IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

  “Well, he knows, he said we could do our homework on it.”

  “But you weren’t using Google for the answers, were you?”

  “Not really.”

  “So come on, out with it. You’ll have to tell if you want me to fix it.” Graham offered them another biscuit each and finished his cup of tea. “Have either of you been on sites you shouldn’t have?”

  With a defeated expression and a lowering of heads, they admitted they had.

  “Which ones?”

  They reeled off a whole load of names that he wasn’t happy with, but at the end of the day it appeared to be straightforward porn. “And I’m not going to find anything illegal on here, am I?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Anything involving children or animals?”

  “No, no, honestly, mister, there’s nothing like that.” Both of them had spoken at once and completely out of sync, so it sounded like a jumbled mess.

  Graham believed them. “Okay, so you were surfing the Net, looking at boobs and things, and then what happened?”

  “It just stopped working.”

  “Stopped working, how?”

  “It started playing up, flickering screen, funny sound,” said one.

  “Then it just went blue and started buzzing,” said the other.

  “Oh my God, you didn’t get the Blue Screen of Death, did you?”

  Neither seemed to have a clue what he was on about, obviously not as up on computer talk as they had imagined.

  “It looks like it,” one replied.

  “That could be serious, guys. Even if I can fix it, I doubt very much I’ll be able to get it back to its original state without your pa knowing. Something will be different, and it won’t be long before he finds out. And it won’t be cheap.”

  “He’s gonna kill us,” one said to the other.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the time Gardener and Reilly had made some headway, the residents of Bramfield were going about their business. All except Armitage’s, that was.

  To his credit, George Fitzgerald, the Home Office pathologist, had arrived within half an hour of Gardener’s request, and so too had most of his team. Once he’d briefed Fitz and was happy that the scene had been secured to his satisfaction, the scenes of crimes officers had been given specific instructions to tear the place to bits.

  Albert Armitage had visited the premises and handed over the keys: he’d said he would see Gardener and Reilly at the police station once he had informed his wife of what had happened. Although technically a suspect, the officer in charge didn’t for one minute think Armitage would do a runner. He did, however, send a junior officer with him.

  From the station, Gardener had made phone calls: one to the FSS at Wetherby, requesting a scientist; one to MIT – the HOLMES operators – to meet him at Bramfield police station to set up an incident room.

  Maurice Cragg greeted them as they walked in.

  “You’ll be needing a cup of tea, sir?” Cragg asked, although it was more a statement.

  “Breakfast as well, Maurice, if you can sort something out for us.”

  “I certainly can. There’s a bakery about fifty yards from the station. One of the lads can take an order for us all and nip down there.”

  Gardener hadn’t realized how hungry he was until then. He’d pretty much jumped out of bed and left the house within ten minutes. His shirt, suit, and tie had all been pressed and hanging ready, but food had not crossed his mind.

  “Thank you.” Gardener passed over ten pounds. “I’ll have something healthy, and whatever you and Sean are having. Whilst junior runs out for the order, can you show me around?”

  “Certainly,” said Cragg, with a puzzled expression.

  “I’d like to run the investigation from here. I’ve called in the HOLMES operators. We’ll need a room with sufficient trunking, and enough power sockets for all the internal computers. And a separate room for the investigation team, which we’ll also use for briefing and debriefing.”

  As Cragg was about to leave, another officer appeared. Gardener hadn’t seen him earlier. He stood about six foot four, had a trim frame with short dark hair, blue eyes, wire-rimmed glasses, and a pencil-line moustache. He spoke with a Welsh accent.

  “Sergeant Williams, sir. The daytime desk sergeant,” said Cragg.

  Both men shook hands, and Williams said he would be happy to do anything he could to help.

  Gardener turned to Cragg. “Maurice, are you okay to stay a while longer? I really would like to try and keep the original team together for as long as I can.”

  “I told you before, sir, it’s not a problem. I don’t have to rush off.”

  Cragg showed Gardener and Reilly a large conference room at the back of the building that could not be seen from the front. It was about twenty-foot square, with a linoleum floor, four desks, plenty of power outlets, and even a screen and projector. It was sufficient for what they needed. Reilly said he would stay there to greet the HOLMES team and start the proceedings.

  Cragg showed Gardener another ground floor room, which he could use for his own team, some of whom had already started arriving.

  “What’s upstairs?” asked Gardener.

  “We use the upstairs mostly for storage, sir,” replied Cragg. “We have files in a couple of the rooms, and we have another room for all the usual rubbish you collect. The cleaner keeps her stuff there.”

  A young constable appeared with everyone’s breakfast. There were two dozen sandwiches, all of which smelled mouth-watering but no doubt contained enough cholesterol to kill a dinosaur. Gardener spotted his healthy option almost immediately: a fruit cocktail, plus a granola and yoghurt mix.

  He asked for them to be taken to his incident room. Once breakfast was over, all his team – along with Cragg – gathered there with him.

  Gardener stood at the head of the group in front of a blank whiteboard.

  It took him twenty minutes to describe in detail the scene as he and Reilly had found it. Only when he’d finished, did he open the floor to questions.

  “Is there any information about Alex Wilson yet?” asked Frank Thornton, probably the most experienced officer he had. Thornton was tall and lean, and reminded Gardener of a POW. His hair was never free of dandruff.

  “No. PC Close identified him. We know he lived in the flat above the shop, which is owned by his uncle, Albert Armitage. Sean and I will be speaking to the old man shortly.”

  “He’s just arrived, sir,” said Cragg. “I’ve shown him to an interview room and given him a cup of tea.”

  “And he’s involved with drugs?” asked Bob Anderson, Thornton’s partner, perhaps his complete opposite. Bob was well fed, well read, married with children and grandchildren, but equally as dependable.

  “PC Close said he was. Which reminds me, where is Close?”

  “He’s here as well, sir,” said Cragg.

  Gardener picked up a felt pen and started to create an ANACAPA chart, which would help show all the connections and relationships between each scene once HOLMES started throwing out information. He labelled Scene 1 as the basement, Scene 2, the victim, and Scene 3, the shop. As an afterthought, Wilson’s flat became Scene 4.

  “You mentioned a wound, sir,” said Colin Sharp. “Any ideas?”

  Gardener knew Sharp would pick up on that. He was probably the most dedicated member of the team. Sharp had proved invaluable in the last two major investigations; he was very thorough and had an unrelenting passion for digging into a person’s past.

  “At the moment, no. Sean and I discussed it, but until the pathology report lands on our desk, we have no idea whether or not he’s been in hospital recently, and if he has, what for.”

  “But it’s doubtful,” said Sean Reilly. “If he had, it’s bloody likely he’d still be in there.”

  “I’m having some photos run off, so before you go, take a copy with you. Someone will have the chance to visit the local hospitals in the area. There can’t be t
hat many. Show them the photo, and ask if anyone recognizes him as having recently been admitted. We might get lucky. However, there are a number of high priority actions to be getting on with.”

  Gardener glanced at Sharp. “Colin, I’d like you and Dave Rawson to head the investigation on the shop. It’s going to be a long, drawn-out affair, because old man Armitage didn’t have a computer, nor an electronic till.”

  “Christ! Is he running Beamish?” replied Rawson, the team’s biggest individual. He was a rugby centre forward for one of the local squads on his spare weekends. He had short black hair, a beard and moustache, and strong square teeth.

  “You might well wonder by the time we’ve finished. Anyway, I want you to identify the last customer, the top ten regular customers, and anyone purchasing items connected to the inquiry. By the time we’ve finished it should look as if the shop has been run on computers.”

  “Any news about what was in the envelopes near the victim?” asked Thornton.

  “No, but I’ve told SOCO I want them as soon as possible. I’m hoping we can see them before you lot leave here.”

  Gardener turned his attention to Paul Benson. Despite only being twenty-three, Benson had been with Gardener for six months, and was proving to be an asset, not the least of which because his girlfriend, Natasha, was a legal secretary.

  “I’d like you to head the team conducting a house-to-house of Bramfield. I want a list of all the locksmiths and tradesmen in the area, and get someone to talk to all of them. Have they used the shop recently? Have they bought anything connected to the inquiry, or done jobs for anyone that they might think is connected?

  “Patrick, I’d like you to join Paul Benson and his team, but before you do, Sean will give you the registration of a fancy black car that was seen early this morning in Bramfield. Find out who it belongs to and pay them a visit. See what they were up to so early. Could be nothing, all very innocent, but I want to know.”

  Patrick Edwards was the junior member of his squad: a twenty-one-year-old fresh-faced constable who had an earring in one ear that no one was pleased about. Gardener felt that he would make good one day.

  Gardener turned to Thornton and Anderson. “Can you two start looking into Alex Wilson’s life? You know the drill, find out everything you can about him.

  “Hopefully, we’ll build up a victimology of Alex Wilson. Find out who his friends and family are, if he has any. We’ll check his computer and bank accounts as well, if he has any of those, and we’ll look at pre-convictions.

  “Whilst you lot go about your actions, Sean and I are going to interview Albert Armitage and Jackie Pollard. I think Pollard most definitely will be a known offender. We picked him up at the scene of the crime a little after four o’clock this morning. He looked as if he’d been there quite a while, but he claims he hadn’t. It’s a safe bet his prints will be all over everything. He’s also a known drug dealer. We’ll interview him after we’ve spoken to Armitage.”

  Gardener turned to Maurice Cragg and introduced him to the rest of team.

  “Maurice is local to the town and the station and has been here all his life. Make good use of him. He probably knows everything there is to know about everyone. In other words, Maurice is your local human search engine. He might even let you call him Craggle.”

  That raised a laugh, which pleased Gardener. So far, there had been very little to smile about. He felt as if he’d put in a full day already, and they hadn’t yet reached lunchtime.

  “And Maurice, in my absence, will you please look after the ANACAPA chart? Sean and I have a lot to get through today, and I’d appreciate it if I could entrust that task to you.”

  “Be my pleasure, Mr Gardener,” replied the desk sergeant, who seemed to be really enjoying himself, as if the unusual incident had brightened up his life and given him a purpose.

  A knock on the door interrupted the meeting. Cragg opened it, and Gardener recognized one of the SOCOs. He held out four clear, sealed packets.

  “Mr Fenton, sir, said you needed these as soon as possible.”

  Gardener thanked the officer before he left. Inside two of the clear wallets were the white envelopes that had been pinned to the wall close to Alex Wilson.

  Gardener didn’t know whether to feel pleased or not. They might mean a boatload of extra work before they had even started. The problem might then be the amount of men he would be allowed to work on his other tasks.

  He asked for his team to come up to the board as he opened the envelopes and pinned their contents to it.

  It was Sean Reilly who spoke first. “That one’s easy enough, boss. It’s a tarot card. I think it’s The Fool.”

  Gardener sighed. The investigation had now taken a wrong turn, not that there was ever a right one.

  “Okay, we’ll talk about that later. And the other?” he asked.

  No one spoke. Expressions remained blank.

  The card was oblong, approximately three inches by two, and featured a character by the name of Inspector Catcher. He was wearing a trilby, was clean-shaven, and what could be seen of his hair was dark. He stood with a stance of authority, and wore a long plain overcoat. He was holding his arm out, and in his hand, he held an ID card. A little balloon from his mouth said ‘You’re Nicked!’

  Gardener showed his team the reverse side of the card, which had one word in the centre, ‘Murder’ in a fancy font, with an hourglass underneath and a patent number.

  It was plain to see that no one had a clue what the card was, or what the hell it belonged to.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After his team had left, Gardener realized it would not be an easy case to crack. But then, were any of them?

  Reilly was in the corner of the room on his mobile. Gardener asked Cragg if he could arrange another round of tea for them both. As Cragg returned with the tray, Reilly concluded his conversation and flipped the phone shut.

  Gardener and Cragg sat, and Reilly joined them. The room was clean and pleasant, with large windows affording a good view of Old Bramfield Road. On the walls hung prints of the town from bygone days. The cleaner had placed a couple of dishes of potpourri on the window ledges.

  “What do you know about tarot cards, Sean?” asked Gardener.

  “Not as much as Laura.”

  Laura was Sean’s wife, and Gardener had almost as much respect for her as he had for his partner. She was a terrifically independent woman, and had probably been as much help to Gardener as his sergeant following the death of his own wife, Sarah.

  “And you know what she’s like,” continued Reilly. “She can talk for Ireland.”

  “And you can’t?” replied Gardener.

  “Yes, but all my conversations make sense.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  Reilly scoffed. “You used to be such a wise man.”

  Gardener laughed. “That was before I started working with you.”

  “Anyway,” replied Reilly, having the good grace to know when he was beaten. “I described the card in detail.”

  “And?”

  “The tarot is a set of cards used for divination. They give an insight into the unknown, predicting the future.”

  “So we could add clairvoyants to our list of suspects?”

  “Maybe. Laura explained that there are different sets of cards. There’s Major Arcana, which is what we have, and Minor Arcana, which look like playing cards. They all have meanings, either upright or reversed. Though what our suspect had in mind, I’m not sure.”

  Gardener sipped his tea. “We might find that out when we know Wilson a little better.”

  Reilly continued. “The upright meaning signifies beginnings, most probably of journeys. Could be mental, physical, or spiritual.”

  “Judging by what Wilson has gone through, I’d say it was all three,” replied Gardener. “And the reversed meaning?”

  Reilly referred to his notepad. “Impulsive action, ill-advised risks, rash decisions. Foolishness, gambling... the
list seems endless.”

  “All of which describes Alex Wilson,” offered Cragg.

  Gardener thought for a moment. “So, could we be looking for someone who knew the victim, and is pointing out problems he’s had with Wilson’s personality? Maybe he’s justifying his actions – to himself – for something that happened in the past? An incident that involved a bad decision Wilson made, in keeping with the card’s meaning?”

  “Probably,” replied Reilly. “Once we know what’s going on, we might find the card fits Wilson perfectly.”

  Gardener stood up, put his hands in his pockets and stared at the second card on the board, ‘Inspector Catcher’.

  “What about that one?”

  Reilly joined Gardener. “I’ve no idea, boss. I haven’t seen anything like that before.”

  “Looks like a card from a board game to me,” said Gardener.

  “That card up there isn’t from any board game I’ve ever seen,” said Cragg, “and I’ve seen most.”

  Gardener turned to face the desk sergeant. “But how many board games are there on the market?”

  “Nothing that’s new, boss,” Reilly replied. “Most games are electronic these days, and usually online.”

  “I want copies of that card for the next meeting in the incident room.”

  “He could also be telling us something else,” offered Reilly. “Like the fact that Wilson got away with something big in the past, and we didn’t put him away.”

  “You may be right, Sean. Maurice, what do you know about Wilson?” Gardener asked, finishing his tea.

  “A bit of a waste of space. He didn’t just live above the shop, he also worked for Armitage. Part-time, mind. He was hot-headed, argumentative; didn’t think things through. I reckon he used drugs as well as sold ’em, because he was always edgy around people. Could never stand still, or sit still, for that matter. One of those people who constantly shook his leg. Would drive you bloody mad when you were interviewing him. He was always trying to make a fast buck, bend the rules wherever he could.

  “From what I can gather his parents disowned him years ago; it was a bit of a family secret. Never did find out what for. Armitage took him on because no one else would. Nobody would employ him. Blood’s thicker than water. I suspect old Armitage didn’t want to see him out on the street.”