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

“Morning.”

The two dogs met up, touched noses and then roamed across the grass verge toward the fence and the field.

“Not the best morning to be out.”

“I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for him,” replied Braithwaite.

Wendy Higgins laughed. “Slaves, that’s all we are. We care more about them than ourselves.” She huddled into her coat a little and stared at the electric box. “Bad business, that.”

What could he do but nod in agreement?

“I wonder what happened to them? How long were they laying there unnoticed?” asked Wendy Higgins.

“I’ve no idea, love, but I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it.”

“I keep wondering what they were doing out at that time of night.” Wendy’s gaze was distant. “You’re not safe anywhere these days. You don’t think it was one of those terror groups, do you?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Burley is a small village. They usually target people in big cities; there’s more of them to hit.”

“What a dreadful world we live in. My doors are at locked at six every night, Alan. I don’t trust anyone anymore.” She glanced over at the dogs, both quite happy stretched out on the grass. “Have they found the vehicle yet, do you know?”

“There’s been nothing in the papers or on the news. Plenty of posters appealing for help. A good spell in the army wouldn’t hurt them. Never did me any harm… if I could just get my hands on them.”

“Terrible, terrible business, but you shouldn’t work yourself up, Alan. I mean this in the nicest possible way but I suspect your army days are well behind you,” said Wendy. “Anyway, I shan’t keep you any longer. I’ve walked Pouch and I think we’re both ready for a hot drink and a few biscuits.”

Both of them glanced over at their dogs but only Pouch was sitting on the grass verge in front of the electric box.

Braithwaite turned his head in all directions but he saw nothing of Spike.

“You didn’t see him wander off, did you?” he asked Wendy.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Spike!”

Pouch stared at both of them but if Spike was around he wasn’t letting on.

“He can’t be far away,” said Wendy. “I’ll help you look for him.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that, love, it’s bitterly cold.”

“We’ve been out half an hour already, a few more minutes isn’t going to make much difference.”

“Spike!”

Pouch lifted himself to his feet and wandered closer. Wendy Higgins placed his lead back onto his collar, as if something bad had happened to Spike and she didn’t want Pouch going the same way, wherever that was.

Braithwaite stared beyond the electric box at the overgrown field. “He can only be in there, surely.”

“You go and have a look and I’ll try around here.”

Braithwaite nodded. He scurried to the fence, standing on the first rung, gaining some height. Peering into the field wasn’t helping. The grass was way overgrown and even if Spike was in there he wouldn’t see him.

But then he heard a growl.

He turned back, shouting to his friend.

Wendy and Pouch came over.

“I think he’s in there. I’ve just heard him growling.”

“Is he okay?”

Braithwaite yelled a couple more times with no luck. On the third shout, the dog barked. He climbed the fence, dropped into the field, where the grass reached up to his waist.

“Careful, Alan, you don’t know what’s in there.”

“I know Spike is.”

“Yes, but we don’t know what else.”

Braithwaite decided to risk it on the basis that Spike didn’t sound hurt. He continued to call the dog’s name, hoping it would carry on barking.

Within minutes he found the terrier sitting in front of an expensive brown leather attaché case. The steel locks were tarnished and the grainy exterior was ravaged, indicating it had been in the field for some time; nothing a decent clean wouldn’t put right.

Braithwaite bent down to retrieve the case, wondering where it had come from? He couldn’t open it because the latches would require the correct numbers. Apart from that it had a set of tumblers that needed keys. If they were anywhere around here he wasn’t going to look for them, he’d freeze to death.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said to Spike.

He found Wendy Higgins waiting for him when he reached the edge of the field.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Seems to be. I’ve just found this.”

She gave it the once over. “Where?”

“In the middle of that lot.” He glanced at Spike. “He was guarding it.”

“Looks expensive,” said Wendy, “is it locked?”

“Yes. Must be something important because it has numbered codes and keys, but I couldn’t find them.”

A dark expression crossed Wendy’s features. “You don’t think it has anything to do with the hit and run, do you?”

Alan Braithwaite stared at her. “It crossed my mind.”

Wendy Higgins had her phone out, dialling 999.

Chapter Eight

Two further days passed without any useful information coming to light, and nothing positive from the discovery of the attaché case. Gardener and Reilly were sitting in the incident room sorting through witness statements amounting to very little, when Patrick Edwards and Paul Benson found them.

“How’s it going with the statements, sir?” asked Edwards.

“Slowly, Patrick,” replied Gardener. “The only positive we have is that three separate witnesses have confirmed the presence of the 4x4 in the village within the time range.”

“They all say the same thing,” added Reilly. “It was white. The engine was running. Four people were inside – although one couple said the occupants appeared to be arguing with each other.”

“No one remembers a registration,” said Gardener. “How have you two got on?”

“We’ve actually managed to pick up the tyre tread pattern,” said Edwards.

“Both from the