IMPOSTURE: Hunters become the hunted in this gripping murder mystery by Ray Clark (good romance books to read txt) 📗

her phone. “All I can see at the moment is a load of stuff about data protection, and a company who make top end microphones, who are actually called DPA.”

“Well that’s probably a task for you two ladies tomorrow,” said Gardener. “Stay here, in the IT room, and see if you can figure anything out. It’s possible that a fresh set of eyes and minds on the job might uncover something.”

Gates nodded but didn’t actually take her eyes from the screen.

“Until then,” continued Gardener, “we’re going to need more people like Alan Braithwaite who might be lucky enough to stumble across a piece of evidence. That reminds me, we recovered David Hunter’s computer and his mobile from the house but we haven’t heard anything from IT. There must be something on those.”

Gardener turned around and made notes on the whiteboards of the actions he had mentioned.

“Did anyone follow up with Edward Makepeace to see if he has remembered anything else about the night in question?”

Longstaff raised her hand. “We did but he had nothing new to add.”

“It’s not surprising,” said Reilly. “We still don’t have anything concrete from the witness statements either. Problem is, it was the wrong time of night – or morning – for people to be out.”

“That’s true, Sean,” said Gardener, “but there’s always someone who can’t sleep. They get out of bed, head for the toilet and then stand for a few minutes staring out of the window. Surely there must be one witness to all of this carnage. It’s not as if a 4x4 hitting a wall at some speed doesn’t cause a noise.”

“You’d think not, boss, but we’ve had appeals out in newspapers and on TV and still no one’s come forward.”

Gardener sighed. “Okay, for want of nothing better to do, let’s try again. House-to-house calls just in case someone remembers something. And let’s check every single house within a short radius of the crash site again for CCTV, although you’d have thought we’d have heard something by now if they have.”

“What about the people who live at the house with the damaged wall?” Reilly asked. “Do we have a statement from them?”

“No,” said Rawson. “Neighbour told us they’re in the south of France. They have a holiday place there. It’s warmer.”

“Okay for some,” said Reilly.

“But we’ve left word for them to contact us,” said Sharp.

Another note on the whiteboard before Gardener turned to Benson and Edwards. “So, what about the car in question? Are you lads any further on in your quest?”

“We’ve compiled a list of all the dealers in the Yorkshire area: north, south, east and west,” said Benson. “We’ve contacted about half of them and asked for a list of all white Overfinches sold in the last three years. Problem is, at the moment we don’t even know how old this thing is. But once we have that list we can start contacting people and hope we strike it lucky.”

“If that doesn’t produce anything,” said Gardener, “get on to the company and ask for a list of every white Overfinch sold in the UK in the last five years. In fact, do it anyway, let’s cover all bases. I don’t suppose we’ve had one reported stolen?”

“Not yet,” replied Edwards.

“Nothing from the breakers, garages or repair shops?” asked Reilly.

“There’s plenty of them in the area; we haven’t managed to speak to anywhere near all of them, but so far, nothing,” Edwards replied.

Benson added, “The Overfinch is a bit of a specialist vehicle so the breakers don’t really see them.”

“Have we managed to go through the traffic cameras within a ten-mile radius of Burley?” asked Gardener. “Just in case this thing was picked up on camera somewhere. A large white Overfinch with a smashed-up front end would stick out.”

“We contacted traffic,” said Benson, “and asked them if they would go through what they have. They said they’d get back to us if they find anything.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath with that one,” said Reilly. “You know what traffic are like.”

“A law unto themselves,” added Gardener. “Perhaps you should have a word with them, Sean.”

“Christ!” said Rawson, “they’ll never speak to us again if you let him loose.”

“Once is all we need,” replied Gardener, updating the board again, before turning and concluding the meeting. “Okay, plenty to keep us going. I know it looks hopeless but keep pressing on. Old-fashioned legwork will be the key to success with this one. I think we should also pay the bank another visit. I don’t know when cyber last spoke to them but there may have been a development since.”

He added that to the board. “Okay everyone, grab yourselves some sleep and let’s start all over again in the morning.”

Chapter Eleven

In his entire career, Gardener could not remember a case so lacking in information. Ten days in and still they had little or nothing to go on.

Another phone call from the Bradford Two, requesting Gardener and Reilly’s assistance at the cyber unit changed all that.

An hour later they were sitting in a hi-tech office in the Bradford police station, manned by a CIU officer called Neil Farrah. He was bulky and slovenly, dressed casually in a pair of dark coloured chinos, white shirt and a black sports jacket – no tie. His hair was dark and wild and he had a week’s worth of growth on his chin. Farrah’s skin texture suggested he never saw daylight, which was backed up by the fact that the rumour mill at Bradford reckoned no one saw him arrive or leave, leaving them to assume he lived in the office.

“Do you know anything about 3D mapping?” Farrah asked Gardener.

“Not a lot,” replied Gardener, taking a seat. “We’ve never had to use it.”

Farrah asked them both to move their chairs so they could see the screen. Without even