Imposture (DI Gardener 6)

Chapter Fifty-one

Anthony Palmer’s head was a shed.

Unexpe

cted 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 Anthony.

“Sure thing,” she replied, without so much as a glance.

Having passed the first test, he typed in the password for another. Eventually the screen led him to the next page, where he typed in the final information.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw he had a message.

The excitement level rose when he noticed it was from Zoe. That meant she wasn’t dead – yet.

He opened it to find a lot of text, which was almost certainly unlike her, but the style pretty much confirmed it was. By the time he finished reading what she had to say, he nearly vomited.

Anthony jumped up. Exiting the booth, he collided with the waitress. The coffee went all over the floor and the cup and saucer smashed. Her expression said it all: wide eyes, mouth open, hands round her head.

“Sorry,” said Anthony, noticing everyone else staring at them.

“No problem, I’ll get you another.”

“No, sorry, no time.” He passed her a five-pound note and ran out so fast he nearly left a trail of smoke.

Chapter Fifty-two

Fail to prepare, and you prepare to fail. The driver wasn’t going to.

He was sitting in one of the offices, staring into the mirror, waiting for what lay ahead.

It was twelve weeks since the Hunters had died. Not died – had been killed in cold blood by a bunch of thieving, murdering, parasitical bastards. It was bad enough that they ran him over but to drag his weakened body over to the electric box, hide him from view and fuck off was completely unforgivable.

The driver had had many sleepless nights since the incident, repeatedly thinking about what they had done. Every time he’d end up thinking, wondering, had David Hunter actually still been alive when they were moving him? Had he known what was happening when one of them dragged him as far away as they could, to cover their mistake? Had he died alone? What were his last thoughts?

The driver felt hollow. When he thought of how he’d passed the last twelve weeks, avenging their deaths, it had all been worth it. He had taken no pleasure in the acts of torture. That was the soldier in him, something he had been trained to do. He simply wanted them to feel a little of what they had dished out.