IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

  “I’m a very sporting man. The answers required for the questions designed to free you are well within the bounds of your limited knowledge.

  “Once you are out of the frame, you need to make a decision on which liquid to drink. The computer will help you there, with a variety of clues. Once the correct answer is given, and you have found the necessary liquid to save your life, you can occupy your free time by trying to find the key to unlock that door in the corner, also hidden somewhere in this room.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  In Reilly’s car on the way to Robert Sinclair’s house, Gardener sat in the passenger seat, trying to make sense of what was happening. Within twenty-four hours, the victims had doubled, and the suspects had diminished.

  Although willing to accept that Jackie Pollard could be their killer, he was unhappy with the lack of evidence. There had certainly been enough to detain Pollard for a further twelve hours, but he’d soon turned around any thoughts of another extension. The necessary paperwork had duly been signed, and a very despondent Pollard had left the police station pending further inquiries.

  The news of Sonia Knight’s demise now meant that instead of being a suspect, Pollard could possibly be the next victim.

  The whereabouts of Lance Hobson was paramount in the investigation. Had he discovered what Knight and Pollard had been up to? If so, why would he have killed Alex Wilson? Unless Wilson was in on the deception.

  Despite what Jackie Pollard thought about Wilson being a major snitch, maybe he had turned and was blackmailing Knight. Had Knight killed Wilson? Had Wilson threatened to tell Hobson, leaving Knight with no option? Either way, it was unlikely that Gardener and his partner would actually find that out, with Knight having been disposed of.

  Which led him back to Hobson, who had not been seen for a month. He’d met Pollard at The Harrogate Arms, had a drink, and then left. Where had he gone from there? Probably not home. The building seemed as if it had been empty for all of that time. Gardener had sent Dave Rawson over to the Harrogate Arms to interview the staff and the owners, which would hopefully reveal something. CCTV footage would be handy, but he doubted anyone kept recordings that long.

  The other problem with Lance Hobson being involved was that he was not a doctor. If he was running things, then there had to be someone else working with him. But that made it a three-man operation. There was nothing to say it wasn’t a whole gang, but Gardener did not think a large number could operate on such a scale and keep everything under wraps. Someone somewhere would be seen or would let something slip. No, his money was on a smaller number.

  Frank Thornton had called him as he was leaving the station to tell him about the interview with Graham Johnson, the owner of the computer shop.

  Gardener couldn’t work out whether or not the cards were, in fact, red herrings. He certainly didn’t think the tarot cards were meant to point him in any direction other than the killer telling them he knew the victims extremely well. That led Gardener to surmise that the level of success the killer had was due to extensive planning, which would also indicate that he or she – he couldn’t rule out the possibility their killer was female – had been harbouring a grudge for a while.

  The board game cards were completely baffling to him. He’d had board games when he was young, and he’d also bought them for his own son, Chris. Like everyone else, he had the popular ones: Monopoly, Cluedo, Scrabble, and even some of the less popular games like Exploration and Campaign. The cards that were being left at the scene he could not recognize. Nor could anyone else, for that matter.

  Had the cards been specifically printed by the killer for no other purpose than to throw them off the scent? Make them think outside the box, allowing him to buy time? He figured anyone who was clever enough to use Photoshop and had a decent enough imagination would be able to knock out a few cards that would resemble a board game from the past, but never actually exist in the first place.

  All these possibilities were beginning to make his head hurt. Given that he was paid to produce results, he did not feel like he was earning his money. They needed a break. Maybe they would find one here, thought Gardener, as the car pulled up at the house of Robert Sinclair.

  A wall had been constructed all around the house, with two wrought iron gates leading onto a red brick drive. As Reilly drove the car in, Gardener noticed a black sports car – a Peugeot RCZ – parked in front of the double door garage.

  An array of potted plants enhanced the exterior of the building – not that it needed any. Apart from the predominant green, other colours were out in abundance: russet, purple, yellow, white, all of which added to the splendour of the environment. Extremely healthy Dutch elms and oaks stood across the grounds. Gardener was beginning to wonder if Sinclair was a tree surgeon as well. The whole of the drive was spotless.

  Despite being a large house, it was only two-storeys high. The entrance had a curved arch with double doors, and carriage lamps. Most of the building was Yorkshire stone, a good portion of it covered with ivy and a variety of other creeping plants. The roof was thatched.

  They stepped up to the entrance and rang the bell. The housekeeper answered and let them in.

  Gardener glanced around the hall. The sound of a train chugging round a track from the first level of the staircase took his attention. Nothing in the house could have been described as cheap, and the item that drew his attention to the model train was absolutely no exception.

  The grandfather clock was an impressive six feet tall. The face was centred between two gold columns, featuring a commemorative image of The Flying Scotsman on its plate. A plaque beneath the clock displayed the train’s number, 4472. The pendulum was reminiscent of the original wooden half-way signpost between London and Edinburgh. A miniature of the locomotive encircled the base of the clock on a track, with several model buildings positioned between them. Amongst them were a Tudor-fronted pub, a post office, a garage, a railway station, and a church, the diorama complete with trees, lawns, lampposts and street lighting. On the top, above the clock face were a number of figures, which included a ticket inspector, railway porter, a driver, and a few passengers. A gold bell on the top of the clock chimed the hour.

  Sean Reilly whistled through his teeth. “What do you think something like that would be costing, boss?”

  “I shudder to think, Sean. What would all of this place cost?”

  “Doubt you’d have any change from a million.”

  “He must be good,” said Gardener.

  “I think we’re about to find out.”

  Miss Bradshaw had appeared at the foot of the stairs. “The doctor has a window for you. If you’d like to go into his study?” She pointed to the door. “Would you both like afternoon tea?”

  “Thank you,” said Gardener. “That would be nice.”

  “I don’t suppose you could manage a few biscuits with that, could you now?”

  The Irishman placed an arm around the housekeeper’s shoulder. “Or maybe some fine home-baking. I bet you’re a dab wee hand at that, so you are. You look to me like a woman who could bake a grand scone, and no mistake.”

  Gardener chuckled. He wasn’t sure which was funnier, the fact that Sean Reilly could charm the birds from the trees, or he’d never forget his stomach no matter what the occasion.

  It had quite clearly worked. “I’m sure I can, Mr Reilly. You go on through, and I’ll be along shortly.”

  Both men entered the study and drew out their warrant cards as they approached one of the largest desks Gardener had ever seen.

  Rising from the chair was the doctor they had heard so much about, Robert Sinclair, dressed in a pale blue suit that was definitely designer and no doubt cost more than Gardener’s. He wore a white shirt and blue tie. His hair was immaculately groomed, and his fingers well-manicured. Gardener noticed the wedding band. He felt compassionate towards the man, because he still wore his own despite having lost Sarah.

  “Please, gentleman, take a seat,” said Sincla
ir. “I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time, but it’s a pleasure to see you all the same.”

  “Thank you, Mr Sinclair,” replied Gardener after the introductions. In the background he could hear music at a very low volume, something classical. The speakers were well hidden and must have been of exceptional quality, because he could hear every single instrument.

  “What can I help you with?” asked Sinclair as he sat down.

  “It’s your technical expertise that we need, but before I get into that, can I ask how Christine Close is? I’m not prying, and I understand patient confidentiality, but at the moment, Gary works as part of my team. I’m asking as a friend and colleague.”

  Sinclair clasped his hands together in front of him and rested them on the desk. “She’s doing as well as can be expected, Mr Gardener. You’ll no doubt be aware that her condition is very serious, but we have her at the Ross & Sinclair Foundation, and she is receiving the best care.”

  “I’m sure Gary is grateful for what you’re doing, but surely the cost of such treatment is out of his league?”

  “Very definitely. My late wife’s dream had been to set up a private clinic to care for cancer patients. After she’d died, I continued with her plans, and opened up the Foundation with my very good friend, Iain Ross. I won’t bore you with the details, but we do receive some government funding, which we can use for some people who cannot afford the cost like most of our clients.

  “PC Close and his mother Christine are a very deserving case. I’ve known them all their lives. I’ve never met harder working people, or two people who have had their fair share of tragedy. I suppose I also feel quite an affinity to Gary, because I was there when he was born. I’ve watched him grow up into a fine young man.”

  The door to the study opened and Miss Bradshaw wheeled in a hostess trolley, which she left at the side of the desk. She handed each person a drink and a small plate, and then put a tower of cakes on the edge of the desk, much to the delight of Sean Reilly.

  “Miss Bradshaw, you’re a treasure, so you are.”

  She smiled and left the room.

  “Help yourselves to pastries and biscuits,” said Sinclair.

  “Are you not having any?” asked Reilly.

  “No, Mr Reilly, I’m afraid I have a very strict diet.”

  When they had all settled themselves, Gardener explained briefly what had brought them to the surgeon’s door, and drew out both the pump and ICD from an inside pocket.

  “I wondered if you could tell us anything about these items? I understand this is an implantable insulin pump, used to treat diabetes.”

  He pushed it forward for Sinclair to gain a better view, although it was unlikely he would need it.

  Sinclair studied the pump before he started talking. “Originally, yes. They are surgically implanted under the skin of someone who has diabetes. The pump then delivers a continuous dose through a catheter, usually into the patient’s abdominal cavity. Where did you find yours?”

  “Inside the patient, but it wasn’t being used for its intended purpose. The pathology results tell that it had been filled with caustic soda.”

  “Good grief,” said Sinclair. “That wouldn’t have been pleasurable. And the victim is obviously dead because you mentioned the word ‘pathology’. How horrific, it would have damaged the blood vessels without question, not to mention the blood. Very few of the major organs would have survived. I don’t envy your job, Mr Gardener.”

  “Can you tell us who makes them?”

  Sinclair’s expression was pretty tormented. “You’re going to have a problem with that, Mr Gardener.”

  “Tell us something we don’t know,” said Reilly. “We’re having our fair share of those things you call problems.”

  Sinclair sat back and sighed. “I can imagine. Under normal circumstances, you could find out that information from the pump itself. I can see that this one has no markings. They always have a serial number. It might be recorded as sold or supplied in one country, but used in another. It’s a very grey import market.

  “The manufacturer’s records may show a pump as being sold or supplied to a customer in Brazil, but if it eventually turns up in England, they would most likely refuse to acknowledge that serial number. They do not want any liabilities, like giving a guarantee, if it’s used in a different country to the one intended. You have to remember, Mr Gardener, that these liabilities might be in the region of several million pounds, should a case go to court and damages be awarded against the company.”

  Sinclair continued. “However, reps will give goods away as ‘loss leaders’ to try and gain lucrative contracts. This is another grey area as far as the companies are concerned. They may condone it without acknowledging that it happens, then if something goes wrong, the rep is sacked or sued, and the company denies all knowledge of the transaction.

  “The serial number on this pump has been removed. Maybe it’s a demonstrator that it’s been stolen, which is another possible scenario. I can’t see any identification marks on it at all. And even if I could, we’d have a devil of a job getting the company to cooperate with us, depending on whether or not it implicates them in dodgy supply deals.”

  Gardener was beginning to realize how intelligent their killer had been.

  Reilly pushed forward the ICD. “Is it same in this case, with the defibrillator?”

  Sinclair examined it and expressed the same conclusion.

  “How was this used, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Gardener told him.

  “That’s awful,” replied Sinclair. “I can’t imagine the pain that poor girl was going through. And you say that all the cables were leading into her teeth?”

  “Yes,” replied Gardener.

  “What kind of monster are you trying to catch?”

  “You’re the second person to ask us that in a matter of hours.”

  “Who was the first?”

  “A doctor at St. James’s Hospital in Leeds, where our victim ended up. Andrew Jackson. Do you know him?”

  “I certainly do. He’s a very good orthopaedic specialist. I imagine this stuff is a little out of his league – as it is mine, to be perfectly honest.”

  “Is the likelihood of it being a doctor quite high?” asked Gardener.

  “I would say so, Mr Gardener, although I’d like to think not. Doctors are supposed to save lives. I would think the person who has done this has extensive medical knowledge. They have known exactly where to place both devices, and how to modify them in order to achieve the maximum result. In the latter case, especially with the teeth, I think you should speak to my colleague, Iain Ross, he is a very gifted neurosurgeon and may be able to help.”

  “We’re also looking for any leads on manufacturers. Can you help?” Reilly asked, having finished his scones and biscuits and no doubt eaten enough for all three of them.

  Sinclair studied them both. “As I’ve told you, it won’t be easy. I’ll write down a couple of names.”

  He did so while he continued talking. “One of them is local, a company called KarGen, operating in Hunslet, a large industrial estate. The other company, called Hospitech, is just outside Stockton in the North East. I’ve also added the name of the company director. You may find it carries more clout to know that. And by all means, mention my name if it helps.”

  He passed over the paper with the names and addresses. “As I said, gentlemen, I really don’t hold out much hope after what I’ve told you. Naturally, I don’t expect you to tell them what you’ve told me, but they’re still going to be very cautious.”

  “On the contrary, Mr Sinclair, you’ve given us more than anyone else.”

  “There is always the possibility that neither pump belongs to them, and should that be the case, don’t hesitate to contact me, and I’ll try and point you in another direction.” Sinclair glanced at his watch. “I would love to allow you more time, Mr Gardener, but I do have an afternoon surgery to run.”

  “You’ve been more
than helpful,” said Gardener, rising from his chair. “Nice place you have here.”

  “A lot of hard work. After my wife died, I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue living here. Too many memories, you understand. But there was a lot more at stake than just the house. My practice, my reputation, but most of all, the fact that Theresa would have wanted me to continue.”

  It was something Gardener understood all too well. He was about to turn and leave when he noticed a trophy in a cabinet behind Sinclair.

  “Sporting man?” he asked.

  Sinclair followed his line of sight. “Not really. Take a closer look, I was the Junior Scrabble Champion, sometime back in 1972.”

  Gardener wandered over. There were more trophies, awards for crossword puzzles, and other word related games. A name that Gardener had almost forgotten popped out at him: Walker Brothers. He mentioned it to Sinclair.

  “The crossword trophies are my mother’s. She compiles them, but at one time she actually used to work for Walker’s, here in Leeds.”

  “That must have been beneficial for a young man who had such an interest in Scrabble.”

  “You could say. Though Scrabble wasn’t one of theirs. I must have had a copy of everything they ever released. Before anyone else, I might add.”

  “Really?”

  Gardener wondered if he was on to something. He decided to draw out the game cards. He was probably hoping for too much, but one never knew. He passed them over to Sinclair.

  “Wouldn’t happen to recognize those, would you?”

  Sinclair stared quite hard at the cards. “They ring a bell, though I’m not sure from what game.”

  “So you recognise them?”

  “Only vaguely, Mr Gardener. It’s the kind of thing that was around in the Seventies. Look at the cheeky innuendoes, almost as if they were from a ‘Carry On’ film. But I’m afraid that’s as far as my knowledge extends.”