the morning, Rose had made it clear that she still wanted her father to be waiting outside her classroom when the bell rang.

  Oliver exchanged greetings with some of the other parents. As usual he was one of the few fathers, something that Angus commented on, and Oliver ignored.

  ‘Hi, Oliver. I read your book.’

  He smiled at the woman. Wendy was one of those immaculately dressed women that managed to be genuine and oblivious at the same time. He didn’t think she had a mean soul, but some of the things she said definitely needed to be run through a filter before coming out of her mouth.

  ‘It was cute.’

  Oliver blinked. Cute wasn’t a word he associated with writing that didn’t involve unicorns or talking cats. In his opinion it certainly didn’t apply to the three-hundred-page novel he’d agonised over for months and months.

  ‘I’ve just returned it to the library,’ Wendy added. ‘Oops, there’s Grace, I need to have a word.’ She strode away before he could comment.

  The bell rang and children flowed from classrooms like they were fleeing for their lives. Except for Oliver’s daughter, who was the last to emerge. She wandered over and gave him a two second hug.

  ‘Let’s go, Dad,’ she said glumly.

  ‘We have to wait for your brother,’ he replied. ‘What’s wrong, honey?’

  She shrugged, which Oliver knew meant she wasn’t prepared to talk about it yet. Before he could probe further, Reed raced up.

  ‘Dad, dad, what’s this?’ His son opened his mouth and let out a burp loud enough to turn heads.

  ‘Disgusting,’ Oliver replied.

  (Impressive.)

  ‘No, Dad, it’s an evil people-eating burp.’

  Reed cracked up laughing.

  His son had discovered the joy of burping at an early age, but rece
ntly decided to take it up as a serious hobby. If it ever became an Olympic sport, Oliver was confident in Reed’s ability to go all the way.

  After the usual request for ice creams, which Oliver turned down, they got into the car and headed home. Despite his prodding, Rose refused to talk about what was bothering her. Even promises of takeaways for dinner failed to uncover the problem. Usually fries and chicken nuggets turned his daughter into a chatterbox, but this time she sat quietly.

  Oliver and Jennifer tried different tacks during the evening, then decided to give it a break.

  (She’s a quiet child. Why are you trying to change that?)

  There’s nothing wrong with a quiet child, except when they aren’t usually quiet.

  After the kids were asleep, Oliver caught his wife up on the day’s events.

  ‘Do you think George is lying to you?’ she asked.

  ‘Without a doubt. But I don’t know what about. I’m thinking that maybe Angus is right. He seemed to genuinely care for his girlfriend. I don’t think he murdered her.’

  (Of course, I’m right. I didn’t come back from being dead just to be wrong.)

  ‘Technically you’re still dead.’

  Jennifer scrunched up her face in confusion and he gestured to his head.

  ‘And you’re basing this on your vast experience with murderers,’ Jennifer replied.

  Oliver glanced involuntarily at the wall. The hole had been plastered and painted but he could picture the knife sticking out of it. He shuddered at the memory.

  ‘No, it’s just a hunch,’ he told her.

  Jennifer grinned at him, and another memory rose in his mind. The first time he told Jennifer he loved her. Scared she might not feel the same he chickened out at the last minute and said it in Spanish, one of the few phrases he knew that didn’t involve the words “where is the…”. She’d grinned at him, like this, acknowledging and mocking his fear.

  ‘Hunches don’t work in court,’ she said.

  ‘Then I better get working.’

  (I thought Jennifer did it all.)

  ‘Shut up, Angus.’

  EIGHT

  The next morning was Jennifer’s once-a-week turn to drop the kids off at school. They were excited enough about this for Oliver to feel slightly insulted, but Angus told him to quit his crying and get on with it.

  So Oliver looked up George’s Facebook account to see if there had been any updates. There were no new posts, so he scrolled down to George’s past activity.

  Angus was appalled.

  (Is his entire life on this thing?)

  ‘No, just the side of it he wants people to see.’

  (What does that mean?)

  ‘It’s like a filtered version of who he is.’ Oliver found a post from two years earlier. The pictures of George and Ashley were filled with the dopey grins associated with new relationships and all the feelings that went with them.

  (And anyone can see this rubbish? What happened to keeping yer life private?)

  ‘You can set these things to private, but George’s generation like to put their lives out there.’

  (What the hell for? When I was his age, no one knew anything I wasn’t prepared to tell them meself.)

  Oliver shrugged. ‘Maybe we can ask him next time we speak.’ He scrolled back up, studying the posts without pictures more carefully. One caught his eye. Dated a month ago it simply said, why does this always happen to me? There were twenty-three comments. Most of them were sympathetic people telling him to be strong or asking him what was wrong. One comment caught Oliver’s eye. It was from Ashley, and she’d said, grow up.

  ‘Now I wonder what that’s all about,’ Oliver mused.

  (Well, we can’t ask the lassie.)

  Oliver picked up the phone and called the McMurry’s number. It rang for so long he thought no one was going to answer. Finally there was a click and a sullen, ‘yeah’.

  ‘George?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Oliver took a deep breath and whistled it out his mouth. ‘George, it’s Oliver Atkinson. We met yesterday.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Hey.’

  ‘How are you doing?’ Oliver pressed on. He could almost feel the shrugged reply. ‘Fair enough. A month ago you put a post on social media asking why me, and Ashley told you to grow up. What was that about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Oliver waited.

  ‘It was stupid,’ George continued. ‘I got into an argument with one of my professors after I got a bad grade on my assignment. I overreacted and went ranting.’

  ‘And Ashley called you out on it.’

  ‘Yeah, she told me it was childish to put something on social media, but I did it anyway, so she told me to grow up.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ George replied.

  ‘Your girlfriend called you childish and nothing else happened?’ Oliver tried and failed to keep the scepticism from his voice.

  ‘We might have had words,’ George admitted reluctantly.

  I should think so.

  ‘Which adds motive,’ Oliver pointed out.

  ‘I didn’t kill her!’

  He didn’t kill her!

  Oliver winced at the stereo denial. ‘I didn’t say you did. But from the police’s point of view it suggests a volatile relationship. The quicker you can clear yourself, the quicker they’ll focus on looking for the real killer.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Yeah, Ashley and I fought all the time, that’s just the way we were, but we always made up. In fact, sometimes we fought so we could make up, you know?’

  Oliver hurried on before the conversation became more uncomfortable. He decided to change tack. ‘I spoke with your neighbour, Sean. He’s an interesting man.’

  George laughed, the only genuine emotion, apart from anger, that Oliver had heard from him.

  ‘Sean’s alright. The first time I met him he dragged me into his room and shoved a head of hair at me. I thought he was a serial killer.’

  ‘He might be,’ Oliver suggested.

  Another laugh came down the phone. ‘Nah, he’s terrified of blood. He cut his hand on some scissors one day while I was over there and almost fainted. Took two shots of tequila to make him steady again.’

  Staring at the ceiling and trying and failing to ignore the fly poop that stared back at him, Oliver thought that from what he knew there was no blood on Ashley, so Sean was still a suspect.

  ‘He said the night of the murder he heard a strange whistling sound outside. Do you know what he’s talking about?’

  ‘No idea,’ came the prompt response. ‘What sort of whistling sound?’

  ‘He was pretty vague,’ Oliver replied. ‘Just said it sounded weird.’

  ‘Oh yeah, weird whistling. I know exactly what he’s talking about.’

  (Good boy.)

  Oliver sighed. ‘Drop the sarcasm, George.’

  (What?)

  ‘Yeah, okay.’

  By the muttering inside Oliver’s head he guessed Angus wasn’t used to sarcastic responses.

  ‘Mum said you were going to talk to the police.’

  Actually, I said the opposite, Oliver thought. ‘I did talk to the detective in charge, but like I told your mother, he’s not going to share any details with me. Having said that, he didn’t tell me to stop investigating.’ Not in so many words.

  ‘So you’re going to find out who killed Ashley?’ Relief flowed down the phone line.

  Oliver was impressed. George hadn’t asked Oliver to prove he was innocent. He was thinking about who murdered his girlfriend. ‘I’m going to do my best.’

  (That’s not much comfort.)

  Silence from the other end of the phone indicated that was a family consensus. ‘Do you know Ashley’s password to her social media accounts?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there might be something on there to point us in the direction of her killer.’

  Oliver waited, sensing the struggle that George was having. Did he admit h
e knew his girlfriend’s password, potentially saying he didn’t trust her? Or did he not know the password and risk the fact that Ashley had secrets from him?

  Eventually George said, ‘Grand1May2. Capital G and M. That’s for Facebook. I’m not sure about the others.’

  Oliver jotted it down on a piece of paper. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He hung up and tapped on the keyboard. Ashley’s Facebook feed was swamped with people expressing their disbelief and sorrow over her death.

  (If she’s dead, who are they talking to?)

  He shrugged. ‘Damned if I know. I never understood it myself.’ It took him a while to read the individual comments, and the comments on the comments. Most of them followed a similar theme, “gone too soon”, etc. From what he could tell no one was pointing the finger at George. A couple of comments tagged Claire McMurry, who Oliver guessed was George’s sister. A quick click through to her Facebook profile confirmed her picture matched the one in the McMurry house.

  ‘She was friends with her boyfriend’s sister.’

  (That couldn’t be good.)

  ‘Depends on the relationship between George and Claire. She might have a more authentic take on how well the two lovebirds got on.’

  (Are ye still on that? I told ye he didn’t do it.)

  ‘I know that’s what you said, and again, I’m not saying he did. But best friends often know more than boyfriends.’

  He thought about Rose, and how there was something bothering her. ‘Best friend,’ he murmured. He couldn’t believe he missed it. Last night was the first time during her usual chatter, that Rose hadn’t mentioned her best friend Isabelle. He made a mental note to talk to his daughter after school.

  ‘We need to talk to Claire, but she’s away until Wednesday.’

  (Says her lying English mother.)

  Oliver got up from the table and busied himself making a cup of tea. ‘It did seem like she was hiding something to do with her daughter.’ He dunked the teabag into the hot water, then squeezed it against the inside of the cup with a spoon and lifted it out.

  (What are ye doing?)

  Oliver glanced around. ‘Making a cup of tea.’