Claire didn’t answer. She stared out the window for so long Oliver shifted in his seat to try and see what was holding her attention. Finally she sighed and faced him again. ‘I started drinking when I was fourteen. A few nips from Mum and Dad’s liquor cabinet at first. Then there were parties and everyone was drinking and I liked the buzz. I never thought it was a problem until I woke up in a house I didn’t know, with no clothes on. Only it wasn’t a strange house, it was my house, my bedroom. I was so out of it I didn’t even recognise my own bedroom.’
‘So you came here.’
‘Hardly. This place was my parent’s idea. Dad especially considers it a great disappointment that his daughter is troubled. That’s how he puts it, troubled. Better to ship me off to the suburbs where I can’t embarrass them. Dad wanted to send me to a place in the South Island, but Mum wanted me close by.’ Bitterness clouded her voice and she angrily wiped a sleeve across her eyes.
‘What was Ashley like?’ Oliver said.
Claire’s face lit up. ‘She was awesome. She was always worrying about other people, always the first to make you laugh when you felt down about something. I know it’s a cliché but she was the life of the party. Everyone loved her.’ Her face fell again. ‘Almost everyone, I guess.’
‘What came first — your friendship or George’s relationship?’
‘George started going out with her, and that’s how we met.’
‘Did Ashley know Matthew Darcy?’
‘The politician-dude?’ Claire asked in surprise. ‘Not as far as I know. Why?’
‘She never did any work for him? Or mentioned him in conversation?’
Claire screwed her face up in concentration then shook her head. ‘No, she wasn’t interested in politics. Not that sort anyway.’
‘What sort was she interested in?’ Oliver asked.
‘I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I know she was into some stuff at uni.’
Oliver made a mental note to follow that up with George.
‘Your mother said you were going home on Wednesday,’ he said.
‘Yes. This round of treatment is done.’
‘Do you feel…’ Oliver hesitated, ‘…ready to go home?’
‘You mean will I go straight to a bottle? I think Ashley’s funeral is going to be a hard test.’ She stood up. ‘Are we done?’
Oliver got to his feet. ‘Thank you for talking to me.’
Suddenly Claire gripped his arm with sharp fingernails. ‘Please find out who did it. Find out who killed my friend.’
‘I’m going to do my best.’
Claire took that with the same scepticism as the rest of her family.
Back in the car, Oliver sat for a moment, reflecting on his conversation with Claire. It didn’t seem likely that Ashley would know or be having an affair with Matthew Darcy without letting his name slip to friends, at least once.
Why so quiet?
(Can’t a man be quiet for a while?)
Nothing to do with seeing your descendant grappling with alcoholism?
Angus remained silent.
Oliver called Amanda and updated her.
‘Doesn’t mean they weren’t having an affair,’ she said.
He started the car and pulled into the street. It was time to pick the kids up from school.
‘No it doesn’t, but don’t get tunnel vision on this, Amanda. We have to look at all possibilities.’
‘I suppose,’ her voice crackled over the handsfree speakers.
Oliver didn’t need a clear line to hear her doubt. ‘Did you find anything out?’
‘Not so far, but there are still a few people to talk to.’
‘You know there could be another angle we haven’t thought of,’ Oliver said, as he pulled up to a red traffic light. A light misty rain smeared away the outside world. He flicked on the wipers and everything became clear again. ‘I remember you saying once that lots of politicians employed Victor at one point or another. Maybe he’s not working for Matthew Darcy.’
‘Didn’t he tell you he was?’
‘No,’ Oliver replied as the light turned green and he turned towards the motorway onramp. ‘He just kept talking about his employer. He never mentioned names. I said it was Darcy and he didn’t deny it.’
‘It’s Darcy, I know it is.’
‘You want it to be him.’
‘You’ll have to trust me, Oliver.’
He reached the onramp and accelerated into the stream of traffic. ‘You know I do.’
‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’ She clicked off before he could reply.
(That lass could be a problem.)
She’ll be fine.
(Aye, ye forget I can feel what ye’re feeling, and I’m feeling a lot of doubt.)
‘Speaking of feeling. Are you ready to talk about what happened with Claire?’
(Stop changing the subject.)
‘I’m not changing it, I’m returning to it,’ Oliver reasoned.
(That smart mouth is going to get ye in strife.)
‘What’s the big deal? There’s only you and I here. No one else ever needs to know what’s said.’
(I don’t talk about me feelings. Never have, never will. Didn’t talk about them when I was young, didn’t talk about them when I got married, didn’t talk about them when I got those chest pains. So I’m not going to start now.)
Faced with the degree of stubbornness usually exhibited by his children, Oliver let the matter drop. It did remind him though that he hadn’t pursued why Rose had been sad after school.
(Ha. Maybe ye should worry about yer own family before ye get into me business.)
‘It’s like having three kids,’ Oliver muttered.
Another slice of cold cut through his head and he winced. He was glad that Violet hadn’t discovered that particular ability. She would have done it just for fun.
The kids ceaseless chatter prevented any in-depth thought for the next hour. Rose seemed to have recovered from her sad mood the day before. In the space of thirty seconds she told her father about the rabbit she made, how she didn’t like her sandwich, and could they please have an ice cream. Only instead of a linear conversation, she jumped from one topic to the next, then back again without warning. Luckily Oliver had become, if not fluent, at least proficient enough to hold a conversation in six-year-old.
(Me head hurts.)
That’s my head.
‘That’s awesome about the rabbit, I’ll make something different tomorrow, and no,’ he told Rose.
‘Yeah, you shouldn’t have ice cream every day. We’re learning about it in class. It’s full of sugar and your teeth will turn black and fall out and you’ll have to eat soup for the rest of your life,’ Reed told his sister.
Rose thought about that for a while. ‘I don’t like soup,’ she finally said.
‘Exactly,’ Oliver chimed in. ‘So no ice cream today.’
‘What’s for dinner, Dad?’ Reed asked.
He was tempted to say soup to get a reaction, but decided not to poke the wasps nest. ‘I thought takeaways.’
There was a chorus of yays from the back of the car.
‘But Dad, aren’t they full of sugar too?’ Rose asked.
‘No, they’re full of fat,’ he replied flippantly.
‘Oh, then that’s okay. We haven’t learnt about fat yet,’ Reed advised them.
‘Takeaways it is,’ Oliver said.
(What are takeaways?)
A cook’s best friend.
Later that night Oliver filled Jennifer in on the day as he was finishing folding the washing.
‘Poor girl,’ she responded when he told her about Claire.
‘Yes, I don’t get how someone so young could make such a mess of their life.’
‘It’s easy enough to second guess decisions. I assume if she could go back to younger-her, she probably wouldn’t take the drink. It’s like the book I’m reading at the moment, where the main character gets second chances to go back and do things differently.’
&nb
sp; ‘Sounds like something I wouldn’t read,’ Oliver replied.
Jennifer made a face. ‘That’s because you’ve forgotten how to read for pleasure since you became a big fancy author.’
It was Oliver’s turn to make a face. He held up one of Jennifer’s tops. ‘Smart casual?’
‘Work casual’, she replied.
He looked at the top again. ‘What’s the difference?’
Jennifer reached over and plucked it out of his hand, picking up an empty clothes hanger and threading the top onto it. ‘Work casual is mainly for work but can be worn elsewhere. Smart casual is designed to wear for things like when we go out for dinner without the kids. Which is why you don’t see it very often.’
Oliver sighed. He considered his own pile of folded washing which was comprised of T-shirts and running tops, no confusion over which was which. No wonder he put so many of Jennifer’s tops in the wrong place. There were about ten different categories.
‘Is everything on track for your book launch?’ Jennifer asked.
Oliver’s second book was due to be released in two days, and since Angus had arrived Oliver hadn’t thought about it once.
‘I think so. I just need to show up and say some stuff,’ he said with a shrug.
‘I really don’t know why you decided to launch your book the day before Rose’s birthday. You know how birthday parties stress you out.’
‘I don’t get stressed,’ Oliver protested. ‘Okay, I get stressed,’ he continued, when Jennifer turned a sceptical face his way. ‘But it’ll be fine.’
‘Is Victor going to become a problem?’ she changed the subject. He knew she was thinking about the last time Victor came around, and how it had almost cost her job.
‘I don’t know. But I’d feel more comfortable if I knew his connection to all this. Or what Matthew Darcy’s interest is.’
‘Be careful, Oliver. This might not be a big country like the United States, where the President has a team of highly trained killers on speed dial, but the Prime Minister of New Zealand probably still has the ability to make life uncomfortable.’
‘Like a tax audit?’ he joked.
‘Like maybe he lets slip in the media that he doesn’t like Oliver Atkinson’s book. Where does your career go from there?’
‘If he does that, at least half the population will go out and buy my book.’ He tried a smile but she wasn’t deterred.
‘Just tread carefully, babe.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll walk like the floor is covered in LEGO and I’m in bare feet.’
THIRTEEN
Amanda sent him a text the next morning asking to meet in the city at 9:30. He headed straight in after school drop off, and just made it on time.
She’d ordered him a coffee and it arrived at the same time he did. This morning she was dressed in a black business skirt, white blouse, and a jacket rested on the back of her chair. She saw him inspecting her attire and grinned.
‘New lesson, Oliver. The best way to blend in is to constantly change what you’re wearing. If people are used to seeing you in jeans,’ she glanced at his clothes, ‘then they’ll recognise you instantly. But if you’d walked in here in a business suit it would have taken me a few moments to recognise you.’
‘My friends say I have a face for blending in,’ said Oliver.
Amanda laughed. ‘That’s only a good thing if your job requires it, Oliver.’
He blew steam off his drink and took a tentative sip, burning his top lip in the process.
‘So did you learn anything yesterday?’ he asked her.
‘Matthew Darcy’s wife has taken a sudden trip to see relatives in Australia.’
‘And that means what exactly?’ Oliver asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘The cynic in me says that Matthew wants his wife as far away as possible while this thing is going on.’
‘Is there any way to check? Maybe you could ask his son.’
‘No, Eugene knows me as Violet, and Violet promised Matthew she’d stay as far away from his family as possible. I don’t want to give him any reason to suspect I’m still around. I’ll dig into it another way.’
The café slowly emptied, like water being pulled out by a tide. As Oliver looked around he saw the three women behind the counter tidying and cleaning and getting ready for the tide to come back demanding drinks with shots and twists and things he didn’t understand.
‘What are you thinking?’ Amanda asked.
‘That the way Ashley died is important.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s unusual, and because it took planning and time to execute. It’s unlikely they happened to have a bath tub full of mud waiting to be used as a murder weapon.’
Amanda smiled at him and sat back in her chair, her eyes scanning the café as she chewed on her bottom lip. He got the feeling that she had already thought of all this. ‘Agreed. There are two sides to it. What did the killer hope to achieve, and where did they get the mud from?’
‘Well motive is probably more your thing,’ Oliver replied.
‘And mud is yours? I’m not a killer, Oliver. If Ashley had been conned out of something I’d be able to tell you who did it and why in five minutes, but this is definitely outside my area of expertise. Does your hitchhiker have any insights?’
‘He’s sulking at the moment.’
Oi!
‘What’s that like?’ Amanda asked.
‘Peaceful,’ he replied. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you do some research on the motive, and I’ll work on where the killer got the mud.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t say you were going to dig into it,’ Amanda said, with a grin.
‘I seriously thought about it.’
‘Okay, let’s split up and check in later.’
She drained the last of her coffee and stood up. Oliver stared at the steam coming off his own drink. Scalding the inside of his throat wasn’t an attractive thought, and he really needed a coffee.
‘Stay, enjoy your drink. I’ll call you later,’ Amanda said with a pat on his shoulder.
She disappeared through the door, with a wave and a thank you to the women behind the counter.
(So suddenly ye’re a mud expert?)
‘I don’t have to be an expert to know how it’s made.’
(Eh?)
‘Take some dirt and add water.’
‘Excuse me?’ asked one of the waitresses as she cleared Amanda’s cup.
‘Mud,’ Oliver replied. ‘Just explaining how to make mud.’
The woman looked around but there was no one else close. ‘Okay…’ she said slowly, picking up the coffee cup and walking swiftly away.
Great, now she thinks I’m crazy.
(So?)
So I prefer people not to question my sanity.
(Ye’re talking to a ghost inside yer head. I think the sanity ship has long left the harbour.)
In one of the café’s many mirrors Oliver caught a reflection of the women behind the counter talking and staring at him. They dissolved into laughter, and he quickly found something interesting to look at elsewhere. Without thinking, he lifted his cup and took a large mouthful. He winced as hot coffee overwhelmed his taste buds. His swallow turned into an eye-watering cough. When he’d recovered, he decided against risking another sip. Instead he left the café as quickly as he could, while avoiding eye contact with the staff.
He stopped on the way back to the car and bought a bottle of water from a convenience store, immediately downing half the contents like his life depended on it. The coolness provided temporary relief to the shredded roof of his mouth.
(That’s what ye get for drinking fancy stuff.)
‘It was plain black coffee.’
(The only real drink that’s not whisky is a cup of tea.)
Oliver drove straight to George McMurry’s house. There was no constable outside, but the door had a notice on it stating the house was a crime scene. It didn’t say anything about the crime scene includ
ing the back garden, which was all he was interested in.
The narrow path that ran the length of the house was made of broken concrete and moss, and navigating it was an exercise in caution.
(Imagine doing it at night...)
‘Tricky without a light,’ Oliver said, as he opened the shoulder-high wooden gate and slipped through.
The yard was small and tidy. A metal shed sat directly ahead of him in one corner, while a raised garden bed ran from the shed to the opposite fence. A variety of plants were spaced out in the dirt. An old-fashioned washing line was planted in the middle of the tiny lawn. It was the sort that spun around, and Oliver had a flashback to his youth, where he’d grip onto the line and his brother would spin him as fast as he could. He’d only thrown up twice.
A single brown towel hung from two plastic orange pegs.
Oliver checked the shed first.
The door was locked, so he turned his attention to the garden. It was weed-free, which automatically made it better kept than Oliver’s. Strawberry plants grew next to carrots, which grew next to courgettes, in carefully planned order. But that wasn’t what interested Oliver. He studied the ground, looking for dirt — or more specifically a lack of dirt.
(It’s called a hole, idiot.)
‘And I’m not seeing one. Filling a bath with mud would take a lot of dirt.’
He saw a hose lying next to the house, one end attached to a tap. He pulled it across to the garden, then traipsed back and turned on the water to a fine spray. The soil slowly darkened, tiny puddles forming in the troughs. Oliver held the hose stationary, creating a wet island in the middle of the dirt desert. Finally he retraced his steps to the tap and switched the water off.
Studying the results, he had to admit he had created mud.
(Well done, genius.)
Ignoring Angus, he squatted down for a closer inspection. He picked up a small handful, rubbing it between his fingers and feeling the grit against his skin.
(What did ye expect to find?)
‘I’m not sure. I guess something like the dried mud in the bathroom.’
(And ye can tell one kind of mud from another?)
‘You know, you’re not helping right now.’
(Neither are you.)
‘There’s something obvious that I’m missing.’
Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 31
