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

It was all the prisoner could do to raise his arms but they fell to the ground almost immediately.

The driver jumped back into the Evoque and started the vehicle, relieved that no one else had intervened.

He drove off Butts Court, turned right, back on to Short Street, passing the Q-Park on the left. At the bottom he turned right again, onto Upper Basinghall Street, passing another CCTV camera.

At the end of the street he rejoined The Headrow and the inner ring road, floating past the town hall on his right as he made his way back home.

Job done. One down, three to go.

Chapter Twenty-one

Where was his car?

Anthony glanced around, checking as many of the cars as he could see. There were plenty of BMWs, many of them 7-series. But none were his.

He stared at the airport terminal, working out his bearings. He spotted all the landmarks. He was definitely in the correct car park.

He was good with numbers, worked with computers and had a very good memory for where he left things.

The car simply wasn’t there.

It wasn’t as if the space was empty. There was simply another car in it – a white Mini.

Deflated and sighing, Anthony sat down on his suitcase, wondering if his day was ever going to improve.

The flight had been late. Once he’d landed he’d had to put up with that needle-faced bitch in passport control. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the fucking clown more than made up for it. What in God’s name was a clown doing at an airport? After his recovery and being held up by the medical staff, the world’s unluckiest song made an appearance, setting his nerves on edge. No good ever came of anything when he heard that song.

And now his car was missing.

Anthony raised his head to the sky. “Please tell me, Lord, if you have anything else planned, let’s fucking have it, now!”

Anthony thought about the car. It had obviously been stolen. But when? Why? Who had taken it?

All of those questions could probably be answered quite easily. The airport would have CCTV.

Why were bad things happening to him? Karma. That’s why. He’d done some bad things himself recently. Maybe it was payback.

He stood up, glancing across the car park; not another soul in sight.

Anthony grabbed his phone from his pocket. Clicking the button at the side the screen prompted his password. Once he’d entered that, the phone informed him it was emergency calls only. There was no signal.

What did “emergency calls only” mean? Could he actually call anyone? He supposed he could always phone the police.

Anthony heard voices. When he glanced around it was a couple at the other end of the car park. He was always amazed by how sound travelled.

Another thought suddenly entered his mind. Had the car been stolen, or was he the victim of a prank? It was always possible. One of the other three could have done it, though he couldn’t think why.

Then again, they may have taken his car for another reason. Perhaps the same reason that one of them could have played around with his phone service. They were all good enough with computers to do that. Anthony should know.

A chill wind crossed the car park, forcing Anthony to pull his jacket tighter. He wasn’t in the Bahamas now.

If the other three were involved in the theft of his car and messing with his phone, they wouldn’t appreciate the police becoming involved. Come to think of it, in light of what had happened three months ago, Anthony wouldn’t appreciate the police digging into his life either. He had no idea where that could lead.

He paused, staring over at the terminal. It was only a ten-minute walk, no more.

He set off, passing a number of people along the way; one or two nodded but no one actually spoke.

As he neared the main building a taxi was dropping off. Once the driver had unloaded the suitcases he bade his fare goodbye and skipped around to the driver’s door.

“Are you free, mate?” Anthony shouted.

The driver was dressed in jeans, a grey shirt and black leather jacket. With a weary expression, he turned to face Anthony.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Burley in Wharfedale.”

“When?”

“How about now?”

“I’m not sure, I have another fare, maybe.”

Anthony dragged a wad of notes from his pocket. He never went anywhere without a pocket full of money.

He peeled off one hundred pounds. “We go now. No questions asked. It’ll take you ten minutes and it’ll be the best tax-free cash you’ll earn this week.”

The driver didn’t argue.

The journey took twenty minutes, conducted in silence.

When Anthony finally opened his front door, he struggled to push it more than six inches.

He glanced down.

“What the fuck?”

Chapter Twenty-two

Gardener glanced at the queue. There were three people in front of him, and at least another ten behind. The shop was bursting. At the speed the counter assistant was working, it probably wouldn’t take long for him to be served. In the meantime he would have to put up with some brash piped music.

Chris had harped on about a new pair of football boots for the last week. Not simply any boots, they had to be specific – in colour and brand. By the time he’d finished his sermon, Gardener didn’t need it writing down. His son had also dropped some heavy hints about the new Leeds Utd strip. Gardener dropped heavier ones, of the negative variety.

As he had time on his hands he was more than happy to buy the boots. He had no pending cases, unless you counted the disappearance of a certain Robbie Carter – though he doubted that man would reappear any time soon. The DPA case had all but died.