by Ray Clark
Gardener felt the old man needed a gentle little nudge. “You do realise anything you say here will be treated confidentially?”
“I dare say it will, but what about a little quid-pro-quo? Isn’t it time you told me what was going on? It is my shop.”
Gardener glanced at his partner.
“It’s your call, boss. He’ll have to know sooner or later.”
“Know what?” asked Armitage, leaning forward. “Has he done something to my shop I should know about?”
“There has been an incident, Mr Armitage, and we fully intend to tell you everything, but if you can bear with us a little longer? We’d like some background on Alex. How long has he worked for you?”
“About a year, maybe a bit longer.”
“What does he do?”
“Well, he’s not full time. I employ him for three days a week, but he has the use of the flat above the shop rent free, and he gets the van. He serves in the shop now and again. He runs to and from the suppliers to collect stock when I need him to.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“Not that he’s talked about.”
“Does he have many friends in general?”
“Couldn’t tell you, we don’t socialize much. But one or two of them have come into the shop to see him.”
“What are they like, his friends?”
“Pretty much like him. Not the best dressers in the world. Some of them don’t have jobs, but they still do okay. Beats me, that one.”
“None of them seem unusual?”
“In what way?”
“Pushy, threatening behaviour? Are they all there?”
“Most of them seem pretty normal. Some of them are what I’d call ‘out of his league’.”
“What do you mean?”
“Suited and booted. One comes to mind, well dressed, a bit flash, big car. I’ve seen the casual exchange of money. I turned a blind eye. I suppose it’s his little problem, but I think things are under control now. He doesn’t like to talk about it, and I don’t push him.”
“Do you know his name, this friend who’s out of his league?”
“I’ve heard the name ‘Lance’, that’s all.”
Gardener made a mental note to pursue that one. He had to mean Lance Hobson. Gardener intended to track that man down.
“A little problem?” pushed Reilly, sitting a little more to attention.
“Yes, Mr Reilly. We all have them. It was one of the reasons his close family disowned him a few years back. They couldn’t cope with the shame. Chucked him out. I suspected things got worse. I do know he spent a bit of time in prison, but they do say you shouldn’t do the crime if you can’t do the time. I squared up one or two of the debts, and then took him under my wing. I think it’s all behind him now. He’s got it under control.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Reilly. “You know what he’s up to, yet you turn a blind eye?”
Gardener had to admit he was surprised. Armitage had seemed as straight as a die. He figured they would learn something, but he never expected a revelation of such magnitude.
Reilly pushed on. “You employed him, put a roof over his head, practically gave him everything he needed to operate, and you call it a little problem?”
“Well, what would you call it, Mr Reilly? We all make mistakes. Learning from them is the important thing.”
“Selling drugs to school children is classed as a mistake in your books, is it?”
“Drugs?” Armitage said.
It was the second time Gardener had seen such an emotional response. He now realized that they had not been talking about the same thing. So, what the hell was the other problem?
“Who’s talking about drugs?” asked Armitage.
“We are,” said Reilly. “What are you talking about?”
“Gambling.”
“Gambling?” repeated Gardener.
“Yes, Mr Gardener, gambling. Our Alex has a betting addiction. Horses, dogs, online bingo, you name it, he’ll put money on it. Like I said, I squared up one or two of the debts and then gave him a home and a job, which is why I thought it was under control.”
Gardener suddenly wasn’t so sure that Armitage would be able to take what they were going to say.
“Would you care to elaborate on this drugs business?” asked Armitage. “Are you going to tell me something that I need to prepare myself for?”
The moment had come.
“Mr Armitage,” said Gardener, softly. “I’m afraid I do have some bad news for you. There has been an incident in the shop, and it does involve your nephew Alex.”
“Go on,” pushed the old man.
“I’m really sorry, but we found Alex this morning in your basement.”
It took a little time for the dust to settle and the penny to drop. “Dead?” Armitage asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“How?”
“We don’t know the details yet, but from everything we’ve pieced together it would appear to be drug related, which is why we wanted to see how much you knew before we told you.”
Armitage stayed silent for a few moments. Gardener noticed his eyes turn a little red-rimmed, coming to the conclusion that there was no truer statement than the one Cragg had made earlier about blood being thicker than water. For all his nephew’s wrongdoing, Alex Wilson was still Armitage’s family, and probably pretty close judging by the emotion.
“Would you like some time to yourself?” Gardener asked.
Time did pass before he replied. “No, Mr Gardener, I would much rather press on and get this whole nasty business out of the way, so that when I leave here, I know I’m done.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am, but I just hope there are not too many more questions.”
“Not really, no. Do you know someone called Jackie Pollard?”
“I’ve heard the name, but that’s all. Is he another of these druggies?”
“Let’s say he has more than a passing interest. I just wondered if there had been a connection between him and your nephew.”
“I couldn’t tell you,” replied Armitage. “How long has it been going on, Mr Gardener? The drugs?”
“We can’t tell you just yet. I’m sure you’re aware he’s done a couple of stretches in prison?”
“Yes, but I thought that was robbery and violence, all of which I put down to his gambling addiction. You’re going to tell me different, aren’t you?”
“The first term may have been what you thought, the others don’t appear to have been.”
“So he must have been at it years,” Armitage was talking to himself. “Why the hell didn’t someone tell me? I could still have helped, but I would have sought a professional. There’s a very good surgeon near to where I live, Dr Sinclair, he would have helped. He deserves a knighthood, that man, especially for how he’s helping Gary’s mother.”
“Gary?” asked Gardener.
“Gary Close. I feel sorry for that young man.”
“Is his mother ill?”
“Brain tumour from what I hear, but she’s in the best possible hands.”
A silence descended in the room.
Gardener rose from the table. “Mr Armitage, I’m sorry to have broken the news to you. I think it might be best if we leave you for a short while to gather your thoughts and come to terms with your loss. If you’d like someone to accompany you home, please just say.”
Armitage nodded.
Before Gardener reached the door, he turned to face the old man.
“Just one more thing. We’d like to hold on to the shop keys a little longer, at least until we’ve finished our investigation.”
“That won’t be a problem, Mr Gardener. You can keep them forever, for me. I won’t be setting foot back in the place. Wife’s been nagging me for years to retire. I reckon now’s as good a time as any, don’t you?”
Chapter Sixteen
Gardener and Reilly were back in the incident room after the SIO ha
d introduced himself to the officer in charge of HOLMES, a man named Mike Sands.
“What do you think, Sean?”
“I think the whole thing has been well planned, judging by what the old man had to tell us.”
“I agree. Somebody’s been watching the shop for a while. Had to have known Armitage was away for the weekend.”
“Not only that,” said Reilly, “he knows Alex Wilson very well. Think about the tarot card and its meanings.”
“I have done, Sean, especially the reversed meanings. He was impulsive, took risks, made rash decisions. He was a fool, and gambling was involved.”
“Most of which was backed up by Cragg. He said Alex was a waste of space, hot-headed, argumentative, didn’t think things through.”
“He also said he was edgy around people. Armitage confirmed the gambling. Everything we’ve found out this morning was covered by the tarot card.”
“In other words, that card tells us just how well the killer knows his victim.”
“Looks that way to me,” said Gardener. “The killer obviously knows the victim well, but is he trying to lead us astray?”
“Make us think there’s a darker side to it?”
“Possibly. It might all hinge on what’s inside Alex Wilson’s mouth, if anything. Why was it sewn up?”
“Who’s to say there’s anything in the mouth? What’s behind the suture might be more important.”
“If there’s nothing inside the mouth, why sew it up?”
“To keep him quiet?”
Reilly had a point. Gardener was itching to read the pathology report, but he knew Fitz well enough to know you couldn’t hurry him. It was a specialized job. Fitz was the best he’d ever come across. He could be cranky, but he was good at what he did, and Gardener had worked with him for more years than he cared to remember. That alone allowed the old man some liberties.
Gardener’s thoughts were distracted as Sergeant Williams knocked and entered the room carrying a file.
“Got some interesting reading on Jackie Pollard, sir. We took his outer clothing for a fibre match from the scene, and gave him a black light scan. We also gave him a live scan for fingerprints, not that it was necessary. He’s well known to us. The SOCOs lifted his prints and put them into FISH, which then loaded them onto NAFIS. He was definitely inside that shop. We’re still waiting on fibres.”
“Thank you...” Gardener hesitated. Cragg had introduced Williams but not given a first name. Gardener asked.
“David, sir. Everything we have on Pollard is in the file. He definitely has form, sacked as a trainee doctor and taken to court by the NHS for stealing drugs.”
“Was he sentenced?”
“Yes, but he had it reduced by his brief, Wilfred Ronson.”
“Not that old soak,” replied Reilly. “He’s more twisted then a corkscrew.”
Gardener smiled. They’d come across Ronson before. He was a solicitor who seemed to specialize in cases that very few other people would touch. Stood to reason he would represent drug dealers. It was common knowledge that he was a drunk and he was bent, but the latter had been almost impossible to prove.
“Is there any connection between Alex Wilson and Wilfred Ronson?” Gardener asked.
“I believe so,” said Williams.
“Thought there might be. Who was the arresting officer when all this happened?”
“Peter Browne,” replied Williams. “But that was a long time ago, and I’m afraid Browne is no longer with us now. Died of a heart attack about three years ago, brought on by the drug dealers of this parish, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Gardener was disappointed. Reading the file probably wouldn’t tell him everything he wanted to know. First-hand contact was always better; you usually picked up gut feelings, which were not always in the report.
He suddenly remembered the packaging from the padlock that he’d shown Armitage. He passed it to Williams.
“Can you get that tested for prints?”
“Yes, sir. Any rush?”
“Yes, I’d like to know if Pollard’s are on there. It would be nice to have the results before we finish interviewing him.”
“Not a problem, I’ll get straight on to it. Oh, and before I go, we’ve also included the data from Pollard’s phone in the file. You’ll find that extremely interesting.”
Gardener turned his attention to the file.
At thirty-eight, Pollard was older than the detective had first imagined, so the offence he’d committed as a junior doctor was quite some time back. The kind of drugs he’d stolen fell mostly into the category of prescription tablets, but he’d also lifted amphetamines, and even morphine. Gardener knew all too well how saleable the latter was.
The report covered the interviews he’d had in custody, and the fact that Ronson had attended every single one of them. It was interesting to note that Pollard would not say a word without Ronson present. And even with his solicitor there, he had not told anyone why he had committed the offence, despite the obvious reasons.
The value of the cache was probably somewhere around five thousand pounds net, and none of it had ever been recovered. The court records informed Gardener that the drugs were mostly smuggled out, although there was also evidence of fraud. The original sentence had been ten years, but Ronson had managed to reduce it to five.
The file contained evidence that he was still dealing while in prison, where Pollard sustained a very serious injury, one that nearly caused the loss of his right eye. The usual thing, it happened in the shower room late one night, and no one saw anything. Both prisoners involved were isolated afterwards.
Following Pollard’s release, he had not served another prison sentence, but what he’d been doing since was anyone’s guess.
Gardener passed it to Reilly and started to update the ANACAPA chart himself.
“This is interesting, boss,” said Reilly.
Gardener finished with the chart. “I think I know what you’re going to tell me.”
“The incident in the showers?”
“Yes. Seems our friend Pollard was muscling in on an existing drug scam inside, trying to take over.”
“And look whose patch it was.”
“Lance Hobson.”
Chapter Seventeen
Gardener and Reilly sat opposite Jackie Pollard. The Senior Investigating Officer judged his height to be around six foot two. He had piercing brown eyes – well, one of them was – and a head of thick black hair. Despite knowing about the eye problem, Gardener couldn’t help but concentrate on it. The scar was now nothing more than a two-inch white line. He also registered that the man only had half an index finger.
“I’m not saying anything without my solicitor.” Pollard was on the attack immediately, tapping on the table in front of him.
“Quite right, son,” said Reilly. “I don’t blame you.”
Gardener nodded, and Reilly slipped out of the room and back in again almost immediately with a cordless phone.
“There you go,” he said, placing it on the table.
Pollard hesitated before speaking again. “I’m going to show you two up for the amateurs that you are. I haven’t done anything.”
“Why the solicitor, then?”
“Because I don’t trust you. Have you got my mobile? I need the number.”
Gardener fished one of Wilfred Ronson’s business cards out of his pocket, instead of the one that Williams had given him.
“No need, Mr Pollard, we already have the number for you.”
The change of expression was minimal, but Gardener noticed. Maybe he’d managed to rattle Pollard earlier than he’d anticipated.
When Pollard made contact, he asked to be put straight through to Ronson. There was a pause before his expression changed again, to one of concern.
“Well, where is he?” he asked. “When’s he due back? Wednesday’s no good to me, sweetheart, I need him now.”
Whoever he was speaking to had obviously explained why that was not possib
le, and Pollard ended the conversation by demanding that Ronson call him first thing Wednesday morning. He replaced the receiver and was about to make another call when Gardener interrupted him.
“Not so fast, you know the regulations. One call only.”
“You’re wrong, I’m allowed at least two.”
“Unless I believe that we may be able to prevent injury or death to someone else. Now put the phone down.”
Gardener switched on the tape recorder and introduced everyone in the room.
“I’ve told you, I’m not talking without my solicitor.”
“Who isn’t available,” replied Gardener. “Would you like a duty solicitor?”
“You must be joking,” smirked Pollard, continuing to tap on the table. He seemed fairly cool, but Gardener suspected that feathers were about to be ruffled.
He rose from his seat. “In that case, you can stay here until Wednesday morning and we’ll talk to you then. If he returns.”
“You can’t do that!” Pollard was on his feet.
“Sit down,” ordered Reilly.
“Yes we can,” said Gardener. “We’ll apply to the Superintendent for an extension.” He headed for the door.
“I haven’t done anything,” shouted Pollard.
Gardener turned. “Talk to us, then. Last chance!”
Reilly also stood up, prepared to leave.
Pollard sat down and sighed. “Okay, you win. I’m innocent, and you’ll soon see that. Quicker we get this over with, the quicker I get out of here.”
Both detectives sat back down, and Gardener once again introduced everyone for the benefit of the recorder.
He placed Jackie Pollard’s file face down on the table. He also removed Pollard’s phone from his suit pocket – sealed in an evidence bag – and dropped it onto the floor near his seat.
“Right, Mr Pollard. What were you doing outside the shop?”
“I’ve told you, I was out for a walk.”
“That’s right, you said you couldn’t sleep.”
“So why do we need to go over it again?”
“Because I’m having a geographical problem,” replied Gardener. “You see, you say you were out walking in Bramfield at four o’clock in the morning, yet you live about eight or nine miles away in Holt Park.”
