Imposture (DI Gardener 6)

That thought frightened him even more. What did he have in store for Anthony on the inside?

Would it matter?

Not that Anthony was feeling confident at all but he had digested Zoe’s email. She’d told him all about the person who had them, how long he’d had them and what he’d done to James and Michael.

Sitting on the seat, Anthony wondered whether or not he should have called the police. That man had committed murder. Kettle, pot, black came to mind, halting that thought.

Calling the police would have been a bad idea. If he had, they would have been here by now, arresting him for the murder of his uncle and aunt. He would have spent the rest of his life in prison, which might have been easier than going up against the driver, given what he’d heard.

However, self-preservation kicked in, and Anthony decided he would take his chances. If he came out of it alive, he would still be free, possibly penniless, though he suspected he could work on that one. He’d never survive prison. He simply couldn’t do it.

Anthony stared into the carrier bag he’d brought with him. On Zoe’s instructions, in case everything went tits-up, he’d obtained a can of mace pepper spray. He had a rope and a gag. The other two items had been much harder to come by and had cost him most of the money he had left. He stared at the largest syringe he had ever seen in his life; not that needles bothered him but the one in the bag sent a shiver down his spine; it would certainly fucking bother the driver. Next to that was the empty vial; what it had contained, he had no idea. He didn’t ask any questions when he’d bought it.

The syringe was fully loaded.

He was as ready as he ever would be. If he was correct in his assumption as to who the driver was, Anthony was up shit creek without a boat, never mind a fucking paddle.

He grabbed the bag and stood up, staring at the industrial unit, wondering what was ahead, and how the hell it was going to finish.

He could only hope.

Chapter Fifty-five

“Here you go, get that down you.” Reilly passed Gardener his tea.

The SIO scrutinised the porcelain cup. “You made this yourself?”

“Well Briggs didn’t, and you can tell by the cup it’s not that crap out of the machine.”

“Well done,” replied Gardener. “Didn’t realise you were house-trained.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“There’s a lot I’d rather not know,” said Gardener.

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“Maybe.” Gardener laughed. “But not for your tea-making abilities.”

The door to the incident room was open and Gardener noticed members of his team flashing by, carrying documents, holding conversations. Something was happening.

Most of his team slipped quietly into the room, pretty dejected if their expressions were anything to go by. He didn’t much fancy chairing the incident room meeting because they had very little to go on. God knows they needed a break but when and where it would come from he had no idea.

Most of them poured a cuppa and took a seat, spreading folders around, opening chocolate bars. Before anyone said anything, Sergeant David Williams rushed in, waving a file.

“Sir? Need to speak to you.”

“Sounds urgent.”

“It might be.”

All eyes faced the front and all ears were pinned back.

“Just taken a call from a man called Sam Coulthard. He’s a draughtsman, working for a company called Transmech. They have an office on an industrial park in Harrogate.”

At the mention of those magical words, everyone stopped eating.

“Go on,” said Gardener.