‘This complicates things. Are you still convinced he’s innocent?’ she asked.
‘I’m not convinced he’s guilty,’ Oliver replied.
‘That’s not the same thing.’
‘Angus is still here, so it doesn’t really matter. One way or another I need to see this through.’
‘Okay,’ Amanda replied. Oliver thought he heard doubt in her voice, but it could have been distortion from the car speakers.
‘Although you can walk away anytime,’ he reminded her.
‘Now where would be the fun in that?’ she laughed.
‘Aren’t you working?’
‘I’ve got something in the planning stage, but nothing pressing. Besides, if Matthew Darcy is involved, then so am I.’
Oliver frowned out the window, earning him a rude gesture from the cyclist who thought it was aimed at him.
‘I’m a little worried, Amanda. This obsession is going to get you in trouble.’
‘Some obsessions are healthy,’ she replied with a laugh. ‘It’s cute that you’re worried, but I’ll be fine.’
Oliver arrived at the McMurry’s house. ‘Sure,’ he said, switching off the engine. ‘I’m going to a memorial for Ashley later this morning. Coming?’
‘You in a room with a bunch of university students? Hell yes.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Oliver, to them you’re a dinosaur.’
‘I’m only thirty-eight,’ he protested.
‘Like I said. A dinosaur. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Oliver’s anxiety levels ramped up from simmering to oh-my-goodness-what-the-hell-am-I-doing, something he’d found to be a common experience when dealing with Amanda.
(Oh aye, this is going to be fun.)
SEVENTEEN
Two hours later Oliver stood nervously outside a bar that even he (whose evenings out were now limited to either McDonalds or a very occasional quiet dinner with Jennifer) knew was a student bar.
It had taken soothing words and a whisky-laced coffee to calm Louise. Once she had regained her composure she had told him that Detective Wilson showed up at the front door that morning and arrested George for murder. Unfortunately she didn’t know what evidence they had, but her husband was at the police station demanding answers.
As he’d left, she was pouring herself another cup of laced coffee, less the coffee.
‘Ready, Oliver?’
Amanda’s voice brought him out of his trance. He turned and felt his mouth drop open.
‘Amanda?’
The girl in front of him looked vaguely familiar. Gone was the sophisticated business woman in her thirties. Amanda had donned a long brown wig, jeans with holes in the knees, and a T-shirt with the letters YOLO on the front. Her face was made up so that she appeared younger, not first year student younger, but enough of a difference so she wouldn’t be out of place.
‘Why so surprised, Oliver? I told you, this is part of my job.’
(What does YOLO mean?)
‘You only live once.’
(Fine, don’t tell me. And what’s with the holes in her pants. Can’t she afford new clothes?)
I don’t have time to explain fashion to you.
(Ye don’t know either.)
‘What shall I call you? Glenda? Violet? Amanda?’ he asked, earning a strange look from two businessmen striding past. He realised how that must have sounded.
‘I’m Tracey, a third-year law student, recently transferred from Auckland University. I only met Ashley once, but we hit it off and I’m here to pay my respects.’
‘And who am I supposed to be?’
Amanda placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘This is a tricky one. You’re Oliver Atkinson, an author and all-around good guy who is trying to find out what happened to Ashley.’ She grinned.
‘No cover? No throwing me in the deep end and watching me flail about like a fish out of water?’
‘For a start, you can’t be in the deep end and a fish out of water. Secondly, and more importantly, there’s no reason for you to lie. It’s far easier to stick to the truth.’
Oliver felt mildly relieved, and then disappointed that he didn’t get a secret identity.
Amanda patted his cheek. ‘By the way, we don’t know each other and at some point I might have to slap you.’
‘What…?’
She had already turned away and pushed open the door to the bar.
By the time he caught up with her, Amanda was halfway across the floor, heading towards a group clustered around one of the tables along the back wall. There were eight of them, sitting in the knee to knee way required to fit a large group around a small table. Empty and half-empty glasses littered the surface. It appeared the memorial had started early. Despite the lack of space, there was a single empty chair. Oliver expected Amanda to take it, but to his surprise she stopped short and checked her phone.
His stomach fluttered then clenched as he approached the subdued group. ‘Hi, are you guys here for Ashley?’ he asked, as he slid into the empty chair.
Sixteen eyes turned his way with a mixture of curiousity, disgust and hostility.
‘Yeah. And you’re in her seat,’ a guy with a shaved head said.
Olive leapt to his feet, stammering an apology. A hand gripped his arm and spun him around. He had a split second to register the hand speeding towards him before it connected with a sharp crack, and his cheek flared with heat and pain.
‘Have some respect!’ Amanda said.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he stammered, cheek blazing. She enjoyed that way too much. He turned to the group and repeated his apology. Hostility gave way to amusement, along with one or two sympathetic looks.
(That lass has a mean streak in her.)
‘I think a round of drinks would be appropriate,’ Amanda demanded.
There was a chorus of nods from the group, and Oliver made his way to the bar, where the bartender handed him a glass full of ice.
‘For your face.’
Oliver rested the cold glass against his cheek while the drinks were poured. Either the students had been there for a while, or students everywhere drank the same thing, because Oliver didn’t even need to give the order. Once he’d paid, he ferried the full glasses back to the table. By the time he finished, Amanda was sitting between two of Ashley’s friends, chatting away like she belonged there.
Oliver stood awkwardly on the edge of the group for a moment. He recognised Niki from George’s description. She was bookended by an athletic blonde girl and the same tall, thin bald guy that accused Oliver of being in the wrong seat. Niki was listening to the other two have a conversation, while she slowly sipped her drink.
Pulling a chair over from the next table, Oliver sat in the awkward space behind the chairs of the bald guy and Niki. The man stopped talking and glared at Oliver.
‘Sorry about before,’ Oliver said.
The man snorted and turned back.
‘Alex, don’t be rude,’ Niki said with exasperation in her voice. She turned and offered Oliver a wan smile. ‘It’s okay, you didn’t know. How’s your cheek?’
‘Sore,’ Oliver replied, truthfully.
‘She got a good shot in. I’d heard she was a bit high strung,’ she looked over to where Amanda was deep in conversation.
‘You know her?’ he asked.
Niki shook her head. ‘I know of her. She’s cool.’
(How is that?)
She’s good at what she does.
‘I’m Oliver,’ he said, holding out his hand. She stared curiously, like his hand was made of an unknown, possibly toxic, substance. Finally she gave it a quick shake, then picked up her drink.
‘Niki. Are you a reporter?’
‘No, I’m a writer. I’m working with the family to find out who killed Ashley.’
‘George killed Ashley,’ Alex interjected.
‘No one believes that,’ Niki snapped. But judging by some of the expressions around the table, not everyone agreed.
‘What makes you think he did it?’ Oliver asked Alex.
Alex sniffed, which scrunched up the gold stud in the side of his nose. ‘Because he was way more into her than she was into him. She’d tried to break up with him a couple times, but he kept begging her not to. And now she’s dead,’ he added in a tone which suggested joining the two points was obvious.
‘Ignore Alex. He’s a musician,’ Niki explained.
‘Okay…’ Oliver replied, even though he didn’t understand the reference.
‘Drama makes good lyrics,’ she expanded.
‘Whatever, Niki,’ Alex retorted, then turned his attention to the blonde woman.
Niki inched her chair out and swung around so she was facing Oliver. ‘No one really thinks George killed Ashley. They were in love.’ She said it like that was the only argument needed. Oliver didn’t have the heart to tell her that ‘they were in love’ would never hold up as a defence in court.
‘What was she like?’ he asked.
Niki smiled. With shoulder length brown hair marked with a single purple streak, teeth way whiter than good dental hygiene justified, and frameless glasses she looked exactly like what she was, a student.
‘She was a bit of a flake, in a nice way. Very smart, but she’d get these ideas and go off on all these tangents.’
‘Like opening her own beauty spa?’ Oliver suggested.
Niki’s smile widened. ‘Yes, she was convinced that students would be willing to pay half the price of a regular spa for the same sort of treatment. She was probably right. That’s the thing with her, she might have been a bit flaky, but when she had an idea, she did it properly. But in a couple of weeks she would have come up with something entirely different. Shoes for dogs probably. For winter when their paws are cold,’ she added upon seeing Oliver’s expression.
‘Where was she getting the money for her spa? There must have been set up costs.’
Niki’s eyes shifted and she licked her lips before shrugging. ‘Don’t know.’
(Rubbish.)
‘She didn’t mention getting funding from somewhere?’
Niki’s eyes found a new spot to study and she shook her head. ‘Not to me.’
‘From Matthew Darcy?’ The girl’s reaction showed he’d hit the mark.
‘Matthew Darcy’s a waste,’ Alex interrupted. ‘He’s got it in for hard working students.’ He sniffed and scratched his head.
‘Aren’t you a musician?’ Oliver asked, instantly regretting the comment.
‘Are you saying musicians don’t work hard?’ Alex demanded. His eyes blazed and the skin on his cheeks turned a dark crimson.
‘Hey,’ Oliver raised his open hands in surrender, ‘that’s not what I meant,’
Niki patted Alex on the knee. ‘Relax, have a drink.’
Alex turned and picked up his glass, but not before giving Oliver a look of disgust.
The girl flicked her head towards the bar and Oliver stood and walked over. Niki slid onto a stool next to him.
‘Sorry about that. Alex gets passionate about things. Most of the time it’s cute. Sometimes it’s a pain in the arse.’
‘No problem,’ Oliver replied.
‘How do you know about Ashley and Matthew?’ she asked, first checking that the bartender was out of earshot.
‘So there was an Ashley and Matthew,’ Oliver replied.
Niki traced shapes on the surface of the counter. ‘Not in the way you’re thinking. He’s old and kind of a douche.’
‘Then how was she getting money out of him? Blackmail?’
She flicked a glance over to the group, then stared at the bottles lined up behind the bar. ‘The thing is, I don’t know everything and now she’s dead I’m not sure how much I should say. It was Ashley’s thing, you know?’
‘Even if it could help find her killer?’
A single tear escaped and traced her cheek. ‘Do you think he killed her?’
Oliver thought of Victor, the man employed by people like Matthew Darcy to make their problems go away without getting their hands dirty.
‘I think if George didn’t do it, then someone else did and we have to consider all the possibilities,’ he said.
Niki wiped away the tear and opened her mouth to say something.
‘Everything alright here?’ the bartender interrupted. He handed Niki a paper napkin and gave Oliver a hard stare.
‘Everything is fine,’ she replied. ‘Just mourning our friend.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ asked the bartender, whose name tag said Troy.
She shook her head and stood up. ‘No, I better get back to the others. Please find out who murdered my friend.’
She moved away and short of grabbing her arm there was nothing he could do to stop her.
(Ye need to find out what she knows.)
‘Hopefully I’ll get a second chance,’ Oliver muttered.
‘Second chances are always a possibility,’ Troy replied. ‘But,’ he added, ‘she’s way too young for you, mate.’
Oliver ignored him, taking one last look at the group of Ashley’s friends, before heading for the front door.
He had barely stepped onto the sidewalk when Amanda popped out of the door behind him.
‘How’s the cheek?’ she asked with a grin.
‘Sore,’ he replied. ‘Did you have to hit so hard?’
(That wasn’t hard.)
‘It wasn’t that hard, Oliver. Besides, I needed to make it look genuine. And it gave me an instant in with her friends.’
Oliver started down the street. ‘I’m glad my pain was worth it then. Come on, you can buy me a coffee to make up for it.’
They bypassed two or three cafes which were crowded with customers. Eventually Amanda lead them down a short alleyway behind Cuba Street and into a tiny room. For a moment Oliver thought she’d taken them to someone’s house. There was no coffee machine, menu, food cabinet, or customers. The room was filled with mismatched tables and chairs, and the walls were covered with music and movie posters.
‘What is this place?’ Oliver asked.
‘The best kept secret in Wellington,’ she replied.
As soon as they sat down an old Asian woman appeared from a door set into the back wall. She waited expectantly beside their table.
Amanda ordered something for both of them and the woman disappeared again without saying a word. While they were waiting, Oliver filled her in on his conversation with Niki.
‘Ha! I told you Darcy was involved,’ Amanda said triumphantly.
‘We still don’t know how, or whether that has anything to do with Ashley’s death.’
(Are ye always so thrawn?)
‘I don’t know what that means,’ Oliver said. Amanda scrunched up her face and tilted her head. ‘Angus is throwing words at me,’ he explained. ‘I swear he’s making them up.’
(It means stubborn, fool.)
‘Everything is pointing in Darcy’s direction.’
‘Everything that we know is pointed in his direction,’ Oliver replied. ‘But there is so much we don’t know.’ He raised an open hand to forestall the argument. ‘However, I agree he’s definitely involved and we need to investigate that angle.’
Amanda sat back in her chair, her expression saying she accepted his position.
The woman reappeared with their drinks.
Oliver stared in amazement at his cup, which looked like his daughter had moulded it from clay. The handle was wide enough for his entire hand to fit through, and the whole thing leaned alarmingly to one side. Yet the drink itself, when it cooled enough to sample, was absolutely delicious.
‘What did you find out?’ he asked Amanda.
‘Ashley was well-liked, she had no real beef with anyone. Everyone thought she and George made a good couple.’
‘Well sure, they were her friends, so they were hardly going to say different,’ Oliver pointed out.
‘True,’ Amanda nodded. ‘But you had similar feedback from her neighbours, who h
ave no reason to lie.’
‘Okay, so she was a sweet girl that didn’t deserve to die. How does that help us find out who killed her?’ Oliver asked.
‘Nobody is universally loved, we just need to find the one person who didn’t like her and start there.’
‘Okay then. Where do we start?’
At that moment Oliver’s phone rang, proving that sometimes coincidences happen. It was Louise McMurry.
‘Richard would like to speak with you. Can you come back to the house?’
‘I can be there in twenty minutes,’ he replied.
‘Thank you,’ she said and hung up.
‘Are you coming?’ Oliver asked when he told her where he was going.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve been introduced to the social circle as Tracey. It would raise suspicions if I got involved.’
They agreed to check in later, and Oliver retraced his steps back to the car, and once more battled traffic and up the hill towards the McMurrys.
(Why are there so many cars?)
‘Because there are so many people.’
(Why don’t they walk?)
Oliver had no answer and, stuck at another set of traffic lights, found he agreed with Angus. There was a complicated formula to work out how much traffic would be on the road at any one time. Oliver knew that the quicker you needed to get some place, the more cars would get in your way. Because he’d advised Louise that he would be there in twenty minutes, the traffic formula worked out that several buses, lost tourists, and timid drivers would ensure he was a minimum of ten minutes late.
Louise opened the door and ushered him into the dining room where George was slumped in a chair, more exhausted than yesterday, with dark smudges under his eyes. A man sat rigidly in the seat next to him, his lips pressed together and eyes narrowed. His manner was in direct contrast to the relaxed, smiling figure in the family photos.
‘I don’t like you.’
EIGHTEEN
(Even strangers don’t like ye.)
‘More precisely,’ Richard continued, ‘I don’t like what you’re doing here. Your motives are unclear.’ He said the last word with a slight sniff, as if it was tainted with a bad smell.
‘Richard! I explained that Oliver was helping.’
Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 34
