(Wow.)
‘Debbie?’ Oliver asked.
‘No, Brigid,’ Jennifer replied.
(Yeah, can’t you tell it’s me?)
Oliver studied the photo more closely. Using his fingers he zoomed out and saw the photo was part of an old newspaper clipping. The accompanying article talked about how Brigid was the last person to see her best friend.
‘You seem happy for someone who’s friend just went missing,’ Oliver commented.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Jennifer said.
(I was going to be in the paper, it was the biggest thing to ever happen to me.)
‘Apart from Debbie going missing,’ Oliver said.
(Well, yeah, but I didn’t know she was gone for good. I figured she’d run away and was going to come back after a couple of days. It’s not like she hadn’t done it before.)
‘Wait. Debbie had a history of running away?’
(Oh sure. She loved the attention whenever she came back. Her dad would ground her, and her mum would bake her a big cake, and her sister would leave her alone for a while. She was bossy.)
‘So maybe she wasn’t taken. Maybe she ran away and got trapped somewhere. Where did she usually go?’
(We had this hiding spot down on the beach. No one else knew about it, but I checked there after she didn’t come back, and she hadn’t been there.)
‘How do you know?’
‘Care to enlighten me?’ Jennifer asked, having only heard her husband’s side of the conversation.
Oliver waved at her to wait, then immediately regretted the gesture and shot her an apologetic look.
(We had a signal whenever one of us had been there.)
He thought about the implications of what Brigid had told him.
‘You know I’m used to people in this house not listening to me, but not being able to listen to them is wearing pretty damn thin,’ Jennifer snapped.
He quickly filled her in.
‘I’d have to assume that the police were aware of her history of running away,’ she said.
‘I’d need to see the police file. Or talk to one of the journalists who investigated the story, or one of the police officers from back then, if they’re still alive.’
‘Or, maybe you don’t need to talk to a police officer from back then…’
‘Stop! I know what you’re going to say and it’s a terrible idea. The man hates me.’
‘Oh, you’re exaggerating, Oliver. At best he intensely dislikes you,’ Jennifer grinned, all tension falling from her face. ‘And can you blame him? You have solved two of his cases. That doesn’t do any good for his promotion prospects.’
(Who doesn’t like you? Apart from me, and Monty, and Debbie’s sister.)
What do you mean the dog didn’t like me? All animals like me.
(Not that one.)
How do you know?
(I don’t know. I mean, I always liked animals, and I definitely always wanted a dog, but my parents wouldn’t let me get one. We got a goldfish instead. What’s the point in a goldfish? You can’t take them for a walk, or teach them to chase Gary Watts away because he tripped you up or…)
‘Brigid!’
(Right. I just knew what Monty was feeling. Like I know that your cat is hiding under the bed right now because he brought a mouse in and he knows he’s going to get in trouble for it.)
Startled Oliver swung his legs off the bed, crouched down and peered into the gloom. Sure enough, two gleaming eyes stared back at him from between the piles of important belongings that they’d shoved under there years ago and forgotten about.
(Told you.)
‘Hiding under the bed won’t solve your problems,’ Jennifer said.
‘Are you sure?’ he muttered. ‘It seems to work for the cat.’
‘You know how it’ll end: you go under the bed, the kids join you, I have to cook dinner, the kitchen catches on fire, and I have to explain to the firemen that a grown man is living under my bed.’
Oliver looked at the cat for his reaction and caught a flash of white as the feline yawned.
(Who don’t you want to call?)
He hauled himself up and found his wife holding out his cell phone. With a sigh he took it from her and scrolled through his contacts.
(Is it a secret? I can keep secrets really well. This one time Lisa Bell at school…)
Be quiet.
(What? Lisa is probably dead now and it wasn’t her fault, she…)
‘Brigid, be quiet,’ he repeated aloud, as he pressed the call button.
(Fine.) Brigid’s tone implied it was anything but fine.
‘Hello, Mr Atkinson,’ came a cautious voice down the phone line.
‘Hello, Detective Wilson. I was hoping you might be able to help me.’
There was a small pause, then the detective said. ‘Let me guess, someone is trying to kill you.’
‘Not this time,’ Oliver reassured him.
‘So you’re not investigating a murder? This makes a nice change.’
‘No, maybe, I don’t actually know to tell you the truth.’
This was going as well as he’d anticipated and he looked at his wife for encouragement. She rolled her eyes and waved her hand in the universal symbol for “get the hell on with it”.
There was another pause, which Oliver sought to fill with as many words as possible.
‘I mean I’m pretty sure it’s a murder, only there’s no body, and it happened a long time ago, so there’s no evidence or suspects. At least no new ones, and…’
‘Mr Atkinson,’ Detective Wilson interrupted, ‘Much as I enjoy our little chats, it is Sunday night and I’m sure your family would appreciate your attention.’
‘Yes, sorry. I’m looking into the disappearance of a girl from up the coast, back in 1978 and I was hoping to talk to someone who might know the case, or even see the case file.’
‘I assume you’re referring to the Debbie Judkins case?’
(Wow, Debbie must be famous. Cool.)
Oliver’s mouth went dry. Unlike his hitchhiker, he didn’t consider it lucky at all that a current detective in the New Zealand police was aware of a decades old case.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How did you know?’
‘Two reasons. Firstly there weren’t that many child abductions in the 1970s, so the ones that did happen are pretty well known in the force. Secondly it’s impossible to be stationed in Wellington and not present evidence before her sister at some point. Judge Beth Judkins was as tough as they came, but we all wish she was still working.’
‘Because the criminals were more scared of her than you were.’
‘Something like that.’
‘So can you help me?’ Oliver prompted.
‘I’m afraid not. However…’ There was a loud sigh from the other end of the line. ‘I suggest that you speak to my uncle.’
‘Your uncle? Is he anything like you?’ Oliver asked without thinking. ‘I I I mean…is he a police officer?’
(Ha, ha. You’re a crack up.)
‘He’s worse.’
Oliver had a sudden urge to sit down. Detective Wilson was an intimidating man who had the ability to strip away all of Oliver’s confidence with a single eyebrow raise. If the man’s uncle was worse…
SEVEN
Despite assurances Detective Wilson’s uncle was available to discuss the Judkins case at any time, Oliver delayed making the call until after the kids’ bedtime. Thanks to Brigid, it was like trying to put three children to bed, only one kept leaving the room with him.
Being the youngest, Rose went first. When informed by her parents that it was her bedtime she immediately flopped onto the ground and declared herself too tired to move. This was despite jumping from chair to chair moments before in a startling burst of energy.
Through experience, Oliver bypassed gentle persuasion and went straight to threatening. If she didn’t get up and go and brush her teeth he would cancel tomorrow’s playdate with her current best friend in the whole
world. Miraculously she discovered enough strength to disappear into the bathroom.
Bedtime was further delayed by Rose insisting on introducing Brigid to all her stuffed toys. They all had names and, from what he could decipher, were somehow related to each other in some weird hybrid family.
It took five minutes to get them both to be quiet enough for him to read a story. At seven years old, Rose could technically read her own story, but for Oliver it was a remnant of her pre-reading days that he was determined to hang on to. She was already interested in makeup and spending her father’s money, so if reading her a story helped keep her young then he’d suffer through Trixie the Fairy for the twentieth time.
Rose got bored with the story before Brigid did.
To complete the routine, father and daughter sang some songs — or attempted to. Oliver and Rose both suffered from the same affliction of thinking they knew the lyrics to songs, only to flounder several lines in and hum large parts of it instead.
Brigid didn’t help by suggesting several alternative songs that were popular when she was alive. Oliver was only vaguely familiar with them and promised they would listen to the songs the next day.
His hitchhiker wanted to continue reading all about Trixie at Reed’s bedtime, but his son had a different taste in books. Usually ones that referred to farting or blowing things up, and occasionally if he was really lucky, blowing things up with farts.
Brigid thought it was gross.
By the time he walked back into the open plan kitchen and lounge area, Oliver felt exhausted. Jennifer sat on the couch, her legs tucked under her, and a glass of red wine in her hand. She nodded at the kitchen counter where another glass of wine sat waiting.
‘Thanks, babe,’ he said, taking an appreciative sip.
(Cool, I’ve never had wine before. Once I snuck a beer from my dad, but I didn’t like the taste.)
‘Can you taste this?’ Oliver asked.
(I don’t think so, not properly. But you’re drinking it and I’m inside your head so it’s basically the same as me drinking wine. Debbie would be so jealous.)
Oliver sighed and put the glass down.
(What are you doing?)
You might be dead, but you’re only nine, and I’m not contributing to the delinquency of a minor, even a deceased one.
(The delinq….what?)
I’m not drinking while you’re around.
Which was no real hardship, as he wasn’t a big drinker to begin with, but with every hitchhiker that arrived it was becoming a more attractive proposition. Luckily his last spirit had been more interested in a perfect cup of tea than hard liquor.
Oliver picked up the piece of paper with the phone number for Graeme Wilson and carried it over to the couch. Retrieving his phone from the small table next to the seat he dialled the number.
‘Not thirsty, honey?’ Jennifer asked.
‘It’s more that I don’t want to deal with a drunk nine year old,’ Oliver said.
Unfortunately the call had clicked through in time for the person at the other end to hear most of this sentence.
‘I should hope not, Oliver,’ came the firm voice.
‘I didn’t mean…wait, how did you know who was calling?’
‘My nephew gave me your number, home and cell, and said you’d be calling. I don’t answer the phone to numbers I don’t know anymore. Too many scammers.’
‘Well, I can assure you I’m not trying to scam you.’
‘Oh, I know everything about you, Oliver. And while my nephew used many words to describe you, scammer wasn’t one of them. I understand you have an interest in the Judkins case.
‘Yes. Detective Wilson said I should talk to you about it, but he didn’t say why. I take it you weren’t a police officer?’
‘Good god, no,’ Graeme laughed. ‘Terrible people, police. Apart from my nephew. No, I was a journalist. Forty years working for the Dom Post newspaper, until I retired five years ago. And by retired I mean shoved out the door with a kick up the backside and a tiny plaque saying thanks for nothing.’
Oliver wasn’t sure sympathetic noises would work so he opted for silence.
(He’s grumpy. Grumpier than you.)
I’m not grumpy.
(Says Mr Grumpy.)
‘I wrote the original story on Debbie’s disappearance, and lots of follow ups. Even tried to write a book about it in the 1990s but her family kicked that to the curb.’
(What does that mean?)
‘Why do you think they didn’t want you to do it?’ Oliver asked.
‘I have my theories, but you’d have to ask the judge. Look, talking on the phone isn’t going to help you. Come around tomorrow morning and I’ll tell you everything.’ He rattled off an address which Oliver wrote down.
‘I’ll see you at 9.30am. That’ll give you enough time to drop the kids off at school.’
‘How did you?…Never mind.’
Graeme hung up mid-laugh.
(He was funny.)
‘Well?’ Jennifer asked.
Oliver brought her up to speed and she chewed on the end of her hair while digesting the information. Despite the circumstances he couldn’t help admiring how her nose crinkled a little when she was frustrated. It was both adorable and an early warning sign.
‘Well, you should be able to get some useful information out of him,’ she finally said.
Oliver hesitated. He knew everything about the hitchhikers had been difficult for Jennifer, and they had both been looking forward to life going back to normal after Angus. In particular, there had been certain restrictions imposed by his wife while he had been carrying around an elderly Scotsman that he had hoped would be lifted. Since the spirits could see everything he could, there had been a complete embargo on nightly activities that normally involved closing the bedroom door and making sure the cat wasn’t in the room.
With Brigid appearing immediately after Angus’s departure, normal seemed further away than ever. Since his first, and what he had hoped would be his only, hitchhiker appeared almost two years ago, his life had shifted from busy to complicated, to occasionally life threatening.
He reached out and squeezed Jennifer’s hand. ‘I know this case has been open for a long time, but I’m pretty sure I can wrap this one up quickly.’
She squeezed his hand back. ‘Based on your highly refined investigative skills?’ she said with a mocking smile.
‘That and I have something they don’t.’
‘A long-suffering wife?’ Jennifer put the back of her hand on her forehead and sighed dramatically.
‘Who gets her clothes washed, dinner cooked, and house cleaned by her husband,’ he reminded her.
‘And your point is?’
‘Besides my long-suffering wife, I have an ace up my sleeve. Or technically in my head.’
(What does that mean? What’s in your head?)
‘You, Brigid. They might have years of interviews and theories, but I have the spirit of the missing girl’s best friend. This will be over by Wednesday,’ he said confidently.
‘Which one,’ Jennifer muttered.
(She doesn’t believe you. I don’t believe you and I’m your…what was it? Head in the sleeve?)
Ace in the head.
(Whatever. If you’re expecting me to help you, I told you, I don’t know anything.)
Now I don’t believe you.
EIGHT
Oliver was an author, with two books released for sale and a third partially written. It was a fact that he still struggled to believe. Three years ago he had ditched a stable career working for a large bank in Wellington and sat down to try and achieve his lifelong dream of becoming a writer. It hadn’t gone quite according to plan and he didn’t like to admit that it never would have happened without the influence of Violet, the first hitchhiker to invade his mind and his life. Her presence and advice had changed him from a potential hack into, at least according to some of the reviews, a decent writer.
Working from home had it
s advantages. One of them was the ability to drop the kids at school in the morning and pick them up in the afternoon. The down side was that his working day was the six hours between those two events. While most people would have been happy with such a short working day, Oliver always felt like he was playing catch up. And it was no good trying to work once Reed and Rose were home. If he wasn’t ferrying them to after-school activities, he was fending off requests from his son to play games on the laptop.
His kids were at the age where getting dropped off by your father was in the neutral spot, between eagerness at wanting him to come up to their classroom, and embarrassment that their father even existed. They were okay for him to pull up to the front gates, as long as he didn’t get out of the car.
Which normally would have been fine, but Brigid wanted to see the school, and it took some fast talking on Oliver’s part and a promise that he would walk up to the classrooms that afternoon, to persuade her they didn’t have time.
Without a backwards glance, Reed and Rose disappeared through the main gates, meeting up with friends and classmates as they went.
(I liked school.)
Oliver was surprised, his experience was from two children whose standard response to how was school, was “it’s alright”.
‘But did school like you?’ he couldn’t ask helping.
(My teacher was a bit lame. Miss Church. We thought she was going to be cool when she started but she was the worst.)
Oliver navigated his way out of the street that was built long before the school roll tripled in size. It was a stop start affair while he waited for mothers in SUVs to nervously inch through gaps easily wide enough for them. The only time worse than drop off was pick up at the end of the school day.
Eventually he scooted down the hill and onto the motorway leading into Wellington. At this time of day it was about a twenty minute drive, give or take the ever present roadworks where some people obeyed the reduced speed limit and others saw it as more of a suggestion. Oliver hovered somewhere in the middle.
Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 51
