IMPOSTURE: Hunters become the hunted in this gripping murder mystery

by Ray Clark

  When he finally made it to the space, Anthony dropped his case, threw his hands in the air and shouted at the top of his voice.

  “Will you please fuck off?”

  Chapter Twenty

  The driver of the Evoque edged his way up The Headrow in the centre of Leeds, sticking to the speed limit because he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He wasn’t bothered about being seen, more about being caught.

  In the back of the vehicle, handcuffed and trussed up underneath the parcel shelf, his passenger constantly moaned. The driver figured his prisoner was in a real bad place about now.

  He increased the volume on the radio to cut out the moaning. He was fed up of hearing it.

  The traffic lights changed to green. The bus in front of him moved off and he hung a left onto Albion Street.

  The morning was clear and bright but cold because of the bitter wind skating its way across the city. Pedestrians huddled into winter clothing. One teenager held the flaps of her coat tightly together but flatly refused to let go of her mobile – or her burger; who the hell ate burgers at ten o’clock in the morning?

  He passed Curry’s PC World on his left and Waterstones on his right, before cruising down to the bottom, where Albion Street turned into a pedestrian precinct.

  The passenger moaned again, shouting for help. The driver knew he was way beyond that. It was only a matter of time, but he wouldn’t be around to see – or listen – to the results.

  As the road bore round to the left, Butts Court appeared on the right. Fixed to the wall about twenty feet above were a pair of CCTV cameras.

  He wasn’t concerned about those. The vehicle wasn’t registered to him. Whoever came to investigate the crime he was about to commit would draw quite a number of blanks. If and when they did make some headway, it would all be over.

  His prisoner let out a banshee type scream, which ended with a question.

  “For fuck’s sake what have you given me?”

  The driver didn’t bother to reply. The man wouldn’t have to bear it for much longer.

  He pulled the Evoque to his left, stopped, selected reverse and backed his way up Butts Court. The other end of the street was a dead end; otherwise he would have driven straight in.

  Glancing out of the back window he saw a hoodie coming toward the vehicle. He was unlikely to cause a problem. Most of them were in their own world, paying more attention to their phones.

  The driver pulled up near the ramp that led to underground parking. He killed the engine, jumped out and walked around to the back of the vehicle.

  He glanced around. Across the road he saw a truck tight up to a loading bay. Despite hearing voices and fork trucks whirring around he doubted anyone would give him a second glance.

  He opened the tailgate. The man yelled and shielded his eyes and face from the sun. His passenger had deteriorated. His complexion was pale. A vein in his neck had inflamed. He had blisters around his mouth, which had also started to swell. Another few minutes, guessed the driver, and he wouldn’t be able to speak at all. His eyes were swollen and his skin was turning red.

  “What have you done to me?” The sentence had taken some effort because of the effect of the swelling of his lips.

  The driver ignored him. He unlocked the handcuffs, dragged him out of the vehicle, across the pavement, dumping him into a corner between the wall and the metal fencing.

  “Hey.”

  The driver turned to see the hoodie, dressed in baggy warehouse jeans and white trainers. How unlucky could he be; the only hoodie in the world who actually did notice the life around him?

  “What are you doing?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Is this a film?”

  The driver wondered what the hell he was talking about until he glanced down at his own clothing: a white contamination suit with a white hood, and gloves.

  “That looks fucking wicked,” said the hoodie, peering around, “where’s the rest of the cameras?”

  His prisoner moaned, as if on cue.

  The hoodie grabbed his phone and pointed it at them.

  The driver wasn’t having any of that and covered the distance to the hoodie in two strides. He grabbed the man’s right hand with his left and squeezed.

  The hoodie immediately buckled, dropped to the concrete, his face a ball of confusion. “The fuck are you doing?”

  “Let go of the phone.”

  “Me hand, me hand, you’re crushing me fucking hand.”

  “If you don’t let go of the phone you won’t have a hand to worry about.”

  The hoodie did as he was told, at which point he was moaning louder than the man who’d been trussed up in the back of the Evoque.

  The driver grabbed the phone, switched it off and put it in his pocket.

  The hoodie stood up, rubbing his hand. “Fucking maniac. Give me the phone back.”

  The driver figured action was needed before someone else came sniffing. Clenching his right fist he punched the hoodie hard and fast in his solar plexus, who ended up face down on the concrete, winded and almost vomiting. He brought his knees to his chest and struggled to catch his breath.

  The driver picked him up and rolled him down the ramp to the underground car park. Someone would find him, but he’d be okay, unlike the other shape he’d dragged out of the vehicle.

  It was time to go. The driver turned to face his passenger. He knelt closer.

  “Have a nice life, what’s left of it.”

  It was all the prisoner could do to raise his arms but they fell to the ground almost immediately.

  The driver jumped back into the Evoque and started the vehicle, relieved that no one else had intervened.

  He drove off Butts Court, turned right, back on to Short Street, passing the Q-Park on the left. At the bottom he turned right again, onto Upper Basinghall Street, passing another CCTV camera.

  At the end of the street he rejoined The Headrow and the inner ring road, floating past the town hall on his right as he made his way back home.

  Job done. One down, three to go.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Where was his car?

  Anthony glanced around, checking as many of the cars as he could see. There were plenty of BMWs, many of them 7-series. But none were his.

  He stared at the airport terminal, working out his bearings. He spotted all the landmarks. He was definitely in the correct car park.

  He was good with numbers, worked with computers and had a very good memory for where he left things.

  The car simply wasn’t there.

  It wasn’t as if the space was empty. There was simply another car in it – a white Mini.

  Deflated and sighing, Anthony sat down on his suitcase, wondering if his day was ever going to improve.

  The flight had been late. Once he’d landed he’d had to put up with that needle-faced bitch in passport control. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the fucking clown more than made up for it. What in God’s name was a clown doing at an airport? After his recovery and being held up by the medical staff, the world’s unluckiest song made an appearance, setting his nerves on edge. No good ever came of anything when he heard that song.

  And now his car was missing.

  Anthony raised his head to the sky. “Please tell me, Lord, if you have anything else planned, let’s fucking have it, now!”

  Anthony thought about the car. It had obviously been stolen. But when? Why? Who had taken it?

  All of those questions could probably be answered quite easily. The airport would have CCTV.

  Why were bad things happening to him? Karma. That’s why. He’d done some bad things himself recently. Maybe it was payback.

  He stood up, glancing across the car park; not another soul in sight.

  Anthony grabbed his phone from his pocket. Clicking the button at the side the screen prompted his password. Once he’d entered that, the phone informed him it was emergency calls only. There was no signal.

  What
did “emergency calls only” mean? Could he actually call anyone? He supposed he could always phone the police.

  Anthony heard voices. When he glanced around it was a couple at the other end of the car park. He was always amazed by how sound travelled.

  Another thought suddenly entered his mind. Had the car been stolen, or was he the victim of a prank? It was always possible. One of the other three could have done it, though he couldn’t think why.

  Then again, they may have taken his car for another reason. Perhaps the same reason that one of them could have played around with his phone service. They were all good enough with computers to do that. Anthony should know.

  A chill wind crossed the car park, forcing Anthony to pull his jacket tighter. He wasn’t in the Bahamas now.

  If the other three were involved in the theft of his car and messing with his phone, they wouldn’t appreciate the police becoming involved. Come to think of it, in light of what had happened three months ago, Anthony wouldn’t appreciate the police digging into his life either. He had no idea where that could lead.

  He paused, staring over at the terminal. It was only a ten-minute walk, no more.

  He set off, passing a number of people along the way; one or two nodded but no one actually spoke.

  As he neared the main building a taxi was dropping off. Once the driver had unloaded the suitcases he bade his fare goodbye and skipped around to the driver’s door.

  “Are you free, mate?” Anthony shouted.

  The driver was dressed in jeans, a grey shirt and black leather jacket. With a weary expression, he turned to face Anthony.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Burley in Wharfedale.”

  “When?”

  “How about now?”

  “I’m not sure, I have another fare, maybe.”

  Anthony dragged a wad of notes from his pocket. He never went anywhere without a pocket full of money.

  He peeled off one hundred pounds. “We go now. No questions asked. It’ll take you ten minutes and it’ll be the best tax-free cash you’ll earn this week.”

  The driver didn’t argue.

  The journey took twenty minutes, conducted in silence.

  When Anthony finally opened his front door, he struggled to push it more than six inches.

  He glanced down.

  “What the fuck?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Gardener glanced at the queue. There were three people in front of him, and at least another ten behind. The shop was bursting. At the speed the counter assistant was working, it probably wouldn’t take long for him to be served. In the meantime he would have to put up with some brash piped music.

  Chris had harped on about a new pair of football boots for the last week. Not simply any boots, they had to be specific – in colour and brand. By the time he’d finished his sermon, Gardener didn’t need it writing down. His son had also dropped some heavy hints about the new Leeds Utd strip. Gardener dropped heavier ones, of the negative variety.

  As he had time on his hands he was more than happy to buy the boots. He had no pending cases, unless you counted the disappearance of a certain Robbie Carter – though he doubted that man would reappear any time soon. The DPA case had all but died.

  The music stopped for a second or two. He heard one or two random shouts outside on the pedestrian precinct of Bond Street, but paid little attention because the music soon started again. The queue moved forward two places because another checkout girl had joined her friend.

  A commotion at the front door of the shop drew Gardener’s attention once again. A plump, middle-aged redhead wearing a heavy winter coat and carrying an M&S carrier bag slipped inside. She barged straight up to the counter.

  “Can I use your phone?”

  One of the assistants glanced at the redhead as if she’d lost her marbles. “Don’t you have one?”

  “Do you think I’d be asking if I had?” She immediately turned her head toward the door and back to the counter again. “Hurry up, will you, it’s an emergency.”

  “Excuse me but I do have customers.” Despite the protest she handed the shop phone over.

  Gardener leaned forward. “Excuse me, but do you have a problem?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get served.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  She put the phone to her ear. “I don’t, but someone out there does. Who are you anyway?”

  Gardener flashed his warrant card.

  The woman dropped the phone back on the counter, grabbing Gardener’s elbow. “Come with me. There’s a man out here and I think he’s been attacked. He’s staggering all over the place.”

  “What makes you think he’s been attacked?” Gardener asked, dropping the boots on the counter, allowing himself to be led outside.

  “Wait till you see him.”

  Out in the open air a sharp wind whistled around his ears and crept down his neck. Gardener adjusted his hat slightly.

  The redhead pointed to the area where Bond Street met Albion Street, a distance of about thirty yards. Gardener peered at the staggering man. He was stocky, balding, badly dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans – neither of which appeared to be clean. He had his hands to his face but judging by the amount of gesticulating he was in some pain.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the redhead, reaching for his mobile.

  “Millie,” she replied.

  “Millie what?”

  “Johnson, Millie Johnson.”

  “When did you first become aware of him?” Gardener noticed that most of the people milling around that section of shops were giving the man a wide berth. Mothers pulled children closer, before shooting off in a completely different direction. A number of gawking teenagers remained, all with phones in hand.

  “A couple of minutes ago.”

  “Was he acting like this?”

  “Yes,” she replied, glancing around – though he couldn’t figure out why.

  “Where did he come from?”

  “No idea.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  “No. You don’t think I was going to hang around, do you? You never know what’s wrong with him – could be anything.”

  The man suddenly dropped to his knees and let out an ear-piercing scream, one that even Gardener heard.

  “Mrs Johnson, you need to wait here. Please do not leave the shop. I’m going to see what I can do for him and then I’ll come back and we’ll resume this conversation.”

  Her eyes widened. “I don’t know nothing.”

  He ducked back into the shop and ran to the counter, displaying his warrant card.

  “I need a whistle.”

  “Not you as well. There are people in front of you, you know.”

  “A whistle, now,” he demanded. “It’s an emergency, don’t make me ask again.”

  Something in his expression must have informed the girl that if she didn’t comply immediately she’d spend the night behind bars. Reaching under the counter she drew out a white cardboard box. He grabbed a simple silver whistle, one used by referees.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, taking it from her.

  “Okay, Arnie,” muttered the girl.

  Gardener ran outside and covered the distance to the injured man in no time at all, blowing his whistle all the way. By the time he reached his destination he had everyone’s attention.

  The man was still on his knees but had now lowered his head to the ground, as if he was praying; maybe he was. He was very quiet.

  Gardener blew the whistle once more and he realised he had absolute silence. He flashed the warrant card. “I am a police officer, I need to ask if everyone can please stay where they are.”

  Reaching for his mobile, Gardener glanced at the man on the pavement. “Excuse me, can you please tell me your name?”

  There was no answer, aside from a deep, guttural moan followed by a hissing sound.

  Gardener gloved up and pulled out a disposable mask fr
om his pocket. He noticed the man’s neck was red raw and blistered, swollen up much larger than normal. Judging by the movement of his stomach he was having trouble breathing. There was something seriously wrong with him. Gardener was already dialling for an ambulance.

  He leaned in closer to the man, touching his shoulder. “Excuse me…”

  The man immediately recoiled from Gardener’s touch. He raised his head from the ground and wailed something unintelligible. Gardener could immediately see why. His eyes were as red as his skin, and his lips resembled boiled sausages. Gardener doubted they would be having a conversation.

  Having made a connection on the phone, Gardener spoke to an operator, told them as much as he could about what was happening and where they were; who he was and the fact that he needed an ambulance as soon as humanly possible.

  “Do you need any help, mate?” asked a teenager in a red jacket, with blue trousers, a shock of blond hair, lip studs and earrings. His phone was at the ready and he was snapping pictures of the man on the floor.

  “Yes,” said Gardener. “I need you to put that phone away and step back over to that shop window… now!” As his voice rose for the last word he was pointing in the direction he needed the idiot to go.

  The teenager didn’t need telling twice.

  Gardener had walked into a scene from hell. It wasn’t immediately evident what was wrong with the man, where he’d come from, or what had happened to him. Or whether or not someone had actually done something to him.

  He doubted it was an acid attack. What really concerned him was that he didn’t know what it could be, whether or not it was contagious; or if there was a lunatic around the next corner plying whatever substance he had to someone else’s face.

  He definitely needed to contain the situation, but how? The whole world and his brother had suddenly turned up. The crime scene was contaminated to buggery now.

  Saving the man’s life was a bigger concern. He was going to need backup.

  Gardener glanced at the man. “Did someone do this to you?”

  There was no reply but Gardener detected what he thought was a perceptible nod of the head.

  Suddenly the man let out a scream that sounded like a chainsaw backfiring. Whatever was wrong with him it had affected his breathing. Gardener saw that his breathing was becoming even more erratic. The man fell to the ground with body tremors, as if he had gone into a seizure.