Murder in Paint (Hitchhiker Book 1)

by Rodney Strong

  But with just over twenty four hours until Victor’s deadline, Oliver couldn’t afford to waste some of the time telling the kids to sit down at the table while Mummy finished her coffee. As they watched television he fired up the laptop and did some research, getting up every few minutes to either feed the kids, deliver a cup of tea to Jennifer in bed, put some washing in the machine, or make a phone call. By the time 9.30am rolled around he felt like he’d done a full day’s work. Only instead of heading back to bed, he was going out with a con-woman looking for a missing painting and possibly – but hopefully not – a murderer.

  ‘Where are you going, Dad?’ Reed asked as Oliver put his shoes on.

  ‘Important police business, buddy.’

  ‘Can I come?’ Reed asked excitedly.

  ‘Me too,’ his sister piped up from the couch.

  Oliver felt a twinge of guilt at abandoning the kids for the day.

  It’s only one day. Think about the money.

  ‘Not this time guys. It might be dangerous.’

  ‘Really?’ Reed asked with wide eyes.

  ‘Really?’ Jennifer said behind him.

  With a complicated nod/shake of his head he managed to convey to his son yes, while at the same time reassuring Jennifer not really.

  ‘The car still needs petrol,’ Jennifer reminded him.

  ‘Um, I’m getting picked up.’

  ‘By the cops?’ Reed rushed to the front door and peered through the glass.

  ‘Reed, come back. It’s not the cops – it’s a special investigator, like me.’

  Reed stayed at the door for a few more moments, just in case his Dad was lying to him, then reluctantly came back to where Oliver was putting on his jacket.

  ‘What are you going to be doing today?’ Reed asked.

  ‘He’s going to be helping people and I’m very proud of him,’ Rose told her brother as she wandered over.

  Jennifer and Oliver exchanged a glance, recognising their voices in what Rose had just said. Oliver bent down and kissed his daughter on the top of her head, then tried to do the same with Reed, who dodged away laughing. Instead he kissed Jennifer.

  ‘Be safe Oliver.’

  ‘You know me babe – flee at the first sight of danger. Besides, today is about finding the painting, not a murderer.’

  ‘What’s a murderer?’ Rose asked.

  Oliver kissed Jennifer again. ‘Your mother will explain,’ he said before skipping out of range.

  Amanda was waiting out the front. The car today was a dark-blue hybrid, and Sunday was obviously casual day for con artists as well – Amanda was wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans.

  ‘What happened to the car from yesterday?’

  ‘Morning Oliver,’ she replied as she drove off.

  ‘Morning. What happened to the car from yesterday?’

  ‘This seemed more appropriate for driving around the city.’

  You think she stole it? I think she stole it.

  ‘Did you steal it?’ Oliver asked.

  Amanda sighed and shook her head sadly before flashing him a grin. ‘I thought we’d already established I’m not a common thief. Any idiot can steal a car.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Correction, most idiots can steal a car.’

  You walked straight into that one.

  Oliver let it drop. ‘Have you found out anything new since last night?’

  Amanda fiddled with the radio until she found a station she liked. ‘A couple of leads we could follow up.’

  ‘Well they can wait. We’ve got an appointment.’

  Amanda’s eyebrows raised. ‘Where?’

  ‘There’s an antique shop across town. We’re meeting the owner there at 10am.’

  ‘Wellington Antiques?’

  Oliver nodded.

  ‘I may have already visited there when I was finding a place to take the painting.’

  Oliver wasn’t surprised. Amanda had said more than once that she did her homework; he figured that meant he’d been to multiple stores before settling on Peter Yarrow’s.

  ‘Then you can wait in the car.’

  Amanda was quiet for a moment. ‘What are you going to say?’

  ‘I’m going to tell him the truth – I’m a writer doing research for a book.’

  She mulled it over, then nodded reluctantly.

  ‘You don’t like letting other people do things do you?’ he observed.

  ‘I don’t like relying on other people. That’s why I never work with a partner.’

  ‘You’re the one who got me involved, so suck it up.’

  Wow, Oliver.

  If Amanda noted the steel in his voice that hadn’t been there yesterday, she didn’t comment.

  ‘So what are your leads?’ he asked.

  ‘They can wait until later. Let’s see where your idea goes first.’

  She didn’t ask him why he wanted to go to the antique shop, and he was mildly disappointed, wanting to show off his clever idea.

  Sunday traffic was light, so it only took twenty minutes to get to their destination. Unlike the prestigious locale of Yarrow Antiques, the shop was shabbier, both in location and appearance. In fact as he stood outside Oliver considered there was a fine line between antique and op-shop.

  However the inside belied first impressions. It was brightly lit and well organised, and the old man who shuffled forward when Oliver walked in wore a pale-blue suit, with a waistcoat, completed with gold cufflinks. The hair from his head had migrated to his chin where wispy grey and brown hairs intertwined.

  ‘I’m Oliver Atkinson.’

  He smiled, revealing tobacco stained teeth. ‘Ah, yes, the wordsmith. Pleasure to meet you my boy. My name is Kelvin Baker. Welcome to my humble establishment.’

  Oliver shook the outstretched hand, revising his original assessment of the man when he felt his fingers being mashed together. He may have been old, but there was definite strength in his hand.

  ‘How may I help you?’ Kelvin asked.

  ‘As I mentioned over the phone, I’m doing research into a book I’m writing – a crime novel. At one point the protagonist goes to an antique shop for information, so I thought I’d do the same.’

  You’re pretty good at lying after all.

  It’s not a lie, it’s a couple of truths spliced together.

  ‘Of course, Oliver. Anything I can do to help.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate you meeting me on such short notice as well. I was originally going to interview Peter Yarrow until his tragic death.’

  At the mention of his business rival, the smile slipped from Kelvin’s face. ‘Yes, such a terrible thing to happen. I can’t help feeling responsible.’

  Oliver froze, then licked his lips nervously. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked in a forced light tone.

  ‘Well I’m the reason he’s dead.’

  TWENTY TWO

  Oliver gaped in horror.

  Run Oliver, get out – he’s a murderer!

  Kelvin noticed his expression and held up hands in surrender. ‘I don’t mean literally, of course. Goodness me, I am a lot of things, but a murderer is not one of them.’

  Oliver’s horror changed to confusion.

  ‘A woman came to me with a painting, but they aren’t my specialty, so I sent her to Peter. Now he’s dead, the painting is missing, and I can’t help feeling responsible. Plus a little relieved.’

  ‘Relieved?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘You must understand, as a businessman my first instinct is to never turn away prospective customers, especially pretty ones like that.’ The man’s eyes narrowed and the tip of his tongue crept out and licked his top lip.

  Eeww. He makes me want to take a bath and scrub my skin clean.

  ‘So why did you?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Like I said, paintings aren’t my area of expertise.’

  Something about his words drew Oliver’s attention. It sounded unnatural, like he’d rehearsed it.

  You think he’s lyi
ng?

  Yes, but I’m not sure about what.

  ‘Hypothetically though, if you had taken the picture, what would be the first thing you’d do with it?’

  The shop owner ran a hand across his smooth head. ‘Authenticate it, of course, my boy. The problem with paintings is that any half-decent forger can replicate them. Silver items and wood items, are more difficult to forge, but paintings are a different matter. Most people are heathens when it comes to art, and will accept anything as authentic if someone tells them it is. So I would get an expert to view it.’ He avoided meeting Oliver’s eyes when he mentioned the use of an expert.

  Oliver thought for a moment. ‘Who? There can’t be that many experts in Wellington.’

  ‘There’s not,’ Kelvin agreed. ‘There’s Westhouse – the auctioneers, of course – Finn Graham, and Walter Carrington.’

  ‘And once it’s authenticated?’

  ‘It depends on the piece. I don’t usually act as an agent, so either I’ll buy it or refer them somewhere else.’

  Oliver thought about how to phrase the next question. ‘And hypothetically, could you buy something for a price knowing you could sell it for more?’

  Kelvin drew himself up and looked down his nose at Oliver. ‘My boy, I always seek the best price for my customers.’ The effect was spoiled by Oliver’s attention being drawn to the raft of hair protruding from the man’s nose like a sea creature emerging from a cave.

  ‘Of course,’ Oliver placated. ‘That’s why I said hypothetically.’

  The man relaxed and adopted a smile. ‘Yes, so you did. My apologies, but reputation is everything in this business.’ He busied himself rearranging several small items around a shelf. They were similar to the one’s in Peter’s shop and Oliver took a step further away, the pain of the broken bell still fresh.

  ‘Of course I need to make a profit – what sort of business doesn’t want to do that? – but I would never knowingly bilk someone.’

  ‘What about unknowingly?’

  Kelvin’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘You said you would never knowingly cheat someone, but surely it must happen sometimes unknowingly?’

  ‘Well, it does happen sometimes, but not very often, you understand. Again, it’s a reputational thing. If people thought I wouldn’t give them the best price they would go to one of my competitors.’

  Oliver thanked the man and left him standing in the middle of the shop wearing a troubled expression.

  There was more going on there than what he said.

  Oliver agreed as he climbed back into the car.

  Amanda immediately pulled into traffic.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked. Rain smeared the windscreen and she flicked on the wipers.

  He relayed everything that had been said.

  ‘He was definitely lying about something.’

  ‘Of course he was. He’s a liar and a thief. Unknowingly, my ass – I couldn’t trust that the painting would still be there when I got back. That’s why I decided to take it to Peter.’

  ‘He said he sent you to Peter.’

  She laughed. ‘He was hardly going to tell you a prospective client didn’t trust him and took their business elsewhere.’

  ‘Were you ever going to take the painting to him?’

  ‘God, no. I went to him as a prospect, but he never even saw the painting. I just described it and gave a sketchy background. I was laying the trail.’

  ‘Laying the trail?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Someone was going to come looking for the painting eventually. I was laying a path for them to follow. That way I control what they find out.’

  I’m not going to lie; sometimes I wish I was her, rather than her being me.

  Oliver replayed his conversation with Kelvin. ‘How did he know the painting was missing? As far as I know the police haven’t released that information.’

  ‘It doesn’t take long for people to know it’s in play,’ Amanda replied, her voice thick with frustration. ‘That’s what makes our mission more urgent. No one else is allowed that painting.’

  There was a sharpness in the way she said the last bit, but Oliver decided not to push it for now, assuming he wouldn’t get an answer even if he asked. ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘To see Walter Carrington.’

  Oliver stared at her, then comprehension flooded in. ‘You knew what Kelvin was going to say to me, didn’t you?’

  She glanced across at him. ‘Roughly, yes.’

  ‘Then why did you let me go in there and waste our time?’

  Amanda patted him on the knee with a purple-nailed hand. ‘You were so confident this morning, so proud of yourself for thinking of it. I didn’t want to burst your bubble.’

  Oliver slumped in his seat, all the excitement of the idea, the adrenalin of talking to Kelvin slipping out of his body into a puddle on the floor. Amanda patted his knee again. ‘Don’t be discouraged, Oliver. Like I told you, I’ve been doing this a long time and I’m very good at what I do.’

  ‘Besides, I’m impressed that you thought of it. It was a good idea, Oliver – you should be proud of yourself.’

  He sat up straighter. Hearing the words Rose had told him last night echoed by the woman sitting next to him gave him a boost of energy.

  ‘Why do you even need me? You seem to have it all figured out. What am I here for?’

  ‘Muscle?’ she suggested.

  He looked down at himself, scepticism all over his face.

  She grinned, then let out a sigh. ‘Like I told you, I don’t normally work with partners, and it’s mostly your fault you’re part of this – you’re the one who kept finding me. But I take some responsibility too, and it’s only fair I give you the chance to help yourself get out of it.’

  Oliver was prepared to accept her at face value, but then Violet piped up.

  What a lot of rubbish. You need to be careful Oliver, she’s setting you up.’

  What do you mean? he asked, turning his face to the window.

  If things go bad she’ll disappear and you’ll be the patsy. You spent all of yesterday with her, and now today, so you can’t tell the cops you don’t know her. Be careful.

  His head swivelled back towards the driver. She glanced across. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Damn, you’re probably right. What do I do?

  Why are you asking me? I’m just a spirit.

  You know, sometimes it’s okay to keep things to yourself, Violet.

  I don’t think there is anything you can do, except stay alert. If you get the painting back, and figure out who killed Peter, then it doesn’t matter what the police think.

  Her words made sense, but Oliver knew he would have to be extra careful from now on. Amanda had a manner about her that made him feel relaxed. Possibly why she was so good at what she did.

  ‘What’s the plan? We just roll up to Walter’s house and ask him if he killed Peter Yarrow and has the painting?’

  ‘The direct approach rarely works Oliver. Besides, he’s not at home. Every Sunday morning he walks his dog along the waterfront.’

  ‘And you know this because you do your homework.’

  Her face crinkled up with a smile. ‘Social media, Oliver – it’s a thief’s dream. People put all sorts of stuff on it, including their routines.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t a thief.’

  ‘Sometimes the lines blur a little,’ she replied with a shrug.

  I knew it!

  ‘How many other lines blur?’ Oliver asked.

  Amanda slowed the car as she searched for a park. Despite the poor weather the waterfront appeared busy. When she didn’t reply Oliver wondered if he’d pushed too far.

  ‘Sometimes I get lost,’ she muttered.

  He didn’t have a chance to ask what she meant, because Amanda spotted a car park on the opposite side of the street, abruptly swung the car around, and to the sharp blare of horns neatly slipped into the space.

&n
bsp; Holy moly, if I had a heart it’d be beating as fast as yours right now.

  ‘I guess road rules are one of the blurred lines,’ Oliver said.

  The rain had stopped but a thick layer of grey cloud hung lifelessly over the city, and the ground was slick when they crossed the road. Roughly half the pedestrians were dog walkers, ranging from reluctant, to enthusiastic and full of energy. And that was just the dogs.

  Oliver wished he had dressed more appropriately for a walk as he zipped his jersey up as high as it would go.

  ‘Do you even know what this guy looks like?’

  Amanda didn’t bother responding, instead linking her arm through his and nudging him along the footpath. Oliver casually extracted his arm, earning him another amused smile.

  ‘Relax Oliver. You need to appear happy to be walking with me.’

  ‘But I’m not. I’m not happy with this whole situation.’

  ‘You sweet talker, you. I get this isn’t an ideal scenario, but the idea here is to blend into the crowd. Two happy people walking and talking don’t draw attention. But if your face says I just shot your puppy and called your kids ugly then people remember.’

  ‘I don’t have a puppy,’ Oliver objected, then burst out laughing at the absurdity of what he’d just said.

  ‘That’s better,’ she nodded. They settled into a natural silence.

  She’s right, you know. Of all the people we’re passing, the only ones I’m drawn to are those that don’t look happy.’

  I wonder why?

  We’re all nosy people, Oliver. We see someone angry or unhappy and we want to know what’s caused it.

  Amanda tilted her head to indicate a tall man walking slowly towards them. He was wearing a long dark coat, wool hat, and gloves, and by his side walked an elderly German Shepherd.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘We’re going to ask him some questions and he’s going to answer them.’

  ‘But what’s the cover? Or are you just going to flirt with him?’

  ‘No, Oliver, you are.’

  TWENTY THREE

  ‘I’m what?’

  It was too late as Amanda approached Walter with a wide smile and outstretched hand.