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“We’ve neither seen nor heard anything of Roger Hunter recently?”
“Not since the funeral. He did say he was putting the house on the market for a stupid price to get a quick sale before returning home.”
“And where’s home?”
“He never actually said.”
“What he said was very little,” replied Gardener. “He also implied that he worked in government but he didn’t say what.”
“Which could be anything.”
“He made it sound like we’d have to upset quite a number of apple carts to get the information.”
“Are you thinking he’s responsible?”
“I have no idea,” said Gardener. “If anyone has a motive, he does. Maybe it’s worth checking to see if the house has sold; if not, is he still around? If he is, update him on what we’ve found, and find out if he knows anything more. But more importantly, we might need to upset one of those apple carts because we could really do with finding out more about him. If only to clear him and perhaps make sure he isn’t on the list either.”
Chapter Forty-two
Ablutions complete and bathroom duties finished, Anthony was back in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He still didn’t feel clean. How could he? The guest house was a dump, with little in the way of hygiene standards. The sheets in his room hadn’t been changed. Who was he kidding? The bed hadn’t even been made. He was sharing a bathroom down the corridor with Lord knows how many other people, where he actually had to clean the bath before he jumped in.
About to think things through, a news anchor from the TV
on the wall led with the story of a man who had died in horrific circumstances in the centre of Leeds yesterday. Anthony wouldn’t have bothered too much but he heard the words hit and run.
Jumping off the bed he increased the volume.
“The victim, known as Michael Foreman, was seen wandering around Bond Street in a very distressed state…”
A picture of Michael appeared on screen and Anthony nearly collapsed. His legs weakened, and he felt pins and needles in his arms and the ends of his fingers.
The news crew were talking to eyewitnesses, whose accounts were moving. Michael had been wandering around, searching for help, screaming out in pain – almost blind.
What the fuck had happened to him? thought Anthony, staring at the screen.
The Calendar news team confirmed the police had been on hand very quickly and the whole scene was cordoned off whilst they dealt with the incident. It appeared that Michael Foreman had died pretty soon after, leaving the scene in an ambulance. The police were appealing for more witnesses to come forward. They had not revealed what Michael had died of.
Anthony couldn’t believe it. He felt hollow, and cold, and close to breaking down. What the hell had happened to their lives? They had had everything: successful business, nice homes, flash cars. More money than they could ever have spent. One mistake. One mistake was all it had taken to ruin everything.
Anthony grabbed his bottle of lager, taking a deep, long swig, thinking over his day.
As he’d suspected, the owner of the guest house knew someone who knew someone who had a car that was surplus to requirements. Fifty pounds cash with no questions asked and he’d had the keys and the car before ten o’clock.
He’d actually started with Michael’s apartment in Skipton. He wasn’t surprised when the caretaker informed him it had been emptied, and that the police were calling on a regular basis. It was the same story at Zoe’s riverside apartment. When he dropped by Rosie’s house in Ilkley, the police had actually been there. He’d seen them enter the house from the opposite side of the road.
What in God’s name was going on? How much did the police know? More to the point, who was responsible for the carnage? Who had killed Michael?
There were two prime suspects as far as he could see. Zoe Harrison or James Henshaw.
Rosie claimed James had never made it to Brussels. Maybe he hadn’t. What if James had had a change of heart, decided he didn’t like what had happened, wanted to fix things?
The same could be said of Zoe. She was completely fucking ruthless when it came to business. The cold-hearted way in which she disposed of Ann Marie was unparalleled.
Anthony swigged more lager. They could both be in it together, though it was a long shot. Zoe and James were complete opposites.
It was still possible that they could have ripped him off and fucked off.
