by Ray Clark
Which left Zoe. She was brutal in nature, like the female spider that eats the male after copulation. She was also ruthless enough. They had all seen a new side to her on the night of the deaths. After all, she had not only killed David Hunter, but Ann Marie as well – calculated, and in cold blood.
Yes, Zoe was definitely in the running. Chances are she had been responsible for extinguishing him in cyber space.
So, what now?
Anthony realised that no one knew where he was, nor where they were able to contact him. They could email him but he didn’t have to answer. Unless, of course, whoever had officially made him deceased had also disconnected his emails. He had a phone, but no one knew the number. He’d been careful to withhold it when he’d called Rosie.
However, she claimed the police had a trace on her phone. And although he was aware that pay-as-you-go was considerably more difficult to trace than contract, it probably wasn’t impossible these days, so he’d still have to be careful.
The next and most likely thing to do would be to don a disguise. If the police were involved, they might have photos of him, which meant they would circulate them before long, and he would be noticed.
The next and most important thing to do would be to gain a little more freedom. For that he either needed a taxi, or a car, or possibly public transport. A taxi would be too expensive, and public transport too inconvenient. Which left only a hire car. But could you do that without the relevant documents? Anthony thought not.
Glancing around the room and at the state of the place, he figured he knew a man who might be able to help him. The owner was probably desperate enough for cash that he might consider lending Anthony his, or someone else’s, car for the day, at the right fee.
Anthony was going to find out who was behind what was happening if it killed him. The only way to do that was to pay a few house calls.
Chapter Thirty-five
Stretched out on the bed, Zoe Harrison felt drained: low energy levels, joint pains, headache. She hadn’t felt well for a couple of days but, in her opinion, her condition was slowly worsening. She couldn’t be sure of the reason but she had an idea. Sleepless nights due to all the banging, hammering and whining of machines hadn’t helped. God only knew what was going on.
At the other side of the room her computer monitor pinged.
She paid little attention, examining her skin instead, which was dry, coarse to touch. For years she had suffered with an overactive thyroid gland, more commonly known as thyrotoxicosis; her gland produced too much of the hormone thyroxine, which can speed up your metabolism. That meant medication for life.
She knew her heart rate was a little faster than it should have been, with occasional extra beats, indicating she may have atrial fibrillation which, left unchecked or uncontrolled could lead to heart failure, and possibly death. Not that she was under any illusion she would leave here in anything other than a box, but she was determined that she wouldn’t go alone.
To ensure she’d remained healthy, Zoe had always tried to maintain a balanced diet, with calcium rich foods and supplements. Once again, it was a fine line. Some of those interfered with the Carbimazole absorption. Often, a gap of a few hours was enough to ensure no significant impact on blood thyroxine levels.
Since she’d been imprisoned here – wherever here was, and she had an idea – Zoe seriously doubted that the driver had been concerned about her diet, resulting in a feeling of serious lethargy. She barely had the strength to move from the bed, but she would have to.
She also needed to ask him for a vitamin supplement, and for it to work fast it had to be an injection.
The compromise would work both ways. The driver needed Zoe. He needed her brains, and her skills with a computer, which was why she was allowed access to one. After all, who else was capable of wiping out Anthony Palmer? A fortnight before he’d returned home, she had spent at least ten days eradicating any existence he might have built up. By the time he finally did make it through his front door, he would have a shock coming his way.
Strange how she hadn’t been asked to do that for Michael Foreman or James Henshaw.
As far as Zoe was concerned, James was still alive. She hadn’t heard otherwise. She doubted the same could be said of Michael. The Lord only knew what she’d been made to inject him with, but it wouldn’t have been vitamins. As for Anthony’s existence, she had no idea.
One thing she was pretty sure of, none of them would remain alive, which meant that Zoe had to concentrate on number one – herself. She may have spent all her life being a selfish bitch, and she may have done wrong on the night of the hit and run, but that character trait would help her survive.
Zoe figured she was being kept somewhere local, somewhere she knew. In her book, that could only be one place – the industrial unit they had all used for DPA business. It was big enough and secret enough for the driver to do what he wanted. And with the amount of noise he’d been causing it sounded like he’d been rebuilding the place.
Probing the computer she was beginning to recognise some of the characteristics of the programs they – as a team – had originally installed onto the server. The driver must have paid someone to make changes because there were areas she had been blocked from entering. She didn’t think he was clever enough to sort that out himself.
But Zoe was. And she would find a route through.
She struggled but forced her body from the mattress and strolled over to the chair in front of the desk. The pinging sound had been an email from Rosie Henshaw.
Another one.
She’d had one yesterday. James’ wife had been anxious to know what was happening. James had been missing for weeks. Rosie said Michael had been chasing him but even that had ceased. Yesterday, Rosie had received a call from Anthony, who had been as evasive as ever; either he didn’t know much or he wasn’t letting on. At least he was still alive, thought Zoe.
She spotted something concerning in Rosie’s email. According to her, someone had been wandering around Leeds yesterday and had died shortly afterwards. She explained what she knew, but that was very little because there appeared to have been a media blackout.
Michael perhaps?
Zoe had obviously injected him with a lethal compound, that could lead to a painful death. God only knew what it was, but the driver, in her opinion, was ex-military, so it could have been anything.
She replayed the scene in her mind, remembering how odd it was that the driver kept his distance from the needle.
Why?
Was he frightened of what was inside the syringe; or was he actually frightened of the needle itself? A lot of people were. Was that the chink in Iron Man’s armour?
Zoe glanced at the screen, deciding she would really test the water. She sent an email to Rosie telling her everything.
She sat back and waited for the fireworks.
Within minutes, the driver opened the door, dressed in a military uniform, wearing a snug fitting mask with holes for the eyes, nose and mouth. He carried with him a piece of A4 paper, which he placed on the desk in front of her.
“Don’t be stupid, young lady.”
“What do you mean?” Zoe played dumb.
“Do you honestly think I would let you play around with all this equipment, knowing how dangerous you are, without some form of security?”
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 y
our 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 my life and I can’t remember when either occasion was.”
“Twice?”
“Yes, twice, or maybe three times. It wasn’t often.”
The smaller detective read through some paperwork he’d retrieved from a folder. “I gather that your husband and Michael were business partners. How long for?”
“About eight years, I think.”
“Were you married to James when he started up the business with Michael Foreman?”
“And the other two idiots, yes.”
“And do you know much about the business?”
“Not really, it’s all a bit above me, computers and viruses and the like. All I know is they worked bloody hard; they were at it all hours.”
“So you never saw much of them in the early days?”
“No, as I’ve said, they were all busy.”
“And you don’t find it odd that you never saw Michael Foreman other than two or three times?”
“We hardly moved in the same social circles.”
“What about the other two partners?”
“Never saw much of them either, especially Zoe Harrison. She was even worse than Michael, totally unsociable. She spoke in bullet points, if she spoke at all.”
“So there were no office parties where you could all get to know each other a little better?”
“It wasn’t really that type of company,” replied Rosie. “If it had been we still wouldn’t have talked much. The best way to speak to Zoe was either email or text, even if you were in the same room.”
“What about Anthony Palmer?”
“In all honesty, we did see a little more of Anthony. Although he was single he was more family orientated.”
“Do you know if Zoe Harrison or Anthony Palmer had family?”
“Zoe’s parents are still alive but I believe they moved abroad years ago. They left her quite a tidy nest egg, which she used to inject into the business. That was pretty much what got it off the ground.”
“Any idea where they went?”
“No.”
“What about Anthony Palmer?”
“His parents died some years back. I believe he had an aunt and uncle that he was close to, but I don’t remember him talking about them much.”
“So you wouldn’t know where they lived?”
“No, but I had the impression it was local. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but what’s this all about? You lot have been around here countless times, asked literally hundreds of questions, taken all my electrical equipment, which I’ve replaced at my own expense. I’m sure we’ve covered everything I know.”
“Are you religious, Mrs Henshaw?”
“Religious? What the hell kind of a question is that? Am I religious? If I was, He certainly isn’t doing a very good job of answering my prayers, is He?” she replied, pointing upwards.
“Were any of them religious; your husband or his business partners?”
Rosie shook her head. “Like I said, I didn�
�t know them well enough.”
“What about Anthony Palmer? You had any contact with him?”
“You have my landline records there, my phone is tapped, so you tell me.”
“Can you please answer the question?”
“He called me last night but before you start I have no idea where from and he wasn’t on that long so I doubt you’ll have been able to trace it.”
“That was when you called him a four-eyed, spineless, murdering parasite,” said the smaller one, smiling.
“Why did you call him that?” asked the taller one.
“Figure of speech, officer.” Christ, they were on the ball, thought Rosie.
“No love lost with him, either?”
“We weren’t what you would call bosom buddies. Out of all of them I always thought Anthony Palmer was the better one, the more sociable one, and probably even the most helpful. Looks like I got that one wrong, didn’t I?”
“Returning to the phone conversation with Michael Foreman, you also mentioned you’d been married to a bloke who couldn’t tell the truth if he was given Pentothal. Do you have much experience with drugs or chemicals?”
Rosie stood up, the knot in her stomach tightening. “What the hell are you getting at? Are you accusing me of something?”
“If you could just answer the question, please.”
“I’m a housewife for God’s sake, not a chemist. My life is my children. We’ve already established that I’m not responsible for the hit and run so why the hell are you asking all these stupid questions. Am I under arrest?”
“Not at all.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“We’re trying to get to the truth.”
“About what? Because this doesn’t sound to me like it has anything to do with the hit and run.”
“On the contrary, Mrs Henshaw, it is connected.”
“Do I need a solicitor?”
