Thankfully Angus held off any further strong observations until after the funeral. It wasn’t that Oliver was a prude. He knew, and had probably used, most of the modern swear words at one time or another in his life. However he generally avoided them, especially with the children in the house, except for the occasional slip when encountering a dangerous, or slow, or idiot driver. It was more that he preferred not to start his day with strong language, at least until after a strong coffee.
St John’s was a Presbyterian church in the middle of the city, great if you needed to pop in and revive your soul, not so much if you needed to find parking on a weekday morning. The century old church was perched at an intersection, its bright coloured spire stretching towards the heavens. The inside was dominated by a giant pipe organ at the top of a three-tiered pulpit more reminiscent of a high court than a church.
When Oliver entered just before eleven, the church pews were already packed with mourners. A large picture of Ashley leant on an easel next to the coffin. It had obviously been taken by a professional in a studio, and her bright smile and colourful cheeks contrasted against the white background.
There were no seats left, so he joined the line of late comers standing at the back. It meant he had a good view of the church. At the same time as a white robed priest entered from a side door, Oliver spotted Louise and George sitting in the front row. Scanning the crowd, he also found Alex and Niki sitting with a few others he recognised from the group in the bar the previous week.
Oliver never felt comfortable at funerals. The last one he’d been to was his mother’s, almost three years ago. It was an unsettling experience listening to a procession of people talking about the wonderful person that was Ashley Trent, and more than once he fought an urge to slip out the door and away from their memories.
Eventually the priest invited everyone to join the family in the adjourning hall for refreshments. Oliver was one of the first outside. He stepped to one side of the doors and watched as people slowly emerged from the church. There were younger people, probably university and school friends, mingled with older people, possibly friends of the family. No one acted guilty or suspicious, although Oliver got his share of curious looks, and a hostile one from Alex.
(Ye’re going to have to sort him out.)
Oliver agreed, then suddenly realised that the person directly behind Alex was Detective Wilson. The detective spotted him and broke away from the line.
‘I was wondering if I’d see you here, Mr Atkinson.’
‘Simply paying my respects,’ he replied.
The detective nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s an interesting phrase, don’t you think? To pay one’s respects. Do you know the history of that saying?’
‘I don’t,’ Oliver replied.
‘Neither do I. I would have thought your time as a writer would be better served researching words, rather than murders.’
‘I left you a message in the weekend,’ Oliver said in a not too subtle attempt to change topics.
The exodus slowed to a trickle. There were several small groups of people dotted around the courtyard, engaging in sombre conversation.
‘Yes, was it important?’
Detective Wilson’s casual attitude struck a nerve, and Oliver made a rash decision.
‘No, I was going to let you know I hadn’t made any progress.’
(Yer wife isn’t going to be happy.)
‘I didn’t expect you to,’ the detective replied. ‘Does this mean you’re going to leave things to the professionals?’
‘I’m definitely going to let the professionals do what they do best,’ Oliver replied.
With a satisfied nod, Wilson excused himself and strode away.
(And what did ye really mean?)
Exactly what I said. I’m going to let a professional do what she does best.
(She?)
Amanda is very professional.
(Aye, the man should have known better than to engage in a battle of words with a writer. Ye’re as slippery as they come. Why didn’t ye tell him about the threat?)
I’m not sure. His attitude annoyed me.
(Good. When someone threatens ye, threaten them straight back.)
Not a beating?
(Nothing more threatening than a beating.)
Thinking he’d walked straight into that one, Oliver made his way across to the crowded hall. He didn’t know how they did things elsewhere in the world, but it always puzzled him that the standard accepted fare for an after-funeral function consisted of scones with jam and cream, and tiny sandwiches. Not that there was anything wrong with the food, but it was the same menu for a christening, post Sunday service refreshments, and Sunday school. It was as if someone decided years ago that all emotions could be addressed with strawberry jam and a dollop of cream.
Louise beckoned him over to where she was standing, talking to a short, slightly overweight woman.
‘Oliver, this is Rebecca, Ashley’s mother. Rebecca, this is the man I was telling you about.’
Rebecca’s face bore the strain of the last week, losing her child would have been hard enough, Oliver refused to think about how he would react should anything happen to Rose or Reed. Losing her child in such a horrible manner only made things worse. There were large bags under her red eyes and when she spoke, there was a faint smell of alcohol on her breath.
‘You’re going to find out what happened to my Ashley.’ She said it as a statement, and Oliver felt the pressure increase with every word.
‘I am.’
We are.
She stood a little taller and smoothed down the lapel on her jacket. ‘What do you need from me?’
He glanced around the crowded room and decided it wasn’t the best place to ask the one question he needed answered.
‘Five minutes of your time alone,’ he replied.
Rebecca looked at her watch. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Surely this can wait until later,’ Louise protested.
Ashley’s mother waved a hand impatiently. ‘Louise, I don’t know half these people, and they’re all going to say the same thing to me. If speaking to Oliver will help find out why my baby is gone then I’m not waiting for social conventions.’
With that, she marched across the floor, scattering people in her path, and led Oliver outside.
They walked to the corner of the building, out of earshot of the few people lingering in the midday sun.
‘You don’t smoke do you? I ran out this morning and could use some nicotine right now.’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Pity. Right what do you want to know?’ Rebecca asked.
Oliver debated whether to be tactful but decided the direct approach would work better with this woman.
‘Was Matthew Darcy your daughter’s father?’
‘Right to the point,’ Rebecca replied, slightly raised eyebrows the only facial reaction. ‘Good. I made the mistake of telling her that Matthew and I had a fling just before she was born, and she put two and two together and got five.’
‘If you had an affair with him, how do you know he isn’t the father?’
‘Fair question,’ she said with an approving nod. ‘The timing doesn’t work out. I ended it with Matthew ten months before Ashley was born.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure I can count.’
Oliver considered what she’d told him. ‘Then why was she interested in Matthew? She was researching him. And more importantly, why is Matthew Darcy interested in what happened to her?’
Rebecca bit her thumbnail and scanned the courtyard. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you’re lying,’ Oliver said bluntly.
‘You’re impertinent.’
‘I’m trying to find your daughter’s murderer.’
‘Then focus on the present. Ancient history won’t help,’ Rebecca scowled.
‘It’s only history if someone lets it be. And it wasn’t to Ashley or Matthew Darcy.’
She examined th
e remains of her thumbnail, then searched the other hand, but that nail wasn’t in much better shape.
‘Well, I think Matthew was her father. But you don’t want to talk about it, which seems silly for something that, as you say, is ancient history.’
‘I can’t talk about it.’
‘Can’t or won’t’ Oliver asked.
‘Can’t.’
‘Alright, then. I’ll guess and we’ll see how close I get.’ He paused to gauge her reaction. ‘Matthew is your daughter’s father. She was the result of…a sexual assault?’
Rebecca looked shocked and shook her head.
‘Drunken one-night stand?’
A smile and another shake of the head. Oliver thought hard of other possibilities.
‘A donation?’ he suggested.
Another smile, but no head shake.
‘A sperm donation.’
The tiniest hint of a nod.
‘And you can’t talk about it because you signed an agreement,’ Oliver concluded.
‘I’m not saying you’re right, but you are a very good guesser,’ Rebecca told him.
‘That’s not what my wife tells me. Okay, and when Ashley found out who her biological father was, she wanted to contact him.’
‘Ashley was curious about her genealogy. I couldn’t tell her that her father was an arrangement, so I fibbed a little and said it was a short fling.’ Her eyes scanned the vicinity, as if worried she’d said too much.
Oliver could guess the rest. Ashley researched Matthew Darcy and may have even approached him. Either that or his interest in her murder came because he knew who she was (which didn’t make a lot of sense, because why would he worry about something that happened decades ago).
(Go ask him.)
Sure, I’ll pop into parliament and ask to speak with the most important man in the country.
(Well alright then.)
I was being sarcastic.
(What’s the point in that? You need information, he has it, go and ask.)
‘Oliver, I can’t see Matthew having anything to do with her death. That’s not how he deals with problems.’
‘You seem to know him well for something that’s ancient history.’
‘You’re a writer not an archaeologist. Do what you need to do, but if you’re looking in his direction I think you’re wrong.’ She leaned in closer and gripped his arm in a vice of fingers. ‘But, if it turns out he has something to do with it, you tell me first, before you tell the police. Understand?’
He nodded, and she released his arm and disappeared back inside.
(Are ye going to turn him over to her?)
Not a chance, I was acknowledging I understood what she was saying. Not that I was going to do it.
(Ye’re slicker than I realised.)
That’s Amanda’s bad influence. Speaking of which. I was half expecting her to be here. He pulled out his phone and sent her a text message.
(How’d ye know if she was? She’s changed her appearance more times in the last week than I did in seventy-eight years of living.)
Good point.
Angus’s instincts proved right. A few minutes after Oliver sent the text, a tall brunette with a familiar smile walked through the door. He recognised her Tracey persona.
‘I get changing your hair and clothes, but how the hell do you make yourself taller?’ Oliver asked.
Amanda laughed and, steadying herself on the wall of the building, she lifted a foot to show him the extra thick soles on her shoes.
‘Identity is a funny thing, Oliver. People form a certain picture of you, including weight and height. If you alter any of those things, even by a little, you throw off their perceptions.’
‘You know, Detective Wilson is inside. He’s still looking for you.’
‘No, he’s looking for Violet Tumbleton and she’s dead, remember?’
‘He’s a smart man, he’ll figure it out if he sees you.’
‘I’m touched that you’re worried about me, Oliver, but I’m insulted that I have to keep reminding you that I’m very good at my job.’
(Aye, a professional you called her.)
‘Okay, whatever you say. You mentioned you had a way to find out who sent me the threatening text.’
‘Oliver, sometimes you try to be too clever for your own good,’ Amanda replied.
‘What do you mean?’ he bristled at the slight.
‘Have you thought about calling the number?’
He wanted to dismissively say of course he’d thought of it, but he hadn’t.
‘They won’t answer,’ he argued weakly.
‘Of course they won’t,’ Amanda agreed. ‘If you don’t try,’ she added.
Convinced of its failure, Oliver pulled out his phone, retrieved the message, and pressed the button to initiate a call. It clicked straight to a computerised voice informing him the user hadn’t set up a mailbox.
‘Told you,’ he said with a hint of smugness.
‘I’m surprised you’re so happy that the simplest option didn’t work.’
‘You know, you have this annoying habit of taking the fun out of things.’
‘Yes,’ she said with a pat on his arm. ‘Try again later.’
In an effort to change the subject he caught her up with the information Rebecca Trent had told him.
This time the twinkle in her eyes had a slightly manic look about it.
‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ he pointed out.
‘It could mean everything,’ she replied.
There was a sharp increase in noise as a large group spilled out of the hall. Niki spotted them and walked over, reluctantly followed by Alex.
‘Hi,’ Niki said. ‘Thanks for coming. Ashley would have been stoked at how many people are here.’ She sniffed and Alex handed her a tissue.
‘She was well liked,’ Amanda said.
‘Of course she was,’ Alex grumbled.
(Now’s yer chance to sort out this lum.)
‘Alex, why were you trying to break up George and Ashley?’ Oliver started.
‘Was not.’
‘You got the bartender at the Cruising Company bar to call you when George came in alone. Then shortly afterwards a woman shows up and kisses him. My guess is you were going to report this public indiscretion to Ashley, so she’d break things off with George, leaving her available for you.’
‘Rubbish,’ Alex said, but his face said something different.
‘You were quick to believe that George killed her,’ Oliver pointed out.
‘Because he did.’
‘Alex, don’t be stupid. There’s no way George murdered Ashley. He loved her,’ Niki told him.
‘Lots of people kill people they love,’ Alex said.
‘But not George,’ Niki replied firmly.
There was something in her tone that made Oliver pay closer attention. For someone who was supposed to be Ashley’s best friend, Niki was very quick to defend George. A sideways glance to Amanda showed she was studying the girl with renewed interest as well.
‘Anyway. So what if I was trying to break them up? There’s no law against it.’
(Maybe not, but it makes ye a weasel.)
‘Alex!’ Niki said.
Alex had the sense to look ashamed. ‘Well I didn’t know she was going to die, and George isn’t…wasn’t… good for her. She deserved better.’
‘She deserved you?’ Amanda suggested.
‘Why not?’ he thrust his chin outwards in a show of defiance.
‘Who was the girl?’ Oliver asked.
‘Just a girl I know. I told her I was playing a trick on a friend, and she was up for it.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘What difference does it make?’ replied Alex. ‘She’s got nothing to do with it.’
Oliver decided to let it drop for the time being.
‘I can’t believe you, Alex,’ Niki said in disgust.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Alex replied, and he spun around and fled
back into the safety of the crowded hall.
‘Sorry,’ Niki said, and followed him.
‘Interesting,’ Amanda said.
‘Two more potential suspects, that aren’t Matthew Darcy,’ Oliver couldn’t resist adding.
‘Congratulations, you can count.’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.’
She grinned. ‘Fair enough. Do you think the girl from the bar is important?’
‘I think Alex isn’t telling the whole truth. The girl can either back up his story or tell the real one.’
More people started to emerge into the sunlight as the post-funeral gathering began to wind down.
‘Time to go. Keep trying that phone. I have a hunch you’ve already met the person on the other end. We’ll get together tomorrow. The longer this thing takes the harder it gets to catch the killer.’
He waved as she left the church grounds and disappeared around the corner, leaving Oliver alone. Almost.
(I used to come here when I was a lad.)
Really?
(Why would I lie about something like that? It weren’t by choice ye understand. But once a week my mam dragged the family here to pray for me soul.)
Did it work?
(After I got out of hospital she told me she’d prayed for God to make me well again. So when I got well, she said she’d made a promise that we’d come every Sunday to say thanks. I tried telling her that was between him and her and there was no need to drag me into it.)
What did she say to that?
(She said she’d go to hell if she broke her promise and did I want her to go to hell. There’s no winning that argument, so I came every weekend, wearing an itchy suit and listening to old men in white robes tell me I wasn’t worthy. I used to dread 9am on Sundays.)
Because you were bored?
(Because I started to believe I wasn’t worthy.)
My parents used to make me go to church on Sundays as well. There was no talk of hell, but it sounds like my mother subscribed to the same train of manipulation as yours.
(Aye, mams have been the same for centuries.)
Oliver thought of the two grieving mothers inside, then realised that he hadn’t seen Richard McMurry at all.
(I didn’t see him either.)
You and I see the same things.
(We use the same eyes, but that doesn’t mean we see the same things. I hope you’re not suspecting Richard of killing the lass.)
Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 38