Amanda stifled an amused expression.
(I’d like to meet that woman.)
She’d destroy you.
‘Well, when they get older, coming to see Grandma isn’t much fun anymore, unless they have empty pockets and their father has said no.’
Oliver felt a flutter of wings in his chest and it took him a moment to realise why. Both of his parents had died when the children were young, so they had never had the experience of spoiling their grandchildren rotten as part of the pay-back circle of life. Not that the kids didn’t get spoiled by Jennifer’s parents, but it wasn’t the same.
‘Please, sit.’ Deborah took one of the recliners and Amanda took the other. Oliver looked around, then dragged one of the dining chairs over, lifting it between the recliners and placing it next to Amanda. ‘So you said you’re writing a book about Matthew?’
‘Yes. My husband is an author, and with your son’s rise to power, we thought it might be a good time to let the New Zealand public know who he really is.’
Oliver struggled not to hear the double meaning in her words.
‘An author? Anything I would have read?’
It was a question that Oliver never understood. If she had read something of his she would know it. He spied a small bookcase against the opposite wall. From what he could tell it seemed to be filled with romance books. There were certainly a lot of books with the word love in the title, and the one novel he could see had a topless man on the cover.
‘Unlikely,’ he said truthfully.
‘Andrew has contributed to some important literary journals in the past and has two well-received novels to his name. Although, to be honest,’ Amanda leaned closer to the woman, ‘they’re a little dry for my taste.’
They both laughed, and Oliver scowled at his fake wife.
(Are ye going to let her control the situation, boy?)
That’s usually how this works.
(Grow a pair, say something.)
‘A lot has been written about your son since he got into politics. We’re more interested in his early years. What was he like as a child? Any signs when he was younger that he would grow up to—’
‘Lie for a living?’ Deborah cut in.
Oliver’s eyes widened, but Deborah followed her statement up with a laugh.
‘Make no mistake, I love my son, but do you know what the definition of an ambassador is? An honest man sent abroad to lie for his country. A politician is just an ambassador that stays at home. And a prime minister is the best of the best.’
‘Forgive me for saying, but that’s a very cynical view of your son,’ Amanda said.
Deborah waved her hand dismissively. ‘I’d be naïve or stupid to think otherwise. And I’m neither,’ she added with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Besides, he knows never to lie to me.’ She caught the look that passed between Oliver and Amanda and laughed. ‘Well, not about the important things anyway.’
‘And who decides what’s important?’ Amanda asked.
Deborah’s face drew serious. ‘Family is important. He never lies about family.’ Her face brightened. ‘Where are my manners? Drink? Coffee, tea? Something stronger?’
‘Nothing, thank you,’ Amanda answered for both of them. ‘We need to head off shortly to pick the children up from school.’
Oliver checked his watch and saw she was right. In fact, he was going to be pushing it to get there on time if he didn’t leave in the next five minutes. What surprised him more than Amanda knowing it, was that he’d forgotten.
(Forgetting yer kids. Aye, we’ve all done it.)
‘Today was about touching base and checking if our project was something you’d be happy to be involved with,’ Amanda said.
Deborah studied both of them carefully before replying. ‘There are certain things I won’t talk about, certainly nothing that would hurt his career.’
‘Of course not,’ Oliver reassured her. ‘Like we said, we’re focussing on his younger years. We’ll leave the gutter journalists to worry about affairs or love children.’ He said it with a smile, but his eyes were glued to her face. Her eyebrow twitched, but either she was the best poker player in the world, or he’d missed by a mile.
‘Glad to hear it,’ Deborah replied. ‘In that case, I look forward to continuing our conversation.’
They all stood and there was an awkward shuffle as they squeezed between the seats and assembled by the front door.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow and we can make a series of interview appointments,’ Amanda told her.
They shook hands and Oliver and Amanda left her standing by the front door.
As they walked away, Amanda slipped her hand into his. He instantly felt guilty, despite knowing it was part of the cover story and that Jennifer knew all about Amanda. He glanced behind him to see Deborah watching them leave. He gave a little wave of his hand and she waved back.
(Ye better watch this ‘un. She’ll ruin yer marriage.)
I don’t think that’ll be a problem.
(Why not? Even the most devout man is tempted.)
How can I put this? She’s more team Jennifer.
(Eh?)
Oliver laughed and Amanda looked at him questioningly.
‘Angus is worried you’re going to steal me away from Jennifer.’
She released his hand and grinned. ‘I see. Well, Angus, two things. One, I never break up marriages. It’s messy and unnecessary. Two, if I was going after one of the Atkinsons, Jennifer is more to my liking.’
(What?)
‘He doesn’t get it.’
‘I love women, Angus.’
(That’s…that’s....)
‘I think you broke him,’ Oliver told her.
‘Another unenlightened male,’ she responded with a solemn shake of her head, spoiled by a small smile.
‘To be fair, he came from a time when women didn’t have as many choices.’
Amanda slapped him on the arm. ‘Don’t sweat it, Oliver. There are very few people’s opinions I care about and a long-dead old man isn’t on the list.’
‘So why didn’t you push Deborah for more information?’ Oliver asked.
‘I thought it better to go for the longer con. Deborah has dealt with enough nosy reporters thanks to Matthew’s life in politics. If we asked too much too soon she’d get suspicious. We can keep developing that side of things while we see what else we can dig up. That was a nice try though, Oliver, about the affair or love child. She knows something about one of those things.’
‘But which?’
Amanda shrugged. ‘We need more info. Glenda and Andrew might need to come back.’
Oliver sighed. ‘How do you keep it all straight? The names, the identities. How do you remember who you are when you meet someone?’
‘How do you keep all your characters straight when you’re writing?’
‘That’s completely different. I can go back to previous pages.’
‘So can I. It’s called a memory. I have an excellent one. For example, I know you’re going to be late to pick up Reed and Rose from school.’
Oliver glanced at his watch and swore. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
Pulling into traffic, Oliver spent the next five minutes driving 200 metres, as every bus, pedestrian, and slow driver responded to his urgency by getting in the way.
By the time he’d made his way around Oriental Parade, through the city and onto the motorway, he was certain he was going to be late to pick up the children.
(Lady lovers. Such a waste.)
Oliver laughed. ‘Angus, you’re lucky that I’m the only one who can hear you. If you said some of this stuff out loud.’
(I am how I am.)
Oliver grunted in response as the car in front of him finally pulled into the other lane, leaving him clear to accelerate to the speed limit, only to immediately hit a construction zone and have to slow down again.
In between swearing under his breath at other drivers, and glancing at the clock every few seconds, he c
onsidered what he knew about the case. The more he thought it over the more he thought Amanda was on the wrong track with the Matthew Darcy connection. He knew that her family and the Darcy’s had an unpleasant history, but he couldn’t see the future Prime Minister of New Zealand killing anyone. Destroying livelihoods, certainly. Robbing the rich to give to the middle class, definitely. Making headlines for saying there was no money to improve public transport, then ordering a fleet of Mercedes for government officials, absolutely. But killing someone? It didn’t make sense.
On the other hand, having someone killed was a different story. That’s what Victor was for. But how was he going to get information out of him?
‘And no, I’m not going to hit him,’ he said, before Angus could comment.
(Sure, take the easiest option off the table.)
Oliver decided the best thing to do was to keep an open mind and go where the investigation took him.
(Why are we wasting time collecting yer children? Can’t they walk home?)
‘They’re six and eight!’
(So?)
Because he was so close to the time the bell went, he’d well and truly missed out on parking closer, so Oliver pulled into a park half a mile from school. ‘So, it’s not safe for them to walk home without an adult,’ he muttered to Angus, as he locked the car and strode towards the front gates of the school.
(Ye’re too easy on them. I was walking home by meself at five.)
Oliver was steeling himself to explain the dangers of modern society, when he reached the main gate and was greeted by one of the other parents. His thoughts rapidly shifted from stranger danger, to the upcoming school disco and what were the kids going to wear. Despite the disco being two days away, Oliver had given it little thought. Which was fine, since both his children had changed their minds fifty times about what they wanted to dress up as. The theme was Up in the Air, which was a bit broad as far as Oliver was concerned. He fully expected Rose to break out the fairy wings she got four years ago for her birthday and Reed to decide an hour before it started that he wanted to go as an astronaut (and could Dad make his costume?).
(What’s a disco?)
A school dance.
(They go to dances?)
Not a lot of dancing goes on. It’s just another excuse to run around with their friends, only it costs me money.
(Money?)
They sell drinks, chocolates, and stuff. It’s an adrenalin and sugar-fuelled ninety minutes that thankfully only happens once a year.
He was spared further explanation by the arrival of his children dumping their bags at his feet. He immediately picked up the bags and handed them back.
Carrying his children’s bags had been an unfortunate habit Oliver had established early in their school life and it had taken almost a year to retrain them. The weight difference between Rose’s and Reed’s was marked. Reed’s seemed practically empty, while Rose’s obviously contained several large boulders. For a second he wavered and considered carrying her bag, but it was a slippery slope from one time to every time.
Rose was quiet on the way back to the car. This time Oliver was determined to find out why.
At home, Reed peeled off to his room and ten seconds later there was a thump, closely followed by a second one, as his shoes hit the closet door.
‘What’s wrong, honey?’ Oliver asked Rose.
She peeled a mandarin, carefully placing the torn bits on the edge of the bench. He had to admire her dedication to keeping it tidy, even if that wasn’t where rubbish went.
‘Have you finished helping Angus yet?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Oliver replied, his face scrunched in confusion. Where was this going?
‘Okay,’ she mumbled, and shoved half the fruit into her mouth.
‘Why?’ Oliver asked, then waited while she chewed and swallowed. When she went to put the rest of the mandarin in her mouth, he stopped her.
‘Isabelle said I was lying,’ Rose said.
‘About what?’
‘I told her you were helping Angus and she said I was lying,’ Rose said, finally looking at her father with a sad face guaranteed to break any heart.
‘Ah.’ He knelt down and gave her a hug, carefully treading the line between perfunctory and bone crushing.
‘Dad!’ She wriggled free.
‘Listen to me,’ Oliver said. ‘This thing with Angus and with Violet, it’s a special thing. You and I are different from everyone else.’
‘I don’t want to be different,’ Rose shouted.
Okay, wrong word. Oliver scrambled to salvage the conversation before Rose stormed off to her bedroom and refused to say any more. ‘Different in a good way. Like, do you remember at the last school assembly you were the only one in your class to talk into the microphone?’
His daughter nodded. ‘Helping Angus is like being in charge of assembly?’
(You’re losing the conversation, sonny.)
‘Sort of. It means I have a job to do that no one else can do.’ Much as I’d like them to.
(Ha! No such luck.)
‘And sometimes when we have a special job to do, other people don’t always understand what the job is, or what makes it special. So we have to decide whether it’s important enough to try and make them understand, or keep it to ourselves and get on with the job. Does that make sense?’
(Not a bit.)
‘He was talking to me, Angus,’ Rose said. ‘Yes, Daddy. So it doesn’t matter if Isabelle believes me or not. I’m more important than her.’ She gave Oliver a kiss on the cheek, then skipped into the other room to harass her brother.
‘That’s not what…’
(Ye’re great at this parenting thing.)
At least my ancestors aren’t accused of murder.
(Aye, give it time.)
Oliver climbed to his feet and poked his head into the TV room. ‘Reed, get a snack, then go get your karate uniform on.’
(What’s karate?)
A martial art.
(A what?)
A style of fighting.
(Now we’re talking.)
SIXTEEN
Angus was both fascinated and disappointed by Reed’s karate class. It was clear he felt let down that it wasn’t some form of fight club for children. He was still grumbling about it the next morning as Oliver drove back into the city.
Tuning him out was getting easier though, so Oliver was able to consider his next course of action. He needed to know more about Ashley, and the best place to start was with her friends.
After a quick call to George, he had a name. Niki something. George was vague on the surname but seemed pretty sure it was Niki with a “k”, or maybe there was a “c” in there as well. He knew she would be at a memorial gathering later that morning along with other friends and acquaintances of Ashley’s. That wasn’t ideal, as Oliver would have preferred to talk to her privately, but George didn’t have her number and the police had Ashley’s phone.
As Oliver pulled off the motorway, the grey clouds that blanketed the sky gave up their fight and dumped a heavy sheet of rain onto the roads. The temperature dropped several degrees in a matter of minutes and the windscreen smudged with condensation. The world suddenly became less clear, a physical representation of how Oliver felt about this case.
(That’s a bit deep, sonny. Yer problem is ye’re not seeing the threads for the rug.)
‘What?’ Oliver asked, braking to avoid a blue SUV who thought that indicating meant they could just go.
(My mother was a quilter. She used to make rugs for the children’s hospital. Saying thanks, I guess. Anyway, when she was finished she didn’t look at the whole thing, she’d look at the threads holding it together. If one of them was loose the whole thing could fall apart, she used to say.)
‘I assume there’s a point,’ Oliver snapped.
(Aye. Ye’re focusing on everything, rather than picking a thread and working at it.)
‘That’s a good point,’ Oliver conceded.
; (No need to sound shocked.)
‘Maybe I need to focus on Ashley. Finding out more about her will lead me to the why.’
(Isn’t that what I just said?)
He pulled to a stop at a traffic light and watched the wipers battle with the elements. The shrill ring of the phone interrupted his reflection.
‘Hello, Oliver speaking.’
‘Hello, Oliver, Detective Wilson.’
Even down the phone, Oliver felt a twinge of guilt. He swallowed nervously before answering. ‘Hello, Detective. What can I do for you?’
‘You can tell me if you’ve found anything relating to my investigation.’
Oliver filled him in on everything he’d discovered over the last few days, except his conversation with Claire. For some reason he felt like it wasn’t his place to disclose where she was. Besides, he rationalised to himself, the police would talk to her anyway.
When he was finished there was a pause before the policeman talked, and Oliver could picture him scribbling notes on a pad of paper. ‘Some of this is useful, although it doesn’t change the direction of the case. And because you’ve been useful I’m going to tell you something that you’ll no doubt find out shortly anyway. We formally charged George with Ashley Trent’s murder this morning.’
‘What?’ Oliver replied, in shock. ‘Surely you don’t have enough evidence.’
Detective Wilson chuckled. ‘I can assure you, I have all the evidence I need, which means you don’t need to investigate anymore. Go home and write a book, Oliver.’
There was a click.
(The man’s a…a…)
‘Agreed. He is a…a. But he’s not stupid, so he must have something that convinces him George is guilty.’
(How do we find out what that is?)
The phone rang again.
‘I have a feeling we’re about to be told. Hello, Oliver speaking.’
‘Oliver, it’s Louise McMurry. They’ve arrested George. They say…’ the voice broke off and there was the sound of sobbing.
‘Louise, take a deep breath and put the kettle on. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
He clicked off, then keeping one eye on the road and the other on his phone, he dialled Amanda.
Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 33
