IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

  “I’d like the recordings covering the last twenty-four hours. Just give them to DC Sharp.”

  Gardener didn’t see a lot of point in going much further back. With all the technology being used, he did not think the killer had entered the station that day, or any other for that matter.

  Gardener stared out of window and down the track. The men in orange uniforms were still busy. He sighed heavily. There was so much to do. He couldn’t believe how much had happened in such a short space of time. Three o’clock Monday morning was when it had all started, and Gardener felt like he’d been on duty ever since, without sleep. So much havoc had been caused within fifty-four hours. Suspects were thin on the ground, and the one man vital to their investigation – namely Lance Hobson – remained at large. It was doubly important to find him because Gardener wasn’t certain if he was a suspect, or a victim.

  He knew that Ronson’s death was going to exhaust an already overstretched team. Last night, when he had left the incident room, he felt a glimmer of hope that they were heading in a positive direction. Now, he had a mountain the size of Ben Nevis to climb, especially with what he needed to know today. The hardest job would be capturing transmission signals in the area and trying to trace their origin.

  Gardener and Reilly stepped out of the office and back into the booking hall. They were about to leave, when Steve Fenton came after them.

  “Sir, found these.”

  He had two plain white envelopes in a clear evidence bag.

  “Where were they?”

  “In the briefcase. But someone had been clever. They were sewn into the lining. The stitching had been left unfinished at the end. You had to look closely to spot it.”

  Gardener thanked him and took them. If he’d actually needed more proof that it was the same man, here it was.

  “Come on, Sean, let’s get to the hospital.”

  Reilly drove. Gardener produced a pair of latex gloves and removed and opened the envelopes. In the first, he had a tarot card known as Judgment. The top part of the card had an angel with wings against a blue background, blowing a trumpet with a St. George flag attached. Below the angel were a number of naked people with their arms outstretched. What that meant, he had no idea. But as soon as they arrived at the hospital, he would have Sean telephone Laura for an explanation.

  The second envelope revealed yet another game card. The really disturbing part about it was the character on the card, ‘Barrister Bent’, was the spitting image of Wilfred Ronson as they had seen him on the platform, right down to the coat and the deerstalker. He even held a similar briefcase. Like the Inspector Catcher card, Barrister Bent also had a balloon coming from his mouth, with a phrase written in: “Don’t worry about a thing, son.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Reilly brought the car to a halt in the hospital car park and switched off the engine.

  Inside the hospital, it took them nearly fifteen minutes to track down Andrew Jackson. Gardener had to have the staff put out a call; they found he had finished up in theatre within the last five minutes, and would be with them in the next five.

  They waited in his office. Jackson seemed equally as harassed as they had seen him yesterday.

  “Gentlemen,” he greeted them, striding across to his desk and sitting in the chair. “How can I help you this time?”

  Gardener came to the point. He was in no mood for the doctor trying to close ranks on him. “Wilfred Ronson is a solicitor whose name has come up more than once during our investigation. We met him off a train this morning, and he dropped dead in front of us.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Jackson.

  “Yes, oh dear,” repeated Gardener. “Turns out he had an ICD fitted here at the end of June.”

  “What are you suggesting?” asked Jackson, standing.

  “Can you tell us who operated on him?”

  “I don’t think I can. Ever heard of client confidentiality, Mr Gardener?”

  “Never mind all that bollocks,” replied Reilly. “This is a murder investigation. We want to know who fitted the ICD, and the exact date.”

  “I think it’s best if I consult a solicitor before I say another word.”

  “The next words you speak will be from the inside of a cell if you carry on,” said Gardener. “Now, as my sergeant has pointed out, we’re investigating murder and we are trying to get to the truth: we are not breaking confidentiality codes here. We are simply asking for the name of the doctor. I can, if you’d like, shut this place, and keep you rooted here to your desk until I get a warrant, but I don’t think you want that inconvenience any more than I do. So please, just do as we ask.”

  Jackson seemed to think Gardener’s speech made sense, and tapped a few keys on his keyboard. “When did you say?”

  “Sometime around the end of June.” It took another few minutes, but the doctor found what they were after.

  “Mr Ross. A Mr Iain Ross, spelling the first name with two ‘I’s. June 28th.”

  “Thank you,” said Gardener. “Is he here today?”

  “No, but you will find him at the Ross & Sinclair Foundation. He’s a part owner and works with Robert Sinclair.”

  That was all he needed but another thought struck him as he turned leave the office. He spotted the edge of the collector’s magazine he’d seen last time. Moving all the papers for a better view, he studied the cover. The issue had a big spread about retro games and the Cluedo board was on the front.

  “Is this yours?”

  “Well it’s on my desk, so it must be,” replied Jackson.

  Gardener ignored the sarcasm. He picked up the magazine and leafed through it. The ten-page article he found on games covered most everything but the one he wanted.

  “Are you into games?” he asked Jackson.

  “My grandfather introduced me to them a few years back before he died. He had a huge collection, even some from his childhood. He left them to me. As you can imagine I don’t have a great deal of time to play them but I intend to one day. I’m quite fascinated how popular they were. And still are, according to that magazine.”

  Gardener sifted through his pocket and pulled out the game card sealed in the polythene bag. “Ever seen this one?”

  Jackson stared at it. “Christ, where did you get that?”

  “Did your granddad have an edition of this game?”

  “No,” replied Jackson, “but I didn’t think one existed. I just thought it was a myth.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Only that it’s a bit of a holy grail of games, very collectible, very limited. There was something in the magazine about six months ago.”

  “Do you still have it?” asked Reilly.

  Jackson glowered at the desk and then at the detectives. “Somewhere, but I doubt I could lay my hands on it.”

  “Can you try for us, please, Dr Jackson? It could prove very invaluable. Give me a call if you do.”

  Leaving Jackson’s office, Gardener had his phone in his hand, talking to Sergeant Williams at Bramfield. He wanted background information on Robert Sinclair, Iain Ross and Andrew Jackson.

  He left the hospital with mixed feelings. He was elated that they were heading out with something positive, but disappointed that Ross’s name had cropped up again. Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone, however.

  It took another half an hour before they arrived at the Foundation, a gigantic, high-tech building that resembled something out of Star Trek.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Reilly, parking the car. “There’s some money here.”

  The pair of them entered the air-conditioned reception. A blonde receptionist sat in front of a glass and chrome desk, and Gardener wondered if they were plastic surgeons as well. She had to be the most perfect specimen he’d ever seen. The girl didn’t have a visible blemish on her.

  Both men showed their cards, and Gardener felt as if that’s all he’d done all morning. He told her they wanted to speak to Dr Ross immediately, before asking if Ro
bert Sinclair was in office as well. The receptionist corrected him, telling him it was “mister,” not doctor, and that Sinclair wasn’t but Ross was in attendance.

  Within two minutes, they were in an office furnished to the highest standards. Leather suite, dark oak furniture, and a brick-built fireplace with an open log fire ready for a match to strike. The ceiling had a chandelier, and the walls had a variety of oils that were, in Gardener’s opinion, out of place – especially the one above the fireplace.

  Ross was as smooth as Sinclair. He was wearing a grey Italian designer suit and shoes that matched the colour of his hair – which was damp. He was slim and handsome, and spoke with a deep, resonant voice. He was the type of person who gestured with his hands as he spoke. “How can I help you? Do you mind if I sit down, I’ve just recently had an intense workout?”

  Gardener glanced to the chair, and he and Reilly also took one.

  “I knew the Times crossword was tough but I didn’t realize it was that hard,” said Reilly.

  Ross simply smiled.

  “That’s an unusual painting above the desk,” said Gardener.

  Ross turned and glanced at it. “It represents strength.”

  “Is it a tarot card?” asked Reilly.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” replied Ross.

  Gardener doubted that. The painting depicted a woman calmly holding the jaws of a lion. She was cool and collected. At the bottom of the frame was the word ‘strength’.

  “It’s something my wife is into. It means that you have inner strength and fortitude during moments of danger and distress: that you have the ability to remain calm and strong, even when your life is going through immense struggle,” Ross said.

  “And are you?” asked Gardener.

  Ross turned to face the officers. “No, but my wife has over the course of her life – none of which I have the desire to go into. It shows that you are a compassionate person and you always have time for other people even if it’s at your own expense. That sums up my wife perfectly. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Now, I’m very sure that you have not come to talk to me about this painting or my office, so would you please tell me why you are here? My time is valuable, even if yours isn’t.”

  “We’d like to talk to you about Wilfred Ronson,” said Gardener.

  “Who?”

  “A solicitor who had ICD surgery at St. James’s Hospital in Leeds.”

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I don’t know anyone called Wilfred Ronson.”

  “Oh my God,” said Reilly. “Is this what you get for paying thousands for private surgery? A doctor who can’t even remember your name?”

  Ross seemed a little short on patience, thought Gardener, judging by his expression. “I can remember the names of all my patients, Mr Reilly. So if I’d operated on someone called Wilfred Ronson, I would know. When was this?”

  “The end of June,” said Gardener.

  The man in front of them seemed to relax slightly. Gardener did not like that. “What date?”

  “The 28th.”

  “In that case, it wasn’t me,” replied Ross. “Which is why I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The records show it was you, Mr Ross.”

  “The records are wrong, detective. On the 15th of June, my wife and I flew to Florida for a month. We have an apartment there. Didn’t return until July 17th. You can check with the airline if you like. We flew business class with BA from Manchester airport. I can also give you the names and addresses of the people we saw in Florida while we were there. Before you leave this office, I would like to know who says I have operated on Ronson, and why. Then I will telephone my own solicitor and have the matter investigated.”

  That was a bolt out of the blue that Gardener never expected.

  Chapter Forty

  “The problem is one of your own making, Graham. You’ve created it, no one else.”

  “How the hell have I done that?” Johnson was tired of the lectures. No one was perfect, including the man dishing out the sermons.

  “You left! You were out at the first sign of trouble.”

  It was easy for him to say, sitting at his desk, living the lifestyle of a lord.

  “What the hell was I supposed to do?”

  “Stay, front it out. What did they have on us, anyway?”

  “My van,” shouted Johnson. “They came to see my van because a white van had been seen all around Bramfield at odd times in the morning, when strange things were happening. People reported the van as having a brake light out. My van has a brake light out.”

  “There’s probably a hundred white vans out there with a brake light out. Did anyone say they had seen your van in particular? Did they give out your registration number?”

  Graham Johnson was growing more frustrated by the minute, unlike the man in front of him, who had yet to raise his voice despite the mounting tension.

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “So, you had a vehicle similar to the one seen around Bramfield and Bursley Bridge at strange times in the morning, and you also had a brake light out. That still doesn’t mean they had anything on you. They were clutching at straws, Graham.”

  “But how would I have explained my way out of it?”

  “You’re a computer geek. You people are awake all hours. You could have told them you had been making deliveries, or that you’d been out collecting computers for repair. You could have told them anything to get them off your back, while you thought of something more positive to give them.”

  “Well, what about forensics? What if they wanted to keep the van and do those tests on it?” Graham Johnson was unable to keep his hands and feet still. He stormed around the room, shouting and panicking.

  “What would they have found? The floor of the van had been covered with a tarpaulin for each person we put in there. They themselves were wrapped in clear polythene bags with their hands and feet tied. They were gagged. What possible evidence could they have left?”

  “Haven’t you watched those CSI programs, for God’s sake? They could probably find a speck of fly shit in the aftermath of the apocalypse.”

  “Don’t you talk to me about forensics, Graham. I know all about keeping things clean. I’m a doctor.”

  Graham Johnson sighed heavily and chewed on the fingernails of his right hand. Not one in particular, but all of them. It had all sounded so good in theory, but now the situation was way beyond his control.

  “Jesus Christ! I never wanted to get into this in the first place. I told you!” shouted Johnson, pointing at the man. “I told you we couldn’t pull it off. The police are too clever.”

  “I beg to differ. I seem to remember it was you who came up with the original idea. I’m certainly not capable of working out something so intricate.”

  “Don’t lay all the blame at my door. You wanted revenge as much as I did.”

  Graham Johnson was beginning to realize how far things had spiralled out of control. He was in so much trouble. He couldn’t go back. The police would be watching his shop. They’d be all over it like a rash, probably had been all night while he’d been here.

  “You needed me as much as I needed you.” Johnson was almost hyperventilating.

  “You need to stop getting agitated, Graham. It’s not good for your health. I’ve treated you on more than one occasion for blood pressure.”

  “How can I calm down? What am I going to do, where am I going to go? They’re onto me now!”

  The doctor rose from his desk, and came and placed his arm on Graham’s shoulder.

  “Please, sit down, calm down.”

  Johnson was too agitated and turned away from the man. He’d had enough. He had to leave here. As big as the house may have been, he could feel the walls closing in on him.

  “Graham, sit down and let me give you something for your nerves. If you carry on like this, you’ll end up with heart trouble as well.”

  “Calm my nerves? You can fuck off. I’ve seen
what happens to people when you operate on them!”

  Before the doctor reached him, Johnson produced a gun from the inside pocket of his jacket. The doctor stopped mid-stride. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Putting an end to this mess you started.”

  “Graham, for God’s sake think about what you’re doing. Please put the gun down.”

  Johnson waved the gun around. “Oh, not so big now, are we? It’s okay to dish out death in large doses, but when you’re facing it yourself it’s a different matter.”

  “You know why we started this. We wanted justice, pure and simple. The police were powerless, because they had nothing on the scum that walk our streets. The reptiles we have to put up with are too clever by half. Take a long look at the people we put away. Hardly doing society any harm, were we?”

  “I don’t have a problem with that!” shouted Johnson. “It what’s happening now that I’m worried about. The police are on to us. We have nowhere to go. We might see what we did as justice, but they won’t.”

  The doctor ran towards Johnson with his arms outstretched. Instinctively, he dropped the gun and threw a punch, followed by a second in quick succession. He chose not to shoot because he was not a killer; he’d never had any intention of firing the gun in the first place.

  His fist connected with the doctor’s right eye, and his second punch landed square on the chin, taking the man clean into the air. The doctor flew back, catching the back of his head on the side of his desk.

  Graham Johnson turned and ran out of the study, pulled open the front door, and headed for the van. Once in, he gunned the engine, and he wheel-spun all the way around the front path and out of the gate.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Hobson was feeling worse now than he had twenty-four hours ago. In fact, worse than he’d felt since he’d been held captive. God only knew how long that had been.

  He couldn’t be sure what it was. The fact that he had not had any food for quite some time didn’t help. Since he’d spoken to his captor yesterday, he had suffered at least three serious bouts of stomach cramps, all of which had ultimately led to the shits. As he’d had no food it was mostly liquid; but the bucket must be full. The smell was awful.