IMPOSTURE: Hunters become the hunted in this gripping murder mystery, Ray Clark [classic books for 10 year olds .txt] 📗

mobile, which also went to voicemail. Seeing as James was the only member of the group who was married with children, life for him was somewhat traditional and he had a landline.

Anthony called that. After eight rings, a somewhat fractured Rosie finally answered.

“Hello?”

“Rosie?”

“Palmer? Where the hell have you been, you four-eyed, spineless, murdering parasite?”

“Pardon?”

“Deaf as well, are we?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Rosie?”

“You know bloody well what I’m talking about.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“You’ll need one by the time I’ve finished with you – if only to numb the pain.”

“Put James on, Rosie.”

“I wish I could.”

“Why? Where is he?”

“You tell me. Last I heard he was in Brussels.”

Anthony thought on his feet. “Oh, for the meeting.”

“Oh, so you actually know something about it, then?”

“We all did.”

“Michael Foreman must have suffered amnesia, then, because that beached whale didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.”

“When was that?” asked Anthony.

He thought the line had gone dead but then he realised Rosie was talking to someone else. The conversation was muffled. She must have had her hand over the receiver.

“About five weeks ago,” she replied, when she finally came back to him. “Anyway, let’s cut the bullshit, Palmer, because I know damned well that James was not in Brussels. He never even went there in the first place.”

“So where is he now?”

“What do you think I am, a clairvoyant? The last I saw of him was when he walked out of here to take a trip to Brussels with, supposedly, you lot. That was weeks ago. The police told me he’d never even left the country.”

“The police?” questioned Anthony, nearly fainting. “You involved the police?”

“I didn’t have to. They’ve continually been knocking at my door and asking me questions to which I have no answers.”

“About what?”

“What do you think, you cretin?”

“I’m not thinking anything,” replied Anthony, “I’m asking.”

“Does the name David Hunter mean anything to you?”

Anthony didn’t reply. His mind was too busy thinking of the implications.

“Cat got your tongue, Palmer? Well, let me tell you how it stands right now, shall I? They know all about the hit and run in Burley in Wharfedale, in which you lot, including my husband, almost certainly played a part. They’ve been all over my house, and taken everything they thought was connected to that accident. They’ve studied all the airports. But, I’ll give credit where it’s due, you guys are brilliant at covering your tracks, because they can’t find a damned thing, including you.”

When Anthony made no reply to that outburst, Rosie asked him if he was still there.

“Yes.”

“So go on, then, where are you?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell you.”

“Nothing new there, then. Any idea what it’s like for me and the kids, Palmer?” Rosie didn’t give him the chance to reply. “No, you wouldn’t have, would you? You’ve never had kids. They cry themselves to sleep every night wondering where their father is, and if he’s ever coming back. What the hell am I supposed to tell them? That everything is okay and Daddy will be back soon? Trouble is, if what they say is true, I don’t want him back. You lot killed a man and his wife in cold blood and left them to rot. You all cleared off while the heat died down. I don’t know what that makes you but I don’t want any part of it, and I don’t want my kids near it, either.”

“Look, Rosie,” protested Anthony, “let me try to explain.”

She cut him off. “Don’t bother. It’ll simply be a pack of lies. Save those for the police. You know something, Anthony Palmer – if that even is your real name – you’ve never had anyone to think about but yourself. None of you have. Well that’s okay, it’s going to come in handy while you’re still trying to hide from the police. And they will find you, you shitehawk, because they’ve also put a trace on my phone.”

The connection died.

Chapter Twenty-seven

By the time the team had assembled in the incident room late in the evening, Gardener had updated the whiteboards with the information that had filtered in throughout the day. Sitting on tables at the side of the room were hot drinks, and snacks provided by a local bakery that Reilly was on good terms with.

Gardener addressed his team. “Thanks for coming. I realise it’s been a trying day and we may not have covered much ground, but hopefully we’ll add something further to the boards. I held a press conference about an hour ago.”

That brought a chorus of noise. Everyone knew he hated the press, and why.

Gardener continued, “Has anyone gleaned anything from the witness statements?”

Bob Anderson and Frank Thornton had worked together; Anderson spoke up: “Nothing that we don’t already know.”

“One of the women who works in Waterstones noticed Michael Foreman on Butts Court around ten o’clock,” said Thornton. “She’d popped out the back for a quick smoke and she saw him staggering away, toward the town centre. He had his hands around his face at that point.”

“She didn’t see anything else – anyone else?”

“No. Even though we know he’d been dumped,” added Anderson, “she didn’t see a vehicle.”

“I’m working on that, sir,” said Paul Benson. “After I’d finished speaking to Millie Johnson I drove back to the area and listed all the buildings and companies, so that we can prepare a list and work through it, and speak to more people, assuming CCTV doesn’t reveal anything.”

“I’m sure it will, Paul, good work. Did Millie Johnson have anything to add?”

“No. She’d been out to meet a friend for morning coffee. A lady named Stella Dent. After that, they’d both browsed the shelves in Waterstones before setting off in