IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

  “Maybe you should, especially when it’s this bad. You certainly look like you could use some of it now. When did you last take any?”

  “A couple of days ago, sir. But it’s worse today than it has been for a long time.”

  Gardener glanced at Cragg. “Maurice, would you fetch him a glass of water, please?”

  While the desk sergeant did as he was asked, Gardener spoke to the young PC again. “Have you been working a night shift?”

  “No, sir. Mr Cragg let me go a lot earlier than usual.”

  “How’s your mum?”

  Close seemed to brighten up with that question. “She’s doing fine, sir. I spoke with Mr Sinclair this morning. He said she’s had a really comfortable night, and he thinks she’s responding to the treatment.”

  That surprised Gardener after everything he’d heard. He would have to bring the subject up in the presence of Robert Sinclair.

  “That’s great news, Gary. Have you been to see her?” Maurice Cragg returned with a glass of water.

  “No. Mr Sinclair said she was sleeping, and it was best to let her rest.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that, as I’m sure we all are. With that in mind, I’d like you to take this ‘Nurse Willing’ card, continue your research and see if you can find out which board game these cards are from.”

  Gardener reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the pad with the registration numbers of the cars parked at the Bursley Bridge train station.

  “I want someone to chase up these cars and their owners, and take statements from them. Colin Sharp is at the pub in town at the moment getting a list of names and addresses of their paying guests. I also want a couple of you over there on house-to-house inquiries.

  “Thornton, Anderson, you two continue with what you were doing. Go and speak to the person who runs the computer shop, see what you can find out. Take the pictures of the cards with you.

  “Benson, Edwards, can you go and talk to Iain Ross and get his opinion on everything we’ve found?

  “Sean and I are going to speak to Robert Sinclair today. We need a line on these implantable things that keep popping up. And we also intend to go to Ronson’s office and find out why he’s not there.”

  Gardener requested Reilly organize photocopies of the cards and the pumps for the officers to take with them. A few minutes after he left, Dave Rawson entered the room.

  “Sir, I think you ought to take a look at these.”

  “What are they?”

  Reilly returned, munching a couple of biscuits.

  “We’ve just finished a search of Pollard’s place.” Rawson placed what resembled diaries on the table.

  “What are they?” asked Gardener.

  “I’m not sure, sir. They’re full of names, and sums of money.”

  Gardener picked one up and skimmed through it. He couldn’t understand what they represented, but he did recognize names. Some were local, and most respectable.

  “Is that all? Nothing else to suggest he was our man?”

  “No, sir.”

  Gardener was not happy. Although the mystery was deepening, they were as much in the dark now as when they had started at three o’clock yesterday morning.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Before Jackie Pollard even sat down, he started shouting at both officers.

  “You’re taking bloody liberties, you lot. I’ve been here far longer than you’re allowed to keep me. You’ve got no bloody evidence of me having done anything, least of all murdering someone. Is my solicitor back yet?”

  “Have you finished?” Reilly asked.

  “I asked you a question.”

  Reilly stood up. Gardener remained seated, glancing through a file.

  “You’re not listening to me, son. I said, have you finished?”

  “How long do you intend to keep me here?”

  “That depends on you,” said Reilly.

  Pollard snorted, and finally sat down. He was still dressed in the standard issue holding clothing, but the Irishman could see he had recently showered. His hair was damp. Reilly also noticed that he was very agitated.

  “Is Ronson back yet?” asked Pollard.

  “I’ve no idea, son, he’s your solicitor. You told us yesterday he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, so I guess the answer is no.”

  “This isn’t good enough. You are breaching my civil rights.”

  “You were offered a duty solicitor and you declined,” said Gardener. “Would you like to change your mind?”

  “You must be joking. If he’s a duty solicitor, he’ll be in your pockets.”

  “I’ll ignore that,” said Reilly. “We have a few more questions for you, Jackie lad. Quicker we get the answers, quicker you get out of here.”

  “Why don’t I trust you?”

  “Probably the same reason we don’t trust you,” answered Reilly.

  “Can I have a coffee, please?”

  “Of course.”

  Reilly arranged for the drink and returned to the table.

  “I’d like a cigarette as well.”

  “You’re out of luck there, son.”

  When the drinks were delivered, Reilly started the tapes and introduced everyone.

  Pollard glanced at Gardener. “I thought you were the senior officer.”

  “I am.”

  “So why aren’t you interviewing me?”

  “Does it make any difference? Would you prefer me?”

  “Anything’s better than him,” answered Pollard.

  “Well, he’s all you’ve got. Today, I’m on listening duty. You’d be surprised how much you learn when you don’t say anything.”

  Pollard sighed.

  “How do you earn a living, son?” asked Reilly.

  “What?”

  “Don’t mess me about, Pollard. I was pretty fed up with you evading questions yesterday. It’s not going to happen today. I want an answer.”

  “It’s not relevant, so I’m not going to tell you,” said Pollard, smiling. “Not without my brief.”

  Both officers rose immediately and walked towards the door, to the annoyance of Pollard.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “See you in the morning.” Reilly opened the door.

  “Wait,” shouted Pollard. “Okay, okay, perhaps I was a little hasty.”

  Reilly had had enough. He slammed the door and marched over to the table so fast that Pollard shrank back and nearly fell over his seat.

  “Game over, sunshine. We’re conducting this interview my way. Just one more snide comment like that, and we’re out of here until your brief shows up, and you can shout all you like about civil rights because no one will be listening.”

  Reilly and Gardener sat down.

  “Answer the question!”

  “I’m a legitimate businessman.”

  “Where do you think you are, Jackie lad? The Apprentice?”

  “What?” Pollard replied.

  “This is not national television. We’re not asking that question so we can give you a loan and set you up in business on your own. You’re in a shit load of trouble, so you are.”

  Gardener threw Pollard’s diaries on the table, but didn’t say anything.

  “So tell me, Jackie lad, what are these?”

  “Where the hell did you get them? Have you searched my house without a warrant?”

  Reilly ignored him and continued.

  “We’ve had a good look at these, and we’re not quite sure what to make of them. We can think of one thing. It looks like a protection racket. Maybe you’re not involved in drugs like we first thought. Maybe you’re running a nice little earner by intimidating people. You get money out of them, and you leave their businesses alone. Only, we can’t quite figure out where Hobson and Knight fit in.”

  “You’re way off the mark, Irishman. By the time I’ve finished with you two, you’ll need the solicitor, not me.”

  “If you say so. Now, if we’re that far off the mark, why don�
��t you put us straight?”

  “It’s not a protection racket at all. And it’s nothing to do with drugs. Those are my private diaries. You have no right–”

  “Will you stop your bleating and just answer the question, son?” shouted Reilly. “We’re in the middle of a very serious murder investigation. Do you honestly think we would have searched your house if we didn’t have reasonable suspicion of your involvement?”

  When Pollard didn’t answer, Reilly continued. “If you’re innocent, now’s the time to tell us why. Believe me, we are far from over here today, and this is just the first shock coming your way.”

  Pollard stood up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Sit down,” ordered Reilly. “And answer the question. What do these books represent? Books that have names, with large sums of money against them?”

  Pollard finished his coffee, then sat down at the table, clenching and unclenching his fists. He seemed to be wrestling with his conscience. Reilly couldn’t work out why. If the man was innocent, why not tell them and save everybody some time? He noticed Pollard was sweating, wondering if a lack of nicotine was playing havoc with his system.

  Pollard lifted his hands in resignation. “Okay.”

  Gardener stopped going through the file and put it on the table.

  “I’ll tell you what I know, but when I’ve done, I want out of here.”

  “We don’t make bargains, Jackie lad,” said Reilly. “But I’ll tell you this and I’ll tell you no more, if you convince me of your innocence, we’ll review your situation. So, maybe you won’t be here much longer.”

  “I won’t be anywhere much longer if you don’t give me some kind of protection.”

  Reilly folded his arms and continued staring at Pollard.

  “You say you’re not a murderer. If you know who the murderer is, then you have a duty to tell us. Once we have him, you won’t have to worry about protection, will you?”

  “That’s just it. According to your desk sergeant, no one has seen him for a month.”

  “Are you saying Lance Hobson is responsible for Alex Wilson’s murder?” Gardener asked.

  “I have no idea who did that, but I’ll tell you what I do know, and you can make up your own mind. I’ve been clean since I came out of Armley. But I know what people round here think of me. They’re very quick to point the finger. They don’t trust me. I learned a long time ago to ignore them, let them think what they want. I know what I’m doing is right.”

  “And what are you doing?”

  “Those diaries contain the names of sponsors. It’s taken years for people to trust me when I say that I want to rid the city of this filth. Carrion, like Lance Hobson, that feed off the flesh of what’s left when they’ve converted them.

  “The names in those books are sponsoring a massive drug rehabilitation program. They’re giving me money so that we can set up premises and clean people up, keep them clean, and at the same time, try to stamp out the likes of Hobson.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this yesterday?”

  “Because I’m leaving myself open to arrest. You think I killed Wilson, and you think I’ve made Knight disappear.”

  “Not to mention Hobson.”

  “I lost my brother to drugs a few years ago. Sonia Knight lost her cousin more recently. They were addicts, and the man responsible is Lance Hobson. Sonia Knight has been double-crossing him for a long time now.”

  “How?”

  “She runs his empire. Takes care of all the finance. Invests money where he tells her. Has done for years. Now I’m not saying that she’s an angel. She started out like all of us. It’s bloody hard to resist the luxuries that the profit from drugs can bring you. But Hobson’s a bastard, just like my father was. He likes to intimidate people, threaten them. And he has a number of henchmen to do his dirty work, and snitching little bastards like Alex Wilson. If he’d got wind of what was happening, he’d have shopped Knight to Hobson, no mistake.”

  “So, what part has she been playing?”

  “She’s been filtering off the profits from his drug business for ages, putting the money into a bank account for the rehab centre. He thinks she’s been investing where he’s told her to, but she hasn’t. She’s been giving me the money. It’s all in those diaries there, every penny that she and everyone else has given me.”

  “And to do that, I had to get Hobson on my side. I had to get him to trust me. It took a long time, but bit by bit I handed over all my customers to Hobson, and I made sure he knew about it.”

  “That must have been tricky. On the one hand, you were making people believe you were straight, and on the other hand you were still involved with drugs. I mean, how the hell did you feel when you realized that although you wanted no part of the business, you were giving Hobson customers and allowing him to make massive profits from something you hated so much?”

  “The investments I’m talking about had nothing to do with drugs. The people who’ve been sponsoring the rehab centre are businessmen; they’ve been feeding me with lucrative stock market information, which I’ve been feeding to Hobson. Everyone’s happy when we make a killing. What I like the most is Hobson thinks I’m on his side completely. I give him the information. He gives the money to Knight to invest. She filters some of it off. He makes a profit and then pays me a bonus, which also goes into the rehab centre fund.”

  Reilly mulled over the information.

  “If he’s making so much money from the drugs, why is he bothering with what you’re telling him?”

  “Because he’s greedy. People like him can never have too much money. They simply want more and more.”

  “And when was the last time you saw him, exactly?” asked Gardener.

  “Around the time he disappeared. I was staying at The Harrogate Arms. We met in the bar for a quick drink. I gave him what he needed, and he went.”

  “And hasn’t been seen since,” said Reilly.

  “That’s nothing to do with me.”

  “And we know that because?” asked Gardener.

  “Why would I tell you all this if I was responsible?” Pollard replied.

  “Murderers do strange things, Mr Pollard,” said Gardener. “They bask in the glory of everything they are doing, and quite often they like to think they can outwit us by talking openly. They think they are more intelligent than we are.”

  “Well, I’m not basking in any glory. What you’re forgetting here is that my business partner is also missing.”

  “Sonia Knight,” said Reilly.

  “Yes, no one’s seen her for a month, either. I’d hardly drop her in it, would I?”

  “Actually, Mr Pollard, you’re mistaken there,” said Gardener.

  “What about?”

  “Sonia Knight has been seen. The Railway Station at Bursley Bridge, this morning.”

  Jackie Pollard breathed a huge sigh of relief. It seemed as if the world had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank God for that. I wonder where the hell she’s been. But at least she’s okay, yes?”

  “You just hold your horses, Jackie lad. We never said she was okay.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The small market town of Bursley Bridge was under siege. Not – as one might expect – from tourists, but the police and the media. Scene tape had been extended to the whole perimeter of the railway station, with officers scurrying like ants around a hill. Reporters were out in force, snapping their cameras at anything that moved. And the locals were starting to gather, asking the usual stupid questions.

  Standing outside the railway station, the scene reminded Frank Thornton of a circus, and a badly managed one at that. He was pleased his boss wasn’t there.

  As well as trying to run an investigation, organize all the other officers and the POLSA team, Frank had been keeping his eye on the computer shop for any sign of life.

  The exterior of the building was not maintained to the standard of the town’s other shops. The windows were clean and the brickwork w
as in reasonable condition, but the paintwork was dull. Either the owner didn’t care, or didn’t have enough work to support the upkeep, or was far too busy to notice. He doubted the reason was the latter one. The shop was closed yesterday, and he had not seen a customer today.

  But what he had seen within the last thirty seconds was movement in the window, and that was enough for him.

  He informed his partner, Bob Anderson, and they both made a move.

  Thornton opened the door, and the sight that met him made him think that the man had very little work. He had never seen so much junk in his life. There must have been a hundred carcasses of redundant machines littering every surface available.

  Although he could not see the owner, Thornton could hear a conversation in the back. In the front of the shop, he noticed a cup of tea on the bench, in front of a stool next to a radio, which was switched on. He recognized a Robbie Williams tune, but he couldn’t say what it was.

  The owner appeared, waving a packet of biscuits.

  “Isn’t this typical, eh? Pretty quiet all morning, and the minute I start listening to my pop quiz, the phone goes and I have customers in my shop. But who am I to complain? I should count myself lucky that people demand my services.”

  Thornton guessed the man’s weight at possibly sixteen stone, but he carried it well because he was tall. His hair was mousy brown, quickly going grey. He had brown eyes, thin lips, and a very determined walk.

  Both men displayed their warrant cards.

  “You’ll have to excuse us. We don’t have the luxury of being able to drop everything for tea and biscuits and quizzes. DCs Frank Thornton and Bob Anderson. We’d like to ask you a few questions, sir.”

  “Oh God, I’m sorry, fire away.”

  The man behind the counter lurched forward to switch off the radio, but disappeared under a cloud of dust with a crash. Frank Thornton heard the word “fuck,” and managed to catch the packet of biscuits that had come his way.

  In a scene straight out of Monty Python, the shop owner was quickly on his feet and switched off the radio, after which he dusted off his brown smock.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay,” replied Thornton. “And you are?”

  “Graham Johnson. I own the place.”