IMPOSTURE: Hunters become the hunted in this gripping murder mystery by Ray Clark (book series for 10 year olds TXT) 📕

The music stopped for a second or two. He heard one or two random shouts outside on the pedestrian precinct of Bond Street, but paid little attention because the music soon started again. The queue moved forward two places because another checkout girl had joined her friend.

A commotion at the front door of the shop drew Gardener’s attention once again. A plump, middle-aged redhead wearing a heavy winter coat and carrying an M&S carrier bag slipped inside. She barged straight up to the counter.

“Can I use your phone?”

One of the assistants glanced at the redhead as if she’d lost her marbles. “Don’t you have one?”

“Do you think I’d be asking if I had?” She immediately turned her head toward the door and back to the counter again. “Hurry up, will you, it’s an emergency.”

“Excuse me but I do have customers.” Despite the protest she handed the shop phone over.

Gardener leaned forward. “Excuse me, but do you have a problem?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get served.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She put the phone to her ear. “I don’t, but someone out there does. Who are you anyway?”

Gardener flashed his warrant card.

The woman dropped the phone back on the counter, grabbing Gardener’s elbow. “Come with me. There’s a man out here and I think he’s been attacked. He’s staggering all over the place.”

“What makes you think he’s been attacked?” Gardener asked, dropping the boots on the counter, allowing himself to be led outside.

“Wait till you see him.”

Out in the open air a sharp wind whistled around his ears and crept down his neck. Gardener adjusted his hat slightly.

The redhead pointed to the area where Bond Street met Albion Street, a distance of about thirty yards. Gardener peered at the staggering man. He was stocky, balding, badly dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans – neither of which appeared to be clean. He had his hands to his face but judging by the amount of gesticulating he was in some pain.

“What’s your name?” he asked the redhead, reaching for his mobile.

“Millie,” she replied.

“Millie what?”

“Johnson, Millie Johnson.”

“When did you first become aware of him?” Gardener noticed that most of the people milling around that section of shops were giving the man a wide berth. Mothers pulled children closer, before shooting off in a completely different direction. A number of gawking teenagers remained, all with phones in hand.

“A couple of minutes ago.”

“Was he acting like this?”

“Yes,” she replied, glancing around – though he couldn’t figure out why.

“Where did he come from?”

“No idea.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No. You don’t think I was going to hang around, do you? You never know what’s wrong with him – could be anything.”

The man suddenly dropped to his knees and let out an ear-piercing scream, one that even Gardener heard.

“Mrs Johnson, you need to wait here. Please do not leave the shop. I’m going to see what I can do for him and then I’ll come back and we’ll resume this conversation.”

Her eyes widened. “I don’t know nothing.”

He ducked back into the shop and ran to the counter, displaying his warrant card.

“I need a whistle.”

“Not you as well. There are people in front of you, you know.”

“A whistle, now,” he demanded. “It’s an emergency, don’t make me ask again.”

Something in his expression must have informed the girl that if she didn’t comply immediately she’d spend the night behind bars. Reaching under the counter she drew out a white cardboard box. He grabbed a simple silver whistle, one used by referees.

“I’ll be back,” he said, taking it from her.

“Okay, Arnie,” muttered the girl.

Gardener ran outside and covered the distance to the injured man in no time at all, blowing his whistle all the way. By the time he reached his destination he had everyone’s attention.

The man was still on his knees but had now lowered his head to the ground, as if he was praying; maybe he was. He was very quiet.

Gardener blew the whistle once more and he realised he had absolute silence. He flashed the warrant card. “I am a police officer, I need to ask if everyone can please stay where they are.”

Reaching for his mobile, Gardener glanced at the man on the pavement. “Excuse me, can you please tell me your name?”

There was no answer, aside from a deep, guttural moan followed by a hissing sound.

Gardener gloved up and pulled out a disposable mask from his pocket. He noticed the man’s neck was red raw and blistered, swollen up much larger than normal. Judging by the movement of his stomach he was having trouble breathing. There was something seriously wrong with him. Gardener was already dialling for an ambulance.

He leaned in closer to the man, touching his shoulder. “Excuse me…”

The man immediately recoiled from Gardener’s touch. He raised his head from the ground and wailed something unintelligible. Gardener could immediately see why. His eyes were as red as his skin, and his lips resembled boiled sausages. Gardener doubted they would be having a conversation.

Having made a connection on the phone, Gardener spoke to an operator, told them as much as he could about what was happening and where they were; who he was and the fact that he needed an ambulance as soon as humanly possible.

“Do you need any help, mate?” asked a teenager in a red jacket, with blue trousers, a shock of blond hair, lip studs and earrings. His phone was at the ready and he was snapping pictures of the man on the floor.

“Yes,” said Gardener. “I need you to put that phone away and step back over to that shop window… now!” As his voice rose for the last word he was pointing in the direction he needed the idiot to go.

The teenager didn’t need telling