Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  Precisely at 10:30, the door buzzed open and a smartly dressed young woman beckoned him inside. She didn’t introduce herself but he caught a glimpse of the name badge hanging from the lanyard around her neck, which identified her as Elissa.

  Oliver couldn’t work out whether she was unhappy to be working so late or naturally all business, but as she led him through several narrow corridors he caught her giving him several dour looks.

  ‘Where’s Victor?’ he asked.

  ‘Who?’

  Social niceties over, they spent the rest of the short journey in uncomfortable silence. The corridors became wider and plusher the higher they went in the building. Eventually she paused in front of a solid wooden door that helpfully said, Matthew Darcy, Deputy Prime Minister

  Elissa tapped the door twice with her knuckles, then pushed it open and stood to one side. Oliver barely stepped through before it softly clicked shut behind him.

  Matthew Darcy sat behind a wooden desk that was similar to those in a lot of offices around the world, except it was twice as wide, three times as old, and marinated in history. Oliver could imagine it coming across the sea on a ship in the nineteenth century, destined for a wealthy businessman’s office. The carpet was dark and spotless, the polar opposite to Oliver’s house. The walls were stained timber and were hung with several heavily framed paintings. Oliver couldn’t help wondering if any of them were forgeries. Through the windows, lights from other buildings reflected back at them.

  Oliver had met Matthew Darcy once before, during his previous adventures with Amanda. They had been confronting the man’s son when Matthew walked in, oozing charm and harm in the same breath. Oliver could see why people voted for him, and why his opponents were wary of him.

  Matthew stood and came out from behind his desk, suit jacket open, tie straight, teeth sparkling. Angus took an instant dislike to him.

  (Never trust a fellow who smiles that wide.)

  ‘Oliver, wonderful to see you again,’ Matthew said in warm tones. His handshake was firm and brief, the sort developed by a career that required him to shake as many hands as quickly and sincerely as possible.

  ‘Mr Darcy.’

  ‘Matthew, please,’ he responded, indicating for Oliver to take a seat in one of the plush chairs facing the desk, while he lowered himself in the other. ‘I understand you insisted on speaking with me. How can I help you?’

  Oliver was slightly caught off guard by the straight approach. He took a moment to collect his thoughts.

  ‘I spoke with Ashley Trent’s mother and she explained the nature of your relationship…’

  Matthew Darcy raised his hand, but Oliver’s mind started racing and he knew what the objection was going to be.

  ‘Sorry. Your arrangement.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate, given there were assurances and documents stating it would never be discussed.’ Matthew sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

  ‘She didn’t so much explain as not deny,’ Oliver continued, afraid he’d just dropped Rebecca Trent in the proverbial.

  Matthew nodded, seeming to appreciate the distinction.

  (I don’t like him.)

  So you’ve said. But we don’t have to like him, as long as he tells us stuff.

  ‘And Ashley knew the details,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Is that a question or a statement?’ Matthew asked with raised eyebrows.

  ‘A statement. Her mother told her the details. That’s indisputable.’

  Matthew Darcy’s face creased in a wry smile. ‘As a rule, politicians don’t believe in the word indisputable.

  (Aye, another reason I don’t like him.)

  ‘Did you meet with Ashley?’

  ‘No,’ came the firm response, yet Oliver had a nagging feeling he hadn’t asked the right question.

  ‘Did you speak with her?’

  Matthew nodded. ‘Yes, I did. Twice.’

  ‘And what did you discuss?’

  ‘That’s private.’

  Oliver looked away in frustration. Jennifer and Amanda’s warnings about this being a stupid idea babbled inside his head. When he turned back, Matthew was staring at him and he squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He remembered the last time he’d been this nervous: one of the first times he’d met Amanda, when she’d pointed a gun at him. The seat he’d been sitting on then had been made of leather and made unfortunate sounds when he shifted in it. A smile played across his face and Matthew Darcy looked puzzled for a moment, before the mask slipped back into place.

  (He thinks ye know something he doesn’t.)

  Oliver realised Angus was right and decided to change tactics. He picked at an imaginary piece of fluff on his jeans and his brain, like a puppy with the attention span of a goldfish, wondered why he didn’t dress better to see the second most powerful man in the country, then he remembered his old suit pants needed to be dry cleaned, and his other jeans had a paint stain on the knee.

  ‘Was there something else?’ Matthew made a show of checking his watch.

  Oliver recognised the entire meeting was in danger of being over before it began unless he started asking the right things.

  ‘You obviously cared enough about Ashley to get Victor to keep you informed of the investigation. Is there anything she said in your two conversations that might help me find her killer?’

  ‘If there was, I would immediately have informed the police, of course.’

  ‘Not without first having to acknowledge your connection to the victim.’

  ‘Her name was Ashley,’ Matthew snapped.

  That struck a nerve. Maybe there is a heart in there somewhere.

  ‘My apologies,’ Matthew said quickly. ‘Regardless of any real or perceived connection, it’s important to keep a name to any victim of murder, don’t you think?’ The brief show of genuine emotion was well and truly gone.

  Oliver felt his face flush and he nodded.

  ‘Did Ashley mention any problems she was having? Any names?’

  Matthew checked his watch again, then sighed. ‘You have to understand, these were, shall we say, exploratory conversations. Establishing rules and boundaries and setting expectations.’

  ‘You were talking to your daughter, not a minister,’ Oliver pointed out.

  ‘No!’ Matthew replied with another flash of emotion. ‘I was talking to someone who shared my genes, that’s all.’

  ‘And did you make sure she knew that?’ Oliver pressed.

  ‘She made her views clear. She wasn’t searching for a father figure.’

  ‘What was she looking for?’

  ‘A suitcase,’ came the unexpected reply.

  Oliver blinked twice. ‘A suitcase.’

  Matthew waved his hand dismissively. ‘From our brief interactions it was clear she had a keen sense of humour. I asked her what she wanted from me and she said a suitcase, then she laughed and said it was a joke and she would get hers back.’

  ‘Why would she need a suitcase?’

  Matthew stood up and buttoned his suit jacket, an automatic movement that Oliver had done plenty of times when working for the bank. The meeting was over.

  ‘Isn’t this the bit in the movie where you offer me the full resources at your disposal to bring the killer to justice?’ Oliver said, also rising to his feet.

  ‘No this is the bit in the movie where I disavow all knowledge of you and tell you we won’t meet again.’

  Oliver nodded, slightly disappointed that he couldn’t add the SAS to his speed dial. Matthew walked around his desk and Oliver turned to leave.

  ‘Mr Atkinson,’ Matthew said.

  Oliver looked back.

  ‘Are you committed to seeing this through?’

  ‘I feel like I don’t have a choice,’ Oliver replied.

  (Aye.)

  ‘Good. Ashley struck me as a bright girl with a good future. Justice is only fitting for the person who took that future away, don’t you think?’

  Oliver walked over to the desk. ‘And by ju
stice you mean arrested and convicted?’

  ‘Is there any other sort?’

  He didn’t know how to answer that one, so he retraced his steps to the door.

  Matthew Darcy had one parting question.

  ‘Do you know where Violet Tumbleton is?’

  ‘Violet Tumbleton is dead,’ he replied truthfully.

  A brief smile crossed Matthew’s face. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘The answer’s the same,’ Oliver told him.

  The door behind Oliver clicked open and Elissa stepped inside the room. Matthew waved a hand and Oliver knew he was being dismissed. He followed Elissa in the reverse of their earlier route, and a few minutes later exited the building into the cool night.

  (What was that Violet thing all about?)

  He was fishing for information on Amanda. Oliver zipped up his jacket and began walking back to the car.

  (Ye didn’t take the bait. Well done, lad.)

  I always hated fishing.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Oliver resisted the temptation to call George until the next morning, despite wanting to share the pain of his late night.

  He was so tired he slept through Jennifer’s alarm, the cat demanding food, and the shower running in the ensuite. Groggily he opened one eye to find Rose standing next to the bed, her face inches from his.

  He flung his head backwards in surprise and smacked it on the wooden headboard. Rose stumbled backwards in alarm, hit the bedroom wall and burst into tears.

  (Geez, put a bell on her.)

  ‘I’m not a cat,’ Rose sniffed through the tears.

  Oliver stretched out his arms and Rose came in for a comforting cuddle.

  ‘She’s not a cat,’ Oliver confirmed to Angus, while attempting to stifle the thought that Angus was half right. Life would be a little simpler if he could hear his kids coming.

  Apparently his attempt at stifling failed, as Angus burst into laughter.

  ‘Honey, go get dressed and I’ll make you some breakfast.’

  ‘I already ate breakfast,’ Rose informed him.

  Uh oh.

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes, today,’ she rolled her eyes.

  ‘Then go get dressed.’

  With a sigh, Oliver threw on his dressing gown and went to see how much carnage there was.

  Spilt milk on the counter: check.

  Split milk on the coffee table: check.

  Cereal box on the counter: check.

  Dish towel lying on the counter, wet from some unknown liquid: check.

  So, a normal breakfast when the kids did it themselves, but Oliver wasn’t complaining, much. At least they were trying and it would only get better. In theory.

  After he’d cleaned up the kitchen, argued with Angus about why he wasn’t getting the kids to clean up their own mess, made three lunches, and told Reed to put cleaner clothes on, Oliver remembered to switch on his phone. Once it powered up there was an immediate beeping which either meant there was a missed call, or a missed message, or something else he’d missed. One day he would bother to remember what each sound meant. Picking up the phone again he saw a message from Amanda asking how the previous night had gone.

  He tapped out a response saying he would update her later, then deleted it and wrote, Went well. He asked about you.

  (She’s going to get worried.)

  It’ll do her good.

  (I didn’t think ye had a testicle to spare, but ye’re surprising me.)

  I don’t know what that means. Yet Oliver felt absurdly grateful for the compliment. Then thirty seconds later he felt bad and sent a follow up text saying everything was okay.

  Angus called him a word that he didn’t need a translator to know was a synonym for soft, but he was too busy saying goodbye to Jennifer to worry about it.

  ‘Thirty second recap. How did last night go?’ Jennifer asked. She’d been asleep when he finally got home.

  ‘Still don’t like him, would probably vote for him, told me virtually nothing, asked about Amanda — sorry, I meant Violet.’

  Jennifer grinned. ‘And with the last ten seconds, anything useful?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Then you’d better kiss me with the last eight seconds.’

  ‘Mrs Atkinson! A whole eight seconds.’

  ‘Five now and…’

  Oliver kissed her and it lasted way longer than five seconds.

  ‘Have a good day, dear,’ she said, squeezing his butt.

  Oliver stood at the door and watched her get into the car that was picking her up for the commute to work. Not because he was going to miss her, but because the kiss and subsequent bottom attention had caused a reaction that he wanted to go away before facing his kids again.

  While he was waiting, he called George and asked him if he knew anything about Ashley needing a suitcase.

  ‘No,’ George replied.

  ‘Was she planning a trip maybe? A holiday, or maybe something for school?’

  There was silence down the phone, then the sound of doors opening and closing and a toilet flushing.

  ‘Are you talking to me on the toilet?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Yeah, you caught me,’ George’s reply came without a hint of embarrassment.

  Oliver looked at his hand holding the phone, for a second wondering if germs could come down the line. He decided to wash his hands the moment the call was over.

  ‘I remember, she did ask where the small suitcase was. But she said it was for a friend. I figured she was lending it to someone.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess so. Besides that was a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘You guess so,’ Oliver repeated in frustration.

  ‘It was a suitcase.’

  (He’s right, it’s just a suitcase. What’s the big deal?)

  Oliver sighed. You McMurry men are all alike.

  (Thanks.)

  It wasn’t a… Never mind.

  ‘It might not mean anything,’ Oliver said to Angus and George. But it could also be extremely important. Did you see the suitcase in the house after she was murdered?’

  George considered it or was doing goodness knows what that Oliver didn’t want to think about. ‘I don’t remember seeing it, but like I said I wasn’t paying attention. My girlfriend had just been murdered. I wasn’t thinking about a suitcase.’

  ‘Fair enough, but it would be good to know if it’s still in the house. Are you allowed back inside yet?’

  ‘Yeah, the cops told me last night. I’m allowed to go back, but I’m not supposed to leave the city. I’m moving back in tomorrow. I wanted to go sooner, but mum doesn’t want me there at all. She worries too much. I mean, what does she think is going to happen?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Oliver replied. ‘Maybe she’s worried the killer will return and claim you as his second victim.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Can I swing by and get the key from you. I’m keen to see if the suitcase is there.’

  ‘I guess so, but I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s a suitcase.’

  ‘Or it could be the thing that changes the entire investigation,’ Oliver said.

  (Or it’s just a suitcase.)

  Or that.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  He called Amanda from the car after he dropped the kids at school and filled her in on his meeting with Matthew Darcy.

  ‘I’m honoured I got a mention,’ she said, but there was a hesitation in her voice that undermined her sarcasm.

  ‘He won’t get to you through me,’ Oliver reassured her.

  ‘My hero,’ Amanda laughed. ‘I do appreciate it though. So, where are you off to?’

  ‘Collecting the house key from George, then going to his place to find the suitcase.’

  ‘You think it’s important?’

  Oliver switched on the car wipers and watched the world smear, then spring into focus. A more poetic man might have considered the correlation
between the investigation and his current view, but Oliver had never considered himself a poet. The water on the screen was just annoying.

  ‘I think everything is important until it’s not, remember?’

  (Aye, ye weren’t thinking that yesterday when ye threw away Reed’s picture.)

  Do you know how many dragon pictures he’s done in the last month alone?

  ‘Okay, I’ve got something to take care of first, but I can meet you there in about an hour.’

  ‘Great. See you soon.’ Oliver disconnected the call.

  (Ye care about her.)

  ‘Amanda? Yes, I suppose I do.’

  (And how does yer wife feel about that?)

  ‘You were there when they met.’

  (True, she seemed alright, but it’s not proper. A man shouldn’t have lady friends when he’s married.)

  Oliver laughed. ‘Maybe not a hundred years ago when you were alive, but times have changed.’

  (I’m not that old!)

  ‘Are you telling me you never had a woman friend while you were married?’

  (Only ones that were married themselves. Me wife was an understanding woman, but if I’d come home and said I’d had a cup of tea with a single woman I would have faced three questions: Were we related? Was it worth it? And what type of coffin did I want?)

  ‘Like I said, times have changed,’ Oliver said with a smile.

  George was in his pyjamas when Oliver arrived. Either that or he slept in his clothes. He was sipping a giant cup of coffee as he handed the house key over and told Oliver he’d be heading there after lunch. Oliver promised to return the key before then.

  City traffic was light and the drive from Kelburn to Newtown only took ten minutes.

  As he climbed out of his car, the front door of the next house popped open and Sean stumbled down the steps, wearing a dressing gown and, from the involuntary peek Oliver received, nothing underneath.

  Stifling a shudder, he waved at Sean who waved cheerfully back and beckoned him over.

  ‘Morning. Glorious morning isn’t it?’ He stretched his arms upwards as if trying to pluck a cloud from the sky, unfortunately causing the dressing gown belt to loosen.

  (Well, stop looking.)