Imposture (DI Gardener 6)

The driver grabbed the phone, switched it off and put it in his pocket.

The hoodie stood up, rubbing his hand. “Fucking maniac. Give me the phone back.”

The driver figured action was needed before someone else came sniffing. Clenching his right fist he punched the hoodie hard and fast in his solar plexus, who ended up face down on the concrete, winded and almost vomiting. He brought his knees to his chest and struggled to catch his breath.

The driver picked him up and rolled him down the ramp to the underground car park. Someone would find him, but he’d be okay, unlike the other shape he’d dragged out of the vehicle.

It was time to go. The driver turned to face his passenger. He knelt closer.

“Have a nice life, what’s left of it.”

It was all the prisoner could do to raise his arms but they fell to the ground almost immediately.

The driver jumped back into the Evoque and started the vehicle, relieved that no one else had intervened.

He drove off Butts Court, turned right, back on to Short Street, passing the Q-Park on the left. At the bottom he turned right again, onto Upper Basinghall Street, passing another CCTV camera.

At the end of the street he rejoined The Headrow and the inner ring road, floating past the town hall on his right as he made his way back home.

Job done. One down, three to go.

Chapter Twenty-one

Where was his car?

Anthony glanced around, checking as many of the cars as he could see. There were plenty of BMWs, many of them 7-series. But none were his.

He stared at the airport terminal, working out his bearings. He spotted all the landmarks. He was definitely in the correct car park.

He was good with numbers, worked with computers and had a very good memory for where he left things.

The car simply wasn’t there.

It wasn’t as if the space was empty. There was simply another car in it – a white Mini.

Deflated and sighing, Anthony sat down on his suitcase, wondering if his day was ever going to improve.

The flight had been late. Once he’d landed he’d had to put up with that needle-faced bitch in passport control. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the fucking clown more than made up for it. What in God’s name was a clown doing at an airport? After his recovery and being held up by the medical staff, the world’s unluckiest song made an appearance, setting his nerves on edge. No good ever came of anything when he heard that song.

And now his car was missing.

Anthony raised his head to the sky. “Please tell me, Lord, if you have anything else planned, let’s fucking have it, now!”

Anthony thought about the car. It had obviously been stolen. But when? Why? Who had taken it?

All of those questions could probably be answered quite easily. The airport would have CCTV.

Why were bad things happening to him? Karma. That’s why. He’d done some bad things himself recently. Maybe it was payback.

He stood up, glancing across the car park; not another soul in sight.

Anthony grabbed his phone from his pocket. Clicking the button at the side the screen prompted his password. Once he’d entered that, the phone informed him it was emergency calls only. There was no signal.

What did “emergency calls only” mean? Could he actually call anyone? He supposed he could always phone the police.

Anthony heard voices. When he glanced around it was a couple at t

he other end of the car park. He was always amazed by how sound travelled.