Imposture (DI Gardener 6)

“I’m going out on a limb here, Mr Hunter,” said Gardener, “but you wouldn’t be aware of any enemies your brother might have had; perhaps someone who may want to do him some harm?”

Roger Hunter was taken aback by the question. “Do him any harm? I don’t think so. I know he worked for a bank so I don’t doubt he picked up one or two enemies, the current economic climate being what it is, but I don’t think anyone would go so far as to kill him.”

“You’d be surprised,” added Reilly. “Where are you staying, Roger?”

“If it’s okay with you two I thought I might stay at the house. Unless it’s a crime scene.”

“We don’t think it is, but we’d like access to the house during the day today. We’d like to take their computer, and we would also like to see if David’s phone is in the house. We can check through paperwork, and providin

g there is nothing to suggest the house itself is a crime scene, you can take possession.”

Roger Hunter nodded. “It sounds like you have your work cut out so I won’t bother you any further. But I do have one more question. Have you any idea when the bodies will be released, and when I might be able to bury my brother and his wife?”

Gardener figured that question would eventually come into play. “If you leave me your contact details I will do everything I can to make sure it’s sooner rather than later.”

Chapter Seven

Alan Braithwaite strolled past The Malt as the church bell chimed the first of its ten rings. A bitingly cold wind snaked its way through the centre of the village, forcing him to pull his overcoat tighter around his body.

Another ten minutes should see the first signs of frostbite, thought Braithwaite, unless his Jack Russell terrier, Spike, managed to do his business early and therefore call it a day.

He seriously doubted that. The dog was out every morning come rain or shine. The scheduled walk took them to the end of the village and the roundabout before Spike would even consider turning back; might make a difference if he had a lead but he didn’t like putting the dog on one, preferring to allow it the freedom to roam.

Traffic in the village was quiet. He hadn’t yet seen a vehicle, or another human being.

What he had seen were a number of police posters pinned to street lights and telegraph poles, appealing for witnesses to the hit and run: had anyone seen anything suspicious; cars they didn’t recognise? That was a tough one. It was a village, there were people driving in and out all day that the residents had never seen.

Braithwaite walked around the left-hand bend leading out of the village, Spike happily trotting along in front of him, stopping every two or three feet to have a sniff at something – though his owner could never see what. The wall belonging to the Frost family was badly damaged where a vehicle had hit it – only now, two orange and white cones connected by police tape still cordoned off the path.

As the roundabout came into view, so too did the damaged railings; they were covered with flowers, and standing in front of them was a fellow neighbour, Wendy Higgins, with her brown Labrador, Pouch. Wendy was a widower, having lost her husband three years ago to a sudden heart attack. The man hadn’t lingered. Here one minute, gone the next.

“Good morning, Alan,” said Wendy as she spotted him.

Braithwaite noticed she’d lost weight recently and hoped she was okay but didn’t like to mention it. Women can be funny about things like that.

“Morning.”

The two dogs met up, touched noses and then roamed across the grass verge toward the fence and the field.

“Not the best morning to be out.”

“I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for him,” replied Braithwaite.

Wendy Higgins laughed. “Slaves, that’s all we are. We care more about them than ourselves.” She huddled into her coat a little and stared at the electric box. “Bad business, that.”

What could he do but nod in agreement?

“I wonder what happened to them? How long were they laying there unnoticed?” asked Wendy Higgins.

“I’ve no idea, love, but I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it.”

“I keep wondering what they were doing out at that time of night.” Wendy’s gaze was distant. “You’re not safe anywhere these days. You don’t think it was one of those terror groups, do you?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Burley is a small village. They usually target people in big cities; there’s more of them to hit.”

“What a dreadful world we live in. My doors are at locked at six every night, Alan. I don’t trust anyone anymore.” She glanced over at the dogs, both quite happy stretched out on the grass. “Have they found the vehicle yet, do you know?”

“There’s been nothing in the papers or on the news. Plenty of posters appealing for help. A good spell in the army wouldn’t hurt them. Never did me any harm… if I could just get my hands on them.”