IMPOSTURE: Hunters become the hunted in this gripping murder mystery

by Ray Clark

  Gardener had absolutely no idea what to do. He’d been on the force all of his working life; he’d seen things that would turn people’s stomachs without trying but he’d never witnessed anything like the man on the floor.

  Hazchem and Special Ops ran through his mind. That would be a game changer.

  As he raised his head he noticed a rather tall vehicle with flashing lights but it wasn’t an ambulance. The council refuse wagon had pulled to a stop in front of the NCP Car Park. Four men with hi-vis jackets jumped out, two of them staring at him. The other two were peering down the ramp leading to the underground car park.

  Gardener glanced at the injured man who was now writhing around on the ground. He really needed to think very quickly about what to do and how to contain everything.

  He dialled the station, setting off immediately toward the bin wagon, blowing his whistle, as if he’d lost his mind.

  “You lot, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”

  “Who, me?” asked the desk sergeant on the other end of Gardener’s mobile.

  Gardener explained who he was, what he’d been caught up in, and requested immediate backup from anywhere close at hand – and very possibly his own team, as he knew instinctively where the incident was heading.

  Putting the phone in his pocket he shouted at the bin men, flashing his warrant card. “I need you lot to come with me, now.”

  “Can’t do that, guv, we’re on council business.” The man was at least twenty-stone, with a fat lumpy face that appeared to have been the sick joke of a bad pottery session. His eyes were bulbous and he had more hair sprouting from his nose than his head. But the biggest mistake he was making was pushing his luck.

  Gardener’s temper hit new heights, which meant he stared solely at the man with the big mouth and spoke very slowly.

  “You see this badge? It means I can override any council orders you have. When I say I want you lot to come with me now – that is exactly what I mean. No argument.”

  He had all of their attention. “Follow me. I need you to create a cordon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I need you to create a boundary. Don’t let anyone inside. Now come on!”

  Gardener ran back to the injured man who was still face down on the ground, moaning and writhing.

  He directed the bin men to form a square, standing in opposing corners. That was a task in itself because each and every one of them kept glancing at the man on the floor and then at Gardener, asking stupid questions.

  He stared around at the shoppers, blowing his whistle again.

  “Can I have your attention, please? Do not, I repeat, do not move from where you are now.”

  “Excuse me, guv,” said lump head.

  Gardener noticed he was holding a roll of red and white tape – from where he had no idea. “Thought you might need this. Wrap it round us all and create a proper boundary, like.”

  Gardener smiled; perhaps the man wasn’t so bad after all. He quickly rolled the tape around the man’s body before setting off for the next. Once he’d finished he blew the whistle again, addressing a crowd he would have preferred not to have been there.

  “Please stay where you are and do not try to walk through the tape. I have called for an ambulance, and more police officers to deal with what’s happening. We’ll need to take a statement from every one of you.”

  He dropped to his knees and told the man to hang on – which was probably pointless – repeating that he had called for an ambulance. He then asked once again if he could do anything to help.

  With a very serious effort the man raised his head. His face was now so red Gardener thought it had been set on fire. His milky white eyes signified that he might even have gone blind in the short time he’d been on the floor.

  What in God’s name had happened?

  In the distance, Gardener heard the siren of the ambulance. He wondered if they might have a problem reaching him, unsure if the bin wagon was blocking their path.

  He was suddenly shoved and a scream in his right ear distracted his attention. The man on the floor had reared upwards, gripping Gardener’s shoulders.

  He would never forget the expression of sheer terror carved into the injured man’s features; wide eyes with deep crow’s feet underneath them. His mouth was fully open but Gardener could see very little because his tongue had ballooned to twice its size, probably making breathing impossible.

  Gardener’s last thought was confirmed as he heard the death rattle somewhere at the back of his throat.

  The man breathed his last and collapsed to the ground as the medics finally reached him.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Welcome to hell, thought Gardener.

  “Is he dead?” shouted lump head.

  Gardener nodded to confirm.

  He heard a retching sound behind him as one of the other bin men threw up. That was all he needed.

  Gardener phoned the station again, explained what had happened and was quietly relieved when the desk sergeant told him his team had been despatched, as well as a number of operational support officers. They would now have to add the Home Office pathologist, Dr George Fitzgerald, to the list of attending officers. Against his better judgement he held back on Special Ops until Fitz had seen the victim.

  Fortunately for him, as he disconnected the call, two uniformed constables appeared, introducing themselves as Carole Phillips and Mike Howlett.

  “I see you’ve got your work cut out,” said Howlett. He was young, not much older than Patrick Edwards, one of Gardener’s own team, with short black hair and blue eyes.

  Carole Phillips was blonde, short and well built. She was eyeing up the bin man who’d been sick. “What can we do to help?”

  “Take the names and addresses of everyone you can see, please.”

  “Can we let them go after that?”

  “Probably not,” said Gardener. “I’ll let you know.” He briefly explained what had happened to the man on the floor.

  “Is it a Hazchem scene?”

  “I hope not,” said Gardener. “If it is, we’ll be here forever. For now, please get as many names and addresses as you can and see if anyone knows exactly where the man came from and which route he took to arrive here. If it is possible, try and find out what he touched on the way.”

  “Do we know who he is?” asked Phillips.

  “I’m just going to see if I can find out.”

  Once again, for the benefit of the crowd, Gardener blew his whistle and told them to cooperate with the constables. He had no doubt that a lot of people – especially those furthest from the scene – would already have slipped away, wanting no part of it. He made a note to talk to whoever was responsible for the CCTV around the corner.

  The two uniforms moved off and Gardener returned to the body on the precinct. Gloves still on he reached into all the pockets he could find; one on the sweatshirt and four in the jeans – all were empty.

  Brilliant!

  All four of the bin men were on their phones. No doubt they had pictures for Facebook and Instagram, though he suspected at least one of them was explaining the hold up, or their absence from work.

  A number of officers appeared at the cordon, immediately setting up the scene. He could see a marquee was being dragged towards the area. Scene suits were being handed round. One of the officers had a log sheet, when another voice sounded from behind – one he recognised immediately.

  “What do we have here, then?”

  “A nightmare, Sean. That’s what we have – a full blown nightmare.”

  Reilly suited up and stepped within the confines of the red and white tape.

  “A full-blown Hazchem nightmare?” asked Reilly, after glancing at the body.

  “Maybe.”

  “You haven’t called it yet?”

  “You know what will happen when I do.”

  “A big fuck-off tent for a start.”

  “We’d have the circus in town; government techs, mi
litary personnel with all manner of gadgets to sniff chemicals if airborne or if on contact surfaces.”

  “The body wouldn’t be moved for ages,” continued Reilly. “We wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near until it was safe.”

  “All that lot,” said Gardener, pointing to possible witnesses, “would have to go through decontamination procedures with statements taken from them afterwards.”

  “I don’t think I’d want to be anywhere near when it all kicks off,” added Reilly. “But if this bloke has something dangerous – and looking at him he hasn’t died from a dose of the clap – we need to know about it, and we need to protect everyone including ourselves.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know, Sean, but my gut feeling tells me it isn’t a Hazchem scene. Let’s see what Fitz says.”

  “Do we know who he is?” Reilly asked, staring at the body.

  “I’ve quickly checked his pockets, but feel free to delve a little deeper. There might be something on him somewhere.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have come. Why do I get all the best jobs?”

  “I’m pretty sure with your track record and the places you’ve been you’re immune to everything.”

  Reilly laughed and then nodded to something over Gardener’s shoulder. “I’d better hurry up, then. Our man’s here.”

  Gardener turned and spotted Fitz walking toward them wearing a black cape and suit, with a top hat, walking cane, and medical bag. He made his way through a crowd that resembled a set of film company extras. It was very eerie.

  “Boss,” shouted Reilly. “Might have something.” Reilly had searched underneath the sweatshirt, found two driving licences in the pocket of a plain cotton shirt.

  “Why two licences?” Gardener asked, taking them.

  “Man’s obviously a wrong ’un.”

  “So this could be payback?”

  “More than likely,” said Reilly.

  “Chances are someone’s given him something but we still can’t rule out the fact that it might be contagious.”

  “But where the hell has he come from? Look how many buildings we have around here. Office buildings, rooms above shops, a car park over there. He could have been anywhere.”

  “The quicker we get the team onto it the better,” replied Gardener. “If this has been done to him in the vicinity, surely we’re going to find the evidence.”

  “In that case, we’d better call in a PolSA team. An area this size is going to need a fingertip search.”

  “Already done it, Sean.”

  Gardener stood and approached his team, who were all lurking at the edge of the outer cordon. All of them were present, awaiting his instructions, which for now, was a basic, house-to-house or shop-to-shop search and question. He wanted Albion Street and the surrounding streets blocking off completely, if they hadn’t already been done, and he needed as many basic witness statements as possible in order that they could plan the follow-ups in an incident room, which he hoped would be later today.

  “I thought you two might be involved,” said Fitz, as he ducked underneath the red and white tape. “Anything sinister is bound to have your name on it.”

  The pathologist glanced at the man on the floor. “What’s happened here?”

  Reilly stood up and moved away. “We were hoping you could tell us.”

  Gardener briefed Fitz and allowed him to make an immediate inspection.

  A flurry of activity a few yards away suggested the press were baying for blood. Fortunately for Gardener, the marquee was ready to block the scene completely. Gardener signalled to one of the constables to keep the press where they were for now. Not that he doubted they would already have pictures. There were enough two- or three-storey office blocks with a bird’s-eye view.

  Gardener waited while the marquee was fully erected and leaned in towards Fitz. “Anything? Whatever you say might very well depend on which call I make next.”

  Fitz returned his attention to the body. “Skin red and blistering. There’s a lot of swelling to the body. Judging by the eyes, whatever it is has caused blindness. Was this how he was when you first saw him?”

  “Not quite as bad. His eyes were very red but he wasn’t blind. His tongue hadn’t swelled up as much on first sight.”

  “Which means he’s had respiratory tract problems. He’ll have suffered nose and sinus pain, very probably a sore throat, shortness of breath. Was he coughing a lot?”

  “No,” said Gardener, “he couldn’t even talk, though he did manage a scream.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if we find fluid in his lungs.” Fitz checked underneath the clothing for further signs. “I suspect he’ll have had serious abdominal pain, but I can’t see any sign of diarrhoea or vomiting. What were his movements like?”

  “A bit erratic. His walking wasn’t coordinated. When he was on the ground his body was trembling. I need to know if he’s been exposed to something serious.”

  “Almost certainly,” replied Fitz, “no doubt a nerve agent of some description.”

  Fitz stopped talking and leaned in much closer to the victim’s neck.

  Gardener suddenly wondered at the size of the Russian community in Leeds, especially at the mention of a nerve agent. The situation was growing worse.

  Fitz had produced a scalpel and a magnifying glass from his case. He was peering very closely at the victim’s neck.

  “What have you seen, Herr Doktor?” asked Reilly.

  “Too much of you two, for one day,” replied Fitz. “Look closely here.” He pointed to the victim’s neck.

  Gardener noticed a small red mark that had also swollen and blistered like the rest of the skin.

  “I suspect he’s been injected with something and left to suffer the consequences. The question – and biggest problem for you two – is where and when was it done?”

  “And is whatever he has, contagious?”

  “Well I won’t know that until I investigate. But you know as well as I do, if you don’t call it in and something happens to the population of Leeds there’s bound to be hell to pay, and your badge will be on the line.”

  “Gut feeling, Fitz?” asked Reilly.

  Fitz studied the body once more and finally sighed. He glanced at both detectives. “Off the record?”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Gardener stood and breathed a sigh of relief, glancing at Reilly.

  “Treat it as normal?” asked the Irishman.

  “I’m going to be in so much shit if this goes wrong.”

  “We both are.”

  Gardener finally turned his attention to the two driving licences. Both were a UK issue, both had the same photograph – the dead man on the ground. One had the name Conrad Morse. The other was Michael Foreman.

  Gardener immediately recognised both names. He passed them over to Reilly, who read them and sighed.

  “I wondered when this case would surface again.”

  “Question is,” said Gardener, “who knows more than we do?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Anthony stared at the floor and saw a mountain of post and a stack of newspapers behind the front door – which was the reason he couldn’t open it fully.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  He pushed harder, forcing the mound of paperwork to flatten out. The door opened wider. Anthony stepped in, dragging his suitcase behind him. Kicking the rest of the heap with his right foot he managed to spread it around enough so he could close the front door.

  He hadn’t been away that long, so why all the post? And what were the newspapers all about? Anthony had not read one for years – at least not in printed form. Most everything he read was digital.

  He shivered as he realised the building was cold. Anthony couldn’t understand that one. Despite not being home he’d left the heating on pilot. He felt the radiator – stone cold. He glanced up at the thermostat. It wasn’t even on. Being digital, it required a current, so in orde
r to confirm he had power he reached out for the light switch, flicked it down.

  No light. No heat. He glanced to his right, down the hall to the kitchen, wondering what was going on. The contents of his freezer must be a mess. He ran over, pushed the door open. The kitchen was empty – totally empty: no fridge freezer, no microwave, and no furniture.

  He glanced into the living room, staring into another empty space – aside from a table and four chairs – as if somehow, it had been left on purpose. The trouble he’d had at the airport was bad enough, but a totally empty house with no heating and no electricity was totally unacceptable.

  Home was a three-bedroom detached bungalow in Manor Park, Burley in Wharfedale. Larger than average it had an extension for a swimming pool and a personal gymnasium, perched in its own grounds at the end of a private road, half a mile from his nearest neighbours.

  In an agitated state, Anthony ran through every room. Each one was the same. The whole place had been cleared out. He didn’t even have a fucking bed! It didn’t have the feel of a burglary – more a house clearance.

  He returned to the front door and the pile of correspondence. Staring at the floor, he murmured, “I have no idea what the fuck’s happening with my life but I’m going to find out.”

  He reached for his phone. That would be of no use, it was still displaying emergency calls only.

  Anthony needed to contact the others and the only way he could do that was from a public phone, which meant a walk to the Generous Pioneer, the pub at one end of the village.

  First of all, he wanted to check through all the crap on his hall carpet. Whatever was happening to his life he was pretty sure someone was controlling it, and he needed to stop and think before doing anything rash, or drawing attention to himself.

  Anthony picked up the post and the newspapers and walked to the table and four chairs in the living room.

  He checked the newspapers first. He figured there must have been a copy of every single local and national daily, all of which had the lead story of the death of David Hunter. He checked the dates. None were recent – all of them from the night in question, and the following few days.