It was mid-morning and the coffee-deprived were out in force, scurrying to packed cafes to get their fix. Oliver was forced to sidestep several large groups in search of a caffeine fix. He pondered the probability that running a coffee shop was more profitable than being an author. In fact most things were more profitable than being an author, especially a newish one with just two books under his belt.
(Why don’t you do something else?)
He turned up a side street and found the building entrance he needed. Because I love what I do and I’m not doing it for the money.
The Registrars of Electors office wasn’t as impressive as the name suggested, and also wasn’t as helpful. It turned out that they only held the roll for the local electorate, and Nick Rawlings wasn’t registered to vote in the Wellington area.
Discouraged, Oliver retraced his steps to the car and sat tapping the steering wheel in frustration.
(It was a good idea.)
Her tone reminded him of Rose when she had told him she was proud of him for helping Violet. He felt a little better.
‘It would have helped immensely if all this happened now rather than forty years ago.’
(Well I’m sorry my best friend couldn’t die at a better time for you.)
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he hastily said. ‘It’s just the trail is so cold.’
His frustration was interrupted by the shrill bell of his cell phone. He glanced at the display but it was a private number. Cautiously he pressed the answer button.
‘Hello? Oliver speaking.’
‘Mr Atkinson, we need to talk,’ Detective Wilson said.
TWELVE
Oliver furiously tried to think of anything he’d done in the last two days that would have put him in the way of a current police investigation. The detective seemed to read his mind.
‘Relax, Mr Atkinson, you’re not in trouble, at least not as far as I know. Just an informal chat. Are you in the city?’
Oliver arranged to meet Detective Wilson at a coffee shop across the road from the central police station. He took that as a good sign, vividly remembering being taken inside that concrete building for questioning.
(Oohh, did you kill someone?)
No I did not. It was a misunderstanding.
(Boring.)
Wilson sat at a table by the window, dressed in the same suit he always wore. His brown hair was cropped short, and his pale skin was offset by eyes that seemed to be saying “I’m going to get you”. Oliver never enjoyed their conversations, and constantly had to resist the temptation to confess to anything and everything. He’d only ever seen Detective Wilson smile once, which was the only reason he knew he was capable. Oliver was pretty sure there was a first name between Detective and Wilson but he didn’t seem like the sort of person you called John or Frank.
Wilson indicated the seat opposite and gestured to the woman behind the counter, who brought over a pot of tea.
‘Unless you’ve suddenly changed your drink of choice?’ Wilson said.
‘No, this is great, thank you.’ Oliver tried to remember whether he’d ever told Wilson what he drank, and decided he must have. Hopefully.
‘I’ll be brief. I’ve had two phone calls this morning regarding you. One from my uncle. Can you guess who the other one was from?’
‘The obvious choice would be Beth Judkins,’ Oliver replied.
Wilson nodded in appreciation. ‘Spot on. She wanted to know who you were. Something about breaking into her house to steal a biscuit tin, which I don’t fully understand, and she was disinclined to explain.’
‘Is she pressing charges?’ Oliver asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
(That sounds like her. Beth was always a rat.)
‘If she was we’d be having this conversation across the road. She spoke with Graeme who suggested she speak with me. Judge Judkins wanted to know if I knew anything about you. Fortunately I was able to give her a general run down.’
‘All good I hope,’ Oliver said with a grin, which he quickly dropped when Wilson didn’t reciprocate.
‘All true. I told her that you were an annoying busybody that wouldn’t listen to sense, and had almost been killed on more than one occasion because of it.’
‘Um, thanks.’ Oliver took a drink to hide his smile. Amanda would be impressed to hear this description.
(Do you like her? But you’re married, how can you like another girl?)
‘I also told her, reluctantly, that you had proved useful on a small number of occasions, and that it was unlikely that you could do any harm in investigating the disappearance of her sister.’
‘Actually I’m focussing on the murder of Brigid O’Shey,’ Oliver said.
‘Indeed? May I ask what’s changed since you spoke with Graeme?’
From anyone else Oliver would have considered that an innocent question. But he’d rapidly, and at times painfully, come to realise with Wilson there was no such thing.
‘I did a little more research. Debbie’s death had been well investigated and documented. Brigid’s, maybe because of the timing, had been pushed to the side. From a fiction-writing point of view, that makes her a more interesting character.’
‘So this is research for a fictional piece?’
‘Everything I do is research for my work,’ Oliver replied.
‘So I should expect a stoic policeman to appear in a future book?’ Wilson asked.
‘You think of yourself as stoic?’
(What does stoic mean? Why do you adults use so many stupid words.)
‘I’ve been called better, but mainly worse, during my time on the force.’
It could have been his imagination, but Oliver thought there was a tiny hint of a smile on the man’s face.
‘Mr Atkinson, you are a conundrum. Normally I like puzzles, but not at work, and not ones I can’t eventually solve, but you are…’ Wilson shook his head with a clear expression of frustration. ‘I’ve run background checks on you, more than once, and on the surface you are what you appear to be.’
Oliver licked his dry lips. ‘Which is?’
‘Husband, father, author, from what I’ve ascertained in that order.’ He paused to take a sip of his coffee. ‘Mr Atkinson, do you know how many murders there are in Wellington on an annual basis?’
‘No idea,’ Oliver replied. ‘Not many at a guess.’
‘Three, on average. And you have been involved in two in the last two years. Statistically that’s troubling because based on your background there’s no reason for you to be anywhere near even one murder.’
(Oh my gosh he’s worse than the boring teachers at my school. What is he trying to say?)
Oliver sipped his tea. ‘It’s not by choice,’ he finally said. ‘It’s just worked out that way.’
Wilson nodded. ‘The only good thing about your interest in a forty-year-old case is that you won’t be interfering in any ongoing investigation. I have a great deal of respect for Judge Judkins. I don’t particularly like her—’ he clamped his lips shut and shot a look around the café. ‘Yes, a great deal of respect, but she has a blind spot when it comes to her sister’s disappearance. In every other aspect of her life she is controlled and logical, but not concerning Debbie. I’d also like to make it clear that I am not authorised in any way to tell you what I’m about to. If she finds out you know, there are limited places you could have obtained the information and she could make life difficult for me. And I can…in theory…pass that difficulty onto you.’
‘Then why tell me?’
The detective looked out the window and scratched his cheek.
(I don’t understand. Does he have some gossip about Beth? I’ve got plenty of that. Like there was this time she liked this boy Kelvin and she drew him a valentine’s card and…)
‘Not now.’
He turned back to Oliver and raised his eyebrow.
‘I mean, now is not the time to stop,’ Oliver continued hurriedly. If nothing else, carrying around hitchhikers was vastly improv
ing his ability to think quickly. Except that he kept forgetting to talk to them in his head rather than out loud.
Wilson studied him for a moment longer, then sighed. ‘Judge Judkins should still be working. She’s not technically old enough to retire.’
(Oh my gosh, just spit it out.)
For once Oliver agreed with her.
‘She retired early because she is sick. Terminally. Her plan is to spend what little time she has left uncovering what happened to her sister.’
Oliver slumped back in his chair. He hadn’t been expecting that.
(What does terminal mean? How sick is she?)
‘So though you’ve decided to focus on Brigid O’Shey’s death, you might find it beneficial to look into both girls’ circumstances.’
‘Beneficial, how exactly?’ Oliver asked.
(HOW SICK IS MY SISTER?!)
Oliver winced as the shouted words rang through his mind.
‘I don’t do professional favours for people,’ Wilson replied sternly. ‘However if you were to look into both girls’ cases then I might find myself too busy to continue looking for Violet Tumbleton.’
Oliver’s mouth went dry and his heart ramped up from resting to fat burning. ‘I didn’t realise you were still looking for her,’ he said.
‘Officially I’m not, the case is closed, murderer convicted, etc, etc. However I don’t like it when witnesses disappear, it makes me think that they either came to a bad end,’ he paused to study Oliver’s face, ‘Or they weren’t who they said they were.’ Once more Oliver’s complete lack of poker ability let him down and his face confirmed which theory was correct.
‘Of course—’
‘Deal,’ Oliver said quickly.
(Stop talking about some girl and ask about my sister!)
He won’t tell me any more. We’ll have to get more information from Beth herself.
(Then stop talking and let’s go.)
‘Judge Judkins is expecting you tomorrow morning at her house, she said ten would be a civilised time. She said to bring your own shovel, and biscuits — homemade,’ Wilson said with a wry smile.
(Tomorrow? Let’s go now!)
‘It wasn’t much of a concession was it,’ Jennifer said later that night. ‘He’s agreed to unofficially stop searching for someone that doesn’t really exist and that he’s had no luck finding for the past two years.’
Violet Tumbleton was a name that Amanda had stolen to use for one of her cons, which caused the real, and long dead, Violet Tumbleton to hitch a ride with Oliver. She had been the first of what he was reluctantly coming to understand might be a never-ending line of spirit hitchhikers.
As her profession demanded that she keep as far away from police as possible, Amanda had ditched the persona for good just after Oliver had almost joined the spirit world himself. Wilson asked about Violet every time they met, but Oliver had assumed it was idle curiosity.
‘When you put it like that…’ Oliver replied.
‘It’s less noble and your suit of armour is a bit tarnished.’
Although Debbie was silently sulking because they hadn’t rushed straight to see Beth, Oliver decided against swearing at his wife and settled for poking his tongue out.
‘I’m sure Amanda would appreciate the attempt,’ Jennifer said, patting him on the leg.
They were sitting on the couch watching the least offensive thing they could find on television after 9pm, and therefore suitable for an eight-year-old to see, which narrowed the options to a home renovation show or a cooking show, and which were further narrowed down when the chef on the cooking show started swearing and didn’t stop.
(Why didn’t you use those words when you were cooking dinner?)
Because usually the kids are in the room. Besides I don’t swear that much.
(Really?)
Oh shut up, I mean be quiet.
Debbie laughed.
‘Do you think it was a good idea sending Alice to talk to Detective Wilson’s uncle? After all she is Amanda’s grandmother, and despite what he says, I think he’d still love to talk to Amanda.’
‘Believe me, no one would guess their connection unless they wanted them to. Alice taught Amanda everything she knows and Amanda, as she likes to point out quite regularly, is very good at her job.’
Jennifer shrugged. ‘Okay, I’m sure you know what you’re doing.’
Her tone and Debbie’s accompanying giggle suggested otherwise.
Oliver gave up on the television show and began clearing the kitchen bench. After a few minutes Jennifer joined him. As he finished loading dirty dishes into the washer he glanced at the other end of the lounge where the lights were still on.
‘Albert, turn off the TV room lights,’ he ordered.
(Who’s Albert?)
‘I can’t find a device called TB broom lights,’ came a mechanical voice.
Oliver sighed and tried again. ‘Albert, turn off the TV room lights.’
‘I can’t find a device called TC room lights.’
(Where’s that voice coming from?)
‘Albert is a smart speaker. He’s supposed to make things easier. Albert, turn off the TeeeVeee room lights,’ Oliver over enunciated every syllable.
There was a soft ding and the TV room lights faded off.
(Doesn’t seem that smart to me.)
‘Unfortunately he’s from America, and has some problems understanding my New Zealand accent.’
‘It’s very funny, Debbie,’ Jennifer added. ‘Ohh, you should ask him to play that song you like.’
‘I’m not a performing monkey,’ he muttered darkly. The smart speaker had been his idea, and he secretly loved playing with it, but not so secretly got very annoyed when it joined the long list of things in the house that didn’t listen to him.
(What else can he do, apart from not listen to you?)
‘Oh look, it’s late. Time for bed,’ Oliver said with a glance at the clock.
‘Good idea,’ Jennifer replied. ‘I have an early meeting tomorrow. I don’t know how many times I’ve told them not to book 8am meetings. I don’t function that early.’
‘I know,’ Oliver replied with a cheeky grin. It was a private joke between them that she didn’t even consider getting out of bed on a Sunday until the clock said 9am and she had a cup of tea in her hand.
‘Careful, I function enough to wake you up with a pillow to the side of the head.’
THIRTEEN
He became vaguely aware of voices. At first he thought it was part of the particularly vivid dream he was having, but as sleep slowly slipped away he first recognised Rose’s voice, then Debbie’s.
(Brigid told me, and she heard it from her sister’s friend’s older brother.)
‘It’s not true,’ Rose whispered.
(Think about it, how could Santa possibly get around all the houses in the world on one night.)
‘Duh, magic.’
(There’s no such thing as magic either.)
‘I don’t care what you say, Santa is real. He brought me a new doll last Christmas, and I wrote him an email this year asking for a unicorn.’
(That was probably your parents.)
Oliver popped open his eyes, to find Rose kneeling next to the bed.
‘That’s enough of that,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘Rose, it’s only 6am, you should still be sleeping.’
‘I was trying to Daddy, but Debbie was talking to me.’
Oliver propped himself up on one elbow and yawned. ‘Okay, go into the other room and get dressed and make your lunch.’ He waited until she had disappeared into the hallway before stumbling out of bed, going into the ensuite, peeing with his eyes closed, clearing up the small spillage, and washing his hands.
‘Debbie, I think we need a new rule. No talking to Rose while I’m asleep, and definitely no telling her that Santa doesn’t exist.’
(But he doesn’t. Brigid’s sister’s…)
‘Yes, yes I heard, but Rose is only seven so it won’t hurt h
er to believe in Santa for another year. Okay?’
(I suppose. Can we go and see Beth now?)
‘I don’t think she’d appreciate a visit this early.’
Rose was going through a phase of not knowing what she wanted to wear, which had lasted eleven months. So when Oliver went into the lounge there was a small pile of clothes next to a large pile of clothes, and his daughter was sitting in between them. He knew she’d figure it out and that he’d have to remind her to put the clean clothes back into her room, and he knew that he would go into her room and find them either heaped on the bed or floor. It was one of the many fun little daddy/daughter dances that they did.
He had just enough time between dropping the kids off at school and leaving to meet Judge Judkins to walk through the house and become despondent at the clutter that never seemed to fully go away.
He made a half-hearted attempt to dent the mess, but in the end was relieved to lock the front door and drive up the coast to his meeting. Not the least because every two minutes Debbie had been asking what time it was.
‘You know you weren’t this excited when you first saw her,’ he commented as they merged onto the motorway.
(That’s because she’s my sister and she’s really annoying. But if there’s something wrong with her then I want to know.)
Oliver found that touching, much to Debbie’s disgust.
(It doesn’t mean I like her!)
‘Not at all,’ he reassured her, but the smile didn’t help.
Oliver arrived exactly at ten, thanks to waiting down the road for a few minutes. He felt that he was already on a slippery slope with Beth Judkins, and he was hopeful that punctually would be a mark in his favour.
Unfortunately her expression gave little away when Beth greeted him at the front door. As he followed her down the hall and into the kitchen, he glanced through a couple of doors and thought the place seemed emptier than the first time he’d visited.
‘I had a long discussion with Roman, I’m sure he told you,’ Beth said as she opened the back door. Monty shot through the opening, paws scrabbling for purchase on the smooth floor. For a single moment it seemed like he was going to face plant, but he managed to regain control, and immediately growled at Oliver, either because this man was still a stranger, or to hide his embarrassment.
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