Do you want to tell her or should I?
(Tell her what?)
‘Tell me what?’ Rose said.
‘What?’ Reed asked.
‘Not to worry,’ he told his son, with a gently slap on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get an ice cream.’
‘Yay!’ his children chorused.
(Yay.)
None for you.
(Are you having one? Because I can taste what you’re eating.)
Then no.
(Meanie.)
Oliver felt the same tug of guilt when he said no to his kids. Fine, but I only like chocolate ice cream, so if you don’t like that then you’re out of luck.
That night he caught Jennifer up on the day’s discoveries, including the real identity of his hitchhiker. He could see his wife choosing her words carefully, mindful that there was a child listening.
‘So Debbie would like you to find out who killed her friend.’
Oliver nodded. ‘That seems to be it.’
‘How does she know it wasn’t an accident?’
‘I’m guessing she wouldn’t be here if it was an accident,’ Oliver replied.
Jennifer chewed on the end of her hair, a sure sign she was doing some deep thinking. ‘How does she know it wasn’t the same person who…Wait, she’s dead?’
‘I hope so,’ Oliver quipped, then grimaced. ‘Sorry, Debbie, I didn’t mean it that way.’
(What way?)
‘Yes, but how? They never found her body, so how did she die?’
‘Oliver realised he had completely forgotten to ask.
To make it worse Jennifer had that smug look on her face that said she knew exactly why he’d stopped talking.
(You don’t even care about me.)
‘I have two kids of my own, Debbie, that sort of emotional blackmail won’t work.’
(It’s the truth.)
‘Fine. Debbie, could you please tell me how you died.’
(I don’t remember everything. There was a car, a yellow car I think, and a smiling man. He had a bag of lollies and I went to take one, and then he hit me with something, and then there was nothing. Until yesterday.)
Oliver relayed the information to Jennifer and a tear tracked down her cheek. He hugged her, knowing they were both thinking about the same thing. What if something happened to their children?
‘You have to find out who killed Debbie,’ Jennifer sniffed, before plucking a tissue from one of the many open boxes dotted around the room.
(I don’t care who killed me. You need to find out who killed Brigid.)
‘It’ll bring closure to your family. To your sister,’ Oliver said.
(Beth is fine.)
‘She literally said her entire life was affected by your disappearance.’
‘Going well?’ Jennifer asked with a sly smile.
(She didn’t mean it. Beth was always so mallowpuff dramatic.)
‘You mean melodramatic?’
(What’s the difference?)
‘One is a biscuit, the other means to be overemotional.’
(Oh. Anyway Beth is fine. We’re worrying about Brigid.)
‘What’s going on?’ Jennifer asked as she retook her seat next to him on the couch.
‘We’re worrying about Brigid apparently,’ Oliver replied.
‘Sure we are,’ she replied with steel in her voice. Oliver sighed, knowing that his wife’s resolve, in the nicest possible way, just added an extra level of complexity to the situation.
Sorry, Debbie, you’ve been overruled.
(That’s not fair!)
Oliver sighed.
‘What’s wrong? I mean apart from the obvious,’ Jennifer asked.
‘After Violet and Angus I thought I was starting to get a hang of this thing. At least get a hang of interviewing possible suspects. But this time all my potential suspects are old enough to be my parents and it’s a little…’
‘Strange,’ Jennifer completed.
‘Difficult,’ he said.
‘You could always call in your partner in crime.’
(Ooh, are you a crook?)
It’s an expression.
‘I have the feeling she’s out of the country,’ he replied.
His partner in crime was Amanda, possibly not her real name, who happened to be a confident, attractive woman, who also happened to be a criminal. A con artist to be precise. He wouldn’t have survived the last two hitchhiker experiences without her, both metaphorically and physically.
(What does metaph…that word mean?)
I can’t stop you hearing my thoughts, but that doesn’t mean I have to explain them every time you don’t understand something.
(I bet you’d do it for Rose.)
The last time they’d spoken, only a week ago, Amanda had told Oliver to keep an eye on news coming out of Australia, which he interpreted to mean she was working over there.
‘Have you heard from the garage?’
Oliver grimaced. ‘Yes, it’s going to take longer than thought to fix the damage.’
Jennifer shrugged. ‘At least it’s covered by insurance.’
It had been a close run thing. The insurance company had initially rejected their claim due to the nature of the accident, then relented when he suggested it wasn’t a good look, them refusing the claim of a man who just solved a murder.
‘Shame you don’t know an older version of Amanda then,’ Jennifer said as she picked up the remote control and switched on the television.
He laughed. ‘Imagine that.’ Then it hit him. He didn’t need to imagine it. He knew an older version of Amanda. The woman who taught her everything she knew.
(Who’s Alice?)
Oliver smiled.
ELEVEN
Deciding to ask for help was the easy part. Contacting Alice was going to be a bit trickier. He knew where she lived, or at least where she was living two years ago. However the retirement village nestled into the hills above Wellington appeared to be exclusive (which translated to having good security).
Added to that problem was the fact Oliver had no idea what her last name was, and didn’t think that simply phoning the place and asking for Alice was going to get much of a result.
Turning up at the front door and asking to speak to Alice probably wasn’t going to be much better.
In the meantime Oliver left a voicemail message for Amanda to call him. If she was working a job then he knew the chances of her returning his message were slim, so when he hadn’t heard anything by the time he dropped the children at school the next morning, Oliver decided on the turn-up-and-hope approach.
Debbie was angry because he wouldn’t tell her who Alice was. He knew he shouldn’t get any pleasure out of annoying a kid, even a ghost one, but he couldn’t deny it was mildly satisfying after all the lying she’d done.
The Silvermoon Retirement Complex, like most things in the city, was nestled on hill. Down a long driveway, it was barely visible from the road. Several buildings sat subtly against a backdrop of trees and lawns, and the grass was far too green and perfect to be anything but doted on by a dedicated grassologist.
(Is that a real job?)
‘There’s probably a more official name for it,’ Oliver muttered as he pulled up to the main building. A uniformed woman popped out from behind a pillar and offered to park his car. He reluctantly agreed, painfully aware of the dismal state of the back seat, which looked like his children had been engaged in a long term police stake out, with socks and used fast food wrappers in abundance.
As his car disappeared around the corner, Oliver walked up the steps and into a modern foyer that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the swankiest hotels around the world.
(Wow, posh.)
A reception desk lined the wall to the right of the main door, and another uniformed woman sat behind it. She smiled as he approached and he couldn’t help wondering if she would still be smiling when she threw him out the front door.
‘May I help you, sir?’ Her tone indicated that helping him would complete
her day, if not her life.
‘Yes, good morning. I’d like to speak with one of your residents please.’
If anything her smile got brighter, perhaps in relief at such an easy task. ‘Certainly, who do you wish to converse with?’
‘Alice,’ he replied confidently.
‘Alice who, sir?’
He had to admit that a small part of him had been hoping that she would say “Of course, sir” and direct him straight to the elevator.
(That would have been easy.)
Which is why it never happens that way. Then a bolt of inspiration hit him.
‘Alice Strong,’ he said. It was a long shot but there was always a possibility that she had taken the surname of the artist who was the father of her child.
The woman didn’t even blink.
‘I’m sorry, sir, we have no resident by that name.’
‘I might be using her maiden name. She lives on the third floor in the apartment on the left.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, we have no resident that matches that description,’ the woman replied with seeming genuine regret.
(Is she for real?)
Either that or a cyborg.
(What’s a cyborg?)
A robot.
(Then why didn’t you just say a robot?)
‘It’s possible she may no longer be with us,’ the woman offered helpfully.
‘That’s true, she could have moved,’ he replied.
‘Yes, or she could no longer be with us.’ He swore she gave an almost imperceptible glance at the sky.
‘Oh. Oh! Yes, I hadn’t considered that.’ Which was odd because Alice was in her mid-nineties and death was a very real possibility. Except he was sure that Amanda would have mentioned it.
‘Well, thank you,’ he said, and turned to retrace his steps to the front door.
‘You’re most welcome, sir,’ the woman said to his back.
As he reached the front door it slid open and an elderly woman came in carrying a petanque set. She stopped for a moment and looked him in the eye.
I’d hate to play poker against any of them.
(Why?)
Never mind.
‘Shannon, Mr Atkinson will be visiting for a short while. No need to put him on the visitor list,’ the old woman said to the receptionist.
‘Certainly, Ms Oliver.’ The receptionist did something behind the desk and the elevator doors slid open.
They didn’t speak until Alice closed the front door of her apartment.
‘Ms Oliver?’
Alice grinned at him. ‘I like it here, and old habits die hard. So after my granddaughter brought you to visit I tweaked my name. There was always a chance you would come back, but Amanda trusts you, so for the moment, so do I. This place has enough discretion that the small change was sufficient to distract anyone else who might come looking.’
Her apartment was like a penthouse, or at least how he imagined a penthouse would be. It was the sort of place where you were too afraid to touch anything unless you had a platinum credit card to pay for a replacement. She put her petanque set down next to the couch and waved for him to take a seat. She took the chair opposite.
Alice was short and bone-showing thin, with salon styled hair, and penetrating eyes that belied her age. Her face was a collection of wrinkles upon wrinkles.
(Wow, she’s the oldest person I’ve ever seen.)
‘Speaking of my granddaughter, you’re not here about her are you?’
It was more a statement than a question, with just a hint of concern.
‘No, actually I’m here to see you.’
‘I’m flattered, Oliver, but I’m out of your league.’ She laughed.
‘It’s not your body I want, it’s your mind,’ he replied with a smile.
‘Amanda said you were a smooth talker.’
‘I didn’t mean…’ he stammered.
(I mean look at her skin. Can you touch it? Does it feel like paper?)
Alice laughed. ‘She also said you were fun to play with.’
(Like a puppy.)
Shut up.
(Ooohhh, that’s rude.)
Sorry, I meant be quiet.
‘I meant,’ he said to Alice, ‘that I was hoping to bring you out of retirement.’
Alice clutched her chest, and for a second he was worried, before remembering what had happened last time he came. The old woman let out a loud belch.
(That’s impressive.)
‘I’m a bit old to run a con,’ Alice said.
‘I don’t need you to run a con. I need you to help me solve a forty-year-old murder.’
Alice stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘You think you need an old woman for an old murder?’
Oliver squirmed with discomfort. It was a bit blunter than he would have said it, but she was essentially right. ‘Let’s just say most of the suspects are in your age group rather than mine and I thought you might be able to offer some, expert, insights.’
‘On being old,’ Alice replied.
(She’s a little scary.)
She reminded him of his own grandmother in no way whatsoever. Where his own grandmother had been warm and nicely padded thanks to a lifelong love of everything chocolate, Alice was cut from a piece of granite whose edges had been chipped and roughed, instead of smoothed by time.
‘This doesn’t have anything to do with Matthew Darcy does it?’ Alice asked.
‘Not a thing,’ Oliver replied.
She shrugged. ‘Ah well, why not then. Amanda is away and it beats letting my mind turn to mush.’
‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening,’ Oliver said.
‘No,’ she replied, eyes twinkling. ‘It’s your mind that’s the problem. Tell me, does this have anything to do with Violet?’
‘It’s similar.’
(Who’s Violet?)
He ignored Debbie’s question and filled Alice in on his latest hitchhiker.
‘What exactly is the plan?’ she asked when he was finished.
‘Debbie remembers a yellow car. I don’t know how, but we need to find out if Brigid was killed by a yellow car. There can’t have been that many yellow cars around in 1978.’
‘So find the car, find the killer?’
‘Sounds simple when you put it like that,’ Oliver replied.
‘If it was simple, Oliver, you wouldn’t need me. Where would you like me to start?’
‘Graeme Wilson knows more than he’s telling me. Perhaps he’ll be more open with you?’
‘He’s a reporter? No problem, I’ve dealt to plenty of reporters in my time.’
‘Don’t you mean dealt with?’
Her grin was her reply.
‘He’s also the uncle of the police detective who is still looking for your granddaughter,’ Oliver pointed out.
‘That just makes it more interesting,’ she replied with a look that reminded him of Amanda.
He sat back in his chair with a sigh of relief. Debbie was his third hitchhiker, and so far had been the easiest in that there was no recent murder. But despite his experiences with the previous two he still felt way out of his comfort zone. Having someone more experienced with the shadier side of life on his side certainly helped ease his mind.
‘I’ll call and let him know you’re coming.’
Alice flapped her hand at him. ‘Good grief, don’t do that. I want him off guard, not on it. Just give me his address and I’ll take care of the rest.’
She scribbled it down in a small leather bound notebook, then stood up, and escorted Oliver to the front door.
‘How will I get hold of you?’ he asked.
‘I’ll get hold of you,’ she answered.
They paused in the doorway, and Oliver glanced at her awkwardly. The last time he’d seen her he was carrying her best friend in his head and she had insisted on him hugging Alice. The friend was gone but he wasn’t sure of the social conventions involved with a goodbye once a hug had previously been given.
He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think it works like that. Once they’ve done what they came for, they go back to wherever they came from.’
‘Pity,’ Alice sniffed. ‘Alright you can go, I’ll be in touch when I find something.’
Sensing a hug was off the table, and a handshake seemed a bit too formal, he offered a small wave, instantly felt stupid, then headed for the elevator.
(So who exactly is she?)
He gave Debbie a quick rundown as he was waiting for his car to be delivered to the front entrance. Once out the main gate he pointed the car down the hill and into the city.
(Where are we going?)
‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. He considered what he knew, which didn’t take long. The next logical step would be to talk to Nick Rawlings. Which would be fine if he had any idea where the man was, or if he was even still alive. He could ask Detective Wilson, but two things caused him to immediately discount that idea. The first was that unlike police shows on television, the detective wasn’t going to use official resources to help a civilian. The second reason was that Detective Wilson didn’t like him. Getting in the way of two murder investigations will have that effect.
Oliver stopped at a traffic light and idly looked out the window while he waited for it to turn green. Off to his right he caught a glimpse of the Beehive, the bee-home-shaped building that was home to the New Zealand Government.
He shuddered as he remembered his visit there not that long ago to meet with the deputy Prime Minister, a thoroughly intimidating man.
‘I could always ask him for help,’ he joked to himself.
(Why don’t you?)
‘So many reasons,’ he muttered. Then a different thought struck him. There were other ways to find someone.
Behind him a car horn tooted and he realised the light had changed. He edged forward and found a carpark to swing into. Then he pulled out his phone and looked up an address.
(What are you doing?)
‘If Nick Rawlings voted in the last general election then he’ll be on an electoral roll, complete with last known address.’
(And they’ll just tell you.)
He found what he was looking for. It was only a few blocks ahead, so he decided to leave the car there and walk. ‘They have to, it’s public record,’ he replied as he locked the car and started down the street.
Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 54
