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

attack again. “I’m really sick of this. I’m not the criminal here, but you lot are treating me like one. I haven’t done anything and you’re just hounding me. I’m just pleased my children are having a stay over. Why aren’t you out there catching real criminals – like my husband?”

“It’s your husband we’ve come to talk to you about, Mrs Henshaw,” said Gardener. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Weeks ago, when he left here for a meeting in Brussels.”

“A meeting that he never made.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And you haven’t heard from him in that time?”

Rosie sighed, drinking lemonade.

“No. He sent one or two emails at first. Then they dried up and I heard sod all.”

“And you didn’t think that odd?” asked Reilly.

“Of course it was bloody odd, but what could I do about it? I made calls and sent emails but they all went unanswered. Next thing I knew I had Michael Foreman ringing me up, asking for James. Then Anthony Palmer.”

“You’ve had no contact with Zoe Harrison?”

“No. Not that I’m bothered. And then I find out that Michael Foreman is dead and two officers come here and accuse me of it. Well, don’t worry because I’ve already been on to my solicitor. I’ll be speaking to him first thing in the morning. I probably should have spoken to him weeks ago.”

The two detectives glanced at each other with expressions that Rosie couldn’t read but doubted it was anything good.

“What is it now; found another one dead?”

“Mrs Henshaw, we’re not accusing you of anything,” said Gardener. “Perhaps I can explain something to you that might help you see it from our point of view; your husband and his business partners were involved in the hit and run back in February, in which a man was killed. His wife also ended up dead. It seems that all the people in the car went missing shortly after the accident. We’ve established that – apart from your husband – they left the country but have since returned. Until now, they haven’t been seen, but they are dying in mysterious circumstances.”

Rosie clamped her hands to her mouth. What did he mean, they are dying in mysterious circumstances?

“Oh my God. The man who died was Anthony Palmer’s uncle? And he killed his own aunt?”

“It’s looking that way.”

Rosie stared across the kitchen for want of anything better to do, trying to put her thoughts together; trying to rationalise them, especially when her instinct told her that whatever these two were there for would be of no benefit to her.

“As yet, we don’t know,” said Gardener, “but it puts us in a very awkward position where you’re concerned.”

“Why?”

“We’re not sure whether to treat you as a possible suspect…”

“Or what?” asked Rosie, preferring not to hear an answer.

“Or the next victim, which is something we’d like to prevent.”

“What the hell do you mean, next victim? Have Zoe and Anthony been found dead as well as Michael?”

Once again, the two detectives glanced at each other.

“As yet, we haven’t found Zoe Harrison or Anthony Palmer,” said Gardener.

“So what are you–” Rosie stopped mid-sentence, the implication of what they were saying becoming all too evident.

“It’s James, isn’t it? You’ve found James.”

“Mrs Henshaw, is there anyone you’d like us to call to come and stay with you?” asked Gardener.

“Just tell me.”

“We could call a Family Liaison Officer to come and stay with you,” said Reilly.

Rosie felt her insides swell up to twice their normal size. Her legs turned to jelly and her hands suddenly felt numb. She felt sick, and they hadn’t even told her anything yet.

The tears rolled down her cheeks. All the time she had spent cursing James for what he had done, explaining to the children that he was on business and would be back soon, and that secretly she was wishing him in hell.

They do say be careful what you wish for.

“Please… what’s happened?”

“I’m really very sorry,” said Gardener, “but we think we may be the bearers of bad news. We discovered another body this morning in Butts Court.”

“Is it James?”

“Mrs Henshaw, does your husband have any distinguishing marks anywhere on his body?”

Rosie was answering on autopilot. “He has a birthmark, on his right thigh.”

Gardener nodded at Reilly.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

Rosie remembered the email from James earlier in the day. “Wait a minute, no, it can’t be. I had an email earlier today.”

“An email?” asked Reilly. “What time was that?”

“Eleven o’clock this morning.” After she’d said that she felt stupid, it wouldn’t be anything but morning, they hadn’t reached eleven at night. “How can that be?”

“You’re sure it was from your husband?”

Rosie wasn’t. “I thought it was… at first.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when I reread it and thought about it afterwards, it didn’t sound like James.”

Floods of tears streamed down Rosie’s face. She stood up and walked over to the window, pressing her hands onto the draining board, unable to stop the flow, despite what she had thought about James in recent weeks.

Gardener followed her. “Are you sure there is no one we can call for you?”

Rosie was struggling to breathe, let alone string a sentence together. She reached across the worktop and grabbed her mobile. On the contact page she found Michelle’s number. She handed the phone to Gardener.

“Please,” she sobbed, pointing to her best friend’s number.

Gardener passed it to Reilly, who immediately stepped out of the kitchen.

“I’m really sorry to land all of this on you, Mrs Henshaw, but there are two further things I need to ask.”

Rosie simply nodded, unable to speak.

“Did the email come through to your phone?”

Rosie nodded.

“May we take it? Once we analyse it, it might tell us who sent the email