Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  After the kids were in bed, Oliver and Jennifer did their nightly catch up. He let her go first, thinking it would be unfair for her to follow a report that included searching a possible murder scene. She proceeded to tell him about the eight meetings she had, the run she’d managed to squeeze in during lunch, the verbal sparring with someone from another part of the business, and the potentially expensive stuff up that she had to fix. Once she was finished Oliver felt that his driving around and talking to people day didn’t stack up, so he poured her a wine and rubbed her feet instead.

  (Eww, you’re touching her feet. Gross.)

  ‘It’s likely to be a kid then,’ Jennifer said when he eventually went through his day. ‘It sounds like a prank.’ She took a sip of wine and chewed on the end of her hair. ‘In fact it’s the sort of thing a sibling might find funny.’

  Oliver nodded.

  (I knew it, that sneaky—)

  ‘She’s not saying Beth did it, Debbie,’ Oliver interrupted before she could build up some steam.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Jennifer said. ‘But did she play any tricks on you?’

  No matter how often it happened he could never get used to his wife looking at him and asking a question he knew was meant for the spirit in his head.

  Debbie didn’t answer immediately, and when she finally did she sounded angry.

  (We used to play tricks on each other all the time. But no one ever got hurt. Well, there was one time I locked her in the laundry and dropped the key down the drain and she had to climb out the window and fell down and sprained her wrist. And there was this other time that…)

  ‘Debbie,’ Oliver said.

  (She wouldn’t kill me.)

  ‘Not intentionally. Okay, let’s follow that theory.’ He plucked the wine out of Jennifer’s hand and took a sip, before remembering he hated pinot gris. He screwed his face up as he swallowed and handed the glass back. ‘Beth thinks it’ll be funny to send her sister on a wild goose chase. Debbie leaves the house expecting to run away with the love of her life. He doesn’t show. She goes home completely crushed and her sister has a good laugh. Only she doesn’t come home, because she meets the killer who abducts her.’

  Jennifer finished her drink and waggled the empty glass at Oliver. ‘Or…’ she said as he got up for a refill, ‘Beth was working with the killer.’

  (I told you, she wouldn’t kill me.)

  ‘Doesn’t really track though, does it?’ Oliver handed her the half-filled glass. ‘What you’re talking about is sociopathic behaviour. That a young girl would deliberately send her eight-year-old sister out to be murdered. I’ll be the first to admit my experiences are limited, but she doesn’t strike me as the type.’

  ‘I haven’t met her, but I have googled her, and nothing in all those stories or profiles suggests she’s a closet murderer.’ Jennifer stretched out on the couch and rested her feet on his legs.

  (Why would she murder a closet? I’m telling you she was a pain but she would never hurt me. Mum would have killed her. I mean…)

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Oliver told them both. ‘It could explain her lifelong obsession with justice. Guilt is a strong motivator.’

  Jennifer sighed. ‘After all this time though, would she admit it?’

  ‘Maybe not to us,’ Oliver replied. ‘But to Debbie?’

  (What?)

  ‘A death bed confession, sort of.’

  ‘Almost. If what she’s said about her health is true.’

  (What are you talking about?)

  From across the room Oliver’s cell phone rang. He half-slid half-pushed his way out from under Jennifer’s feet, took a moment to figure out where the ringing was coming from and found his phone on the kitchen bench, hidden behind one of Rose’s stuffed toys.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Atkinson, my name is James Yardley, Jasper is my father.’ The voice contained a pompous assuredness that seemed to state, “I will talk and you will listen”.

  ‘Oh hello.’

  ‘I understand you visited with my father yesterday on the pretext of writing an article about his recent award.’

  ‘Pretext?’

  ‘I did some research. You are not a journalist. You are a novelist.’ He said the last word the same way Oliver would have said pest, half-disgust, half-distain.

  (I don’t like him. I bet he did it.)

  Oliver looked across the room to where Jennifer was peering back at him with a question on her face. He pressed a button on his phone to put it on speaker and emboldened by his wife’s tales of corporate sparring he decided to go on the offensive.

  ‘I never said I was a journalist. I told your father I was a writer working on an article about him, which is true,’ he lied. ‘I apologise if there was any misunderstanding.’ He tried to replicate the tone James had used. Judging by the amused expression on Jennifer’s face he only sort of got it right.

  ‘If there was any misunderstanding it was perpetuated by your lack of clarity.’

  (Your what?)

  He’s saying it’s my fault.

  (It’s your fault. Three words, that’s all he needed.)

  ‘As I said, I’m sorry.’

  ‘My father gets confused sometimes. He’s old and I’m constantly having to tidy up his mistakes. I would like to see a copy of your article before it’s printed.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Oliver replied, thinking that thanks to Alice he now had to write an article for a non-existent story.

  ‘My son said that your grandmother gave him some advice about art.’

  ‘That’s right, she was an accomplished dabbler in her time,’ Oliver replied.

  There was a soft humming sound from the other end of the phone. ‘Well, thank her for me. David has been more enthusiastic about life in the last day and a half than in the last year.’

  Oliver made a mental note to ask Alice exactly what she had said to the boy. ‘I will.’

  ‘Here are my contact details.’ He rattled off an email address, then waited for Oliver to confirm he had it before abruptly disconnecting.

  ‘James Yardley…’ Jennifer said, looking at her phone, ‘is—’

  ‘A pompous ass?’ Oliver suggested.

  ‘Language, honey,’ she replied.

  (Ass. Ass. Ass.)

  ‘Although I wouldn’t disagree with you. Anyway, he’s also a lawyer.’

  Oliver stared at her. ‘A lawyer,’ he repeated. ‘Alice said that but I’d forgotten. What are the odds that two of the people involved in this case both have jobs in the justice system?’

  ‘Rather good I would think. And James isn’t in the justice system. He works in intellectual property.’

  ‘Damn, that would have been interesting,’ Oliver said, slumping back down on the couch.

  ‘It’s worth asking Beth if she knew him back then.’

  ‘I have this feeling that someone mentioned his name.’ He frowned. ‘I just can’t remember who.’

  ‘So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow then?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘I need to talk to Nick Rawlings neighbour and see what they heard. Apart from that I’m a little stumped. Unless someone pops up and says “it was me” I’m running out of ideas.’

  (Does that mean you’re giving up?)

  ‘I’m not giving up, Debbie. I just get the feeling that I’m missing something important.’

  ‘Like the fact that tomorrow is the school picnic and you’re chaperoning?’

  Oliver stared at his wife blankly, then stifled a swear word.

  (What does that mean?)

  Mostly it means trying to stop the kids from getting run over.

  ‘I can’t believe I remembered something and you didn’t,’ Jennifer said.

  He couldn’t either. Usually it was the other way around, in fact sometimes it seemed like the social life of his entire family relied on his ability to know when and where they all had to be. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe it was time to cut back on some things. Not the kids�
�� activities because that was one of the advantages of working from home. And not the writing because that was the whole point of working from home. And not housework because even though they had a cleaner who came in once a week, that still left six days of clutter and dirt and things that used to be edible but had become black and smelly to clean up. And not the hitchhikers because…

  (I’m staying until we find out who killed Brigid.)

  To top it off Christmas was rapidly approaching, but not as rapidly as the end of the school term which would mean entertaining children, his own plus some extras, for a few days. Oliver sighed again. If he didn’t solve this thing in the next week then complicated could become disaster.

  ‘Are you alright, babe?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘Sure. Just working out a plan of attack.’

  (Why are you lying to her?)

  Because I don’t want her to worry, she has enough on her plate from work. I’m sure some inspiration will come.

  (I hope so. I’m over listening to you go wees ten times a day.)

  TWENTY THREE

  Inspiration didn’t arrive with breakfast, or during the trip to school, or during the second trip to school after Rose had forgotten her scooter and helmet and they had to go home.

  It didn’t come when he was assigned a group of five children to keep from escaping or dying on the walk down the road to the local park where the school was having the picnic.

  It didn’t come when he pushed an endless line of kids on the swing, or during Debbie’s constant commentary on his pushing skills. He’d never known until now that you could push a swing the wrong way, but apparently he could.

  And it definitely didn’t come when he took a soccer ball to the groin, or while he was trying not to cry in pain whilst reassuring the tearful child that it was fine and accidents happened.

  Thankfully from there the day got better.

  As the children were eating lunch, an event that only slightly muted the constant chatter, Oliver’s phone buzzed. It was Detective Wilson.

  ‘You sound busy, Mr Atkinson.’

  Oliver crossed to the other side of the playground. ‘Just helping out at the kids’ school.’

  ‘Ah, a much better way to spend your time.’

  Oliver rolled his eyes and shook his head at the none too subtle suggestion that he should mind his own business.

  ‘It’s very rewarding,’ Oliver said, ignoring the dull ache in his head and the grumble in his stomach. In the rush to get Rose and Reed ready that morning he had completely forgotten to pack a lunch for himself.

  ‘You left before we were finished yesterday. I thought you should know I’ve submitted a request for Nick Rawlings’ phone records on the grounds that he was not suicidal. However there is a possibility that the powers that be might reject my request, as there’s nothing to indicate it wasn’t an accident. I should know either way today or tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay,’ Oliver replied, while wondering why Wilson was being chatty all of a sudden.

  ‘I’m telling you this because it is procedural, not case-specific.’

  Meaning I get no benefit from knowing.

  (Then why tell you?)

  Good question.

  ‘Tell me something. Has anyone tried calling Nick’s phone?’

  There was a pause, during which Oliver could clearly picture Wilson rolling his eyes back at him.

  ‘Surprisingly enough we did think to do that. It was turned off.’

  ‘Pity. You could have tracked its GPS.’

  The sigh was audible. ‘Despite what you’ve seen on television shows we can not track a phone’s GPS, not to a specific location. The phone company can give us a general location based on cell towers, unless the phone utilises some track-my-device software and then we can get closer.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Yes. I often think how much easier my job would be if things were as they are on TV. Less satisfying, but easier. Anyway my uncle is enjoying dipping into the case once more and I just wanted to say…thanks.’

  Oliver looked across to where the noise levels were rising again as the last sandwich was swallowed and the last half-eaten apple put back into a lunch box for some lucky parent to find later that night. He frowned, uncomfortable with this new side of Detective Wilson. ‘You’re welcome.’

  His phone beeped to signal another call was coming through. He glanced at the screen and saw it was an Australian number. He didn’t know anyone who lived in Australia so assumed it was someone trying to talk him into buying something or scam him out of something.

  ‘Are you any closer to working out what happened to Debbie Judkins and Brigid O’Shey?’

  ‘I know more than I did, but not as much as I need to work it out.’ He couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice.

  ‘I understand. Remember you’re working on a decades-old case. No one expects you to solve it.’

  (I do!)

  Oliver ignored both of them as there was another beep from his phone to indicate the caller had left a message. He frowned. Why would a scammer leave a message?

  ‘I’ll get there,’ he said with a level of assurance he only felt on the surface. ‘It’s just going to take me a little longer than I would have liked.’

  Wilson made a non-committal noise, said goodbye and hung up.

  Oliver was about to listen to the message when Reed came running up.

  ‘Dad, we’re going to play a game. Can you come?’

  ‘Just a minute, buddy,’ he replied as he continued to press buttons.

  ‘But we’re starting now.’

  Oliver looked at the excited expression on his son’s face and smiled. ‘Okay, let’s go. What game are we going to play?’ He slipped his phone back into a pocket.

  He was soon sorry he asked as Reed proceeded to explain the complicated set of rules. He was amazed that a boy that couldn’t remember to pick his underwear up off the bedroom floor could remember that he was only able to use his left hand and right leg, and had to turn around on one leg every time he touched the ball.

  Debbie picked the game up straight away, so with her guidance he only made a fraction of a fool of himself rather than a complete one. Ten minutes later he was sweaty, regretting wearing jeans, and had entirely forgotten about his phone.

  By the time he was walking back up the hill to the school he’d received two further messages and another missed call. Well not really a missed call, more an “oh gosh I don’t want to talk to her so I’ll reject the call” call from Beth. The first message was from Graeme asking him if he’d made any progress, the second was from Alice asking him what they were going to do next.

  He didn’t have an answer for either of them, but as he watched Rose cross the road holding the hand of her best friend for the week, a thought occurred to him.

  Debbie? Why did Brigid have one of your earrings?

  (What do you mean?)

  If you were wearing both earrings when you went missing, and they found one on the roadside, how did Brigid get the other one?

  Debbie didn’t answer until the children were safely through the school gates and Oliver had fifteen minutes to wait around until the end of day bell rang and he could take them home. He walked back down the road a bit and leaned on the side of his car.

  (I don’t know, but I was surprised when I saw it, coz I thought…)

  Go on.

  (I was wearing both earrings when I went to meet Nick. So how did Brigid have one to bury?)

  I don’t know.

  (Unless she was in on the trick, which could have happened because she was secretly jealous that Nick chose me instead of her and…)

  Debbie! Take a breath.

  The stream of words stopped and a soft breeze tickled the inside of his ear.

  (What if she knew what happened to me and didn’t tell anyone?)

  A more sinister thought formed in Oliver’s mind. He quickly called Alice. She answered straight away and he relayed the new information.

  ‘S
o you think she discovered the murderer with the earring and that’s why she was killed?’ Alice said.

  ‘It makes sense. She either saw something or found something. If she saw her best friend in the world get kidnapped you’d think she would say something straight away. She was interviewed by the police before she died so she had an opportunity. But if she found the earring…’

  ‘Then wouldn’t she still go to the police?’

  ‘You might be right,’ he admitted.

  (No, she would avenge me.)

  Do you know what avenge means?

  (We always said we’d look out for each other. If she found something out she’d get them, not tell on them.)

  ‘Reliable sources tell me that Brigid was more likely to do something dangerous and stupid.’

  (Hey! That’s not what I said.)

  ‘It’s what I’d do,’ Alice said.

  ‘Yes, but your aversion to the police is well known.’

  ‘Alright, so Brigid doesn’t know anything when she talks to the police, but after that she finds the earring, either in a place or with a person, and she buries it because…why?’

  (We always buried our treasures and she knew how much they meant to me.)

  ‘She was an eight-year-old girl and it seemed like the right thing to do. But the killer finds out and hits her with his car before she could exact retribution.’

  ‘Solid-sounding theory,’ Alice said after a pause. ‘But why hit her with his car? Why not just make her disappear like Debbie?’

  (I didn’t disappear. I’m right here.)

  ‘Your body isn’t,’ Oliver said aloud, just as a mother walked past, shepherding a smaller child towards the school gates, and glared at him.

  ‘My body isn’t what?’ Alice asked.

  He turned around to face the road. ‘Oh sorry, I was talking to Debbie.’

  ‘Just as well, it’s not polite to talk about a woman’s body.’

  ‘I wasn’t…I said…’

  Alice burst out laughing.

  ‘To answer your question,’ he continued in a grumpy voice, ‘I don’t know, but anything could have happened. Maybe he tried to kidnap her and she ran and while he was chasing her the car finished the job.’