IMPOSTURE: Hunters become the hunted in this gripping murder mystery

by Ray Clark

  “Christ,” said Reilly.

  “Richard researched the doll,” said Roger Hunter. “He believed it to be possessed by the spirit of a child, but the identity of the ghost remained a mystery. Whether he found out more and never said, or he simply couldn’t find anything, I don’t know.

  “But the strangest thing ever, was that once the authorities untangled the wreckage of their car, Alfie Price was found in the boot.”

  “Why was that so strange?” Gardener asked.

  “Because the doll had disappeared eleven years previously – either that or it had been made to disappear, by Richard.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because Anthony actually suffers from coulrophobia: he is absolutely terrified of clowns – totally and utterly petrified.”

  “We can have these, as well, can we?” Gardener asked.

  “Yes, of course. They’re no use to me.”

  “Well thank you for your time and patience, Mr Hunter. All of this will be a great help to us.”

  “Then maybe you can help me, now, please?”

  “Go on,” said Gardener.

  “Now we seem to have moved ahead, and you guys have a reason for all of this, can I please bury my brother and his wife? Life has to go on and I cannot stay here forever. I have to have some normality back.”

  Gardener nodded and tipped his hat. It was a reasonable request.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The time was shortly before midnight. The building, Millgarth police station in Leeds; the location, the incident room. Two men sat amidst a mountain of information, both on paper and on whiteboards. The atmosphere in the room was downbeat but the relationship between the two was, as always, rock solid.

  Reilly sat down and placed a cup of tea in front of Gardener. A coffee and a Mars bar was his choice of pick-me-up.

  Gardener stared at the whiteboards and shook his head. Three weeks had passed since the hit and run and whilst it would be fair to say that they had unearthed a number of clues as to what might have happened, and why – not to mention the identities of those involved – they were in fact no nearer to making an arrest than they had been on the night itself.

  The team had retired for the day, having offered reports and information, most of which led to nothing, leaving the two at the top to try and salvage a plan of action as to where to go next.

  “I thought we might have had something from the airports,” sighed Gardener, unable to believe that even the smallest piece of evidence didn’t appear to exist.

  “It’s not surprising,” said Reilly, sipping his coffee. “We know how clever these people are. They obviously have more false IDs than we know about, so popping in and out of the country should be quite easy for them.”

  “They must have false passports as well.”

  “Wouldn’t be too difficult, would it?”

  “But there wasn’t even anything on the digital software,” said Gardener. “None of the photos were recognised.”

  “Which leaves another possibility.”

  “That they haven’t left the country at all?” Gardener observed.

  Reilly unwrapped his chocolate bar but paused before biting. “Which could make finding them even harder. They could be anywhere in the UK. We have no idea what mode of transport they are using.”

  Gardener sifted through the paperwork. “Did the mobile numbers lead us anywhere?”

  “I don’t think so. Longstaff and Gates spoke to all the providers they knew about. None of those numbers for the DPA team have ever existed.”

  “And those two are certainly tech savvy. If they can’t find them then I’ll wager no one else can.”

  “How is that possible?” Reilly asked. “Surely there must be a record of their phones and the calls they’ve made somewhere.”

  “There will be,” said Gardener. “But this DPA lot know how to cover their tracks. Look at that thing they infected the bank with, that Trojan called Octopus. If they can concoct something like that, then hiding phone numbers will be a walk in the park.”

  Reilly nodded in acceptance, finally taking a bite of the Mars bar.

  Gardener’s mood was part defeat but mostly annoyance. Robbie Crater had slipped the net, making that a cold case. He certainly didn’t want another. “I can’t believe we’ve drawn a complete blank.”

  “It’s not a complete blank, boss. We know a lot more than we did three weeks ago. We know who they are, where they live – or lived, some of what they’ve been up to. But we just can’t find them, at the moment.”

  Gardener shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. “The trouble is, we know so much but so little. We know they exist but proof of their existence is only in cyberspace.”

  “Apart from James Henshaw and Anthony Palmer,” offered Reilly.

  Gardener nodded. “We’ve found out what they’ve been up to, and where they are supposed to have operated from. Is it possible for four people to completely disappear?”

  “You wouldn’t have thought so, in this day and age, but people do it all the time.”

  “They do, but there’s usually a trace of some kind. All online presence has ceased. Their phone numbers have ceased to exist. Two homes have been cleared of everything – incriminating or otherwise. And they have all disappeared from planet Earth. How is that possible?”

  “Maybe not all,” said Reilly. “Palmer’s house isn’t empty. Maybe we only need to find him.”

  The silence said it all. Gardener and Reilly rose in unison and headed for the door, turning out the lights as they left.

  Part Two

  Chapter Eighteen

  Three months after the hit and run.

  The plane touched down and taxied to the terminal. Despite being in first class the procedure was still the same but within seconds of the aircraft hitting the tarmac, a succession of clicks on seat belts signalled the impatience of the passengers waiting to leave.

  Two of them stood up, reaching overhead, when a stewardess reminded them to sit back down and fasten their seat belts.

  Anthony wondered why; why did you have to keep your seat belt fastened when the plane was trundling along at ten miles per hour on its way to a safe destination to dock? What the hell did they think would happen?

  Nevertheless, he cooperated.

  When it finally stopped almost everyone was standing. Somehow they always managed to beat him. One passenger was even at the door to leave, case in hand.

  Within seconds of departing they were rushing down empty corridors to the carousel. The conversations around him were of frustrating and unnecessary business trips and holidays from hell – although how anyone could have a bad holiday in the Bahamas was beyond Anthony.

  The queue at the passport booth was relatively short but judging by the jobsworths inside the glass cabins it was set to grow longer. Why did they make you feel so uncomfortable? Was it a trait of the job when you attended the interview? Give us your most aggressive stare; see if you can cause someone to wither without uttering a word.

  Anthony moved forward, presenting his passport. The woman took it. She had short black hair clinging to her scalp, a severe expression, and an attitude that said, whatever it is you’re thinking of saying – don’t! He was reminded of Zoe.

  “How long have you been away, sir?” she asked.

  “A few weeks,” replied Anthony.

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Both.”

  What the hell was she doing? wondered Anthony. All she had to do was check the picture and let him through.

  “No personal baggage?”

  “No, it’s not worth the aggro these days, might as well put it all in the suitcase.”

  She handed the passport back. “Have a safe journey, sir.”

  Anthony was surprised. He’d have laid odds he’d end up being dragged to one side, left to wait for hours before being strip-searched in a private room.

  What an imagination, thought Anthony. That’s what comes of wor
king with those three.

  Talking of which, as Anthony descended the staircase to the carousel he switched on his phone. He had a few minutes to spare because the belt was still empty and stationary.

  The crowds had already gathered. Where the hell had they come from?

  Glancing at his phone, he realised a problem of sorts. With no signal, the phone hadn’t connected to anywhere. Maybe it would when he was outside.

  Anthony wanted a meeting as soon as possible. He had done a lot of thinking while he was away. He needed to make changes, take control of his life, maybe even go it alone – or retire altogether.

  Two years ago he would never have thought that. Not even one year ago, or six months.

  But everything changed three months ago. They’d gone a step too far.

  That was down to Zoe. He didn’t think for one second if the other two – or himself – had been driving, that they would have killed David; and deliberately, in his opinion.

  Yes, thought Anthony, it was time to move on.

  He spotted his suitcase and moved forward through the complaining throng, who were moaning about not having seen theirs.

  He grabbed it, dropped it onto the floor, extended the handle and headed for the “nothing to declare” aisle.

  With customs cleared he entered the terminal to see a number of people holding placards. He didn’t spot anyone he knew so he continued to the exit for the car parks, threading his way through even more people, all intent on blocking his way.

  To his right he heard convoluted conversations. To his left he could hear music. Not the usual piped crap they always played – music you couldn’t put a name to in a million years; it had more of a brass band or circus feel to it.

  He was about ten feet from the door when he heard a loud scream that made him jump.

  Anthony turned to see what it was.

  Three seconds later he fainted.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Anthony woke up with a crowd round him. Initially he didn’t recognise anyone and he hadn’t a clue where he was. People were prodding and poking him, asking him what had happened. Was he okay? Thin people; fat people; old people; young people. You name it, he had them in front of him.

  A multitude of colours and strange sounds suddenly exploded in his mind and Anthony remembered exactly what had happened.

  He raised himself from the floor and rose to his feet almost in one movement, his head all over the place, glancing in every direction. “Where is he? Where is he?”

  “Who are you talking about, son?” an old man asked.

  “The clown. The clown,” shouted Anthony, “the fucking clown. Where is he?”

  “I’m not sure,” said a woman with large glasses and wild red hair.

  “He’s around here somewhere,” replied a teenager dressed like a tramp. “Do you want us to get him?”

  “I fucking don’t,” said Anthony, picking up his case, trying to make a run for it. As he was about to move, a doctor appeared, with a nurse.

  Anthony was going nowhere until he’d had a thorough examination. He argued but it made no difference. The pair of them marched him off into a side room, which turned out to be a staff restroom-cum-canteen. It was clean, quiet, pleasant smelling, and warm. Sweet tea was brought to him and he sat there for quite some time answering questions.

  The doctor said he had coulrophobia.

  Anthony knew exactly what it was. He didn’t need to be told; thirty fucking years he had been frightened stiff of clowns – he didn’t need a quack to analyse it.

  They had left him with a second cup of sweet tea, and some time to compose himself; they said they would call back once he’d had time to calm down.

  Fat chance. The tea had done nothing to help and Anthony once again relived the episode of what should have been a birthday treat.

  As his parents were music hall entertainers they loved anything connected to the world of showbiz, including the circus, which is where they decided to take him for his seventh birthday.

  The circus came to Liverpool once a year and occupied a site close to the Albert Dock, which it shared with a travelling fair.

  The highlight of the evening was The Big Top, which Anthony’s parents left till last. Before going into the tent, Anthony spotted the hall of mirrors and asked if he could have a wander round.

  His mother joined him but they parted company quite early. The hall of mirrors was a strange place, which reminded him of the ghost train. The entrance was a darkened narrow corridor with wooden boards underfoot, and weirdly painted walls.

  The music was new to Anthony, and was also befitting of something weird, designed – in his opinion – to frighten children, not encourage them. He discovered later in life that it was a tune called “Superstitious Feeling” by the band, Harlequin. He really didn’t like it and felt reluctant to go any further because he was alone.

  With little choice, Anthony continued. As he turned a corner the hall itself opened out. A number of mirrors were randomly placed. Anthony stood in front of the first one, which broke all the tension. His reflection was a version of Anthony that was all fat and dumpy. He was about a foot tall and the same around. As he started to laugh, the figure in the mirror copied him and all his teeth resembled tent pegs at awkward angles, which made him laugh even more. As he held his belly and doubled up, the reflection in the mirror nearly disappeared through the floor.

  Another mirror made him tall; others made him appear far away, as if in a tunnel, or very close up like a magnifying glass.

  Anthony lost all track of time. The song started again. It was the beginning of verse two when everything went downhill.

  The flashing of a light

  Slashes through the night

  Changing colours in the face

  You meet a stranger’s eyes

  Gripping like a vice

  Noises shouting out a face

  Anthony came across a mirror that warped all of his features. He resembled an alien. It was hilarious and he was helpless.

  The laughing however stopped, almost immediately, because the mirror also distorted the features of the clown standing directly behind him.

  Anthony turned very quickly. He had absolutely no idea where the hell that thing with the large head, black soulless eyes, white face and massive red nose had come from.

  Anthony pissed himself and then saw a multitude of colours but was unable to put them together: red, blue, yellow, white. He managed a quick glance at the elephant sized feet but the clown suddenly shrieked with laughter and threw his arms in the air.

  Nothing else registered because Anthony fainted. He finally came round outside, surrounded by a number of people – including the clown, who now wore a very sad face. Anthony screamed so loud that almost everyone in the crowd ducked or jumped back. He started hyperventilating but St John Ambulance was on hand.

  Once inside the safety of a tent with the clown out of sight he managed to calm down. That was when one of the medics suggested he might be suffering from something known as coulrophobia. Anthony wasn’t sure what upset him most; the clown, or that he had actually wet himself. But the fear was so intense that he wet himself nearly every time he saw one.

  The door opened, breaking his reverie. The nurse returned. She was young, early twenties, blonde, with a soft complexion and bright eyes.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m good, thank you,” he lied. His nerves were still in tatters and all he wanted to do was leave.

  “We were worried about you.”

  “I’m okay now, honestly. It’s something I’ve learned to live with. Been terrified of them all my life.”

  “So was my mum; truth be known I think everyone’s a little frightened of clowns.”

  Anthony stood up. “Well, thank you for everything, I really appreciate it. But I need to be going now.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Anthony picked up his case, heading for the door.

&nb
sp; “Don’t forget,” persisted the nurse, “if you need to talk we can put you in touch with someone.”

  “Thank you.”

  Anthony left the room, walked about ten yards with his head glancing in every direction. He eventually stood near the toilets with his back to the wall for at least ten minutes before he thought it was safe to leave.

  He grabbed his case and raced for the exit doors.

  As he reached them and stepped outside into the winter sunshine he noticed a mobile roadshow presented by Radio Leeds. It was a charity event to raise awareness of oesophageal cancer.

  He pushed himself onwards and walked past the outdoor unit when he heard a pop quiz the DJ was running between two contestants. He asked one of them to name the song from the burst of lyrics.

  Anthony heard it and froze. His head spun, his legs turned to jelly and his stomach was ready to revolt.

  There’s trouble up ahead

  My mind is flashing red

  And evil’s just around the bend

  You’re in a cold embrace

  Lost without a trace

  It’s getting very near the end

  His grip on the case relaxed and he had to use the roadshow stage to lean against.

  “Oh please, God, not again.”

  It was the third verse from “Superstitious Feeling” by Harlequin.

  Anthony really didn’t know which way to turn. He’d already fainted because of the clown, and now here he was listening to the words of the world’s unluckiest song – for him, anyway.

  Every single time he heard the song, something bad happened.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder and a voice asked if he was okay.

  Anthony grabbed his case and simply replied that he was fine without even checking to see who it was.

  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.