Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  Oliver sighed. ‘I know. And so’s Amanda and apparently so is Claire.’

  ‘Your kids are keen amateurs as well.’

  They laughed, although it had a slight edge of desperation as they both knew no matter how they raised them, Rose and Reed would follow human nature and learn to lie like their lives depended on it.

  ‘I’m surrounded by liars. It does tend to make this a little more difficult.’

  Jennifer gave him a big hug, holding on so tightly that bits of him that he hadn’t known were sore protested.

  ‘The way I see it, you have two choices,’ she said, releasing him. ‘Number one, you could learn to foot it with the liars by becoming good at it, which will help you bluff your way to the answer — for the record I’m not keen on that one. I’m perfectly happy having a hopeless liar for a husband.’

  ‘Noted. What’s number two, then?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘At work if I need to know something, I go to the subject matter expert.’

  (What the hell is that?)

  ‘Amanda,’ Oliver realised.

  ‘As she keeps telling you, she’s very good at what she does. How can you use that to find the answer?’

  Oliver pondered that question until breakfast the next day. Gradually an idea began to form. Before he could call Amanda and share his thoughts, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Atkinson,’ Detective Wilson said, when Oliver opened the door. ‘May we speak?’

  ‘Only if you call me Oliver,’ he replied.

  The detective pursed his lips as he considered the suggestion, then nodded slightly. Oliver stood aside then led Wilson into the kitchen where he hovered uncertainly before settling into a seat at the dining table. He declined Oliver’s offer of a drink.

  ‘Mr Atkinson — Oliver — I find myself in an unusual position.’ He paused while Oliver sat opposite, removing the cat from his chair, and pushing the newspaper, Rose’s reading book, and what may have been part of last night’s dinner stuck to the table top, out of the way.

  ‘What position is that?’

  Detective Wilson ran a hand through his hair then rubbed his face. ‘I’m under some unusual pressure to complete the investigation and I’ve reached a bit of a dead end. Between you and I, while we still consider George McMurry a suspect, we are now broadening our enquiries.’

  (Ye mean he didn’t do it.)

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Oliver asked curiously.

  ‘I firmly believe in the abilities of myself and my fellow officers, and in time I’m sure we will reach a satisfactory conclusion. However, with the added pressure… I’m not sure why this particular case is causing such angst in the upper ranks...’

  (Matthew bloody Darcy, that’s why.)

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Oliver lied.

  (Look at that, ye’re not bad at it after all.)

  ‘No, I didn’t expect you would. However I would like to know what you’ve found out during your own investigation. Perhaps there might be something of assistance.’

  ‘Do you always talk like that?’ Oliver said.

  ‘Like what?’ Detective Wilson replied in surprise.

  ‘Choosing each word so carefully. Like the wrong word would be a disaster.’

  (Like a bloody cop.)

  Detective Wilson blinked a couple of times in rapid succession, then slumped into his chair and offered what seemed to Oliver to be the first genuine smile he’d seen from the policeman.

  ‘You sound like my wife.’

  Oliver tried and failed to not show his surprise at the news that Wilson was married. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of a Mrs Detective Wilson had never crossed his mind.

  Wilson stretched out his neck and sat straight up in his chair. A fleeting look suggested to Oliver that he was regretting the momentary lapse in professionalism.

  ‘Look, Oliver, I’m here to learn what you’ve discovered during your investigation into this case. An investigation that I must once again advise you to cease.’

  Oliver wondered whether Detective Wilson was saying that last part for the benefit of a hidden audience.

  ‘I’ll take your advice under advisement,’ he replied, before filling the detective in on everything he’d discovered.

  ‘What do you believe is the significance of the suitcase?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘I couldn’t say one hundred percent, but if I had to guess. I think Ashley lent it to someone, and when she got it back that person had left something inside that would incriminate them in the murder.’

  Detective Wilson sighed. ‘I suppose it would be too much to ask that the item was a signed confession. Do you think the suitcase was the reason you were attacked?’

  ‘The timing seemed coincidental otherwise don’t you think?’

  ‘Quite,’ Detective Wilson replied. ‘So who did she loan the case to?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Oliver admitted. ‘And neither does George. I haven’t seen many more convincing blank looks than the one he gave me when I asked. Overall he was pretty clueless about quite a few things to do with his girlfriend.’ Oliver couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice. George’s reactions swung rapidly between apathetic to vacant to outraged every time Oliver asked him a question. It was like the boy didn’t want to help himself.

  (Aye, my lad was exactly the same at his age. A pain in the butt.)

  Detective Wilson asked him a few more questions, then rose from his seat to signal that the whatever-this-had-been was over. Oliver walked him to the door.

  ‘There is a possible way to flush out the murderer…’ Oliver said on the front door step.

  ‘Flush out the murderer?’ Detective Wilson replied with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Too much television,’ Oliver apologised. ‘Anyway, there is one way to wrap this up pretty quickly.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Set a trap,’ he replied. ‘Convince the killer that I have something or know something that could solve the case, and when they come to get it you swoop in and arrest them.’

  The detective gazed thoughtfully at Oliver. ‘So you want to be the goat.’

  ‘The goat?’

  ‘In Africa when they wanted to capture a killer lion they would stake a goat in a clearing and wait for the lion to come. Then they’d shoot it.’

  (A goat. I love it. Baaaaa.)

  ‘That’s a sheep,’ Oliver replied automatically.

  ‘No, I’m pretty sure it was a goat,’ the detective said.

  Oliver hadn’t fully thought through the implications of his suggestion, and now the words were out in the world he immediately regretted them.

  (Aye, how would Jennifer feel about ye offering to be bait?)

  About the same way I feel about it.

  ‘I’m afraid I could never sanction putting a member of the public at risk. Even one who insists on putting himself at risk.’

  Oliver’s cheeks flushed hot, but he maintained eye contact with the detective.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Oliver, and although I grow tired of repeating myself, I firmly advise you to keep well clear of this case. You were lucky to survive that attack this week. Luck rarely strikes the same place twice.’

  ‘I thought that was lightning,’ Oliver snorted, then adopted a more serious expression when the detective didn’t respond.

  ‘Good day, Mr Atkinson.’

  Well, that informal relationship lasted a long time.

  (I’ve noticed you have a tendency to rub people the wrong way.)

  Oliver watched his guest get into an unmarked car and drive away. ‘You and I have more in common than either of us would like to admit,’ he muttered, closing and locking the front door.

  No need for insults, son. What’s the next move? Going to tie a rope around your neck and stake yourself to the back yard?

  ‘I’m going to have a cup of tea.’

  Angus kept quiet through the brewing process, but Oliver felt extra pressure to get it right. By the time he sat down to drink
it, he almost wished he had something stronger.

  ‘Let’s say Ashley did lend the suitcase to someone, and they left something in it that might point the police in their direction. That might narrow our list down a bit more, don’t you think?’

  (How do you figure that?)

  ‘From what I understand she didn’t really know Tess, and it would be odd for Louise to borrow a suitcase from her son’s girlfriend. Besides, she made no mention of going anywhere and even if she wouldn’t say anything to me, her husband or son would probably know.’

  (It’s a weaker argument than your tea. Ye’re never going to make a proper brew. But let’s say ye’re right. That leaves Alex, Niki, or Claire.)

  Oliver sipped his tea and tapped the table with his fingers. ‘I still like them in that order too. But don’t forget Sean.’

  (This is confusing. I’m a simple man used to simple things. Me life was never this complicated while I was alive. Ye need someone who’s mind works in grey.)

  ‘I’ll call Amanda.’

  She didn’t answer so he left her a message, then went to have a shower. Studying himself in the steam edged mirror afterwards he noticed a few grey hairs dotted across his scalp. He wiped at them in vain, thinking that it was shampoo he hadn’t washed out properly, but they remained stubbornly present. Slowly, and painfully, he tweaked them out and flushed them down the toilet.

  Angus thought that was hilarious.

  Oliver ignored him as he dressed and checked his phone. Amanda hadn’t called back. While he waited, he caught up on folding and putting away the clean washing, reducing the mountain to a small hill. As he was deciding whether to put the blue, possibly purple, socks into Reed’s or Rose’s pile, his cell phone rang.

  He checked the display and slid a finger across the screen to accept the call. ‘Thank you for saving me from a domestic nightmare,’ he said.

  ‘Anything domestic is a nightmare for me,’ Amanda replied.

  It occurred to him that he had no idea where she lived. The only home he’d ever seen her in had been an apartment borrowed from someone else.

  ‘Not much call for domestic activities when you have maid service,’ she added.

  ‘But who washes your underwear?’ he blurted out.

  There was a pause. ‘Think about my underwear a lot do you, Oliver?’

  (For goodness sake, don’t answer that.)

  ‘Just underwear in general,’ Oliver said in an attempt at humour. And it was partly true. With four people in the house, there was always underwear to wash and put away. And he usually found his children’s underwear in the unlikeliest of places, like the middle of the lounge floor.

  ‘Preoccupation with underwear must point to some psychological disorder,’ said Amanda.

  ‘So does having a spirit riding around in your head,’ he quipped back, relieved they’d steered the conversation into safer waters. ‘Anyway, I had a visit from our favourite detective this morning.’

  He told her about his earlier conversation, including the wildly idiotic suggestion of using himself as bait. It wasn’t a complete surprise to him that Amanda thought it a great idea.

  (She doesn’t seem to have much regard for yer safety.)

  She’s all talk.

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t be in any danger. We would make sure that the police were there, or I know some people that might be useful in this situation. Either way, you seem to have annoyed the murderer enough that this could be our best shot at stopping him. Or her.’

  Maybe she’s not entirely all talk. ‘And here was me thinking that you and Jennifer were getting on so well.’

  ‘We aren’t?’ Amanda replied.

  ‘Not after she hears about you wanting to stake me down in the middle of the field.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  (Ye didn’t mention about goats when ye told her about the conversation between ye and the copper.)

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Honestly, Oliver, between underwear obsession and bondage this is a whole different side of you.’

  ‘I said never mind. You had to be there.’

  ‘I almost wish I was,’ she said.

  ‘Anyway, moving on. The more I think about it, the more I don’t like it, but it might be the only way to catch them.’

  ‘We’ll want to taunt them a bit first, make them really angry with you.’

  ‘The back of my head suggests that they’re angry already,’ Oliver said.

  ‘You’re probably right, but no harm in stirring the pot a bit more, don’t you think?’

  ‘Other than making them mad enough to actually kill me, you mean?’

  ‘Reply to their text message. Say something along the lines of, I’m going to get you, or You won’t scare me off. You’re the writer, you’ll think of something. Then there’s the problem of getting them to come to you. Maybe back at the house would be best. I’d suggest you —'

  ‘Amanda, stop,’ Oliver said. ‘Take a breath.’

  ‘Sorry, are you writing this down? Would you like me to repeat anything?’

  ‘No, I’m not writing it down, because I’m not sure I’m going to do this. We are making progress, we’ve narrowed the suspect list down considerably. Maybe if we keep working at the list we’ll figure it out. Or maybe the police will arrest the right person.’

  (And maybe the English are good at drinking.)

  ‘What?’ Oliver said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind, Angus is being obscure again.’

  ‘Oliver, to be honest, you have a higher stake in this than I do, so do whatever makes you comfortable. But the police have been known to leave cases unsolved for years, decades even. How long do you want Angus riding around in your head?’

  (Be the goat.)

  ‘Good point. Okay, I’ll set it up and let you know.’ He disconnected.

  What are you going to tell Jennifer?

  Oliver rubbed his fingers across the phone screen to remove a smudge. ‘I think this is one of those situations where it’s better not to tell her anything.’

  (You’re going to lie to her?)

  ‘I trust Amanda to provide support and ensure I come out of it unscathed.’

  (Technically she said alive. Nothing about uninjured.)

  ‘I’ll take injured over dead. I’ll tell Jennifer afterwards.’

  (Better to seek forgiveness…)

  ‘Than ask permission. Exactly.’

  He found the threatening text message and it took five minutes of writing and deleting and rewriting to compose a suitable message. It read, I’M GOING TO CATCH YOU.

  (Five minutes for five words. How long does it take ye to write a book?)

  ‘Around about the same time,’ he replied aloud, as he reread the message again, considered making another change, then pressed send before he changed his mind.

  Now what?

  Oliver got up from his chair and walked to the front door. ‘Now I’m going to check the mailbox, then I’ll try and meet a murderer.’

  But before he could do either of those things, he needed to deal with the visitor hovering at the bottom of his driveway.

  ‘Hello, Mr Atkinson,’ said Victor.

  THIRTY FOUR

  ‘Victor, I’m surprised to see you. I thought Matthew Darcy and I had an understanding.’

  The neatly dressed man twitched his shoulders at the mention of Darcy. It briefly reminded Oliver of the boy wizard books Reed had started reading, where it was considered taboo to use the evil wizard’s name.

  ‘Oh you do, Mr Atkinson. Rest assured, I’m simply here to check on progress. My employer has to go out of the country for a few days and is anxious to know if this matter will be resolved prior to his departure.’

  Oliver sighed at being faced with another man who chose his words carefully and used twice as many as he needed to.

  ‘I expect to have this wrapped up expeditiously,’ he said to show he could throw long words into the mix as well.

  Victor inclined hi
s head slightly, which Oliver preferred to his twenty-word response.

  ‘Hopefully within the next two days.’ Oliver added.

  Victor tugged at the cuffs of his shirt and adjusted his tie. ‘My employer will be pleased. Good day, Mr Atkinson.’

  He resisted the urge to reply that it had been until Victor arrived. Instead he watched the man slide into his car and drive away.

  I used to be afraid of him.

  (Why? Even ye could take him.)

  He’s intimidating when you first meet him. I guess a couple of near death misses changes your perspective.

  (A couple?)

  You weren’t around for the last time.

  Victor’s visit had reinforced the idea that this needed to end sooner rather than later. If he was to get rid of Angus, Victor, and the rest of them, he needed to catch the killer.

  When he got back inside there was a message on his phone.

  YOU WERE WARNED.

  (I’d say ye’ve successfully poked that pig.)

  ‘Bear, you poke a bear,’ Oliver said absently as he stared at the three words.

  (Why would ye poke a bear? Besides there aren’t any bears in New Zealand. But there are wild pigs, and ye never want to poke one of those.)

  ‘Time to put the next step into action.’

  He scrounged around in the messy pile of paper stacked at the end of the couch, idly thought that he should sort through it, and pulled out a pad of paper that had only been partially scribbled on by Reed. Not finding a pen handy, he spied a broken bit of crayon under one of the dining room chairs. Sitting down at the table he wrote some key words out, then a list of people to call, starting with Amanda.

  He placed the call and told her about Victor’s visit. Amanda said she’d ring Niki while he called the rest of the people on his list.

  Next was George, which thanks to the monosyllabic responses was the most painful conversation he’d had that day. Even more painful than trying to determine if Rose brushed her teeth that morning.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘George, Oliver Atkinson.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I think I’ve discovered a vital clue in identifying Ashley’s murderer.’

  ‘Really?’

  Oliver took a deep breath then pressed on.

  ‘Yes, it’s at your place. Are you going to be home this afternoon?’