Oliver’s jaw dropped.
(Stop wasting time and get her.)
‘$400 for that! It was tiny.’
Peter glared at him. ‘It was sixty years old and extremely rare.’
Fake Violet walked across and laid a hand on Peter’s shoulder, amusement touching her lips and eyes. Oliver couldn’t help noticing that her nails were impeccable and she wore a plain gold ring on the ring finger.
‘I have another appointment, so I’ll let you clear up this unfortunate incident Peter.’
(Stop her!)
Oliver hesitated, desperately searching for a reason to keep her from leaving.
The woman handed the owner a business card. ‘Here’s how to get hold of me. I look forward to successfully concluding our business.’
Peter apologised before turning his stern face back to Oliver.
(For God’s sake Oliver, do something.)
Oliver watched helplessly as Fake Violet walked to the front door.
She paused and glanced over her shoulder.
‘I tell you what Peter. It’s been a good day and I’m in a generous mood. You can deduct the cost of the bell from the painting.’
(Are you just going to stand there? Move your feet!)
‘That’s very generous of you, Miss Tumbleton.’ Peter gave a half bow, clearly captivated by the woman.
‘My pleasure.’ She gave Oliver a sly wink. Absurdly he felt like winking back, but she was already out the door.
(You’re a complete waste.)
Even though he was off the hook for the bell, it took several minutes for Oliver to get out of the shop, by which time Fake Violet was long gone.
(What was that all about?)
‘I’m sorry, I panicked. I never thought we’d actually find her.’
(What did you think we were doing?)
Oliver shrugged and started walking back down the hill to the car. ‘I don’t know. I figured we would search for a while, not find her and you would leave. I mean how the hell did you even know she was there?’
When she replied, anger had given way to reflection. (I don’t know exactly. It was a feeling, like I was being pulled towards her. The closer we got, the stronger it was. It’s like we’re linked somehow.)
‘Can you feel her now?’
(No, she’s gone.)
Violet was quiet the rest of the way to the car. Oliver had been married long enough to know when he was being given the silent treatment. It was infinitely more effective when the woman in question was in his head.
There was a ticket slipped under his windscreen wiper, the time stamp showing one minute earlier. Cursing his sore knee Oliver sank into the driver’s seat, threw the ticket onto the dashboard, and pulled out of the park.
‘Do you want to drive around for a while?’ he asked tentatively.
(What do you think!)
He wound through the streets of Wellington, waiting for the hitchhiker to yell out to stop, but she remained obstinately silent. Finally he left the city and headed back home. The longer Violet was quiet the more uncomfortable Oliver felt.
‘We found her once, we’ll find her again.’
But she stayed away until he was putting Rose to bed that night.
(She was taller than I imagined.)
Oliver stumbled on the Three Little Pigs. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’
‘Talk about what later Daddy?’ Rose asked.
‘Nothing sweetie. That’s what the third piggy said to the wolf.’
Rose scrunched her face up, not surprising given she’d had the book read to her every night for three weeks and clearly didn’t remember that bit. Oliver ignored her and kept reading. Once he had kissed his daughter good night he slipped into the ensuite and closed the door.
‘So you’re talking to me now.’
(What do you mean?)
‘I assumed you were giving me the silent treatment.’
(I don’t know what you’re talking about.)
Oliver had an overwhelming urge to turn the shower onto cold and shove his head under.
(I wouldn’t.)
‘Get out of my thoughts.’
(We’ve been over this. I can hear your words and your thoughts. Anyway, she was taller than I imagined.)
‘I hadn’t really imagined her,’ Oliver replied in a surly tone.
(I had. She was supposed to be short and ugly and she wasn’t either. She stole my name. It’s not fair that she’s a looker too.)
‘She was very attractive,’ he admitted.
‘Who was attractive?’ Jennifer asked from outside the door.
Oliver’s heart leapt into his mouth and he swallowed it down. ‘No one honey, I was just talking to myself.’
‘About attractive women?’ she replied with a laugh.
Oliver flushed the toilet and ran the tap to pretend-wash his hands. When he opened the door she was tidying her side of the bed.
‘Since when do you talk to yourself?’ Jennifer asked absently as she stacked a pile of books, all in various stages of being read.
‘I don’t, it just sometimes helps to hear dialogue out loud. For the book,’ he improvised.
(Tsk tsk, lying to your wife.)
‘How was your day? Did you get much writing done?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘None today. I had to go into the city for…um…research.
She nodded and he felt a twinge of regret. It wasn’t the biggest lie, sitting somewhere between pretending her muffins tasted nice, and saying the scratch on the car was someone else’s fault. But he still felt guilty not telling her everything. In fact as they lay next to each other reading, he rehearsed telling her about Violet. The problem was any way he phrased it, he came across as crazy. And Violet wasn’t much help, offering suggestions that became more and more outrageous.
Do you want my help or not! He drifted off with the sound of laughter echoing through his head.
The next morning the kids slept late, so Oliver had the rare luxury of staying in bed while Jennifer was in the shower. As he lingered on the cusp of consciousness the alarm popped off snooze just as the news started.
“Deputy Prime Minister Matthew Darcy has announced additional funding for police to investigate art theft. According to the Deputy Prime Minister recent reports have shown an increase in activity in this area. In other news, police are investigating a suspicious death in Wellington last night. They were called to the Yarrow’s Antique Store in the early hours of this morning where it is believed they discovered the body of a man.”
Oliver bolted upright.
(What the….)
‘Shush!’ But the announcer had already moved on to a story about dairy prices. Oliver grabbed his iPad from beside the bed and opened a news page.
(How many of those things do you have?)
‘Not enough according to the kids.’
(And you can look at things like that box…’)
‘Quiet, I’m trying to read.’
‘Dad, who are you talking to?’ Reed stood in the doorway, eyes glued half shut with sleep, carrying a pile of clothes he’d randomly pulled from drawers. Colour or fashion coordination weren’t high priorities for his son.
‘No one buddy.’ He reluctantly put the device down and shepherded his son down the hall and into the lounge. Once the toast was cooking and with the sound of cartoons in the background he found the story online. Unfortunately there wasn’t much more to learn.
(Do you think it’s a coincidence?)
Has to be.
(That’s a big coincidence.)
‘We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions,’ he muttered as the toast popped.
(Why not? I like jumping – puddles, fences, conclusions, into bed, it’s all fun.)
He scraped butter and Marmite onto the toast and carried it over to his son. The odds of it having anything to do with our situation are remote.
Reed rejected the toast for still having the crust on.
We need more information, he thought as he r
emoved the crusts and handed it back to Reed, who deemed it acceptable.
(We need to go back there.)
‘No!’ Oliver objected.
Reed paused mid bite. ‘But you told me to eat it,’ he protested.
‘Yes, I did, now eat it.’
‘But –’
‘Don’t worry about it Reed, just eat your breakfast.’
Reed rolled his eyes. A relatively new discovery for him, which he was rapidly perfecting.
Oliver went into the main bathroom and closed the door. ‘My family are going to think I have bladder problems if I keep hiding in the bathroom.’
(You know I can hear your thoughts. Why are you even talking?)
He stared into the mirror, noting the bags under his eyes. ‘Because, if I talk out loud then I can at least pretend I’m having a conversation with someone else. If I don’t, then I’m just another crazy guy talking to the voices in his head.’
(I’m not a voice in your head. Okay, I guess I am, but I’m not your voice in your head, I’m my voice. Crap, now I sound crazy.)
Oliver felt the beginnings of a headache. ‘We can’t go rushing back to the shop. We need more information first.’
(What if I’m dead?)
‘You’re already dead.’
(You know what I mean. What if that’s the other Violet Tumbleton.)
Oliver rinsed his face in the sink, the sudden cold kicking his brain cells into action. ‘Two things. Firstly, they said it was a man. Secondly, if it was the fake you, then wouldn’t the you in my head disappear? If she’s dead, then no one has your name and you can go back to wherever it is you go.’
(I suppose.)
There was a knock on the door. ‘Dad, I need to go wees.’
He opened the door and let Rose in. ‘Morning sweetie. I’ll get your breakfast.’
Oliver and Violet didn’t talk again until the kids had been dropped off. Back at home, he fired up the laptop and searched for an update. There wasn’t much more than the earlier reports, apart from an interview with one of the shop’s neighbours who said they thought it was the owner of the shop who had been killed.
(This is bad.)
‘It still might have nothing to do with us.’
(Dag nabbit, why are you so stubborn?)
‘Well I’m sorry, but I like to think things through before deciding anything.’
(How do you get anything done?)
Oliver got up and stalked into the kitchen where he scrubbed a pot that was already clean. ‘I get things done fine.’
(Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I grew up during the depression and then the second world war. You either acted straight away or the opportunity disappeared.)
Oliver paused. He kept forgetting she was from a different time. ‘We can’t just go nosing around a crime scene. There’ll be a ton of police and they don’t usually share investigation tid-bits with the public.
(I can get them to talk, I don’t imagine men have changed that much. A bit of leg and a sly smile ought to do it.)
‘You forget that you don’t have a body apart from sharing mine. I don’t think my smile has ever been called sly, and my legs probably wouldn’t have the same impact as yours.’
(Good point.)
The front door bell rang. ‘Probably someone selling something,’ Oliver muttered.
Instead he opened the door to two police officers.
‘Mr Atkinson? We’d like to ask you some questions if we may.’
Six
Oliver swallowed nervously. ‘Um, what’s this about? Are my kids okay? My wife?’
(He’s cute.)
‘Sir, we’re not here about your family. I’m Sergeant Thomas and this is Constable Patel. Can we come in?’ the man asked politely.
Oliver led them into the lounge, which he now viewed from a guest’s perspective. Cringing he swept up the clean washing pile and dumped it behind the couch, and shuffled the array of incomplete children’s drawings into a pile on the coffee table.
‘No need to tidy up for our benefit, Mr Atkinson,’ Sergeant Thomas reassured him.
The Sergeant was a tall, solidly built Maori man in his forties, while his partner was a slim Indian woman who looked about twenty years younger. She had a notebook and pen out, which for some reason rattled Oliver more than their presence, as if she was poised to take down his every word.
(Is she an Indian? We didn’t have many of them around in my day.)
Shut up.
(All right, grump, I was just asking a question.)
Oliver realised the officers were waiting expectantly. ‘Sorry?’
Sergeant Thomas smiled. ‘I said we’d like to ask you some questions.’
Oliver sat on the single seat opposite the couch and tried not to appear terrified. ‘Of course.’
‘I’m not sure if you have heard but there was an incident last night at the Yarrow’s Antique Store. Unfortunately the proprietor, a Peter Yarrow, was killed.’
Oliver gasped. ‘Murdered?’
(I told you!)
The officer frowned. ‘We are treating the death as suspicious at this time.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Oliver said.
The two officers nodded solemnly.
‘Um, but what does that have to do with me?’
‘It’s obviously early days in our investigations Mr Atkinson. We are asking a lot of questions. A search of the premises showed that you were in the shop yesterday – is that correct?’
(Don’t tell him.)
‘Yes that’s right.’
(Fathead.)
‘What was the nature of your visit?’
Constable Patel pressed pen to paper, waiting expectantly.
Oliver swallowed and fought an absurd urge to confess to every sin since he had stolen twenty cents from his mother’s wallet at age four.
‘I was..um..looking for someone.’
(Don’t tell them!)
‘A present for someone, for my wife. I was looking for a present for my wife.’
Patel scribbled furiously.
‘I see. And what time was this?’ Oliver told him. ‘And did you notice anything suspicious while you were there?’
(A woman using my name.)
‘Suspicious? Not that I recall,’ he replied. A prickle of sweat touched his forehead and he resisted an urge to wipe it away, worried the very gesture screamed guilt.
‘And just for elimination purposes, could you advise your whereabouts between midnight and 4am last night?’
‘I was here, asleep. My wife was here too – she can corroborate it.’
Sergeant Thomas studied his face and Oliver felt himself wilting beneath the inspection. Then the officer relaxed back into the couch. He asked a few more questions and eventually nodded to his partner who slipped the notebook into her pocket.
As they were leaving Sergeant Thomas handed Oliver a business card and asked him to get in touch if he remembered anything useful. Constable Patel hadn’t said a word the entire visit.
(I wonder if what they say about black men is true. Well, brown in this case, but still…)
Oliver assured him he would, closed and locked the door behind them. Tracking down the hallway, he went into Rose’s bedroom and watched them get into their car and drive away.
‘Could you stop eyeing up everyone we meet,’ he snapped.
(A girl can look. I’m dead not blind.)
He stalked back into the lounge, retrieved the pile of washing from behind the couch and began folding it. ‘You’re allowed to look, just stop commenting. Especially when there are two police officers in the room and I’m being questioned in connection to a murder.’
(Exciting, isn’t it?)
‘No, it’s not.’ He held up two socks that were almost identical but not enough to pass his daughter’s inspection and threw them down in disgust.
(You need to relax, Oliver. They weren’t accusing you of anything. It might not have anything to do with us.)
Oliver’s mo
uth dropped open. ‘You were the one who was convinced it was all about us.’
(Well now I think you’re right. The odds of it involving that woman are slim.)
‘Thank you!’ He held up one of Jennifer’s tops, the sort that looked great on, but were impossible to neatly fold. He made a half-hearted attempt, before giving up. Restlessly he moved through the house.
(What’s wrong with you?)
He stopped pacing. ‘Are you kidding me? Everything that’s happened in the last few days and you’re asking me what’s wrong?’
He walked into the main bedroom and flopped down on the bed. ‘You give me a headache.’
(Thanks.)
‘It wasn’t a…never mind.’ He sighed and stared at the ceiling, spotting some cobwebs in the corner he would have to clean off at some point.
(We need to get back out there and find her.)
Oliver glanced at the clock. ‘There’s not enough time today. We’ll have to start again tomorrow morning.’
(It’s only 11am.)
‘And I have to be back to pick the kids up from school by 2.45 so that gives us three and three quarter hours, but it takes twenty minutes each way so it’s only three hours. And I have to have a shower.’
(And we all know what you do in the shower.)
‘That was a one-time thing.’ He took a deep breath and pressed on. ‘So allow ten minutes for showering and dressing, plus I haven’t had food yet so I’ll need to get some early lunch...say another twenty minutes.’
(Geez, how much food are you planning on having?)
‘And parking can be tricky, so really we only have a couple of hours. It’s not enough time, unless we get lucky.’
(That’s a lot of words to say you don’t want to.)
‘I didn’t think you’d accept I don’t want to.’
(I don’t. Get your butt off the bed and let’s go. Do I need to start singing?)
Oliver groaned and rolled onto his side. ‘Can’t you just accept that this is a lot to take in and I need some time to process?’
(I suppose.)
Suddenly Oliver jumped up, and strode through the house, pausing to grab the car keys from the kitchen.
(That’s more like it.)
Ignoring her, Oliver backed the car out of the garage, but rather than heading into town he headed in the opposite direction.
(Where are we going?)
Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 4