“We’ll have plenty of time to work on that one,” replied Michelle.
Rosie glanced at Gardener. “For what it’s worth, I know I’m not Anthony Palmer’s biggest fan, but he wouldn’t do that to James.”
“What makes you say that?” Gardener asked.
“James was closer to Anthony than the other two.”
“That’s the name of the man who called last night,” said Michelle.
“Anthony Palmer called last night?” asked Gardener, the policeman’s instinct immediately surfacing.
“At the house?” asked Reilly.
“Yes,” said Michelle.
“Did he say where he was?”
“No. The conversation – if you could call it that – lasted less than a minute. He asked if he could speak to Rosie and I told him James had died.”
“What time was this?”
“About eight o’clock.”
“When you told him what had happened to James, did he say anything?”
“Nothing, the line went dead.”
“I’m sorry to ask you this at such a bad time,” said Gardener, “but did you hear anything in the background that might give us a clue to his whereabouts?”
“No, not really. I heard voices but I don’t think he was in a pub.”
Gardener apologised and left the table, withdrawing to the corner of the room. He reached into his jacket, drew out his own phone and made a call to the station. He gave them Rosie’s home number, and the exact time and length of the call. He said he wanted it triangulating and he wanted the results in five minutes or heads would roll.
He returned to the table, noticing her complexion had improved a little.
True to form, his phone rang a little after five minutes later. Gardener answered and was given the information he needed.
“Anthony Palmer made the call from somewhere in Headingley,” he said to Reilly.
Chapter Fifty
Reilly pulled the pool car to a stop in front of a three-bedroom detached bungalow in Manor Park, Burley in Wharfedale, home to Anthony Palmer. The pair of them jumped out and approached the front door. Though he felt foolish, Gardener still rang the bell.
There was no answer, as expected.
“Didn’t actually think he’d be home, did we?” asked Reilly.
Gardener shook his head. “He’s not likely to be, Sean. This is the last place he’ll be if he’s responsible for the deaths of the others.”
Reilly glanced around the property, through the windows, and then turned back to his partner. “Rosie Henshaw surprised me when she said that she felt Anthony Palmer wasn’t responsible for James’ death.”
“Yes, I thought it a bit odd,” replied Gardener. “Everything we know about him says otherwise. And even if he isn’t, he certainly has to bear some responsibility for the death of David and Ann Marie Hunter.”
“Judging by how Michael Foreman was disposed of, it has me doubting that Palmer was involved. That HN-3 shit won’t be easy to get hold of.”
“You’re probably right,” replied Gardener, “but starving someone is well within his remit.”
Gardener glanced around, still unsure where it was all leading. “Do me a favour, Sean, will you have a look around the back?”
Reilly nodded and took off. He was back within minutes. “Nothing there. Christ, you want to see the size of this place. There’s two really big rooms, not sure what one is but the other looks like a swimming pool.”
Gardener rolled his eyes. “Like you said yesterday, Sean, we’re in the wrong job.” He checked his watch. “Right, there’s nothing doing here, why don’t we drive through the village and stop off at the Hunters’ place, see what we can pick up there?”
The journey took all of five minutes. Pulling up in the drive, the Hunters’ residence appeared to be equally as nice as Palmer’s bungalow, though not as big. One main difference between the two properties was that Highway Cottage had a sold sign bolted to the outside wall. Gardener glanced back down the drive but he couldn’t see one on the main road leading to the property.
“Will you do the honours again, Sean?”
As Reilly walked around the back, Gardener glanced through the windows. The furniture was still in the same place as when he and Reilly had visited Roger Hunter some time back. He knew the funerals had taken place and he had not seen or spoken to Roger since, but the sold sign suggested he might still be around somewhere.
As Gardener turned, he noticed the neighbour in her garden opposite. She smiled and said morning and he racked his memory banks for a name, which slipped into his brain at the very last second.
“Morning, Mrs Poskitt,” he said, strolling over and showing his warrant card, not because he wanted to question her, but more a reassurance that he was not a burglar. “We’re looking for Roger Hunter, you haven’t seen him around, have you?”
She was an elderly woman with grey hair tied up in a bun, which elongated her thin face. She was dressed in garden denims that bore green and brown stains, and a quilted bodywarmer, and Wellington boots. “I can’t say I have, not for some time.”
“When you say some time, how long are we talking?”
Poskitt placed her tools on the ground and thought about that question. Eventually, she replied. “Maybe five or six weeks now.”
“As long as that?”
“Well, not to talk to. I have seen him popping in and out.”
“How does he seem?” Gardener asked.
“Busy,” replied Poskitt. “He doesn’t stay too long. But then I can’t say I blame him. This place must hold some awful memories for him.”
“Okay,” said Gardener, nodding and tipping his hat. “Thank you for your time.”
As he turned, she spoke again. “Mind you, I do find it very odd.”
Gardener glanced at her. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t see a for sale sign.”
Gardener glanced back at the house. “When did the sold sign go up?”
“Can’t have been much more than a week. I
