IMPOSTURE: Hunters become the hunted in this gripping murder mystery Ray Clark (lightest ebook reader TXT) 📖

He needed the car park. He had to leave the bloody airport before anything else happened.

Due to the confusion and the frustration, it took him nearly ten minutes to find which park he’d left his car in.

When he finally made it to the space, Anthony dropped his case, threw his hands in the air and shouted at the top of his voice.

“Will you please fuck off?”

Chapter Twenty

The driver of the Evoque edged his way up The Headrow in the centre of Leeds, sticking to the speed limit because he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He wasn’t bothered about being seen, more about being caught.

In the back of the vehicle, handcuffed and trussed up underneath the parcel shelf, his passenger constantly moaned. The driver figured his prisoner was in a real bad place about now.

He increased the volume on the radio to cut out the moaning. He was fed up of hearing it.

The traffic lights changed to green. The bus in front of him moved off and he hung a left onto Albion Street.

The morning was clear and bright but cold because of the bitter wind skating its way across the city. Pedestrians huddled into winter clothing. One teenager held the flaps of her coat tightly together but flatly refused to let go of her mobile – or her burger; who the hell ate burgers at ten o’clock in the morning?

He passed Curry’s PC World on his left and Waterstones on his right, before cruising down to the bottom, where Albion Street turned into a pedestrian precinct.

The passenger moaned again, shouting for help. The driver knew he was way beyond that. It was only a matter of time, but he wouldn’t be around to see – or listen – to the results.

As the road bore round to the left, Butts Court appeared on the right. Fixed to the wall about twenty feet above were a pair of CCTV cameras.

He wasn’t concerned about those. The vehicle wasn’t registered to him. Whoever came to investigate the crime he was about to commit would draw quite a number of blanks. If and when they did make some headway, it would all be over.

His prisoner let out a banshee type scream, which ended with a question.

“For fuck’s sake what have you given me?”

The driver didn’t bother to reply. The man wouldn’t have to bear it for much longer.

He pulled the Evoque to his left, stopped, selected reverse and backed his way up Butts Court. The other end of the street was a dead end; otherwise he would have driven straight in.

Glancing out of the back window he saw a hoodie coming toward the vehicle. He was unlikely to cause a problem. Most of them were in their own world, paying more attention to their phones.

The driver pulled up near the ramp that led to underground parking. He killed the engine, jumped out and walked around to the back of the vehicle.

He glanced around. Across the road he saw a truck tight up to a loading bay. Despite hearing voices and fork trucks whirring around he doubted anyone would give him a second glance.

He opened the tailgate. The man yelled and shielded his eyes and face from the sun. His passenger had deteriorated. His complexion was pale. A vein in his neck had inflamed. He had blisters around his mouth, which had also started to swell. Another few minutes, guessed the driver, and he wouldn’t be able to speak at all. His eyes were swollen and his skin was turning red.

“What have you done to me?” The sentence had taken some effort because of the effect of the swelling of his lips.

The driver ignored him. He unlocked the handcuffs, dragged him out of the vehicle, across the pavement, dumping him into a corner between the wall and the metal fencing.

“Hey.”

The driver turned to see the hoodie, dressed in baggy warehouse jeans and white trainers. How unlucky could he be; the only hoodie in the world who actually did notice the life around him?

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Is this a film?”

The driver wondered what the hell he was talking about until he glanced down at his own clothing: a white contamination suit with a white hood, and gloves.

“That looks fucking wicked,” said the hoodie, peering around, “where’s the rest of the cameras?”

His prisoner moaned, as if on cue.

The hoodie grabbed his phone and pointed it at them.

The driver wasn’t having any of that and covered the distance to the hoodie in two strides. He grabbed the man’s right hand with his left and squeezed.

The hoodie immediately buckled, dropped to the concrete, his face a ball of confusion. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Let go of the phone.”

“Me hand, me hand, you’re crushing me fucking hand.”

“If you don’t let go of the phone you won’t have a hand to worry about.”

The hoodie did as he was told, at which point he was moaning louder than the man who’d been trussed up in the back of the Evoque.

The driver grabbed the phone, switched it off and put it in his pocket.

The hoodie stood up, rubbing his hand. “Fucking maniac. Give me the phone back.”

The driver figured action was needed before someone else came sniffing. Clenching his right fist he punched the hoodie hard and fast in his solar plexus, who ended up face down on the concrete, winded and almost vomiting. He brought his knees to his chest and struggled to catch his breath.

The driver picked him up and rolled him down the ramp to the underground car park. Someone would find him, but he’d be okay, unlike the other shape he’d dragged out of the vehicle.

It was time to go. The driver turned to face his passenger. He knelt closer.

“Have a