Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  ‘Of course,’ Oliver said as they walked into the elevator and he pushed the close button.

  ‘Good. Uncle Graeme?’

  ‘Got it, yes. Don’t touch anything.’

  The apartment was similar to the one next door in that it was open plan, only this one had a single bedroom off the lounge and, being a corner unit, more windows. The lounge and kitchen were engulfed in brilliant sunlight, which made the destroyed coffee table seem less sinister. It didn’t stop Oliver shuddering at the thought that there had been a body here less than a day before. There were still splotches of blood on the jagged edges of glass.

  (Surely you’ve seen a body before. I thought you told me I wasn’t the first hitchhiker you picked up?)

  You aren’t. But I haven’t actually seen a body yet, I’ve always arrived after the murder. I’ve almost been a body myself a few times, but I’ve never seen one.

  (Me either. Oh well.)

  Oliver tried to ignore the disappointment in her voice and focus on the other parts of the apartment. A quick scan of the lounge failed to reveal a journal. In fact there was barely anything there at all apart from the furniture. Nothing on the walls, no handily placed pile of mail to rifle through, no shoes casually tossed against the wall or smelly sports singlet parked at the bathroom door waiting to be kicked in the general direction of the washing machine. That’s when Oliver realised he was comparing Nick’s apartment to the one he had lived in prior to moving in with Jennifer.

  Graeme and Wilson were conducting a quiet conversation in the kitchen area which, owing to the open plan nature of the apartment, meant Oliver could hear every word.

  ‘I only met her once. I had no reason not to believe she was who she said she was,’ Graeme whispered.

  ‘I can assure you, unless he has an extra grandmother hiding somewhere, the woman you met is not related to Oliver in any way,’ Wilson replied in a voice that was used to subdued conversation.

  Deciding the best idea was to find what he needed as quickly as possible, Oliver walked into the bedroom. Like the living areas, this room was devoid of personal items. A king-sized bed dominated the small space, with a large wooden dresser pushed against the opposite wall, and two doors which he assumed was a wardrobe.

  Feeling like a voyeur Oliver opened the top draw of the dresser, to find underwear and socks neatly stacked. The rest of the drawers were equally neat, until he got to the bottom drawer where he discovered an extensive collection of recreational items that turned Oliver’s face flaming red. He wasn’t a prude by any stretch of the imagination but there were things in there that would earn him a swift divorce had he suggested their use to Jennifer.

  (What are they for?)

  ‘Working out,’ he muttered, quickly shutting the drawer and equally quickly turning his mind to other things before Debbie managed to work it out from him.

  (Working out? What does that mean?)

  Let’s check the wardrobe.

  He flung the doors open and discovered Nick’s other little secret. While the rest of the apartment was magazine shoot perfect, the wardrobe was where everything else was stuffed, shoved, wedged, and leaned. There was no free space, and the whole thing groaned alarmingly, causing Oliver to take a step back.

  It reminded him of one of those reality TV programmes where people opened storage lockers to find a whole pile of junk, in the hopes of making money. Oliver hesitantly shuffled forward. There were boxes on boxes, next to suitcases and other bags, and all of them closed, except for one shoebox, which was partially pulled out and the edge of the lid was torn. In front of them all, neatly placed, was a pair of running shoes. He bent at the waist to examine them a little closer. They were scuffed at the edges, a smudge of dirt on the toe. Oliver thought back to his meeting with Nick. The man had been fit-looking, running was obviously how he did that.

  There was another loud groan and Oliver whipped upright in time to catch a sleeping bag in the face. He scrabbled it away in time to dodge a box, rapidly followed by another box, and then an explosion of items. Oliver stumbled backwards and managed to avoid most of them, catching his leg on the edge of the bed, and falling onto the duvet.

  (That was cool.)

  Oliver’s pounding heart disagreed. And so did Wilson’s face when he shot into the room.

  ‘At least you saved the police the trouble of pulling them all out,’ Graeme said from over his nephew’s shoulder.

  Wilson turned his exasperated look towards Graeme who shrugged.

  Oliver climbed to his feet, hesitated, then smoothed the duvet down. He turned to see both men looking between him and the large mess on the ground, and tried to look apologetic.

  He opened his mouth to explain and the detective stopped him with a wave of his hand.

  ‘What happened is less important than the fact it did happen,’ Wilson said. ‘This is a crime scene.’

  ‘I thought it was a self-inflicted injury scene,’ Graeme pointed out helpfully.

  ‘It is the scene of an unexplained death, which has now been contaminated…I mean, bloody hell, which part of “Don’t touch anything” was unclear?’

  (He didn’t touch anything.)

  ‘All I did was open the wardrobe doors. The rest happened by itself. Although… now it’s all out…’ Oliver dug through the pile and found the shoebox. He took the lid off and found a journal. ‘Got it,’ he displayed the book up triumphantly.

  Wilson held out his hand and Oliver reluctantly handed it over and observed as the detective methodically went through it one page at a time. It all became too much for Graeme who plucked the book away and picked a page at random. Wilson threw his hands up in disgust.

  ‘It’s his poetry. I remember reading some of this stuff back in the day,’ Graeme said. ‘Pretty good for a kid, but then I’m not much of a judge. My favourite poem started with the line “There was a young girl from Nantucket”.’ He laughed.

  (I think I know that one.)

  ‘No you don’t!’

  The other two men stared at Oliver.

  (I think you were supposed to say that in your head.)

  ‘I mean, that’s a limerick, not a poem,’ Oliver finished hurriedly.

  ‘True,’ Graeme grinned. ‘And a classic it is too. Now how did it go again?’

  ‘May I?’ Oliver said, reaching out for the journal.

  The first few pages were filled with teenage angst, lots of descriptions of loneliness and sunsets and no one understanding him.

  Oliver thought they were terrible.

  Debbie thought they were the best thing in the entire world, ever.

  About halfway through the book there was one final poem, then the rest of the pages were blank. He flicked back to the beginning.

  Were any of these poems the ones he wrote for you and Brigid?

  (No.)

  That’s when he noticed the small inscription written inside the front cover, Book 2, 1979.

  ‘Damn. It’s the wrong book.’ He showed them the writing.

  ‘Come to think of it, the journal I remember was blue. This is brown,’ Graeme said.

  ‘Maybe the first one was taken by the killer,’ Oliver replied.

  ‘Or it was never here. Didn’t you say he tried to throw out his books back then and his grandmother fished them out of the rubbish? Maybe she missed one.’

  Oliver looked at the detective. ‘Possibly, but…’

  ‘Yes?’ Wilson asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, what are the odds that he threw the books out in different places. And if they were all in one place, what are the odds that his grandmother retrieved one book and not the other.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Wilson admitted.

  ‘Bloody unlikely,’ Graeme agreed, with a slap on the shoulder of his nephew.

  ‘So, let’s walk through it. Nick Rawlings came home last night,’ Wilson led them back into the living area. ‘He ate dinner, there was one dirty plate in the dishwasher, he found the journal and discovered the name he was looking
for and…’

  ‘Recognised the name scrawled across one of the pages, and rang the person and said…’ Oliver continued.

  ‘I’ve got you, sonny. Give me lots of money or I’m going to the coppers,’ Graeme finished. ‘Maybe not those exact words,’ he added when they both frowned at him.

  It was a nice scenario, but if Oliver was writing it, there was something that didn’t fit. It was too neat, too cliché. He glanced at Wilson and saw doubt on his face.

  ‘Alternatively he called the killer and said they’d made his life miserable for forty years so he was turning them in,’ Graeme said.

  ‘But why call them at all?’ Oliver argued. ‘Why not just call the police?’

  ‘And say what?’ Wilson walked over to the sliding door leading to the balcony and casually tried to open it. The door refused to move. ‘That four decades ago some kid was guilty of writing their name in his journal?’

  (Yes. It was mean.)

  ‘The police aren’t interested in a kid being mean,’ Oliver said.

  Wilson smiled. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have the resources to deal with that amount of crime.’

  ‘So Nick rang the killer to confront him. In some way,’ Graeme suggested.

  They were all standing in an awkward triangle around the remains of the coffee table.

  (He was trying to avenge me because he loved me.)

  ‘He was trying to put the issue to rest once and for all,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Well, we can ask whoever it is directly when you get their details from Nick’s phone records,’ Oliver pointed out.

  ‘Unfortunately there are procedures to follow. To get his phone records, forms are required by the phone company, and I need to have a reason to submit them. We don’t usually request phone records for these types of cases. It could take a few days.’

  Graeme shook his head. ‘The pair of you. Honestly. Too many brain cells and not enough common sense.

  They both looked at him blankly.

  ‘All this talk of procedures and forms. This is the twenty-first century. Just look at his bloody phone.’

  Oliver blinked, then rubbed his neck ruefully. Sometimes in trying to think like a devious killer he forgot to think like a regular person.

  ‘Well yes, that could work as well,’ Wilson admitted. ‘Only we didn’t find his phone, which is another reason I was suspicious.’

  ‘The killer took it with him?’

  ‘Again, a big assumption,’ Wilson said.

  The sound of his daughter’s voice shouting, “Daddy, you have a message!” broke the silence. Oliver dug his phone out of his pants pocket.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. Unlocking the phone he saw the message was from a private number. ‘Reed says what about Rose?’. It took him a second to register, then he said. ‘Crap.’

  ‘Problem?’ Graeme asked.

  ‘I have to go. My daughter’s school finishes in twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’m sure you can make it in time, while maintaining the legal speed limit,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Of course,’ Oliver said over his shoulder. Mostly.

  He bypassed the elevator and raced down the stairs, hustled through the front door, and jogged to the car, completely out of breath by the time he got there.

  Fewer chocolate bars.

  (You should give them up completely.)

  Let’s not get carried away. He opened the door and climbed in just in time to hear Alice finishing a story about running away from the police.

  ‘Alice!’

  (Ask her to start it again.)

  ‘Relax, Oliver,’ she replied. He started the car and pulled into traffic, fumbling to do his seatbelt up. ‘Every boy needs to hear a story like this. Besides, I very clearly told him at the start that he wasn’t to do this ever.’

  Oliver felt mildly relieved until he glanced in the rear view mirror in time to see his son rather clumsily give Alice a wink, that looked more like a squint-blink.

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  He relayed the events, making sure to avoid using the word killer or murderer or killed or death. It was a bit like speaking a redacted file, but at the end Alice nodded thoughtfully so the main points seemed to have gotten across.

  ‘We’re going to be late to pick up Rose,’ Reed said.

  Oliver looked at the car clock. ‘We’ll be fine, buddy. Maybe a couple of minutes late. She’ll know to wait. How’s the face?’

  ‘Really sore, Dad,’ Reed replied in a weak voice. If he hadn’t just been laughing and winking like there was absolutely nothing wrong Oliver might have believed him.

  ‘Okay, no karate tonight then.’

  He wove through traffic, darting from lane to lane in an attempt to get to his destination two minutes faster. Generally he hated people that did that and laughed when he caught up to them at traffic lights, but today he was one of them.

  ‘I’ll be fine for karate, Dad.’ His voice had perked right up and Oliver nodded in satisfaction.

  (What’s manipulation?)

  Something I can do while they’re young, so I’m making the most of it.

  Once they were through the tunnel they made good time. Oliver’s gaze constantly shifted between the road, the clock, and the speedometer. It was only when they were three quarters of the way to the school that Oliver remembered something. Or someone.

  ‘Bugger! Alice, sorry, I completely forgot to drop you off. I’ll pick Rose up and then head back into town.’

  ‘Can Alice come to watch karate?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s been a while since I’ve done any martial arts. You can take me home after, Oliver.’

  He was forced to slow right down as the two cars in front of him, one in each lane, played the hare and tortoise, both being tortoises.

  ‘You do know what watch means, right?’ he asked Alice.

  There was a gleeful laugh from the back seat. ‘I can’t wait.’

  (What’s karate?)

  Fighting without fighting.

  (That doesn’t make any sense.)

  Wait and see.

  They were five minutes late to pick up Rose. By pure luck Oliver managed to grab a park right outside the gates, and Reed promptly shot out of the car vowing to find his sister.

  ‘So his head’s feeling fine then?’ Alice commented.

  ‘It’s a selective injury.’

  ‘Most male injuries are.’

  He opened his mouth to protest, then decided it was an argument he’d never win so closed it again.

  (Chicken.)

  I’ve been called worse.

  (Not by me. Let’s see there’s…)

  TWENTY TWO

  It was one of the most bizarre, entertaining, karate lessons Oliver and Jennifer had ever witnessed. Starting at six o’clock meant that karate was one of the few after-school activities Jennifer got to see. She always made it home from work in plenty of time to change her shoes, shove a couple of forkfuls of macaroni and cheese into her mouth, and head out the door again.

  Like the rest of his family, Jennifer accepted Alice’s presence without comment, and was soon exchanging war stories of working full time and juggling small children. Oliver wanted to interrupt and point out that he was the one who was trying to work and look after the children, but wisely, and with Debbie calling him some more names, he kept quiet.

  Alice made an appropriate fuss over Reed in his uniform with the orange belt. He proudly told her he was going for his purple belt next week. She told him that she used to have a black belt. It wouldn’t have surprised Oliver if it was true, and also wouldn’t have shocked him if she was making the entire thing up.

  When they arrived Reed peeled off to run around with his friend. Rose disappeared into a corner with her massive bag of toys, and the adults sat on the chairs lining the back of the room.

  Five minutes into the lesson the teacher split them into groups to practice their kata. Two minutes after that Alice stood up and went over to Reed’s group, despite Oliver’s whispered a
ttempts to stop her. A minute later all the seven and eight-year-old boys were copying the actions of the old woman. Oliver and Jennifer stared in astonishment as the boys executed the kata perfectly. One by one the other groups stopped and soon the entire hall stood silently as Alice kicked and punched her way from start to finish.

  The instructor made his way to Reed’s group and Oliver quickly joined them, ready to apologise, and also to make sure Alice didn’t spin too outrageous a tale about who she was.

  Instead the instructor asked her where she’d studied, and Alice told him she’d learnt in Japan. The instructor then bowed to her, she bowed back and walked sprightly back to her chair, followed by a slightly dazed Oliver.

  By the time they dropped Alice off, Jennifer and the kids were treating her like she was part of the family. Oliver got out and walked her up the front stairs.

  ‘How do you do that? Make people relax so easily?’

  Alice waved at the kids who waved back. ‘People underestimate the elderly, Oliver, especially elderly women. Sometimes I wish I still had the energy to work. It’d be like taking candy from Rose. Just a figure of speech.’

  ‘So was that just work?’ He glanced back at the car.

  Alice shook her head. ‘Never, Oliver. Amanda likes you, she likes your family, and so do I. There’s not many we’ve let get this close to us, so believe me when I say,’ she waved again and the kids responded enthusiastically, ‘this is genuine.’

  (I think she means it.)

  Thanks, but I figured that out myself.

  (I was just trying to help.)

  Oliver nodded, wavered a second then gave her a quick hug before heading back to the car.

  ‘So that’s Amanda’s grandmother. I can see the family resemblance,’ Jennifer said as they drove home.

  ‘Yeah, they both make me uncomfortable,’ Oliver replied.

  ‘Daddy?’ Rose said in a sleepy voice. ‘Are we going to see Alice again?’

  ‘I’m not sure, darling,’ he replied truthfully. There was no way to know what was going to happen from there. Alice could disappear completely from their lives, or turn up regularly for Sunday dinner. He didn’t think there was a middle ground.