IMPOSITION Read online

  IMPOSITION

  Detectives hunt a serial killer in this gripping mystery

  THE DI GARDENER CRIME FICTION SERIES

  BOOK 5

  RAY CLARK

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2020

  © Ray Clark

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

  You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.

  We hope you enjoy the book.

  IMPOSITION is the fifth book in a series of five murder mysteries by Ray Clark featuring DI Stewart Gardener. It is inspired by true events. Full details about the other books can be found at the end of this one.

  Imposition: 1. An unfair demand, or burden. 2. An act of deception or taking advantage.

  “Every man has three characters: that which he exhibits, that which he has, and that which he thinks he has.”

  Alphonse Karr

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  More fiction in this series

  FREE BOOKS IN YOUR INBOX

  Prologue

  North Yorkshire

  Thirty-five years ago

  “You nearly done, Eric?”

  Elsie rose out of her chair, crossed the room, and placed two pieces of coal on the fire to last them through the news. She then turned up the sound on the TV.

  “The hell are you doing in there, love?” she asked, moving a small coffee table between the two chairs.

  “You’ll be the death of me, woman,” he said, closing the door into the kitchen with his left foot while balancing a tray with two cups of cocoa and a saucer of chocolate digestives.

  “They will,” she replied, nodding towards the biscuits. “You eat far too many.”

  “Only pleasure I get. Anyway, what’s the rush? It hasn’t started yet.”

  He stepped back, drawing the curtain between the dining and the living room.

  Elsie chuckled. That was her Eric. Tide and time waited for no man but you couldn’t rush him into anything.

  She was still proud of their small, terraced house. It had been their first and only purchase, bought as a new build. Moved in the day after they were married – back in the sixties. It was clean and tidy but it needed a spruce up. Painter and decorator he might be but he rarely found the time to renovate their own house – too busy doing everybody else’s.

  Eric parked his carcass. The ten o’clock news had pretty much been a nightly ritual as long as they had been together: a cup of cocoa, a few biscuits, the news and then bed.

  “Wonder what’s been happening today?” asked Eric.

  “Something has. I saw Jean Parkin in the town this afternoon, picking up a piece of brisket for their weekend joint. White as a ghost she was.”

  “Why?”

  “Not sure. She wouldn’t say much about it.”

  “Is she ill or something?”

  The newscaster announced the headlines and they immediately noticed a view of the grade II listed swing-bridge over the River Esk before the shot cut to a street of detached houses.

  “Don’t think so. But if we watch this, I think we’re about to find out.”

  Eric lifted his cup and took a sip.

  In the studio the face of the newscaster was solemn. “Detectives have launched a murder enquiry following the discovery of two bodies in a house in the North Yorkshire seaside resort of Whitby earlier today. A member of the public alerted the police when the front door of the house was seen to be open. The names of the deceased have not been released as police continue their investigations and attempt to contact relatives.”

  “Good God.” Eric lowered his cup. “That’s a bit close to home, Elsie, love.”

  The shot changed to an exterior view of the houses from the street with a reporter standing before them.

  They must be freezing, thought Elsie; it was mid-November, and she could see his breath. “Neighbours described the deaths as a tragedy in what was considered a very secure area.”

  “You’re not safe in your own home these days,” said Eric.

  Elsie made no comment. Her eyes were focused on what was happening. Forensics officers wearing light blue protective clothing and white masks flittered in and out of the large tent stationed before one of the houses.

  “That looks like the posh area up on the cliff top. Valley Rd, cuts between Mulgrave and Upgang, near to where the pub is.”

  The camera panned out. The area remained cordoned off with blue and white police tape and uniformed officers standing guard outside. Flowers had already been left outside the property.

  “Did the Parkin woman say who it was?”

  “No,” replied Elsie. “But she reckoned it was a right mess inside.”

  “What? She found them?”

  “No. She doesn’t live there, but she’s a friend of the woman who lives next door. It was her husband who found them. Blood all over the place.”

  “Sounds a bit dramatic.” Eric took a digestive. “I doubt it was that bad.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  The presenter continued. “No arrests have been made and post-mortems will be carried out.”

  “Why?” Eric asked, staring at his wife.

  “It’s Alfie Peterson’s place.”

  “The cockney?”

  “The gangster, more like.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “I reckon you have a short memory, Eric. I’ll not forget what he did to us.”

  “There was no proof, Elsie, love.”

  “I don’t need proof. I know his type.”

  “How can you? We’ve lived here all our lives. Never left the place. How can you know what people like him are like?”

  “I know right enough.” Tears formed in Elsie’s eyes. “Happen our son might come back home if he’s watching this.”

  “Aye,” replied Eric, standing up, still staring at the
TV. “And happen not.”

  The news report finished.

  “Anyway,” she said, rising from her seat. “I’ve no wish to talk about it.” She headed for the kitchen with her cup. “I’m ready for my bed. Are you coming?”

  “No. Seeing as it’s Friday and I’ve no work tomorrow I thought I’d pull a late one. Think I’ll watch that film Alan Hardacre lent me.”

  Chapter One

  Present day

  Desk Sergeant Maurice Cragg heard the steaming kettle coming to the boil in the other room. Peering at the clock above his head he reckoned he had around ten minutes to make his drink before settling down to watch a repeat of Armchair Theatre.

  Maurice smiled to himself as he stood up. He remembered ITV’s flagship drama the first-time round – in the seventies. He and his late wife, Veronica, passed many an hour watching them if he wasn’t working the late shift: him with a beer – her with a sherry.

  The kettle switched off, breaking Maurice’s thoughts. He was in the back room of the police station in Bramfield, which resembled a sitting room, with a table and chairs, a three-piece suite, an open fireplace, a wooden floor covered by an assortment of rugs, and ancient, yellowed wallpaper.

  It was all he had, but he liked it.

  Carrying his empty mug into the kitchen he rinsed it in the sink, threw in a teabag and poured the boiling water in. Delving into a tin in the cupboard above his head he grabbed a handful of biscuits.

  Munching away, his thoughts returned to his late wife again. She’d been gone eight years. Her life had been taken in the middle of Lidgett Hill in Pudsey by a hit and run – a drunk driver. Ran a red light. She’d had no chance – killed instantly. The driver was still in prison. But then, so was Maurice, after a fashion.

  He added milk and sugar to the cup before strolling through into the sitting room area, keeping a watchful eye on the front desk. Not that much ever happened in Bramfield during normal hours, never mind after the witching hour.

  Following Veronica’s death, endless bills from credit card companies, department store cards and catalogues soon mounted. If there was money to be spent, she had no equal. He’d had to sell everything to keep his head above water.

  His home, his life and his job were all now based around the small country station in Bramfield. He had friends, although he hadn’t seen any of them for a while. That was the late shift for you.

  He leaned forward, switching on the TV – the only thing left from the marriage.

  Out in the lobby the station door burst open, crashed against the wall, and slammed shut again.

  “Christ!” Cragg jumped, knocking into the table. “Where’s the fire?” He turned and rushed through, unsure of what to expect. What he saw confused him.

  The room was empty.

  Chapter Two

  The existence of the everyday hard-working burglar had been a whole lot tougher more recently: first a recession, then Brexit. Fucking pandemic wasn’t help either: people at home more, keeping a closer eye on their possessions.

  The police were tightening up – more sophisticated procedures. But he kept himself in the know. He knew all about DNA 17 technology, the biggest change to DNA profiling in fifteen years.

  According to what he’d heard – because he wasn’t that hot on reading – DNA 17 was so good that if you farted you left a trace a mile wide.

  Manny laughed at that. Sources had informed him that the new DNA 17 profiling had CSIs swabbing glove marks for a full profile. They reckoned that when you put gloves on, you usually touch the outside with your hands, leaving a trace of sweat. The swabs pick it up. There was no way they’d find a trace of him, not with three pairs of underpants and three pairs of gloves, not to mention a hairnet and mask: couldn’t take any chances.

  Bastards. Why couldn’t they leave Manny and his kind alone? Give them a break now and again?

  Situated in a part of the town considered well out of the way, Swansea Court had four detached houses. He was pretty sure number two was empty. He’d studied the front of the house for the last half hour, watching the bedroom with the light on, but there had been absolutely no movement: no one coming or going.

  Around the back he’d kept watch for a further fifteen minutes. Nothing. Now he’d finally summoned the nerve to stroll down the path it was time to steal and shoot, before someone did come home. Who lived here and where the hell they were was a complete mystery to Manny but he could live with that.

  Manny confidently held the window frame, peering around the edge. His eyes opened wide and he whistled through his teeth. The place was a mess. Maybe the gaff had already been turned over. The kitchen was upside down. Drawers had been pulled out of units, cupboard doors left open. The table was piled high with everything: papers, bills, cups, saucers, plates – and the silverware. Stuff was all over the floor.

  Manny rubbed his gloves together. The Lord really had given him the green light. If someone else had burgled the place they may have been stupid enough to leave their prints all over the scene, which meant he could go in and take what was left and perhaps be lucky enough to escape hassle free.

  The first thing Manny saw was a pair of trainers, and not simply any trainers. These were Vans – definitely expensive. He reached down, pulled the right one toward him. With a bit of luck they would fit.

  Dropping his swag bag, Manny carefully reached further into the room, to a collection of carrier bags in the corner. He placed one on the floor and removed his shoes. He stepped into the trainers and tied the laces. Perfect. He slipped his own shoes in another carrier and left them on the back doorstep – stroke of genius. Everywhere he walked now, he would be doing so in the trainers of the man who owned the house. And you’d certainly expect to find his footprints everywhere.

  He carefully negotiated the room, bag in hand, peering into all the cupboards and drawers. He found very little of interest.

  Lousy bastard. Whoever had been here before had no consideration for anyone else.

  He checked the fridge before moving on. He found chocolate ring doughnuts in a bag as well as a number of energy drinks. Now you were talking Manny’s language. He scoffed two of the doughnuts and downed a can. He threw the empty in his bag. Safety first, thought Manny.

  The living room was a little tidier. The TV screen on the wall was probably the biggest he had ever seen, so that was no use to him. It was too well fastened anyway. A number of paintings of horses adorned the rest of the walls. He didn’t want those either. The room was also furnished with an incredible amount of equine ornaments: there was even a fucking rug with a horse’s face on the floor. Keith Lemon would have a field day. Manny laughed at his own thought.

  Turning his attention to the hi-fi unit, Manny froze, almost certain he had heard something from the floor above. Crouching down he waited, listened further. He wasn’t sure why burglars crouched down. Stupid really. If anyone came in and switched a light on you’d hardly be perfectly placed to make a move, would you?

  He lingered long enough to realise it was probably his nerves playing tricks on him, remembering the first time he’d taken up his new hobby. He was so nervous he actually shit himself. He wasn’t too happy but the old hands in his trade had had a good laugh about it. They’d all done it. They hadn’t thrown up afterwards, though.

  Manny stood back up, using a small pen torch to rifle through the CDs. They were crap, as far as he was concerned. Fetch a few quid in the pubs or on the market stalls but he definitely wouldn’t be listening to them. Glam Rock? Who the fuck listens to that stuff?

  An entire shelf had been dedicated to Slade CDs, mostly originals, possibly a lot of bootleg stuff. Manny reckoned there was some money’s worth here. The owner of the house was very obviously a collector. So was Manny, and he was collecting these: proper money here.

  Manny bagged the lot and moved on.

  In the front hall he came across two things of interest. One was a shitload of music gear: amplifier, speakers, guitar case, leads and extensions. T
he man of the house was obviously a musician. But if the place had already seen one burglar why would he have left the expensive music gear? The heavy stuff yes, but the guitar...

  Manny opened the case carefully. It was a nice bit of kit. Not that he knew much about guitars. It had the Fender logo and he knew they were good. Manny could make a fair bit here. He closed and latched the case and moved that – as well as his swag bag – to the back door.

  The second point of interest was an unlocked door. Inside, the cupboard was nothing out of the ordinary. Tall and narrow with a number of shelves containing a selection of boxes.

  Manny checked his watch. Well… it wasn’t his but he was taking damn good care of it. He really didn’t want to waste too much time in case the homeowner returned. A quick peek wouldn’t hurt.

  It was mostly crap to do with horses: horseshoes, small bits of tackle used for riding. One was even full of hay. Who was Manny robbing tonight?

  He forgot the boxes, and shone his torch toward the floor. More stuff connected to music in the shape of vinyl. He checked: more Slade. He figured it was collectible, and he could probably carry it.

  The floor of the cupboard was timber. One of the boards squeaked as he stepped on it, indicating it was loose. Manny found a screwdriver, knelt down, forced the board upwards. Inside was a lockable metal box. Very interesting. Peering deeper into the cupboard revealed a key under a carpet. Most people were stupid enough to leave keys nearby. The box was about fifteen inches by twelve, and perhaps a foot deep. He unlocked and removed the top.

  Now what do we have here, thought Manny. I think we’ll have these. Never know what’s in them. Silly bastard probably doesn’t even know he has them.

  Manny closed and locked the top, then put the key in his pocket. What you’ve never had, you don’t miss.

  He closed the cupboard door and carried the box to the rest of the stuff he’d piled up near the back door.

  Manny was aware that his luck couldn’t really last out much longer but he would have to check the upstairs. No burglar worth his salt would leave a possible treasure trove uninvestigated. The room to avoid would be the one with the light on. He doubted anyone was in there but knowing his luck – no matter how good it had so far been – some arsehole outside would be walking his dog, irrespective of the time. That would be curtains for Manny.