IMPOSTURE: Hunters become the hunted in this gripping murder mystery

by Ray Clark

  “Shit,” said Gardener.

  He hadn’t had a nightmare for some time.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  As Wendy Higgins was walking back into the village with Pouch, Alan Braithwaite was heading out toward the main A65 with Spike.

  “I was wondering if I’d see you,” said Wendy, “you’re a little later this morning.”

  Braithwaite nodded. “Didn’t have the best of nights.” He glanced down at Spike, who was now sitting with Pouch.

  “Oh dear, you’re not sickening for something, are you?”

  “Might be coming down with something.”

  “You do look a little tired,” replied Wendy. “You want to be careful. How’s the new car?” she asked, in an effort to change the subject. She knew how men didn’t like to admit a sign of weakness.

  “Not driving much for pleasure at the moment,” replied Braithwaite.

  “Oh dear, it’s not faulty, is it? I know what modern cars are like. You pay thousands for them and the garage have them more than you.”

  “No, nothing like that. Just a bit busy at the moment.”

  “I thought of you yesterday,” said Wendy, realising he didn’t want to elaborate. “That awful business with the Hunters and the hit and run. The police are appealing for witnesses. There was an awful incident in Leeds in which a man died. There were some photos, and they’re looking for a man who drives a car like yours.”

  “Oh, really,” replied Braithwaite, as if he didn’t know what to say.

  “Yes, it’s all over the newspapers and the TV, quite a nasty business.”

  Pouch suddenly stood up and strolled into the garden of The Malt public house, sniffing around the benches. Spike joined him.

  Wendy Higgins continued. “I was talking to Mary Fellows about it, one of my neighbours. She reckons she’s had some inside information.”

  “From where?” asked Braithwaite.

  “She never said, but her husband is quite high up in one of the newspapers, I think. Anyway from what he heard, it was something nasty. They think it’s to do with the military.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure, but there was mention of dangerous chemicals involved. She didn’t tell me what. I hope it’s not catching. Anyway, I’m not going into Leeds until it’s all sorted. You’ve no idea what goes on. Could be terrorists… could be anything.”

  “I think you might be letting your imagination run away with you, Wendy.”

  “Well I think he’s right. It has all the hallmarks of the military.”

  “What does?”

  “Whatever happened,” she replied. “Keeping it all secret, like the army always do. You should know.”

  Pouch and Spike returned. Wendy Higgins placed the lead around the dog’s neck. “Anyway, I’ll have to get on.”

  She bade Braithwaite and Spike goodbye but turned before they had moved ten yards. “You mark my words, when it all comes out you’ll see I’m right.”

  Braithwaite nodded.

  “What was it you did in the army?”

  Braithwaite hesitated but finally answered. “Medical corp. Anyway, Wendy, must dash.”

  All the way home, Wendy Higgins thought about that conversation.

  Once inside the house, with fresh tea made, she studied the newspapers and whatever Google had to offer about the incident involving Michael Foreman, becoming increasingly concerned.

  It really did sound as if someone with military experience had been up to no good. Furthermore, she thought, there was mention of chemical warfare. And she simply could not remove the idea of the large green 4x4 from her mind. The newspaper did ask for anyone with any information whatsoever to come forward.

  Wendy Higgins was torn in two but she still reached for her phone.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Gardener and Reilly met Rosie and her friend, Michelle, inside the hospital corridor that led to the mortuary.

  “Thank you for coming, Mrs Henshaw,” said Gardener. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

  Rosie was dressed in black: jumper and jeans and an outer coat, as if she was ready for the funeral. She held a handkerchief to her eyes, which were red rimmed. Gardener figured she couldn’t have had much sleep. Neither had he.

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  “I’m really sorry,” he replied, “if there was any other way.”

  Rosie nodded, introducing Michelle. She was also dressed in dark colours, blue instead of black. Gardener was struck by how alike they were. They could have passed for sisters.

  He led the way. Reilly walked ahead and opened the doors into the room. Michelle supported Rosie, as if she was going to crumble at any moment, and Gardener wouldn’t blame her.

  On the inside, the room was spotlessly clean, smelled fresh. A small table and chairs stood to the left, with a vase of flowers. The glass window in front of Rosie revealed a gurney on the other side, with a body underneath a sheet. Rosie stepped up to the glass, sobbing, shaking. She was fragile – nothing like he’d seen the previous evening, or the fiery woman his officers had described.

  Death had a way of doing that.

  “My sergeant and I feel it best if we show you his right thigh, the one with the birthmark.”

  “Why?” Rosie asked. “What have they done to him?”

  “Let’s just say, we don’t think it’s necessary for you to see all of the body, Mrs Henshaw,” said Reilly.

  “Why? Isn’t he all there?”

  “Rosie, love,” said Michelle, “I think these gentlemen are trying to save you from too much distress.”

  The room descended into a short silence. No one knew what to say. Rosie eventually nodded and the assistant appeared at the other side of the glass and lifted the sheet.

  Rosie did crumble, falling to her knees. “Oh my God, James, what have they done to you?”

  Gardener nodded and the sheet was replaced. Both officers supported Rosie out of the room and across the hall to the cafeteria. The SIO ordered four teas and had them brought to the table. The atmosphere in the café was altogether more pleasant, but it couldn’t have been any worse. The tables were clean, the staff friendly, and the light background music helped.

  Allowing time to pass, Gardener asked Rosie if she was okay.

  She nodded. “Who’s doing this?”

  “We’re giving it everything we’ve got, Mrs Henshaw, but as yet we haven’t found the suspect.”

  “What did they do to him? James?”

  “I’m not sure it’s something you need to know, Mrs Henshaw.”

  “I do.” She took a sip of tea. “He was like a skeleton. Looked to me like he’d been starved. Was he?”

  She was staring directly at Gardener. He wasn’t going to lie. “We believe so.”

  “Drink your tea, Rosie,” said Michelle, “no point upsetting yourself.”

  The tears rolled down her cheeks. “What am I going to tell the kids?”

  “We’ll have plenty of time to work on that one,” replied Michelle.

  Rosie glanced at Gardener. “For what it’s worth, I know I’m not Anthony Palmer’s biggest fan, but he wouldn’t do that to James.”

  “What makes you say that?” Gardener asked.

  “James was closer to Anthony than the other two.”

  “That’s the name of the man who called last night,” said Michelle.

  “Anthony Palmer called last night?” asked Gardener, the policeman’s instinct immediately surfacing.

  “At the house?” asked Reilly.

  “Yes,” said Michelle.

  “Did he say where he was?”

  “No. The conversation – if you could call it that – lasted less than a minute. He asked if he could speak to Rosie and I told him James had died.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About eight o’clock.”

  “When you told him what had happened to James, did he say anything?”

  “Nothing, the line went dead.”

&n
bsp; “I’m sorry to ask you this at such a bad time,” said Gardener, “but did you hear anything in the background that might give us a clue to his whereabouts?”

  “No, not really. I heard voices but I don’t think he was in a pub.”

  Gardener apologised and left the table, withdrawing to the corner of the room. He reached into his jacket, drew out his own phone and made a call to the station. He gave them Rosie’s home number, and the exact time and length of the call. He said he wanted it triangulating and he wanted the results in five minutes or heads would roll.

  He returned to the table, noticing her complexion had improved a little.

  True to form, his phone rang a little after five minutes later. Gardener answered and was given the information he needed.

  “Anthony Palmer made the call from somewhere in Headingley,” he said to Reilly.

  Chapter Fifty

  Reilly pulled the pool car to a stop in front of a three-bedroom detached bungalow in Manor Park, Burley in Wharfedale, home to Anthony Palmer. The pair of them jumped out and approached the front door. Though he felt foolish, Gardener still rang the bell.

  There was no answer, as expected.

  “Didn’t actually think he’d be home, did we?” asked Reilly.

  Gardener shook his head. “He’s not likely to be, Sean. This is the last place he’ll be if he’s responsible for the deaths of the others.”

  Reilly glanced around the property, through the windows, and then turned back to his partner. “Rosie Henshaw surprised me when she said that she felt Anthony Palmer wasn’t responsible for James’ death.”

  “Yes, I thought it a bit odd,” replied Gardener. “Everything we know about him says otherwise. And even if he isn’t, he certainly has to bear some responsibility for the death of David and Ann Marie Hunter.”

  “Judging by how Michael Foreman was disposed of, it has me doubting that Palmer was involved. That HN-3 shit won’t be easy to get hold of.”

  “You’re probably right,” replied Gardener, “but starving someone is well within his remit.”

  Gardener glanced around, still unsure where it was all leading. “Do me a favour, Sean, will you have a look around the back?”

  Reilly nodded and took off. He was back within minutes. “Nothing there. Christ, you want to see the size of this place. There’s two really big rooms, not sure what one is but the other looks like a swimming pool.”

  Gardener rolled his eyes. “Like you said yesterday, Sean, we’re in the wrong job.” He checked his watch. “Right, there’s nothing doing here, why don’t we drive through the village and stop off at the Hunters’ place, see what we can pick up there?”

  The journey took all of five minutes. Pulling up in the drive, the Hunters’ residence appeared to be equally as nice as Palmer’s bungalow, though not as big. One main difference between the two properties was that Highway Cottage had a sold sign bolted to the outside wall. Gardener glanced back down the drive but he couldn’t see one on the main road leading to the property.

  “Will you do the honours again, Sean?”

  As Reilly walked around the back, Gardener glanced through the windows. The furniture was still in the same place as when he and Reilly had visited Roger Hunter some time back. He knew the funerals had taken place and he had not seen or spoken to Roger since, but the sold sign suggested he might still be around somewhere.

  As Gardener turned, he noticed the neighbour in her garden opposite. She smiled and said morning and he racked his memory banks for a name, which slipped into his brain at the very last second.

  “Morning, Mrs Poskitt,” he said, strolling over and showing his warrant card, not because he wanted to question her, but more a reassurance that he was not a burglar. “We’re looking for Roger Hunter, you haven’t seen him around, have you?”

  She was an elderly woman with grey hair tied up in a bun, which elongated her thin face. She was dressed in garden denims that bore green and brown stains, and a quilted bodywarmer, and Wellington boots. “I can’t say I have, not for some time.”

  “When you say some time, how long are we talking?”

  Poskitt placed her tools on the ground and thought about that question. Eventually, she replied. “Maybe five or six weeks now.”

  “As long as that?”

  “Well, not to talk to. I have seen him popping in and out.”

  “How does he seem?” Gardener asked.

  “Busy,” replied Poskitt. “He doesn’t stay too long. But then I can’t say I blame him. This place must hold some awful memories for him.”

  “Okay,” said Gardener, nodding and tipping his hat. “Thank you for your time.”

  As he turned, she spoke again. “Mind you, I do find it very odd.”

  Gardener glanced at her. “Sorry.”

  “I didn’t see a for sale sign.”

  Gardener glanced back at the house. “When did the sold sign go up?”

  “Can’t have been much more than a week. I went out to the shops one morning and when I returned, it was up. But I never saw a for sale sign. They always put a for sale sign up before a sold sign, don’t they? Which is why I think it’s odd.”

  Gardener thanked her and strolled back to the property as Reilly came around to the front.

  “No one home, boss. Everything looks like it did last time.”

  Gardener nodded, studying the sold sign. Although it was bolted to the wall it was dark brown at the bottom, suggesting it had been in a garden at some point. He stared down the drive to the road. It was always possible, he thought. But as the neighbour had pointed out, she had not seen a for sale sign, indicating she didn’t know it was on the market, so why would anyone else?

  He reached for his phone and dialled the number on the board, which, strangely enough, was a Harrogate estate agent.

  “What’s going through your mind?” Reilly asked.

  The line was busy so Gardener hung up and told Reilly about the conversation with Poskitt. He rang the number again, which was answered on the second ring. He asked to speak to the manager.

  An older sounding lady said she was the manager – Ms Reynolds. Gardener introduced himself and asked about Highway Cottage.

  After a few minutes, and a tapping of keys, she asked. “In Burley, you say?”

  “Yes,” replied Gardener.

  “I’m afraid we have no property of that name on our books. Or even one for sale in Burley at the moment. It’s definitely our board, is it?”

  “Yes,” replied Gardener, “I’m looking at it now.”

  “I’m really sorry, officer, but I don’t know what to say. It definitely is not one of ours.”

  “Do many people steal these boards?” Gardener asked.

  “Not often, but it does happen. Funnily enough, we did have one stolen last week.”

  “Where from?” asked Gardener.

  “Here in Harrogate,” replied Reynolds, “about a street away from the office. We asked our man to go and take it down and put it up somewhere else. When he returned he said it wasn’t there.” She laughed, which sounded more like a horse whinnying to Gardener. “Anyway, it’s not as if they cost much.”

  Gardener thanked Reynolds for her time and then relayed that conversation to Reilly.

  “Might not be this one,” said Reilly.

  “True, but it’s odd.”

  “Okay,” said Reilly, “but it still doesn’t prove anything.” He turned and pointed to Sheila Poskitt. “She didn’t see anyone putting the sign up so we still have nothing to go on.”

  Gardener agreed and called the station to find out if Briggs had any information from Porton Down. Williams took the call and said that he had not put anyone through as yet.

  “But I do have a message for you,” said Williams. “Where are you?”

  “Burley,” replied Gardener.

  “Perfect,” said Williams. He then relayed the call from Wendy Higgins and gave Gardener all the details and asked him to call round to see Alan Braithwaite.

/>   Chapter Fifty-one

  Anthony Palmer’s head was a shed.

  Unexpected news and a completely sleepless night can do that to you. He was sitting in an Internet Café in Headingley, on his fourth coffee since five o’clock that morning, having caught the owner unawares, who had claimed he didn’t open till six but took pity on Anthony and served him coffee, then eventually breakfast. Anthony had then taken a bus into Leeds and strolled around till he found a different Internet Café to the one he’d visited the previous day.

  There was something to be said for being completely oblivious to your circumstances and hoping things will turn out right. With his predicament however, the chances of that would be impossible.

  Michael’s death had shocked him. James’ demise had devastated him. Following a conversation the previous evening with an unknown female, Anthony had left the café in search of a pub, downing plenty of alcohol when he’d found one that suited. It was nearly empty and had no atmosphere. He started with beer, moved to wine, and finished with a couple of shots.

  Back at the guest house, sleep was never going to happen. His head was completely spinning.

  It still was.

  Who was responsible? Zoe was the obvious choice. She was a machine, incapable of feelings, with such an iron will that she rarely allowed anything to compromise her plans. She had killed David Hunter without a second’s thought. Then she’d finished off Ann Marie with a baseball bat when she’d stumbled upon the accident. What’s to say something in her head hadn’t cracked and she now wanted everyone else out of the way?

  Anthony stared at the screen, itching to log on to the safe cyber address that the DPA had, to see if Zoe had sent anything – though he doubted it. Should Zoe be responsible, she wouldn’t want to communicate with him at all. If she wasn’t, she might already be dead.

  Leaving only him, with no answer as to who it actually was.

  The only other possibility would be Rosie, but could she kill her husband? Rosie was hot-headed, short tempered, but not really given to rash behaviour. He could imagine she might want to dispose of three of them – but why James? He was the father of her children. Try explaining that one to them.