Imposture (DI Gardener 6)

Chapter Sixty-three

Anthony was terrified, and in more trouble than he’d ever been in his life.

He was trapped in a maze of mirrors with literally no way out that he could see, being pursued by a madman, intent on ending everything; and he’d lost the only defence he had – the syringe and the pepper spray. He was being forced to listen to the world’s unluckiest song. To top it all, he’d probably killed someone.

Anthony snorted and rubbed the tears from his eyes. He’d turned left and right so many times in an effort to leave he was now dizzy, with no idea where he was. He glanced upwards but the criss-cross beams and the domed lights gave him no indication.

He stood in front of a mirror, glancing at the reflection. What a mess. He was thinner than usual, with his blond hair spiked up in places. His glasses were smudged, and his complexion as rough as sandpaper. The latest fashions that he was normally up to date with had gone. He now wore jeans and trainers with a black T-shirt and a padded jacket.

He glanced upwards once again, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

The music stopped and a voice broke the silence.

“Where’s your needle, Anthony?”

Anthony’s testicles shrunk, his spine bent, and his stomach swelled. His legs felt hollow but heavy. His bottom lip quivered.

“Turn around, son. Face up to your mistakes.”

Anthony did as he was told, slowly. What he saw took him close to fainting, a

nd the brink of madness. He remembered thinking a short while ago – before he’d committed murder, again – that the last thing he wanted to see now was a clown.

“Oh… My… God!”

“Yes, Anthony, you might well need the help of your God to get out of this one.”

Roger’s laugh almost suited his demonic appearance. Dressed in a one-piece maroon suit, he had one hand on a false extended belly, and the other pointing directly toward the mirror, as if taunting. His face was bizarre: a long crooked nose, hollow eyes like that of a skull, and heavy make-up made him completely unrecognisable. God only knew what he had used to create the sweet, sickly smell.

Anthony backed away immediately, into the mirror, which was pretty solidly embedded into a wooden panel wall about twelve feet square. The rest of the area had more mirrors, and there were a number of entrances. With nowhere to go – it wouldn’t matter because Roger would find him anyway – he stood with his back to the mirror and his arms by his sides, his hands pressed so hard against the surface they were white.

Roger moved closer, to within six feet of Anthony. “But before we get to the point of you praying for help, I have a question for you.”

Anthony didn’t reply.

“Just tell me why, Anthony?”

He found his voice, however faint. “Why, what?”

Roger raised his hand and pointed his finger. “Stop taking liberties. We have very little time, so I want to know why you and your psychotic friends killed my brother and his wife?”

“What are you going to do to me?”

Roger flew at Anthony, driving his fist into the mirror at the side of his nephew’s head, smashing the glass. “Answer my question!” he shouted, so loudly and so severely that Anthony moved his head and tried ducking.

Roger caught him and slammed him back against the mirror, holding him by the throat. Once he seemed satisfied, he let go and retreated to the six feet mark.

“Answer my question,” he repeated.

Anthony was aware of the silence. The song had not started again.

“We didn’t mean to.”

Roger nearly climbed the walls again. “Didn’t mean to! You’ve all said you didn’t mean to. You must have meant to do something to them. No one sets up a meeting at midnight, armed to the teeth to just talk.”

Roger moved in closer. Anthony squirmed, his legs weakening, not to mention his bladder. His mind was a complete jumble of thoughts. What could he do? What was Roger going to do? Were the police in here; would they come to his rescue?

“It wasn’t me,” blurted out Anthony. “I didn’t want any part of it.”