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

“Sorry, no, they were never blessed with children.”

“Where did your brother and sister-in-law work?” Reilly asked Roger Hunter. “At the moment we only know from the neighbours that Roger worked for a bank, but we don’t know which one.”

“Trans Global on Merrion Street.”

“What did he do?”

“Strangely enough I’m not really sure. Finance director comes to mind.”

Gardener didn’t bother asking what that entailed. Now that he had the name and address of the bank he would find out from the horse’s mouth.

“When did you last see your brother?” Reilly asked.

“We’re not very close-knit. We phone each other perhaps once a month but I think the last time I actually saw him was perhaps a year ago.”

“What do you do, Roger?” asked Reilly.

Roger Hunter smiled, but it was pained. “Government work, very boring, but necessary.”

“What does that mean?” asked Reilly.

“If I told you I’d have to kill you, Mr Reilly.”

All three men laughed, especially Gardener, thinking how much easier said than done it would be with his partner.

“It was worth a try,” said Reilly.

“One of the things we’d like to try and find out is why they were both out around midnight. Are you aware of any family problems?”

“None that I can think of but I’m sure that neither of them told me everything.”

“Any financial problems?”

“It’s highly unlikely, given David’s position, and their status in life. He had a good pension, a good salary, and a number of sound investments. House was paid for, new car every three years.”

“How long had he worked for the bank?” Gardener asked.

“Pretty much all his life, since the eighties.”

“Obviously a trusted employee,” said Reilly.

“You’d think so,” said Roger Hunter, taking a mouthful of tea before reaching for the pistachio nuts. “People who can’t be trusted don’t get to work for a bank in the first place.”

“Would you say they had a sound marriage?”

“It was certainly very good; not perfect, but then, whose is?”

Good point, thought Gardener. Though Roger was David’s brother he probably wouldn’t gain much ground with his line of questioning if they never saw much of each other, but he had picked up some useful information.

“I’m going out on a limb here, Mr Hunter,” said Gardener, “but you wouldn’t be aware of any enemies your brother might have had; perhaps someone who may want to do him some harm?”

Roger Hunter was taken aback by the question. “Do him any harm? I don’t think so. I know he worked for a bank so I don’t doubt he picked up one or two enemies, the current economic climate being what it is, but I don’t think anyone would go so far as to kill him.”

“You’d be surprised,” added Reilly. “Where are you staying, Roger?”

“If it’s okay with you two I thought I might stay at the house. Unless it’s a crime scene.”

“We don’t think it is, but we’d like access to the house during the day today. We’d like to take their computer, and we would also like to see if David’s phone is in the house. We can check through paperwork, and providing there is nothing to suggest the house itself is a crime scene, you can take possession.”

Roger Hunter nodded. “It sounds like you have your work cut out so I won’t bother you any further. But I do have one more question. Have you any idea when the bodies will be released, and when I might be able to bury my brother and his wife?”

Gardener figured that question would eventually come into play. “If you leave me your contact details I will do everything I can to make sure it’s sooner rather than later.”

Chapter Seven

Alan Braithwaite strolled past The Malt as the church bell chimed the first of its ten rings. A bitingly cold wind snaked its way through the centre of the village, forcing him to pull his overcoat tighter around his body.

Another ten minutes should see the first signs of frostbite, thought Braithwaite, unless his Jack Russell terrier, Spike, managed to do his business early and therefore call it a day.

He seriously doubted that. The dog was out every morning come rain or shine. The scheduled walk took them to the end of the village and the roundabout before Spike would even consider turning back; might make a difference if he had a lead but he didn’t like putting the dog on one, preferring to allow it the freedom to roam.

Traffic in the village was quiet. He hadn’t yet seen a vehicle, or another human being.

What he had seen were a number of police posters pinned to street lights and telegraph poles, appealing for witnesses to the hit and run: had anyone seen anything suspicious; cars they didn’t recognise? That was a tough one. It was a village, there were people driving in and out all day that the residents had never seen.

Braithwaite walked around the left-hand bend leading out of the village, Spike happily trotting along in front of him, stopping every two or three feet to have a sniff at something – though his owner could never see what. The wall belonging to the Frost family was badly damaged where a vehicle had hit it – only now, two orange and white cones connected by police tape still cordoned off the path.

As the roundabout came into view, so too did the damaged railings; they were covered with flowers, and standing in front of them was a fellow neighbour, Wendy Higgins, with her brown Labrador, Pouch. Wendy was a widower, having lost her husband three years ago to a sudden heart attack. The man hadn’t lingered. Here one minute, gone the next.

“Good morning, Alan,” said Wendy as she spotted him.

Braithwaite noticed she’d lost weight recently and hoped she was okay