IMPOSTURE
Hunters become the hunted in this gripping murder mystery
THE DI GARDENER CRIME FICTION SERIES
BOOK 6
RAY CLARK
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2021
© Ray Clark
Polite note to the reader
This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.
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IMPOSTURE is the sixth book in a series of murder mysteries by Ray Clark featuring DI Stewart Gardener. Full details about the other books can be found at the end of this one.
Dedicated to Frank Rimer
Imposture. 1. The act or an instance of fraudulent deception. 2. A sham.
“Virtue owns a more eternal foe than force or fraud: old custom, legal crime, and bloody faith the foulest birth of time.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Contents
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part Two
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
More fiction in this series
Other titles of interest
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Part One
Chapter One
Sunday 30th November (01:15 a.m.)
Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly brought the pool car to a halt on Main Street in Burley in Wharfedale, parking in front of the patrol car that some PC had left across the width of the road, as if he’d been drunk.
Jumping out, Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener caught sight of the street lamp and the iron railings at the edge of the kerb, both bent over at precarious angles. A large section of grass had been ripped up into clumps, leaving evidence in the form of a tread pattern. In the distance, he noticed branches and bricks and, possibly car parts, strewn across the road, not to mention damage to a brick wall.
Both men flashed their warrant cards and introduced themselves.
The young officer tipped his helmet. “PC Roberts, sir, Ilkley.” He was early twenties and carried more weight than he ought to have, sporting a double chin and puffy eyes.
“What do we know?” Gardener asked Roberts, glancing at an old gentleman standing next to the constable.
“This is Edward,” said Roberts, “Edward Makepeace. He lives in the village. He was out for a late-night walk when he spotted the damage, and the body.”
Gardener nodded. The man was small and waif-like: timid, slim, and no more than five feet tall. He wore a thick black quilted jacket over a grey pinstriped suit with a white shirt, black tie and a black bowler hat. “How are you?” asked Gardener, tipping his hat.
“Oh, well,” said Makepeace, tipping his hat. “You know what it’s like when you get to my age.”
Gardener didn’t but felt sure he would one day. “Would you like to tell us what you found, please, Mr Makepeace?”
He repeated the story the PC had mentioned, but in more detail. On leaving the village everything had been fine. When he returned from his walk he saw what the officers could see now.
“This is how you found her, Edward?” asked Reilly.
“Yes, sir.”
“You haven’t touched anything?”
“No. I got a little closer and asked if she was okay, but even with my poor eyesight I could see that she wasn’t.”
“When did you make the call, Mr Makepeace?” asked Gardener.
Edward glanced at his watch. “About an hour ago.”
Gardener made a quick calculation. Edward left home at around a quarter to midnight. Perhaps he hadn’t walked far so all the carnage in front of them probably happened before twelve fifteen, leaving a thirty-minute window. A lot had been crammed in during that half hour.
“Do you recognise her?”
“I’ve seen her and her husband about the village, but I’m afraid I don’t know their names.”
“Have you managed to ascertain who she is?” Gardener asked Roberts.
“No, sir,” he replied. “I haven’t been here much longer than you. I checked to see if she was alive, found she wasn’t, called it in myself, and then started to question Edward.”
Gardener knelt down beside the body of a woman, late forties to early fifties, adequately dressed for the time of year. She had long blonde hair in a fashionable bob, with a slim figure, well-manicured nails and a smooth complexion. In life, he felt she would have been quite pretty.
The SIO still checked for a pulse but found none. She was cold to the touch. Her left arm was trapped underneath her body, but the right extended outwards, clutching a mobile phone. A dark blue handbag lay a few feet away.
Reilly joined Gardener, kneeling down alongside the body.
“I wonder what this is all about, Sean?”
Reilly peered down the street to the damaged wall, before staring at the ruined railings behind them. “If she’s been hit by a car down there, she’s a long way from the scene of the accident.”
Gardener followed the direction of his partner’s eyes. “It seems unlikely she was hit over there” – he pointed, then glanced back at Reilly – “and landed over here.”
