Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Read online

  (I wonder if he’s related to Joseph Darcy, the guy who used to own the painting?)

  Oliver couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of that. I’ll look it up later.

  That story was followed by one about selection dilemmas for the upcoming rugby test against England, and a study that showed children were getting fatter and less active. Oliver sometimes wished his own two were less active, especially five minutes before bedtime which always triggered a burst of energy.

  When the story finally came on there wasn’t much new – several promising lines of enquiry were apparently being pursued, but no suspects or motive had been revealed.

  (Either they know more than they are saying, or they’ve decided Fake Violet didn’t do it.)

  ‘They always know more than they’re saying’, Oliver said.

  ‘Of course they do,’ Jennifer commented. ‘It’s not like they’re going to come on TV and say “Our main suspect is Joe Bloggs, who lives at such and such, and we’ll be arresting him in the morning”.’

  ‘I suppose not, but it would make life a lot simpler sometimes.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the door bell.

  ‘Expecting anyone?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘Nope. You?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Probably a salesman ignoring the no-door-knocking sticker,’ he said hauling himself out of the chair.

  ‘You sure it’s not the police back for more questions?’ Jennifer laughed.

  ‘I doubt it,’ he said over his shoulder.

  Reed had beaten him to the door and was peering through the side window.

  ‘Who is it bud?’

  Reed just shrugged and wandered back into the lounge. Oliver opened the door to find Detective Wilson and a uniformed police officer standing there.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, could you please accompany us to the police station for questioning.’ The enquiring tone from his previous visit had been replaced with steel.

  (Uh oh.)

  Oliver’s heart rate went from sixty to a hundred in a single breath. ‘Is this about the other day?’

  ‘The constable will accompany you into the house while you get your shoes and a jacket.’ The detective nodded and the officer stepped into the house, forcing Oliver to move backwards.

  ‘I don’t understand. Am I under arrest?’

  ‘Not at this time.’

  Never had four simple words held such sinister overtones. Oliver turned to see Jennifer standing in the hallway.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  He forced a smile. ‘Nothing honey. I just have to nip down to the police station and answer some more questions.’

  ‘Why can’t you do it here like last time?’

  (That’s what I want to know.)

  ‘I don’t know.’

  (What’s changed?)

  Jennifer redirected her question to Detective Wilson.

  ‘Mrs Atkinson we need to conduct some questioning in a more formal setting. Your husband is not under arrest, but he is helping us with our enquiries.’

  (Why does he say it like if you’re not helpful you’ll be taken out the back and beaten with batons?)

  ‘It’s okay Jennifer,’ Oliver said with false confidence.

  The constable watched silently while Oliver laced up his shoes and grabbed a wool jacket from the walk-in wardrobe. The detective and Jennifer stood in awkward silence, and the two children were glued to their mother’s side, eyes wide.

  ‘Are you in trouble, Daddy?’ Rose asked in a voice rife with worry.

  ‘It’s fine bubba. Now, just in case I’m not back for bed time you be good for your mummy – okay?’

  She nodded enthusiastically and he wished he could believe her, but experience suggested otherwise.

  Oliver had never ridden in the back of a police car before – or the front, come to think of it – and neither had Violet. The trip to the central police station in the middle of the city was the most daunting one he’d ever taken. The two men in the front seemed disinclined to talk, and Oliver spent the whole time reassuring himself he hadn’t done anything wrong, but the storm inside his stomach refused to be quelled. Violet’s silence only added to the tension.

  At the station he was led into a small windowless room that contained a square table and two chairs. He’d seen enough crime shows to know it was an interview room. The walls were plain grey, and the carpet a tired green, worn down by countless shoes.

  Detective Wilson gestured for him to take the seat opposite. The detective opened a file that had been waiting on the table. He read for a few moments before raising his eyes to meet Oliver’s.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, I should tell you that our conversation is being recorded, and that you may have an advocate present during the interview.’

  ‘Advocate?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Lawyer, or someone similar. Do you wish to have someone with you?’

  He already does.

  Oliver hesitantly shook his head, the roller coaster his stomach was on reached a peak and plunged down. He clasped his hands tightly.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, earlier this week my colleague and I visited your house and asked you some questions in relation to the murder of Peter Yarrow. Do you recall the questions asked?’ He waited for Oliver to nod before continuing. ‘And do you recall the answers you gave?’

  Again, Oliver nodded.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, at this time I would like to ask if you wish to reconsider any of the answers you gave.’

  Oliver’s mind flew back in time as he struggled to remember exactly what he’d said. Detective Wilson studied him intently.

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ Oliver finally said.

  Detective Wilson looked faintly disappointed.

  (Something’s going on.)

  You think!

  ‘And is it still your assertion that you do not know Violet Tumbleton?’

  ‘Like I told you the other night, I met her in the antique shop that one time. I don’t know her.’

  The man opposite Oliver allowed himself a tiny triumphant smile. ‘That’s interesting.’

  (Don’t ask him why.)

  ‘H–h–how so?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘I’ve been checking you out, Mr Atkinson, and you have what we would call a clean bill of health. No arrests, only the one speeding ticket, no known associations with any criminal elements. Yet, here you are lying to me.’

  Oliver flinched at the accuracy of the accusation. But how could he possibly know that?

  (He’s enjoying this, the smug bastard.)

  ‘Mr Atkinson, at 2.30pm this afternoon we brought Violet Tumbleton in for questioning in relation to the death of Peter Yarrow.’

  Oh damn.

  Oliver’s eyes widened at the news, but the tingly feeling on the back of his neck said they hadn’t got to the punchline yet.

  ‘Oh, congratulations.’

  ‘Last chance Mr Atkinson. How do you know Violet Tumbleton?’ The voice and eyes both bored into Oliver.

  ‘I-I-I don’t….’

  Detective Wilson cut in. ‘Then of the two people that Ms Tumbleton asked to speak to upon her detention, why was one of the names yours?’

  Fourteen

  The prickly heat exploded into a cascade of sweat down Oliver’s back.

  (Why would she ask for us?)

  I don’t know.

  (Don’t tell me, tell him.)

  ‘I honestly have no idea,’ he replied.

  Detective Wilson slammed the file shut. ‘Mr Atkinson, do you expect me to believe that a woman you only met once would, immediately upon being brought into a police station, ask to speak to you?’

  ‘I’m not sure what to tell you,’ Oliver protested. ‘I don’t know why she would want to talk to me.’

  Scepticism was etched into the detective’s face. ‘Wait here.’ He picked up the file and exited the room, firmly closing the door behind him.

  Jesus, what the hell is going on? Oliver’s breathing came faster, as his mind r
aced in every direction.

  (Calm down Oliver.)

  Calm down? He stood up and began pacing the room. This is all your fault. If you hadn’t shown up I’d be at home right now telling my kids off for not going to bed properly.

  (It’s not my fault.)

  Oliver stopped pacing, failing to keep the disbelief off his face.

  (Okay it’s mostly my fault.)

  Oliver resumed his trek. Mostly my arse – it’s all your fault. Before you came I had never been in trouble with the police, and now I’m about to get thrown in jail for lying to a police officer.

  (Oliver, for God’s sake, will you calm down? You’re not being thrown in jail. Apart from fudging the truth a little bit, you haven’t done anything wrong. But unless you sit down and pull yourself together, they’ll think you have.)

  He dropped back into his chair.

  (Now take a deep breath.)

  The door popped open and Detective Wilson came in and retook his seat opposite Oliver.

  (Ask him who the other one was.)

  What?

  (If we were one of the names she wanted to talk to, who was the other one?)

  Oliver repeated the question and the detective studied him for a moment, as if debating whether to answer.

  ‘She asked to speak with her lawyer.’

  (Okay, ask him why Violet never rang you. If she wanted to talk to two people, why didn’t you get a phone call from her?)

  Detective Wilson allowed himself a small smile when Oliver asked the question. ‘Mr Atkinson, I was hardly going to let two suspects talk to each other.’

  Oliver started at the word suspect and rubbed his arms. ‘I gave you an alibi for the night of the murder. I didn’t do it.’

  Detective Wilson nodded. ‘You were home asleep – yes, I know. Unfortunately the only person who can verify that is your wife, and wives are not always objective when it comes to their spouses.’ Oliver opened his mouth to object and Wilson raised a hand for silence. ‘Having said that, I’m inclined to believe you when you say you did not kill Peter Yarrow.’

  Oliver slumped down and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

  (There’s going to be a but.)

  ‘However…’

  (Told you.)

  ‘…I’m also inclined to believe that you are lying to me. It’s my theory that you and Violet Tumbleton are partners. I propose that you both stole “Sunset over the Island”, attempted to sell it to Peter Yarrow, and when things didn’t go according to plan, Violet went back and killed him.’

  ‘None of that is true,’ Oliver retorted. ‘At least the bits about Violet and I being partners. I don’t know where she got the painting, or if she killed that man. I’m innocent…’

  Detective Wilson raised an eyebrow.

  ‘...of what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘So why did she ask to speak with you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe if you let us talk I can find out why and then tell you.’ Oliver gave him what he hoped was a confident look.

  (I’m impressed. That was almost brave.)

  You’re not helping.

  Violet laughed.

  Detective Wilson thought about it for a moment, then stood up again. ‘I’m going to give the two of you five minutes together. Everything you say will be recorded. You will not touch each other, or attempt to pass her anything. Is that clear?’

  Oliver nodded his agreement and the detective opened the door and Fake Violet was ushered in. Judging by the speed it seemed it had been prearranged. For someone who had been detained on suspicion of murder Fake Violet was surprisingly cheerful. She gave Oliver a wide smile as she was ushered into the seat opposite him. Apart from the location she could have been out for coffee, as she was dressed in a dark business suit and white blouse, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  ‘Hello Oliver.’

  ‘Hello.’ He rebelled at using the name Violet.

  The door was closed and they were alone. Oliver glanced around, conscious that they were being recorded – and, he assumed, videoed.

  ‘We don’t have much time,’ Fake Violet began.

  ‘Then perhaps you should start by telling me your name.’

  (Nice one Oliver.)

  ‘Why, Oliver, it’s Violet Tumbleton.’

  ‘I know it isn’t,’ he retorted.

  ‘Is that really what you want to know with four minutes left on the clock?’ She leaned on the table and laced her fingers together, her face relaxed.

  ‘Why did you ask to talk to me?’

  She glanced around, then seemed to consider her next words carefully, before leaning forward further and lowering her voice to a whisper, all traces of amusement gone. ‘I didn’t kill Peter Yarrow. I’ve done plenty of things in my past that skirted around the law, but I’m not a murderer.’

  Oliver stared into her eyes and saw nothing but truth.

  ‘Okay, but that doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘The painting is the key. I may have exaggerated my legitimacy to its ownership. And there are other people out there who would prefer to have it back.’

  Oliver worked through her words. ‘So you stole it and the people you stole it from want it back.’

  She shrugged, then firmly shook her head, raising her voice slightly. ‘I do not admit to stealing anything.’ Her voice dropped lower. ‘However, these people are not the friendliest in the world, and they may incorrectly interpret your role in this scenario.’

  Oliver filtered out the filler words. ‘How would they know about my role? Wait, I don’t have a role. You and I are not in anything together.’

  Fake Violet gave him a look tinged with regret. ‘Just before I was arrested, I may have had a conversation with one of these men.’

  Oliver’s stomach clenched painfully, and a dull drum started behind his left eye. ‘And?’

  She shrugged apologetically. ‘I may have told them you knew where the painting was.’

  Fifteen

  ‘You what!’

  (She made you the patsy. And just when I was beginning to like her. That dirty, stinking bum.)

  ‘I’m sorry Oliver, but I needed to give them something and your name was the first to pop into my mind. I didn’t know I was about to be detained. I figured I could get away, then give them a call and spin some yarn about how you weren’t actually involved. Only I didn’t have time.’

  ‘Who are these people? Are they dangerous?’

  ‘No, probably not. I wouldn’t have thought so – not physically dangerous, anyway.’

  ‘What other sort is there?’

  ‘That’s why I wanted to ring you, to warn you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just ring them then!’ Oliver demanded.

  Fake Violet sat back and studied her fingernails, the silence drawing out like a bow string. ‘Well the thing is, I could have done that, but I decided to take a different course of action. One where you have an incentive to help me.’

  Oliver’s jaw dropped.

  ‘The painting is the key. If we get it back then it will help prove I didn’t kill the antique dealer, and it gets these men off your back.’

  ‘Are you crazy? There is no we.’

  ‘Like it or not Oliver, there’s a we. Hey, this is on you, you know. You’re the one who came looking for me. I didn’t even know you existed a week ago. If you hadn’t found me you wouldn’t be involved.’

  Oliver opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it closed. She’s almost right, this is all your fault.

  (I didn’t know this was going to happen.)

  What did you think was going to happen?

  (I don’t know – it’s not like I come back from the dead all the time.)

  Fake Violet watched Oliver as he seemed to have an internal argument with himself.

  I wish you’d chosen someone else.

  (Hey, this hasn’t exactly been fun for me either.)

  ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he snapped.

  ‘We don’t have later Olive
r. You need to find the painting, which probably means you need to find out who killed Peter Yarrow.’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that?’ he protested.

  She sat back in her chair and picked at an invisible thread on her sleeve. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. I’m just a simple business woman whose skills are limited to acquisitions and distribution. Finding killers and thieves is something best left for the professionals.’

  Oliver’s mouth fell open. ‘I’m a house husband! How am I anymore qualified for this than you?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s not about qualifications, Oliver, it’s about motivation.’

  At that moment the door swung open, cutting off Oliver’s response. Detective Wilson strode in, accompanied by a uniformed officer. Fake Violet was ushered out the door and, once more, Oliver was alone with the detective.

  Oliver waited nervously for the other man to break the silence.

  ‘As I mentioned, your conversation was recorded. What I need to determine now, is whether it was genuine, or intended to throw me off track. At the moment I’m undecided, so your answers to the next few questions are very important.’

  It was well after midnight by the time Oliver was bundled into the back of a squad car for the trip home. Detective Wilson made it completely clear that although he had nothing concrete to hold Oliver on, he wasn’t convinced of his innocence either.

  Jennifer was reading when he walked into the bedroom. He gave her a casual greeting, like he’d just gotten home from a meeting. She ignored him as he undressed and slipped into bed. Finally she put her bookmark in, carefully closed the book and turned her attention to him.

  ‘So you’re not locked up in the slammer then.’

  ‘Slammer?’

  ‘Big house, penitentiary...’

  (Pokey, hoosegow, on the inside. I knew a guy who was in prison once. Nasty man, but a great dresser.)

  ‘No, they wanted to ask me some more questions, that’s all.’ A small headache had worked its way into the back of Oliver’s head, and his eyes were dry and gritty.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Jennifer said.

  ‘Not right now.’