‘Well obviously I’m not her,’ Amanda smiled.
(No, I am.)
‘Obviously. Yet there hasn’t been another Violet Tumbleton registered as being born in New Zealand since.’
‘That’s because I was born in England. My family moved here when I was little.’
The man nodded and Oliver could almost see him making a mental note to check immigration records. Then the detective said, ‘If you do find out who killed Peter Yarrow, you will, of course, let me know.’
‘Absolutely,’ Amanda assured him and Oliver nodded his agreement.
Shoulders slumped, the man walked away.
‘We need to wrap things up quickly,’ Amanda told Oliver.
‘Apart from the obvious reasons, why?’
‘Because this identity wasn’t designed to stand up to police scrutiny.’
‘Then again I ask, why not just leave?’
She sighed in frustration. ‘Let’s not go over that again. You go have your drink with Walter, and I’m going to have another talk with Jean. She’s lying to us about a few things and I need to see which of them are relevant. I’ll call you later.’
‘Okay. Remember I need to pick my kids up at three.’
She waved a hand over her shoulder as Oliver climbed into his car and headed off to meet a man who he was worried had something other than coffee on his mind.
Walter was sitting at a table sipping a drink when Oliver arrived. It was past the lunchtime rush so the place was half empty, and the tired girl behind the counter promised to bring his drink over shortly.
Oliver sat opposite Walter and hoped his nerves didn’t show, and that if they did, they weren’t mistaken for something else.
‘I’m so glad you called, Oliver. I was looking forward to continuing our discussion on art, and John Strong in particular.’
‘As was I,’ Oliver replied cheerfully. ‘It’s not often I find someone who knows as much about the man as I do.’ He gave Walter his best smile.
(Dial it down, Oliver, he might be a murderer.)
Walter didn’t seem to notice as he launched into a spiel about Strong’s early work. Despite Oliver’s natural lack of interest in anything relating to painting, he found himself intrigued.
‘You know, of course, that he struggled in the early days, and that his father once sold his paints to buy whiskey. John had to buy more, although history is a bit hazy where he got the money.’
(He waited until his dad was asleep one night and stole some tools out of the garden shed. He sold them to the local school.)
Oliver relayed the information and Walter absorbed it with wide eyes.
‘Fascinating. Where did you get your information?’
‘I read an account by a prostitute he used to see. Apparently, he told her a lot during their sessions.’
‘You’re talking about Violet Tumbleton.’
(What!!)
‘Yes, I am. How did you know that?’ Oliver asked in surprise.
Walter smiled slyly, obviously relishing knowing something Oliver didn’t.
‘Records were sparse back then, but I managed to piece together certain things. He went and saw her multiple times, and of course painted her in exchange for sexual favours. Such a tragedy what happened to her.’
(Oliver stop listening.)
‘What happened?’ All this time walking around with Violet in his head and he’d never asked her how she died.
‘She took her own life.’
(That’s not true!)
‘My God. How?’
‘Jumped off a bridge into the Hutt River. Broke her neck on landing.’
(Oliver, it’s not true! Don’t listen to him.)
Overwhelming sadness flooded Oliver, but it was tinged with an anger he was pretty sure wasn’t coming from him.
‘Poor girl,’ Walter continued. ‘By all accounts she’d led a hard life, and had no family or friends.’
(It’s a lie!)
‘I doubt we know the whole story,’ Oliver offered.
(You know nothing about me!)
Whose fault is that?
(Shut up, shut up, shut up.)
Walter gave him a sad smile. ‘No. Anyway, we were discussing John.’ His face brightened. ‘Such a fascinating man. He would have been a well-regarded artist, although nothing spectacular, but his decision to create forgeries raised him to a legend in the art world. That’s why I was so excited when Peter called and said he thought he had one of the ten pieces. I would have killed to see that.’
He realised what he had said and immediately backtracked. ‘A figure of speech. I couldn’t hurt anybody.’ He flashed a half genuine smile.
‘No,’ Oliver said reassuringly.
‘It’s just no one has seen the paintings for years – decades even. Rumour has it they are all held in a private collection.’
Oliver waited for Violet to wade in but she remained stubbornly quiet. Still sulking, he thought, trying to provoke her but without success. Out loud he asked Walter, ‘Do you know who has them?’
Walter shook his head. ‘No, and believe me I’ve looked.’
‘Didn’t the Darcy family have one of the paintings?’
‘Yes, although it was stolen in the 1950s. I understand Joseph Darcy put up a reward at the time, but the painting was never found, although a forgery was put up for sale in the seventies. A little ironic, don’t you think? A forgery of a forgery.’ He chuckled and sat forward. ‘Do you know about the hidden signature?’
Walter’s face lit up in delight at the surprised expression on Oliver’s face. He explained, ‘John used to sign the forgeries with the artist’s signature – otherwise it would ruin the illusion. But he always hid his name in the painting somewhere. Just the word John, and never in an obvious spot. It was a little joke to himself.’
Oliver continued to gently draw information out of Walter, until it became apparent there was nothing left to tell. It was all fascinating, but Oliver was struggling to see how it would help them find the painting.
‘Tell me something Walter. If you got your hands on one of the paintings what would you do with it?’
The man studied him shrewdly, as if weighing up his reply. ‘Hypothetically, of course, but I’d keep it. The paintings are shrouded in mythology and no one knows who they belong to, so I’d be afraid to show it in case someone came forward to claim it as theirs.’
‘Isn’t hiding a painting away a waste? Isn’t a painting by its very existence designed to be on display?’
Walter chewed on his lip, then shrugged. ‘Certainly paintings are intended to be viewed.’
‘Think about the nudes,’ Oliver said. ‘Yes, they are just naked bodies, but they also tell the story of who those women were. The paint, the colours, the light and shade – the fact that they even agreed to be captured forever on canvas. That tells us who they were.’
‘Go on,’ Walter said.
‘Like Violet Tumbleton, for example. We know she was one of the models. We also know she was a prostitute and that she took her own life.’
Violet didn’t bite.
‘But the painting tells us so much more. The way she was sitting, the expression on her face – it all points to a confident woman who appeared to love living. Someone who was comfortable with her sexuality, funny, annoying, the sort of friend who’s a whirlwind in your own life. If the painting had never seen the light of day then all we would know about Violet would be the facts, not the person.’
‘You sound like you knew her personally. You’re right, of course and I apologise. The story of the painting blinded me to the beauty and meaning behind it. I stand corrected.’
Oliver’s phone buzzed – Amanda asking for an update. He took the opportunity to glance at the time and realised he’d be pushing it to pick the children up from school on time.
‘Walter, I’m sorry but I have to go.’
‘Of course, of course.’ They rose together, shuffled out to the sidewalk and did the awkward standing there t
hing that people did when they didn’t know how to leave things. Oliver thought that Walter was a nice enough person, albeit a possible murderer, and he felt bad for lying to the man about his interest in art.
‘Perhaps we could try it again sometime?’ Walter suggested.
‘Look, Walter, the thing is… I’m married.’
‘I know,’ Walter replied with a smile, and he gestured to the wedding ring on Oliver’s finger. ‘It’s just not often that I find someone with the same art related interests.’
Oliver felt worse. ‘Okay, sure. I’ll give you a call once things have settled down.’
Back in the car Oliver called Amanda, and gave her an update as he headed to the school. Amanda relayed what she’d found out from Jean, which wasn’t much. The girl had admitted she’d been skimming some of the profits from Peter, but she was sure he hadn’t known.
They promised to touch base first thing in the morning. After he hung up Oliver tried talking to Violet but she stayed quiet, though he could feel her, like a slight pressure on the inside of his skull.
Oliver was later than normal to pick the kids up, but he managed to snag a park right outside the school – one of the advantages of driving a small car. He reached Rose’s classroom just as the bell rang but his daughter caught him sitting down.
‘Daddy, were you late again?’ she demanded.
‘I’m here aren’t I?’ he smiled.
She snorted, thrust her bag into his hands and raced off to play with her friends. Moments later Reed’s bag was thrown at him as his son tore past on the way to play.
After a few minutes Oliver searched the chaos of children and spied Rose sitting by herself to one side of the playground. With a frown he went over and sat down beside her.
‘Everything okay honey?’
She shook her head, but the height difference and the way her hair fell made it impossible to see her face.
‘What’s wrong?’
She raised her head, her bottom lip trembling. ‘Mary said I wasn’t allowed to play with Isabelle anymore.’
It took Oliver a moment to work out who Mary and Isabelle were, and then it clicked. Isabelle was her friend from her class, and Mary was in a different class but also a friend of Isabelle’s. This was schoolyard politics and Oliver had no clue how to solve it other than offering to tell Mary off for being mean.
(Tell her that no one gets to decide if her and Isabelle are friends except them.)
I see you’re talking to me.
(Just tell her.)
He did.
‘But Mary said –’
‘It doesn’t matter what Mary said,’ Oliver interrupted. She’s a little…. He bit off the thought before it could crystallise.
(You can’t tell her that. Repeat after me.)
‘Honey, if you and Isabelle are friends then it’s not up to anyone else to say you’re not. Having a friend means you fight with them sometimes, and for them always. You hold on to each other as tight as you can and you never let go, no matter what anyone tells you. Do you understand?’
Rose nodded, suddenly happier. She bounced to her feet.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To hold onto Isabelle.’
‘Honey, I didn’t mean…’ Too late – she was gone. With a sigh Oliver searched amongst the waiting parents for Isabelle’s mother, wondering how he would explain why it would now take surgery to remove his daughter from hers.
That sounded like it was from experience.
(I let my friend Alice go when I should have fought for her. It was one of my biggest regrets.)
Is that why you ended up on the bridge, he asked hesitantly.
(I don’t want to talk about it.)
Violet didn’t want to talk about anything – he didn’t hear from her for the rest of the day.
However he did hear about Jennifer’s confusing day. Her boss had cancelled their meeting and then brushed the whole thing off when she asked him about it. Oliver debated whether to tell her, then decided the truth was easiest.
She was predictably angry, which for Jennifer meant shutting down and refusing to talk further. The problem was Oliver couldn’t tell if she was angry with him or the situation, and asking for clarification seemed fraught with danger.
To cap the trifecta, Rose was angry with him because Isabelle’s mum had made her let go, so Oliver was trapped in a house with three woman, all in various stages of giving him the silent treatment.
After the kids were asleep Jennifer poured a glass of red wine and sat next to him on the couch. She took his hand in hers.
‘This needs to end, Oliver. You need to end it before something happens.’
He nodded. ‘I know. I’m working as hard as I can, babe.’
‘And this woman, Amanda – is she working as hard as she can?’
‘I think so. I still don’t know what her motivation is, and I don’t fully trust her, but she’s all I’ve got.’
Jennifer took a sip of wine and picked up the television remote. ‘If it looks like she’s going to screw you over, make sure you do it to her first.
(Do you think Jennifer would adopt me?)
Thirty one
Oliver called Amanda the next morning but she didn’t pick up. He left her a message, then used the time waiting to write down everything that had happened over the last week and a half. He drew up a list of known suspects, which was depressingly vague as it was just every person he’d met since this thing had started, including Amanda. The trouble was he couldn’t think like a killer. To Oliver none of them had a great motive to kill Peter or steal the painting.
Violet interrupted his musings.
(Did you mean what you said yesterday, to Walter?)
‘Yes I did.’
She was silent for a while. Then: (Wow, you must have really studied my naked body.)
‘Oh my God, shut up!’
(Thanks, Oliver. I mean it.)
‘Well don’t get all sappy on me. We still need to solve a murder and you’ve been sulking.’
(Okay Mr Grumpy. It’s not like we’ve narrowed it down any.)
Oliver got up and paced the room. She was right – they seemed to be making glacial progress. He wracked his brain for all the detective television shows he’d watched over the years. This was the point in the investigation where the killer made a fatal mistake, or a vital clue was discovered, then they’d cut to the ads, and when they came back the killer would be in an interrogation room being grilled by the hero.
(Are you the hero?)
‘Who else?’
(I was more thinking Amanda.)
‘The point is they wrap things up nicely in 44 minutes. I doubt the killer is going to come knocking at my door.’
The doorbell rang. Oliver’s heart thumped in the echo. Cautiously he approached the door and darted his head to the side to peek through the glass window. It was Amanda. With relief he unlocked the door and opened it.
(Should you be doing that?)
‘She’s not a killer.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Amanda replied.
(Inside voice, Oliver.)
‘Amanda, what are you doing here?’
‘Can I come in?’
Oliver hesitated, then stepped aside, and directed her into the lounge.
‘You have a lovely house, Oliver.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied, casually stepping in front of the pile of clean clothes – and in particular his bright-green underwear perched on top.
‘Although I can’t say I’ve ever aspired to domestic bliss,’ she added.
‘No, I can’t see you with a husband and a couple of kids.’
She turned from examining the framed family picture that had been professionally taken when the kids were much younger.
‘No, I can’t see me with a husband either.’
He nodded, thinking she was agreeing with him, then realised there might be a different possible meaning behind her words.
‘You must have thought about a
life after the one you have,’ Oliver said.
She shrugged. ‘Technically there is no retirement age for a con. You can keep going as long as you can make people believe what you say.’
‘How do you even get into something like that? I don’t remember it being a career choice when I left school.’
‘You could say it’s the family business.’
There was a natural follow-up question there, but Oliver hesitated, unsure how much he wanted to know about her.
(Knowledge is power. The more you know the safer it makes you. Ask her.)
Not these days. Knowing stuff can be the quickest way to a grave.
‘What’s our next move?’ he asked instead.
‘Are you going to offer me a drink?’
‘Sorry, yes… would you like a tea or coffee.’ He gestured in the general direction of the kitchen.
‘No thanks.’
‘Then why did you ask?’ he protested.
She grinned and sat down on the couch. ‘Because I’m not sure of the next move. It was a cunning ploy to gain more time.’
Oliver sat down opposite her.
(At least she’s honest.)
You realise you just said a con artist is honest? Besides I think I’d rather she lied.
‘I know you’d probably prefer that I lie to you and say I have a cunning plan on our next move.’
Great – is everyone in my brain?
‘Whatever we do, Victor is expecting the painting tomorrow, so you need to pull something out of whatever bag of tricks people like you have.’
‘People like me? You mean a woman? Or lesbian? Or what?’
‘Don’t try and twist the words. You know exactly what I mean,’ he replied angrily.
‘I’ve told you, this is out of my skill set.’ She clenched and unclenched her hands. ‘Shit!’ Amanda jumped up and paced the floor as if the walls around her were a cage. ‘I take things from people – I persuade, use my words, my looks, my brain. I don’t hurt people, and I don’t know how to find things that have been stolen. This was supposed to be easy. Eugene was an easy mark – get in, take the painting and disappear. None of this was supposed to happen.’
Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 20