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

anyone has a motive, he does. Maybe it’s worth checking to see if the house has sold; if not, is he still around? If he is, update him on what we’ve found, and find out if he knows anything more. But more importantly, we might need to upset one of those apple carts because we could really do with finding out more about him. If only to clear him and perhaps make sure he isn’t on the list either.”

Chapter Forty-two

Ablutions complete and bathroom duties finished, Anthony was back in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He still didn’t feel clean. How could he? The guest house was a dump, with little in the way of hygiene standards. The sheets in his room hadn’t been changed. Who was he kidding? The bed hadn’t even been made. He was sharing a bathroom down the corridor with Lord knows how many other people, where he actually had to clean the bath before he jumped in.

About to think things through, a news anchor from the TV on the wall led with the story of a man who had died in horrific circumstances in the centre of Leeds yesterday. Anthony wouldn’t have bothered too much but he heard the words hit and run.

Jumping off the bed he increased the volume.

“The victim, known as Michael Foreman, was seen wandering around Bond Street in a very distressed state…”

A picture of Michael appeared on screen and Anthony nearly collapsed. His legs weakened, and he felt pins and needles in his arms and the ends of his fingers.

The news crew were talking to eyewitnesses, whose accounts were moving. Michael had been wandering around, searching for help, screaming out in pain – almost blind.

What the fuck had happened to him? thought Anthony, staring at the screen.

The Calendar news team confirmed the police had been on hand very quickly and the whole scene was cordoned off whilst they dealt with the incident. It appeared that Michael Foreman had died pretty soon after, leaving the scene in an ambulance. The police were appealing for more witnesses to come forward. They had not revealed what Michael had died of.

Anthony couldn’t believe it. He felt hollow, and cold, and close to breaking down. What the hell had happened to their lives? They had had everything: successful business, nice homes, flash cars. More money than they could ever have spent. One mistake. One mistake was all it had taken to ruin everything.

Anthony grabbed his bottle of lager, taking a deep, long swig, thinking over his day.

As he’d suspected, the owner of the guest house knew someone who knew someone who had a car that was surplus to requirements. Fifty pounds cash with no questions asked and he’d had the keys and the car before ten o’clock.

He’d actually started with Michael’s apartment in Skipton. He wasn’t surprised when the caretaker informed him it had been emptied, and that the police were calling on a regular basis. It was the same story at Zoe’s riverside apartment. When he dropped by Rosie’s house in Ilkley, the police had actually been there. He’d seen them enter the house from the opposite side of the road.

What in God’s name was going on? How much did the police know? More to the point, who was responsible for the carnage? Who had killed Michael?

There were two prime suspects as far as he could see. Zoe Harrison or James Henshaw.

Rosie claimed James had never made it to Brussels. Maybe he hadn’t. What if James had had a change of heart, decided he didn’t like what had happened, wanted to fix things?

The same could be said of Zoe. She was completely fucking ruthless when it came to business. The cold-hearted way in which she disposed of Ann Marie was unparalleled.

Anthony swigged more lager. They could both be in it together, though it was a long shot. Zoe and James were complete opposites.

It was still possible that they could have ripped him off and fucked off.

But why would James do that? He had a wife and family – more to lose.

Another thought hit Anthony. Was it Rosie? Was she responsible for the mess and the destruction?

Anthony’s thoughts were then dealt another serious blow, when three faces appeared on the TV screen, wanted in connection with the hit and run of David Hunter, and the death of his wife, Ann Marie, in Burley in Wharfedale three months previous.

They had pictures. And he recognised them all: Zoe, James, and himself.

He lowered his head and covered his face with his hands. It could be all over now.

How long did he really have left before the net closed in on him?

Desperate for answers, Anthony suddenly had a light-bulb moment, one that was worth hanging on to.

The DPA safe cyber forum address where they could be contacted if all else failed.

It had to be worth the risk.

Chapter Forty-three

Rosie opened the front door to the sound of the bell and immediately saw red.

“Brought the cuffs, have you?” She stretched out her arms and held out her hands. “Ready to cart me away?”

Both officers pulled out warrant cards. One was very smartly dressed in a jacket, shirt and tie, trousers, and for some bizarre reason a hat with a hole in it. The other wore a bomber jacket and jeans.

“Mrs Henshaw.” Gardener held up his card.

“This is police harassment.” Rosie walked off, leaving the door open, as she had earlier in the day for the other two.

Gardener and Reilly followed. Rosie ended up in the kitchen, taking a seat at the table.

She immediately jumped up, wandered over and removed lemonade from the fridge, took a glass from the cupboard above her head and poured one out.

“Would you like one?”

“Please,” said both officers in unison.

When all three were seated, Rosie went on the