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

Zoe lowered her gaze, silently elated.

“Please,” she lifted her head, her eyes imploring, “don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean anything by it. I won’t do it again.”

“You’re damn right you won’t,” replied the driver, “now you can resend that email and you will tell Rosie Henshaw exactly what I want you to tell her.”

“I’m not feeling well,” pleaded Zoe, “please, I need you to bring me an injection of Carbimazole, and a vitamin supplement.”

“I will, when you’ve done what I asked.” The driver leaned in closer. “And if you try anything like that again, I’ll kill you. Think on, you’re coming to the end of your usefulness, so don’t push me.”

As the driver stepped outside to grab a chair, he left the door open. With a quick glance at the roof of the building, Zoe knew exactly where she was being held prisoner. She would recognise that pipework on the ceiling anywhere. All she needed now was a back door into her own computer system. Then she’d see who was pushing whom.

Chapter Thirty-six

Rosie read the email from James three times, trying to spot hidden messages or meanings. Problem was, it was short and sweet and to the point, sticking to the facts; not really the kind of thing he would normally write.

He claimed he was still in Brussels. Lying bastard. The meetings were complicated, therefore taking longer to strike a deal. Who was he kidding? He sent his love, and asked to be remembered to the children – didn’t use their names, simply referring to them as the children – and said he would be home soon.

Rosie wasn’t sure what to think. Despite the deception she still loved him and longed for him to be home. Part of her was elated that her long lost husband had finally made an appearance at last, albeit in cyber space. It proved he hadn’t left her, or worse, was dead. Another part of her felt nothing but disgust and revulsion for what he had been accused of. Did he really think he could kill someone and walk away from it all? Did he really do it?

Was the email even from James? She doubted it, for a number of reasons. She’d heard nothing at all for weeks, and now a bolt out of the blue. And the phrasing, James wouldn’t write and ask to be remembered to the children. No way. He would have referred to them by name.

But if he hadn’t sent it, who had: and from where? Then again, why wouldn’t he have sent one? She’d emailed not much more than half an hour back. Still, it was strange. Her head was a mess.

She raised her mobile phone and read it again.

The doorbell saved her from any further thoughts. When she answered she found two men on her doorstep. One was tall and thin with grey hair and a suit that had seen better days. The other was balding, wore wire-rimmed spectacles, and had very white teeth. His suit was smarter, more in keeping with a married man. He held a plastic folder in his right hand. Both had warrant cards on display.

“Mrs Henshaw?” inquired the tall one.

“Who wants to know?” demanded Rosie.

The smaller one answered. “DCs Bob Anderson and Frank Thornton. We’re with the West Yorkshire Major Incident Team.”

“Oh not this again,” said Rosie, stepping aside. “You’d better come in.”

She left one of them to close the door and continued through to the kitchen.

“I’ve just brewed up, would you like one?”

“No, we’re okay, thanks, Mrs Henshaw,” said the taller one. She couldn’t remember who was who, despite having found out only seconds previously.

After she’d poured a drink she indicated for them to take a seat at the table. “I’ve told you lot everything I know. I can’t possibly tell you anything else. I don’t know where my husband is, and I know absolutely nothing about the hit and run. So what else can you possibly ask me that I’ve not already covered?”

“We’re not actually here about your husband, Mrs Henshaw,” said the smaller, smarter of the two. “We’d like to talk to you about Michael Foreman.”

“Michael Foreman? What’s that waste of space done now, assuming you’ve actually found him?”

“How well do you know him?”

“Obviously not as well as I thought,” said Rosie, wondering why the hell they were here to talk about him.

“Well enough to call him a bald headed, squat nosed dumpling.”

“Did I? When was that?” Before she gave them time to answer, she pressed ahead. “Well, whenever it was it was high praise for him.”

“There’s no love lost, then?” commented the one with the grey hair.

“Never has been.”

“A few weeks back,” replied the shorter one, opening his plastic folder. “We have transcripts here of a phone call he made to you.”

“Oh, I do remember that,” said Rosie. “I’m sure we had a thunderstorm that night and he called when I was trying to settle the children. I was bloody well fuming. I’d heard nothing from James since he’d gone to Brussels and then that idiot calls asking to speak to him and claims he knew nothing about a meeting in Brussels. Don’t suppose you’ve found either of them, have you?”

Rosie took a sip of tea. “Anyway, never mind Foreman, what about my husband? Have you found him, yet?”

“We’re working on it, Mrs Henshaw.”

“Well you want to work a bit bloody harder and when you do find him I have plenty of questions of my own to ask him.”

The pair glanced at each other with expressions that were hard to read.

“Did Michael Foreman have any family, or children?”

“Not that I know of. Who the bloody hell would have him?”

“When did you last see him?”

“Oh, Christ, to be honest I think I’ve only ever seen him twice in