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

went out to the shops one morning and when I returned, it was up. But I never saw a for sale sign. They always put a for sale sign up before a sold sign, don’t they? Which is why I think it’s odd.”

Gardener thanked her and strolled back to the property as Reilly came around to the front.

“No one home, boss. Everything looks like it did last time.”

Gardener nodded, studying the sold sign. Although it was bolted to the wall it was dark brown at the bottom, suggesting it had been in a garden at some point. He stared down the drive to the road. It was always possible, he thought. But as the neighbour had pointed out, she had not seen a for sale sign, indicating she didn’t know it was on the market, so why would anyone else?

He reached for his phone and dialled the number on the board, which, strangely enough, was a Harrogate estate agent.

“What’s going through your mind?” Reilly asked.

The line was busy so Gardener hung up and told Reilly about the conversation with Poskitt. He rang the number again, which was answered on the second ring. He asked to speak to the manager.

An older sounding lady said she was the manager – Ms Reynolds. Gardener introduced himself and asked about Highway Cottage.

After a few minutes, and a tapping of keys, she asked. “In Burley, you say?”

“Yes,” replied Gardener.

“I’m afraid we have no property of that name on our books. Or even one for sale in Burley at the moment. It’s definitely our board, is it?”

“Yes,” replied Gardener, “I’m looking at it now.”

“I’m really sorry, officer, but I don’t know what to say. It definitely is not one of ours.”

“Do many people steal these boards?” Gardener asked.

“Not often, but it does happen. Funnily enough, we did have one stolen last week.”

“Where from?” asked Gardener.

“Here in Harrogate,” replied Reynolds, “about a street away from the office. We asked our man to go and take it down and put it up somewhere else. When he returned he said it wasn’t there.” She laughed, which sounded more like a horse whinnying to Gardener. “Anyway, it’s not as if they cost much.”

Gardener thanked Reynolds for her time and then relayed that conversation to Reilly.

“Might not be this one,” said Reilly.

“True, but it’s odd.”

“Okay,” said Reilly, “but it still doesn’t prove anything.” He turned and pointed to Sheila Poskitt. “She didn’t see anyone putting the sign up so we still have nothing to go on.”

Gardener agreed and called the station to find out if Briggs had any information from Porton Down. Williams took the call and said that he had not put anyone through as yet.

“But I do have a message for you,” said Williams. “Where are you?”

“Burley,” replied Gardener.

“Perfect,” said Williams. He then relayed the call from Wendy Higgins and gave Gardener all the details and asked him to call round to see Alan Braithwaite.

Chapter Fifty-one

Anthony Palmer’s head was a shed.

Unexpected news and a completely sleepless night can do that to you. He was sitting in an Internet Café in Headingley, on his fourth coffee since five o’clock that morning, having caught the owner unawares, who had claimed he didn’t open till six but took pity on Anthony and served him coffee, then eventually breakfast. Anthony had then taken a bus into Leeds and strolled around till he found a different Internet Café to the one he’d visited the previous day.

There was something to be said for being completely oblivious to your circumstances and hoping things will turn out right. With his predicament however, the chances of that would be impossible.

Michael’s death had shocked him. James’ demise had devastated him. Following a conversation the previous evening with an unknown female, Anthony had left the café in search of a pub, downing plenty of alcohol when he’d found one that suited. It was nearly empty and had no atmosphere. He started with beer, moved to wine, and finished with a couple of shots.

Back at the guest house, sleep was never going to happen. His head was completely spinning.

It still was.

Who was responsible? Zoe was the obvious choice. She was a machine, incapable of feelings, with such an iron will that she rarely allowed anything to compromise her plans. She had killed David Hunter without a second’s thought. Then she’d finished off Ann Marie with a baseball bat when she’d stumbled upon the accident. What’s to say something in her head hadn’t cracked and she now wanted everyone else out of the way?

Anthony stared at the screen, itching to log on to the safe cyber address that the DPA had, to see if Zoe had sent anything – though he doubted it. Should Zoe be responsible, she wouldn’t want to communicate with him at all. If she wasn’t, she might already be dead.

Leaving only him, with no answer as to who it actually was.

The only other possibility would be Rosie, but could she kill her husband? Rosie was hot-headed, short tempered, but not really given to rash behaviour. He could imagine she might want to dispose of three of them – but why James? He was the father of her children. Try explaining that one to them.

It could always be someone else. The DPA team had certainly put enough noses out of joint. The trouble with that last thought was where to start. It could be anyone, from anywhere, from any time.

Anthony bit the bullet and found the site for the safe cyber address and logged in. That wasn’t so easy. The login required a number of different passwords and configurations, some of which were random, requiring a search of the old memory bank.

A skinny waitress in a short skirt and black leggings passed by his booth. “Can I get another coffee, please?” asked