Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  ‘Jean. How do you know for sure it’s her?’

  ‘The paper was stuck to the top of the inside of a drawer in his desk. Sloppy, really – the police should have found it.’

  Have you rung her? What did she say?’ Oliver asked excitedly.

  ‘She didn’t answer.’

  ‘What’s the next move then?’

  ‘I left her a message, so now we wait for her to call us back.’

  ‘What makes you think she will?’ Oliver asked.

  Amanda shrugged. ‘She might not, but I think she and Peter were partners, and she was making money off him. Money that’s dried up. It’s all about the right incentive.’

  ‘You offered her money?’

  ‘I offered her an opportunity to make some money,’ Amanda corrected.

  ‘Maybe I should offer Victor money,’ Oliver suggested moodily.

  ‘Victor’s work relies on his integrity. Once he’s accepted a job he completes it, no matter what.’

  Oliver shifted uncomfortably in the seat and adjusted the vent for the heater, before realising the cold feeling came from deep inside. ‘Maybe I should go straight to his boss?’

  Amanda sighed. ‘I doubt Matthew Darcy will take your call. Besides, Victor might not actually be working for Matthew. It could be one of his political opponents looking for leverage.’

  A nasty thought popped into Oliver’s mind. ‘Isn’t Matthew Darcy also the Minister for Health?’

  She nodded. ‘Why?’

  Jennifer’s emergency meeting with her boss suddenly made sense. It was a warning. Timed to be cancelled should Oliver deliver the painting at eleven. And if he didn’t deliver, well that didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘I don’t understand why he’s doing this. If the painting lawfully belongs to Matthew Darcy then why not just wait for the police to get it back? Why hire Victor to get it?’

  He was surprised when she laughed. ‘Oliver, sometimes I forget you’re just a house husband, sorry, writer. In politics image is everything. His rivals would love the press Matthew would get if it became known his son was swindled out of a painting that was then the key piece of evidence in a murder investigation. It could do irreparable damage to his political career. Especially when Matthew stole the painting from his father in the first place, who then claimed insurance for it. That’s political death.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be over anyway if they found out he’d hired a…Victor?’

  ‘Victor has political immunity.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means he’s been employed by politicians from most of the major parties over the years. No one can point the finger without implicating themselves in some past scandal.’

  The consequences of Amanda’s words washed over Oliver like cold water. ‘So how do we stop him?’ he asked bitterly.

  ‘There’s still time to sort that out. Trust me, Oliver, I won’t let anything happen to you or your family.’

  ‘Great! A con artist with a conscience. Lucky me.’

  She gave him a part-guilt, part-sympathy look. However instead of offering words of comfort she changed the subject. ‘Let’s recap what we know. The suspects so far seem to be, the wife, the sister, and the partner.’

  ‘Don’t forget Walter. There was something about him I didn’t trust.’

  (Are you sure that’s not because he fancied you?)

  ‘Okay, and Walter,’ Amanda added with a twitch of her lips.

  Her cellphone shrilled. She checked the number, then answered it on speaker.

  ‘Hello Jean.’

  There was a pause; the background noise was muted conversations. ‘Who are you?’ Jean finally said. Her voice was unsure, a hint of fear masked by defiance.

  ‘You can call me Violet.’

  (Aaarrggghhh.)

  ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘I don’t know you either, but I know you and Peter were in business together, and now he’s dead, which means your nice little earner has disappeared. I can replace it.’

  More silence.

  ‘Keep talking,’ Jean said.

  ‘How does one hundred dollars sound, just to meet? You set the time and place. If you don’t like what I have to say, then you walk and I lose your number.’

  More silence, only this time it stretched out, taking Oliver’s nerves with it.

  ‘9am tomorrow at the Central library.’

  ‘It has to be today I’m afraid.’

  ‘No way,’ Jean snapped.

  ‘One fifty.’

  ‘How do I know you’re not the one who killed him? Maybe you want to finish me off too,’ Jean said.

  ‘Don’t be dramatic. You set the place remember? Make it as public as possible.’

  Oliver watched the seconds tick by as they waited for her response.

  ‘The café at the Central library, in twenty minutes. How will I know you?’

  ‘I’ll find you,’ Amanda assured her, then disconnected the call.

  ‘You think she’ll show?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘For a hundred and fifty dollars. Absolutely.’

  They drove the five minutes to the library in silence. Amanda was lucky enough to find a carpark right outside the central police station, which gave Oliver unpleasant flashbacks to being interviewed.

  They were early and the café was three quarters full. Situated on the mezzanine floor of the library, it ran along one wall, with an open view down to the rows of books below. Every time he came here Oliver felt a twinge of doubt about his ability to produce something that might join their ranks. A quick scan of the crowd showed Jean hadn’t arrived yet so they snagged a table.

  (There are a lot of cafés.)

  It’s big business, Oliver confirmed.

  Twenty minutes ticked past and there was no sign of Jean. A constant stream of people queued, collected their orders, and did the table search, standing perfectly still, eyes darting from side to side like meerkats searching for predators.

  ‘Maybe she changed her mind,’ he said.

  Amanda inclined her head. ‘She arrived a few minutes ago. She’s leaning on the wall at the end of the café.’

  Oliver resisted the natural instinct to swiftly turn his head in the direction she’d indicated. Instead he nodded, then casually took in the entire café, identifying but not stopping on the girl dressed in dark jeans and a hooded sweatshirt.

  ‘What’s she doing?’

  ‘Trying to work out which one is us. She’s sloppy. There are at least three things wrong with the way she approached the situation. For a start she’s just standing there, instead of pretending to read a book or playing with her phone. Secondly she’s standing up, which means she has a good view of the space, but we also have a good view of her. She would have been better doing a quick scan, then sitting at a table close to the entrance. The third thing wrong is where she’s standing.’ Amanda sighed and shook her head in mock disappointment. ‘Wait here’ she muttered.

  Oliver watched her disappear around the corner towards the toilet area, then materialise behind Jean. She gripped the girl’s arm, and they exchanged a few words. Eventually Jean nodded and they both walked over to the table.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Jean demanded.

  ‘Nobody you need to worry about,’ Amanda replied, and Oliver didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.

  Up close Jean was younger than he’d expected. Short brown hair was streaked with blonde and she had a small silver stud in the side of her nose and a thin layer of makeup covered her face. Blue eyes glared defiantly from above a sullen mouth, but her fingers trembled.

  ‘Money first!’ she demanded.

  Amanda handed her half the money. ‘The rest when you’ve answered some questions.’

  Jean considered the deal, then nodded slightly.

  ‘You and Peter were partners.’

  It was a statement, but Jean confirmed it anyway with another tiny movement of her head.

  ‘What’s your last name?’ Amanda as
ked.

  The girl’s eyes darted first one way then the other, before her shoulder rose and fell. ‘Pagey.’

  ‘Were you and Peter sleeping together?’

  Jean sneered at the question.

  ‘You were helping each other make some money then.’

  The girl nodded for a third time, all the while constantly folding and unfolding the notes in her hands.

  ‘How?’

  She hesitated on that one, looking around to see if anyone was listening. Oliver couldn’t be sure, but the odds were against the mother at the nearest table – currently attempting to feed mashed banana to a baby – being remotely interested in their conversation.

  ‘Were you taking things from the shop?’ Oliver suggested.

  Jean’s eyes widened in response. ‘And selling them off the shop’s books. You guys were splitting the profits.’

  ‘Not splitting,’ Jean replied with a touch of bitterness. ‘Seventy-thirty. I should have got more. I was the one who did all the running around.’

  Oliver glanced at Amanda, who indicated he should continue.

  ‘Did he tell you why he was doing it?’

  Jean shrugged and slumped back in her chair. ‘Why do you think?’

  He considered the question. There were only two reasons, cheat your wife or cheat on your business partner. Since Peter didn’t have a business partner, it seemed more likely to be the former.

  ‘If he left his wife she might be entitled to half the business, depending on the arrangement they had. So he was building a cash safety net,’ Oliver guessed.

  ‘If you already know, what am I doing here?’ Jean snarled.

  ‘Filling in the blanks. Was he planning on leaving Charlotte?’

  ‘Yeah – at least that’s what he told me. And you’re right, she was a silent partner in the business so he would have had to buy her out.’

  ‘So he decided to syphon off some items and sell them for cash. But he couldn’t do it himself so he needed someone to do the leg work. Where did he find you?’

  Her eyes shifted, then settled back on Oliver. ‘At the gym.’

  (Why is she lying about that? And what’s a gym?)

  Oliver decided it wasn’t important. ‘How many pieces did you sell?’

  Again her eyes shifted.

  ‘We’re not the police Jean, and you’re not in trouble with us, but one more lie and you won’t get the rest of the money,’ Oliver informed her.

  She straightened up with an outraged expression, but Oliver and Amanda kept their expressions the same. With a sigh Jean slumped back down.

  ‘At first it was one a week – something small usually – but the last couple of weeks Peter wanted more, so we were doing three or four.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘About six weeks.’

  ‘And how much did you get for them?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Four thousand.’

  Oliver sat back, stunned, and missed the important follow up question.

  ‘Was that the total?’ Amanda asked.

  Jean shook her head. ‘That was my cut.’

  He quickly did the maths. If four thousand was thirty percent, then Peter’s cut was almost ten thousand. Amanda nodded thoughtfully.

  Oliver was still thinking about the money when Violet spoke: Who did they sell the stuff too?

  He asked the question. Jean’s eyes shifted and he reached across and took the notes from her hands.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, snatching them back. ‘There were two people – an old guy from another antique shop, and some art guy.’

  ‘Kelvin Baker, and Walter Carrington?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Did they know why Peter was selling his stock outside the shop?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘I don’t know, I was just the go-between. I’d take the things to them, then collect the money and take it back to Peter. I hardly even talked to them.’

  Amanda leaned forward and placed her hands flat on the table. ‘This is important, Jean. Did you take a painting to Walter or Kelvin on the day Peter was murdered?’

  Her response was immediate and seemed genuine. ‘No, nothing like that.’

  Oliver glanced over in time to see frustration flick across Amanda’s face.

  ‘Do you know who killed Peter?’ Amanda asked her.

  Jean shook her head vigorously. ‘No!’

  ‘Did Peter ever tell you about anyone who threatened him?’ Amanda pressed.

  ‘No! We never talked about anything other than the pieces we were selling. That was it.’

  ‘When did you last talk to him?’ Oliver asked her.

  Jean shrugged. ‘The day before he died. He didn’t say much. I just handed the money over and left.’

  They lapsed into silence.

  ‘So what’s the work? You said you might have some work for me.’

  Amanda handed over the rest of the money. ‘I’ll call you in a couple of days with more info.’

  Jean’s face showed her disappointment and she opened her mouth to say something, then saw Amanda’s expression and obviously thought better of it. She leapt out of her seat and slunk off in anger.

  ‘You’re never going to call her, are you?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘God, no. She’s got potential, sure, but she’s too much of a liability. She just admitted to collecting four thousand dollars in the past few weeks, yet she was willing to come here for a hundred and fifty. And she should have demanded all the money up front – otherwise we could have not paid her.’

  ‘You sound like you’re speaking from experience.’

  She flashed him a rueful grin. ‘We all have to start somewhere, Oliver.’

  ‘I feel sorry for her.’

  ‘Don’t. By the time she sat down at the table she knew which pocket your phone and wallet were in and she was thinking of ways to relieve you of them.’

  Startled, Oliver checked his pants pocket, and felt the reassuring bulge of his wallet.

  ‘Like I said, we all have to start somewhere. I recognised the signs,’ she told him. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you home.’

  He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see how late in the afternoon it was. ‘Are we done for the day? We still don’t seem to be any closer to finding the painting.’

  ‘We’re definitely closer Oliver. We just don’t know where it is.’

  ‘So how is that closer?’ he asked, as they walked down the stairs and out the front door of the library.

  ‘We know more than we did an hour ago, so we’re closer.’

  ‘None of that is going to help me at eleven tomorrow morning when Victor shows up expecting the painting. And none of it helps Jennifer when she meets her boss.’

  Amanda shot him a quizzical look and he filled her in. She was thoughtful as they climbed into the car.

  ‘Okay here’s what you say to Victor.’ She told him.

  ‘What about Jennifer?’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ she said grimly.

  Twenty six

  As it turned out Victor wasn’t the first visitor of the morning. When Oliver got home from dropping the children to school, Detective Wilson was standing patiently at the front door.

  Oliver pulled into the garage and, heart thumping, climbed out of the car. The detective hovered on the edge of the garage, like a vampire waiting to be invited into the house.

  (What does he want?)

  Why don’t you ask him?

  (Why don’t you ask him?)

  Oliver furiously thought back to everything he and Amanda did on the weekend, but apart from her breaking into the antique shop, nothing had been illegal.

  ‘Morning Mr Atkinson.’

  ‘Morning Detective. How can I help you?’ Oliver was surprised at how steady his voice was.

  (Well don’t show that you’re surprised.)

  He hastily changed expressions, earning a raised eyebrow.

  ‘You’ve been a busy man, Mr Atkinson. If I didn’t know any better I’d think that you were investigating
the murder. Are you?’

  I can’t lie to him.

  (Of course you can. Just say no.)

  No.

  (Not to me, to him.)

  ‘No,’ Oliver stated.

  (Nice one Oliver, you sounded as convincing as a drunk man trying to pretend he’s sober.)

  Detective Wilson’s expression indicated he agreed with Violet.

  ‘You and Violet Tumbleton went to see Charlotte Yarrow.’

  ‘Yes,’ Oliver said. ‘We saw you there.’

  ‘You told me you hardly knew Violet Tumbleton,’ Detective Wilson pointed out.

  ‘I wouldn’t have known her if you hadn’t put me in the same room as her,’ Oliver retorted, attempting to take some advantage.

  ‘So you bonded in an interview room and decided to jointly pay your respects to the grieving widow?’ Detective Wilson put his hands in his pants pocket and rocked gently on his feet.

  Oliver found himself wanting to mirror the other man’s movement.

  ‘Something like that.’

  The man sucked his teeth and shook his head in disbelief. ‘I went to the antique shop this morning, to walk the scene once more, and while I was there I realised I’d forgotten to have my morning coffee, so I popped across the road. Imagine my surprise when as part of a general discussion with the barista it came to light that you and Violet had been in his store yesterday.’ He paused and studied Oliver’s face. ‘Apparently you had a conversation with one of the regular customers. When I go back there later today to talk to her, what might she say?’

  ‘I told her I was researching my book, which I am, and asked her some questions about the murder.’

  Detective Wilson’s rocking stopped and for a moment he froze up on his toes, before slowly sinking back onto his heels.

  ‘And what did you learn?’

  Oliver relayed what Freda had told him about the girl.

  ‘Do you know who she is?’

  Oliver shook his head firmly.

  (Good boy, no sense getting her in trouble.)

  She might have killed him.

  (Then why aren’t you telling this guy her name?)

  Because then I’d have to explain how we got her name.

  ‘Are there any other stops you made over the weekend you’d like to tell me about?’