by Ray Clark
“Colin, Dave, let’s start with the shop. What have you found?”
As the senior of the two officers, Colin Sharp opened the folder in front of him and consulted his notes.
“Well, it’s been hard going, sir, but we’re getting there. Most of the paperwork has been put into some sort of order, and the HOLMES lads are starting to pass back the results. Six customers have shown up as having bought padlocks and had extra keys cut. We’ve managed to speak to all of them. The padlocks they purchased are basic, nothing like the one we found on the trapdoor. They’re mostly for sheds and oil tanks. None of them have been bought by locksmiths.”
Rawson took over. “We do have a list of the locksmiths, but we haven’t spoken to all of them. We’ve identified the top ten customers, and none of them have bought padlocks, or anything else connected to what you found in the cellar. The last customer in the shop was a man called Phillip Hammond. Recently married, he bought everything he was likely to need to do up his new home for his wife and their expected child.”
“Where is the house?” asked Gardener.
“It’s a two-up-two-down on Wentworth Street,” said Sharp.
“And you’re quite happy that it’s all above board? The man is who he says he is?”
“Definitely,” replied Rawson. “He doesn’t look as though he knows one end of a screwdriver from the other. He’s a chef. But from what he’s said, his stepfather is a bit of an enthusiast, so he’s helping them.”
“Okay,” said Gardener. “Keep at it, maybe the locksmiths will reveal something when you speak to them.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Sharp. “We’ll carry on first thing in the morning.”
Gardener nodded and turned his attention to Benson. “Paul, what do we have from the house-to-house of Bramfield?”
“Something that might be worth pursuing. I spoke to a Mrs Shaw who rents the flat above the flower shop in the town, not far from Armitage’s place. She was awake during the early hours of Sunday morning, not Monday, so this is the night before.”
“What time?” Gardener asked.
“About two o’clock. She couldn’t sleep, and decided to make herself a cup of tea. When she heard a door slam, she gazed out of the window and saw a white van parked near the shop. She was too far away to see the number plate, but she noticed that one of the brake lights wasn’t working.”
“Did she say which one?” asked Reilly.
“She thinks the driver’s side, but she wasn’t too sure.”
“It’s a start. What about the CCTV, did it reveal anything?”
“Not much, sir. It did catch the van, but the angle was all wrong to see the plate.”
“Get the IT lads on to it, see if they have software that will give us a better view.”
Gardener noticed Maurice updating the ANACAPA chart.
Gardener glanced at Thornton and Anderson. “I gather you two had a shock at Wilson’s flat.”
“You can say that again,” replied Thornton.
“The place has been totally emptied,” said Anderson. “There’s nothing left: no clothes, no personal items, no phone. But I spoke to Steve Fenton and he reckons they found Wilson’s phone in the cellar.”
“Yes,” said Gardener, “but I believe he had a computer in the place.”
“Yes,” said Thornton, “but the bloody hard drive was missing so whoever has done this knows what they’re doing.”
“We’ve had the place dusted for prints,” said Anderson, “but it’s clear so far, and I don’t think we’re going to find much.”
“Anyway,” offered Thornton, “we’re still trying to piece together his last movements and build up a network of friends.”
“And enemies,” said Anderson, “and we reckon there will be plenty of those.”
Gardener sighed. It was early days and the work was always hard in the beginning. “Keep at it.”
He addressed them as a team again. “I gave Patrick Edwards a task this morning, to find out who owns the fancy car that drove by around five o’clock. It belongs to Dr Ian Ross, an eminent neurosurgeon at St. James’s Hospital in Leeds. From what I can gather, he even has his own clinic, which he shares with one Robert Sinclair, another surgeon. Both are very highly spoken of by everyone.”
Gardener glanced at Gary by way of an apology. “Ross was attending an emergency call to Gary’s mum. Some of you know that Christine Close has been suffering of late with a brain tumour. For those of you who don’t, it’s serious, and Ross, after making another call this afternoon, has placed her in his own clinic.
“The point I am coming to here is that we have learned something from our own Home Office Pathologist this evening which confirms that we are looking for someone with medical skills. Sean and I are going to talk to Dr Sinclair tomorrow to see if he can help us further with our inquiries. With that in mind I’d like Edwards and Benson to go and see Ross to see what he has to say about the things we’ve found.
“But Fitz has thrown another spanner in the works, because he thinks we may be looking for more than one person.”
Gardener went on to explain the meeting with the elderly pathologist and what he’d found inside the body of Alex Wilson, the modified implantable insulin pump – which he held up for all to see – and the fact that it had contained a SIM card.
“Colin, we’re going to arrange for an enlarged picture of this, and I want you to take it around all the hospitals in the area and see if they can offer any advice on it. Do they recognize it? Would they know the manufacturer? Do they have any like it in their own stock? Are they all accounted for, or are there some missing?”
“Will do, sir, but there isn’t much to go on.”
“I know, Colin, but we’ll settle for anything they can offer. If our killer is using these, they must have access to them. Maybe it’s a doctor, a nurse, or even a chemist. Perhaps someone who works for the manufacturer who has a grudge. Maybe it’s someone who works in a warehouse. The possibilities are endless, but if they can shed any light at all it would help.”
Before passing it over, Gardener asked Reilly if he could find any tech lads who could handle his request for photocopies. He wanted the actual pump to show to Sinclair.
“As for the SIM card, we now have to broaden the search. We have to identify the card. Once again, we need to find the manufacturer. Are there any marks that will help us? Maybe someone can start by searching Google. After that we need to speak to electronics experts, people who work on phones, computers – just about anyone involved with these things.”
Frank Thornton put his hand up, as if he was in class.
“Frank?” asked Gardener.
“There’s a computer shop in Bursley Bridge, right opposite the station. We’ll go tomorrow, maybe he can help.”
“Okay,” Gardener continued. “Whoever did this is good enough to manipulate technology to their own advantage, which is why I think we may be looking for two people. I’m not saying a doctor isn’t capable, but you have to ask yourself, would a doctor really have the time?”
Gardener moved over to the ANACAPA chart. It was growing. An array of names had been linked to the three scenes they had started with. Photographs of the crime had been pinned to the board, as well as some of the evidence such as the cards found in the cellar. Despite the lack of anything solid, he still felt like they were going somewhere.
He pointed to Alex Wilson’s name on the chart. “This man is going to be a real problem. As Thornton and Anderson have just said, his flat was empty.”
“You think he was planning on going somewhere?” asked Rawson.
“No. But whoever did this to him obviously had that idea. We brought Armitage in to have a look, and he was shocked. He said that there wasn’t much to begin with, but whoever had been in there had totally emptied the place. As we’ve heard, the only item left was his computer, and the hard drive had been removed.
“That suggests to me that someone had been watching Wilson very closely, and perhaps knew
that whatever was on that hard drive implicated him. I want you guys who have been on the house-to-house of Bramfield to go back and ask further questions of the residents. Whoever did it, had done so between Thursday night and Sunday night. Now you know as well as I do, when you first call on people they don’t remember a great deal, it usually takes a day or two to sink in and then they start to remember other things. So call back.”
Gardener nodded to Reilly, who took over.
“Because of that, we have very little on Wilson.” Reilly nodded to Thornton and Anderson. “This might help you two. We know he has pre-cons. We know that he had a gambling addiction according to his uncle, so maybe that’s a starting point for his affairs. Did he have a credit card? Did he use the bookies in the town, or maybe those a little farther afield? Internet gambling, maybe?
“What we also know, that his uncle didn’t, was that he had a drug problem. Someone was supplying him with drugs, and he was selling. Now that’s a big can of worms we’ve opened.
“We interviewed Jackie Pollard this afternoon. He was found at the scene. We know that he was training to be a junior doctor, and that he’s also a drug dealer. We need you to find out as much as you can about Pollard. Sergeant Cragg has some notes for you lads to look at, but we need a lot more. Check out his background, his financial status, everything. We want to know everywhere he’s been for the last month at least, the last week especially. More important, what was the link to Alex Wilson?”
“Is he our man, do you think?” asked Bob Anderson.
“Let’s say that we’re not completely satisfied with what he’s told us,” replied Gardener. “Two more names came out of that little conversation, which could implicate Pollard and leave him in it up to his neck.”
Gardener briefed his team with everything he had on Jackie Pollard, Lance Hobson, and Sonia Knight, and how the two men met up inside. He also voiced his theories regarding the disappearances of Hobson and Knight.
“No one has seen either of them for at least a month. The interesting thing here is the phone in the shop this morning was Lance Hobson’s, and the message it received came from Sonia Knight’s.”
Colin Sharp drew Gardener’s attention.
“If the call to Hobson’s phone came from Sonia Knight’s phone, surely it couldn’t have been Pollard. We had him locked up.”
“Good point, Colin,” Gardener replied. “But at the moment, we can’t rule anything out. You know as well as I do how fast technology is moving. I’m pretty sure there are some phones that can send a delayed text message.”
Colin Sharp nodded and Gardener continued.
“Knight has been calling Pollard regularly for quite a while, but a month ago, all calls and texts stopped. Then last night he received a message to go to the shop in Bramfield, where he would find something to his advantage.”
“Was he set up, do you think?” asked Sharp.
“Maybe,” replied Gardener. “Then again, maybe he’s the one doing the setting up. Maybe he wants revenge. Hobson’s business was cutting into his so much, he’s prepared to stick his neck out for it. You see, Sean and I went round to Hobson’s place today, in Harrogate. There was absolutely no sign of life. It’s as if Hobson and Knight have disappeared off the planet.”
“Why would they do that?” asked Frank Thornton.
“That’s what we want to know. As Sean said, we’ve opened a real can of worms now. At the moment, we don’t have a clue who’s organizing all this, but Pollard is swearing his innocence.”
“What do you think?” asked Sharp.
“I’m not sure what to think, Colin. All I know is that he’s implicated somewhere along the line, but whether or not he’s actually murdered Wilson and made Hobson and Knight disappear is another matter. You guys can all read body language well enough to know when someone’s guilty. Pollard definitely seemed shocked at hearing of Wilson’s death, and did quite a bit of shouting when he thought he was being fitted up for it.”
“He could be a good actor. Does he have a brief?” asked Paul Benson.
“Oh, does he,” replied Reilly. “Only Wilfred Ronson.”
“Oh, Christ,” said Colin Sharp. “He’s more twisted than a spiral staircase.”
“Precisely,” said Reilly.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“No,” replied Gardener. “Pollard made his phone call, only to find that Ronson was on holiday and will not be back until Wednesday. So Sean and I are going to the office tomorrow to find out exactly where he is, why he’s on holiday, and whether or not we can find anything that implicates him in all of this.
“Something will tie these men together. I’ve no idea what, where, or even when, but even if we can find only one answer, it may put us well on the way to solving the rest of the puzzle.”
“But with the exception of Pollard, none of them seem to have any medical experience, and maybe not even an electronics background,” offered Bob Anderson.
“You could be right, Bob, but once we’ve dug a bit deeper, we may find something that will contradict what we think. And as far as Pollard is concerned, I’ve asked the super for a twelve-hour extension. His time runs out at four o’clock in the morning. I for one don’t intend to be around, but I suspect that as the information comes in tomorrow, we’ll need to speak to him again.”
“I’ve made up a folder of photos for the rest of the team, sir,” said Cragg. “We’ve got plenty of mugshots of Hobson and Knight. Maybe they can use them to see if anyone’s seen anything.”
“Thanks, Maurice, much appreciated.”
Gardener turned his attention to Patrick Edwards. “Anything on the card I gave you this afternoon?”
“Nothing, sir. There’s only one toy shop in the area, and he didn’t have a clue. He reckons it’s from a board game of some kind, but no idea what.”
“Okay.” Gardener held the card aloft and glanced at PC Close. “Gary, in view of what’s happening at the moment, I think it best if you stay pretty local to the station, so what I want you to do is see if you can find out any information about this Inspector Catcher card. Try the Internet first. If you come up with anything positive, pass the details to Maurice, who can then get in touch with either Sean or myself. We’ll assign someone, or follow it up ourselves.”
Gary Close nodded, and Gardener suspected he appreciated the gesture.
“Sean and I are pretty sure that the tarot card was left there simply as a means of telling us that the killer knew the victim better than we do.” Gardener nodded to Sean, who told them everything Laura had told him earlier in the day.
“Can I just add something else, sir?” Cragg asked Gardener, who nodded in reply. “The monitor in the shop, the one that Gary saw Wilson on, won’t be any help to us.”
“Too old?” inquired Gardener.
“Well, apart from that the insides are fried. Looks like the bit of work it did in the shop was the last bit it was ever going to do.”
“Thanks, Maurice,” said Gardener. He addressed the team again. “Possibly the work of the electronics genius. Maybe he set it up to do its bit and then fry itself so we couldn’t get anything from it. It’s probably far too old for us to check out but we’ll get the details if we can and it might be worth bearing in mind.”
When he’d finished, Gardener glanced at his watch. It was after ten o’clock. Despite knowing that police work was not a nine-to-five job, he didn’t feel he had any right to keep them any longer.
While each man was leaving, Sean Reilly handed out the photos they would need to help them with the next day’s assignments.
Gardener went over to Maurice Cragg, who was still updating the ANACAPA chart. “How are you, Maurice?”
“Right as nine-pence, sir,” said Cragg, turning to speak to the SIO. “I’m going to have another drink, and then finish all this.”
“Maurice, I really appreciate the time and effort you’re putting in, but please don’t overdo it. You’ve worked some hours today.”
; “Oh, don’t worry about me, sir. We Craggs are made of tough stuff.”
“I’ve no doubt, but I’d hate to see you come to some grief because you’re not getting your rest.”
“Oh, I take rest breaks when I need them. And as I said to you earlier, there’s nothing to rush home for these days.”
“No Mrs Cragg?”
“Not anymore, sir.”
Cragg didn’t elaborate, and Gardener didn’t push. He felt there was a lot more to that story, and it may be best left for another time.
“Okay, Maurice. Well, if you need to speak to me or you need any help, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Gardener turned and saw the room was empty save for his partner.
“Ready for that curry, now?”
Chapter Twenty-four
When Reilly brought the car to a halt outside the station on Park Street, Gardener jumped out and glanced around.
Bursley Bridge was a typically elegant, small Yorkshire town; a pleasant mix of residential homes sharing space with business premises. Opposite was a pub called The Station Hotel; to the left, a row of stone cottages, and to the right, an art gallery, a computer repair store, and a model shop.
He turned and studied the station. To his right he saw gates leading to the car park. The entrance was to his left, flanked by LNER information boards and a small post box in the wall underneath a window. Gardener noticed a man pushing letters into the small post box despite the activity.
Standing near the steps leading into the station was a man around sixty years of age. He’d lost most of his hair, had a bulbous nose and wore thin wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a black business suit, and carried a briefcase and an umbrella. He was overweight, but his posture was erect, militaristic. Judging by the way he went on the attack, so too was his manner.
“Are you the police?” he asked, pointing his umbrella at them.
Gardener and Reilly both flashed warrant cards. Before they had a chance to say anything, the man started again.
“What the bloody hell is going on around here?” He spoke slowly and through gritted teeth.
