The study of different cultures.
(Why don’t they just call it that then?)
‘Okay then, what about people she might have pissed off?’ Oliver said, suddenly tired of George’s attitude.
Louise’s jaw dropped and George’s eyes opened wide. Oliver felt a mild sense of satisfaction at being able to use words he wished he could but couldn’t with his own children.
(You call that strong language? My first words were stronger than that.)
‘Nah, Ashley was the nice one. She always saw the best in people,’ George said.
‘Unlike you?’ Oliver replied.
‘I do alright, most of the time. Sometimes my mouth starts a few seconds before my brain.’ George grinned, but it disappeared almost instantly. ‘Nah, everyone loved Ashley.’
Oliver thought for a moment. ‘Was there anything missing from your flat?’
George shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, everything seemed okay, but the cops bundled me out of there pretty quick, so I couldn’t say for sure.’
‘What about her family?’
Another shrug and George stared down at his fingernails.
‘Ashley’s father died two years ago,’ Louise said. ‘Her mother lives in Auckland with a new man.’ Her tone implied two years was a little quick for a new man. ‘Ashley was an only child.’
‘Are you going to write about me?’ George asked.
Louise shook her head. ‘I’ve told Mr Atkinson that nothing will be written without your father and my consent.’
George looked slightly disappointed and Oliver started to feel uneasy.
‘I’ll poke around a bit and let you know.’
‘Just don’t make it worse for me,’ George said anxiously.
Oliver stood up. ‘As long as you didn’t kill her, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
George leapt to his feet. ‘I loved her!’
Oliver didn’t point out that history was littered with people murdered by people that loved them. Besides, George’s indignation seemed genuine.
George stalked out of the room, pausing long enough to slam the door in the dramatic way that only children, no matter their age, can.
Oliver recognised Louise’s look, the mix of concern and exasperation that he wore on a daily basis. Given how young his children were, Oliver had a sudden revelation that things weren’t going to get any easier for him.
‘My son can be challenging sometimes, but he is my son, and he did not kill Ashley. If you can help prove that then please do so.’
Oliver nodded. ‘Of course.’
He waited for a smart comment from Angus, but none came.
‘How’s George’s sister taking it?’ He gestured to the family photos.
Louise glanced at the photo, then down at her hands. When she turned to Oliver her smile was strained. ‘Claire is away at the moment. Richard and I have decided to wait until she gets home on Wednesday before we tell her anything.’
Anything you want to know?
(You’re the detective.)
I’m a writer.
(Same difference.)
They’re completely different.
(Whatever.)
Oliver gave up and turned to Louise, who was gazing at the family photos, perhaps remembering a simpler time when her son wasn’t being questioned for murder.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said, but the words sounded hollow. In reality, he had no idea what to do next.
Louise nodded gratefully.
Oliver exchanged cell numbers with her and wrote down the address to George’s flat. Then he braved the slippery stairs back down to the road.
‘What’s got you so grumpy?’ he asked once he was back in the car.
(I’m old, I’m allowed to be grumpy.)
‘You’re dead.’
(Even more reason to be grumpy.)
Oliver pulled out his phone and typed George’s address into the map application. It was on the other side of town. He started the car and wound his way down the hill and into snail’s-pace traffic.
‘Okay, fair enough, but if you’re going to sulk then you’re no help to me.’
(I’m not one of your snotnose little brats.)
‘You know, I see a lot of you in George.’
That shut Angus up.
Oliver considered his options. He felt his next move was to see where the murder took place and talk to some of the neighbours. The trouble was, the whole “I’m a writer trying to help” thing was unlikely to work with anyone else. He was surprised it had worked so far.
As he stopped and started through the city to the suburb of Newtown, Oliver considered what he would do if one of his kids was accused of murder. The short answer was he didn’t know, but he was pretty sure he would do anything he could to protect them.
Ten minutes later, Oliver pulled up at the traffic lights outside the Wellington Hospital.
(Didn’t there used to be a hospital there?)
‘That is the hospital.’
(Get away.)
Oliver studied the massive, modern building. It was only ten years old. He remembered the old concrete monster that used to stand there, with its narrow corridors, and narrower beds. A hundred years ago it must have been different again.
(Aye, it was no picnic, especially for a boy.)
‘You were in hospital?’
(That’s what I said, weren’t it? Influenza when I was eleven. Must have been 1893. There were days I figured I’d cough up my guts.)
‘Thanks for that visual,’ Oliver said.
(Still, it got me out of school for a while. And I was one of the lucky ones.)
‘Because you got out of school.’
(Because I got to go home.)
It took a moment for Oliver to realise the full implication of his words. They rode in silence for the rest of the trip.
George lived in an old house wedged between two other old houses, opposite more old houses. They were near enough to the city zoo for Oliver to hear snatches of the animal kingdom on the wind.
(Is that the zoo? Do they still have elephants? I used to love riding those with the kids.)
‘No, they haven’t had elephants for years. And it’s not politically correct to ride zoo animals anymore.’
(Huh, next you’ll be telling me the chimps don’t have tea parties.)
Oliver left that one alone.
A police car sat outside the house, and a constable was stationed at the front gate. He looked equal parts cold and bored, and Oliver imagined it wasn’t what he signed up for. Join the police and freeze your hands off standing in one spot for hours.
(Coppers!)
Not a fan?
(Dad wasn’t a fan.)
Shall I see if he’s English as well? Then you’ll have two reasons to hate him.
(Aren’t we funny.)
An idea came to Oliver and he walked purposefully up to the police officer.
‘Is Detective Wilson here? He told me to meet him.’ Oliver glanced at his watch as if double checking the time. His heart was thumping so loudly he worried he wouldn’t be able to hear the reply.
The officer stared at him with narrow eyes. ‘The detective isn’t here.’
‘Damn.’ Oliver glanced at his watch again. ‘I guess he’s running late. I’ll wait for a bit if that’s okay.’
‘And you are?’
‘Special assignment,’ Oliver replied vaguely. ‘I was told to meet the detective here to go over the scene.’
The constable shrugged and jammed his hands deeper into his pockets. Oliver didn’t blame him. Out of the car, the wind ignored his jersey and he could feel elephant bumps rise on his arms (so named when Reed decided that goose bumps sounded too small).
He wanted to see inside the flat but didn’t have the confidence to push his luck. I wish Amanda was here. She’d have the constable inside, making us a cup of tea by now.
(Who’s Amanda?)
A pain in the butt, but an extremely useful one.
Amanda was a con artist. While he had limited experience with con artists and therefore no basis for comparison, Oliver would have said she was extremely good at her chosen profession. She’d certainly conned him into believing in himself at a time when doubts were running rampant.
(So get her here.)
I can’t. I don’t know how to find her.
That wasn’t entirely true. He knew where her grandmother lived. She was an older and more experienced version of Amanda. She might be willing to get Amanda a message, but she also might tell Oliver to take a hike.
‘Cold day for standing outside. There’s a café over there. Can I get you a coffee?’ Oliver asked the police officer.
Hesitation crossed the man’s face. He glanced hopefully towards the café. Then he reluctantly shook his head.
‘I’m not allowed to leave my post.’
‘You don’t have to, I’ll bring it over. I’m getting one anyway, so what’ll it be? Come on, as a show of appreciation for the hard work the police do.’
The constable considered the offer, and obviously didn’t see any breach of rules for accepting a drink. He nodded gratefully and told Oliver what he wanted.
(Good job. What are you going to put in his drink? Knock him out or give him the runs?)
I’m not spiking his drink.
Oliver crossed the road to the café and ordered two coffees.
(What’s the point of getting him a drink then?)
I’m trying to get him to relax. Maybe I can get some info out of him.
(Sneaky, nice work, then you can smack him over the head and go inside.)
Oliver sighed, and decided not to start what was bound to be an argument. He carried the hot drinks back to the constable, who took his with a “Cheers”. They stood in silence blowing and sipping the scalding liquid.
Oliver was furiously thinking of the next step.
(Oh, for goodness sake. Have ye never played poker? When you don’t hold the cards, bluff.)
Oliver had played poker (badly) before. But having children had vastly increased his bluffing skills.
‘It’s a shame what happened to that girl,’ he started.
The constable’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
‘And such a weird way to go. Drowned in mud,’ Oliver added.
This time the reaction was more pronounced. That information hadn’t been released to the public.
‘I’m not at liberty to discuss the case,’ the constable replied with a shudder.
‘Still, the boyfriend is a solid suspect.’
‘What did you say your name was? I can call the detective and find out how far away he is.’
‘No need, I’ll call him myself.’ Oliver pulled out his phone and pressed some buttons. It rang, and someone answered. ‘Hi, it’s me. Yes, I’m waiting outside the house now.’ He made a show of glancing at his watch. ‘Damn. Okay, I’ll check my calendar and we can reschedule. I’ll just talk to the neighbour before I go.’
He was watching the constable as he said this. The man’s eyes flicked to the house on the left.
‘Okay, talk soon.’
‘Yes we will,’ Jennifer replied before hanging up.
‘Thanks for your help,’ Oliver said.
The constable tipped his cup and Oliver left him trying to warm his fingers around his coffee.
Ringing the neighbour’s front doorbell, Oliver snuck a glance at the police officer to see if he was watching, but the constable had retreated into his bored zone.
From the other side of the frosted glass door, a figure approached and a few seconds later the door was flung open.
The man’s shoulders touched either side of the door frame and his head scraped the top by millimetres. His head and face were devoid of hair, giving him a pale ghostly appearance, and muscles upon muscles flexed up and down his arms. He scowled and Oliver stepped backwards.
(Jeez, it’s like someone shaved a gorilla and fed it an elephant.)
‘Excellent,’ the man said in a voice that resembled distant thunder. He reached out a plate-sized hand and pulled Oliver into the house.
SIX
For several terrifying seconds, Oliver bravely faced his imminent death and absurdly the first thing that flashed into his mind was that he hadn’t taught Reed how to do a proper push up.
The man’s grip was firm, but not bone crushing, as he led Oliver into a cluttered room at the front of the house.
‘I’m sorry, I think you…’ Oliver began.
‘Wait,’ the man said. He released Oliver, who would have run for the door if his legs were more than an increasingly wobbly support for his torso.
The man walked over to a desk, which ran along one wall, and picked up a head of human hair.
(Maybe he scalped his last victim.)
I don’t have any hair to scalp, Oliver breathed a sigh of relief that he had cut it short that morning.
‘Feel this,’ the man demanded. He thrust the long brown hair at Oliver, who reached out a shaky finger and touched it.
‘It feels real,’ he said nervously.
‘Of course it does,’ the man snorted. ‘That’s the point.’
Oh god, I’m going to die in here.
(Smack him in the face and make a run for it.)
Oliver doubted he could reach the man’s face, even if he was inclined towards violence.
‘I’m not happy with it. Does it feel thick enough?’
‘For what?’ Oliver asked.
The man stared at him like Oliver was dumb. Then he grinned and his whole face became less scary.
‘Sorry, sometimes I forget my social skills. My name’s Sean. I make wigs for cancer patients.’
Oliver’s stomach unclenched so rapidly he was worried breakfast would make a break for his bowel.
‘I’m not happy with this one,’ Sean said, with a frown. ‘I’m not sure what it is.’ He placed the wig back on the desk and turned to face Oliver. ‘Sorry, uh, who are you?’
‘I’m Oliver, Oliver Atkinson. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about what happened next door.’
‘Ah, you’re a reporter.’
Oliver shook his head. ‘I’m a writer.’
‘Aren’t reporter’s writers?’ Sean replied with a smile.
Oliver thought about some of the online articles he read with their spelling mistakes and poorly constructed sentences. At some point, speed had become more important that quality.
He just nodded, not wanting to get into a conversation about the decaying state of journalism.
‘I’m here on behalf of George McMurry’s family. They want to make sure their son is treated fairly during the investigation.’
(Aye, and if he isn’t you can write a strongly worded letter.)
‘I don’t know what help I can be,’ Sean replied. He reached over to the desk again and picked up a shorter wig. With practiced ease, he settled it upon his head, instantly transforming his appearance from scary to unnerving. He grinned at the expression on Oliver’s face.
‘That’s why I do this. There’s something comforting about having your head covered in hair, especially if losing it isn’t by choice. Now, next door.’ He stopped and looked thoughtful. ‘They were good neighbours. Always told me when they were going to have parties, and usually invited me. Not that I ever went, I get nervous in a crowd.’
Oliver couldn’t imagine any crowd that would make a man the size of Sean nervous.
‘It’s a real shame about Ashley. She was a sweet kid. She once made me a birthday cake, actually made it, not bought it from the supermarket. Not many kids these days will go to that much effort for someone else, you know?’
Oliver nodded. ‘I heard there was a loud argument before the murder.’
Sean snorted. ‘That was nothing. No one would have heard it if she hadn’t leaned out the window to yell at George as he was leaving. So he didn’t want to go to a movie? Big deal, you don’t kill someone for that.’
‘You don’t think George d
id it?’
‘Not a chance. He was stressed about exams at university, otherwise he would have gone to that movie and sat through it without a word of complaint. He was sappy in love with that girl.’
Oliver changed tack. ‘What about the night of the murder, did you hear anything?’
The man thought for a moment. ‘The cops asked me and I told them I didn’t remember anything, but…’ His voice trailed off, then he shook his head. ‘Probably nothing, but I remember hearing a weird sound. I’d just finished watching a movie and was getting ready for bed.’
‘What did you hear?’ Oliver prompted.
Sean shook his head again. ‘I don’t know, it was probably someone walking by on the street. It was like a whistling sound, but it stopped and started. I don’t really know how to explain it.’
It was vague, but at least it was a clue, and it was something that the police didn’t know.
(Aye, how is an erratic whistling going to prove George is innocent?)
I don’t know, yet.
He thanked Sean, who showed him out the door. Lost in thought Oliver didn’t pay attention as he stepped onto the footpath.
‘Mr Atkinson, what an unexpected surprise.’
Oliver’s heart sank as he turned to face Detective Wilson.
Bugger.
SEVEN
Oliver plastered a smile onto his face. Behind the detective he could see the police constable standing to attention.
(Copper.) Angus spat the word out like it left a bad taste in his mouth, which distracted Oliver for a moment as he wondered if spirits had mouths.
(Are ye balmy? Of course I’ve got a mouth. How do you think I’m talking to you?)
Oliver shrugged it off and tried to focus on the man in front of him.
‘Detective Wilson, what a surprise to see you here.’ As soon as he said it, he knew the detective would pounce on his mistake.
‘Really? I heard you were asking for me. In fact I heard you rang me. Funny, I never got the call.’ The detective’s brown hair was shorter since Oliver saw him last, but still evident was the pale skin, and alert eyes that more than once had implied with a raised eyebrow that Oliver was lying to him. To be fair, most of the time Oliver had been lying to him.
Oliver was rubbish at working out people’s ages but it seemed to him the detective now looked older than the mid-thirties he’d guessed. It wasn’t the sort of question you generally brought up with someone questioning you on suspicion of murder.
Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 27