IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

  “I hope you’re right, Maurice, but even respectable people can fall from grace.”

  “Especially with what he’s been through,” said Reilly. “It’d be enough to unbalance anyone.”

  “But he’s been a brick to Gary and his mum. He operated on Gary’s leg. And all his mum’s treatment would have sent anyone bankrupt, but I haven’t heard of any payment being made.”

  Gardener wondered about the young constable. “Has anyone been in touch with Gary, just to see how things are?”

  “I’ll get on to that, sir,” said Williams.

  Gardener did not like the idea of Gary Close having been operated on by Robert Sinclair. He started to wonder what their relationship really was. It was a thought he wanted to keep at bay for the time being.

  “When did all this happen, Maurice?”

  “Well, Sinclair lost his wife two years ago, in the nursing home. But his son was found four years ago.”

  “Why was his wife in a nursing home?” asked Reilly.

  “I believe she had a breakdown, sir. After Adam’s death, they do say she never fully recovered.”

  “What about Sinclair?” Gardener asked.

  “He took it bad, naturally. But rumour has it they were given treatment by Robert’s father, Peter. He’s something of a psychologist.”

  “Is he really?” Gardener thought about that, and the death of Adam. “So, we had an unsolved crime on my patch four years ago, possibly murder. Why can’t I remember anything about it?”

  Gardener turned his attention to the ANACAPA chart. It really did need updating now. But there were other avenues he needed to pursue. They had still to find Lance Hobson, and he was beginning to wonder if they ever would. He had decisions to make.

  He turned to the team. “Maurice, I’d like you to find me everything on the two cases. All the files you can lay your hands on, and I wouldn’t mind betting they’re upstairs. Can you also move mountains, and find that medical history for Graham Johnson?” Gardener glanced at his watch. “I appreciate I’m asking a lot, but can you have them all here in one hour?”

  He turned to Sergeant Williams. “David, can you call everyone in my team, with the exception of Colin Sharp, and get them all back here to study those files? Ask Colin to go and see Robert Sinclair’s mother and father over in Ilkley. I’d like to know about her life at Walker Brothers, and how her son benefited. I’d also like to know a little bit about Robert Sinclair, especially from his father. How he coped with the loss of his son and his wife, in particular. Can you also get in touch with Gary Close? If nothing else, to make sure he’s okay.”

  “Yes sir,” Williams left the room. Cragg followed.

  Steve Fenton said he was going back to the station at Shipston. As far as the CSM was aware, Sharp pretty much had everything under control and there was nothing to report. Most witnesses had been logged and allowed to leave. That left Gardener and his partner in the room.

  “Bit of a mess, Sean, but we’re seeing some results. A clearer picture.”

  Reilly was staring at the chart. “I wish we had a clearer picture on the game cards.”

  Gardener glanced at his watch again. “Maybe it’s time we went and found out. There’s just enough time to talk to the man from Walker Brothers, and get back here to sort through those files.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Simon Walker was not at all what Gardener had expected. He was short, fat, and ginger. What was left of his hair resembled tightly bunched coil springs. He had a monocle, which he continually kept placing against his right eye. His teeth were a little crooked, with a gap in the middle of the lower set. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and plus fours.

  They were in the living room of a small, detached cottage. The enclosed space was stuffy, because all the windows were closed, and he had a Parkray stove pretty well cranked up. Walker was wedged into an armchair that was too small. Gardener and Reilly had chosen a settee to park themselves. An elderly maid had served tea. References to the games manufacturer were evident all over the walls, posters adorning them alongside certificates of accomplishment and recognition. A version of Cluedo was set up on a small coffee table.

  “Now, how the devil can I help you gentlemen? It’s not often I have a visit from the police.” At that point, he shoved the monocle back in place before continuing. “I say, you haven’t come up with a new idea for a game, have you? That would be terribly exciting.”

  “Nothing like that, Mr Walker, but we would like some help with our inquiries,” said Gardener. “Can you tell us a little about the company?”

  The monocle slipped; the man obviously disappointed. “I’m sure I can.”

  Walker started to search around inside his jacket. What the hell for, Gardener wasn’t sure, but from where he was sitting, it seemed as if he’d let a ferret run riot. He’d never seen so much movement inside one piece of clothing. Walker eventually removed a pipe.

  “I’m not going to light it until you’ve gone. That would be bad manners, and I was not brought up to display bad behaviour in any form, Mr Gardener.”

  The two detectives merely nodded, but Gardener suspected his partner was busting a gut to remain composed.

  “Now, what would you like, a blow by blow account, warts and all, or the edited version?”

  “We haven’t much time I’m afraid, so best be brief. We may need to ask questions about former employees.”

  “Oh, my good God, what have people been up to? I do hope no one has brought the company into disrepute. I might not own it, but I still think very fondly of the old place.”

  In went the monocle once more and he leaned forward, so much so that he had to struggle with the sides of the armchair to do so, and even then still nearly fell out. “Have we got a real life Cluedo going on?”

  “The particular game we wanted to talk about was called Murder.”

  “Murder?” repeated Walker, as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

  “You look a little confused, Mr Walker. Is the game not one of yours?” asked Gardener.

  “Well, it doesn’t ring any bells. What is it about?”

  Gardener was surprised that he had to go into great detail before the man could recall anything.

  “Oh, that game. I really had no idea what you were talking about, gentlemen. Yes, I do remember that.”

  “Anything specific?”

  “It was never a commercial game. That’s why I wasn’t sure.”

  “What do you mean, never commercial?” asked Reilly.

  “It was never a game that we developed and distributed. I think it first made an appearance in 1970.”

  “If you didn’t develop or distribute it, who did?”

  “Well, when I say we didn’t develop it, we did, of course, but we didn’t distribute it. We never sold it to Europe or America. It was a very limited edition. I think there were about 500 copies. You have to understand, it was a very complicated game, all about justice. Not the British judicial system, but justice in general. You couldn’t get away with anything in that game. The puzzles would always be solved. The criminals would always be caught.”

  “Can you tell us more about the game? Do you have a copy?” asked Gardener.

  “I most certainly do, Mr Gardener. Come with me.” He pointed, but Gardener wasn’t sure where to. Walker struggled intensely to remove himself from the chair.

  Finally, he said, “It’s no good.”

  He shoved a hand in Reilly’s direction. The Irishman helped, but it took two or three heaves to remove him. Once out, Walker turned and stared at the chair.

  “Do you know, I think my housekeeper likes to play games with me? There is a sister chair to that one, and do I believe she swaps them around.”

  Gardener thought that Walker actually believed what he was saying.

  The three of them shuffled into an adjoining room, which was a study. A number of boxes appeared to have been abandoned around an already cluttered desk. The room had shelves and books of every description
, and a door in the corner, which housed a cupboard, but it was bigger than any that Gardener had ever seen.

  Walker leaned in and shoved the monocle into the orbit of his right eye. He started to rummage, boxes flying around the cupboard at all angles. Most of them opened up, scattering pieces everywhere. Suddenly, when Gardener thought they were out of luck, Walker jumped up with the board game in his hand.

  He shuffled towards the desk and removed the lid, emptying the contents, which included the board itself, dice, and a large number of cards.

  “The game, Mr Gardener,” said Walker, “was based around the concept of law and order. A murder is committed, and you have to solve it.”

  He separated some of the cards. “As you can see, characters in the game include the police, solicitors, doctors, storeowners, other professional people, and criminals. It uses dice and cards: character cards, weapon cards, location cards, instruction cards, witness cards, punishment cards, every bloody card you can think of. You use money to trade and buy information.”

  Gardener was very pleased to see all of the cards their killer had used: Inspector Catcher, Nurse Willing, and Barrister Bent, as well as a number of others. At the same time, it was a very weird feeling.

  “So, what kind of a game was it?” asked Reilly. “I know you said law and order, but how did you play it?”

  The monocle dropped out of Walker’s eye. “Good lord, Mr Reilly, you don’t want much for your money, do you?”

  The big man dropped into the chair behind the desk. He quickly scanned the instruction document.

  “I need a refresher. Not played this in years.”

  Walker was the type of person who could not read silently. Add to that the facial expressions, and you had a walking one-man sitcom.

  “I remember now. It’s a cross between Cluedo and Whodunit. All the cards have the same design on the back, but they are categorised on the front.” He started to lay them out to prove his point. He also continued talking whilst consulting the instruction document.

  “At the start of the game each set – and there are six different sets in total – is turned face down. The game should not be played with any less than four players. One of each card type is then placed in an envelope, still face down so no one knows what it is. The judge card is placed in one, and a murder scenario card in another. The envelopes are sealed and then shuffled, and each player picks one. No one at that point knows the identity of the judge or the murderer. Are you with me so far?”

  Both detectives nodded, even though Gardener wasn’t.

  Walker went on. “Players roll the dice and move around the board, giving each the opportunity to question every other player, in an effort to find out whatever information he needs.

  “Now then, certain locations have access to further cards, which can be obtained by entering a building and trading information. Cards and money can be used as a trade-off for information. When a player thinks he has solved the mystery, he needs to involve the police and take the criminal to court, where the judge will hold a trial.”

  Gardener leaned over and glanced at the board, noticing a number of buildings: The Railway Station; The Courthouse; The Council Offices; The Butcher; The Baker; The Market; The Mill; The Pub; The Library; The Police Station; The Fire Station.

  Once again, he struggled with the street layout, but he finally noticed something he’d failed to work out the first time he’d seen it: the board was based on the town of Bursley Bridge. Gardener actually recognised some of the streets in relation to where the buildings were. He wondered why.

  Walker distracted him when he started talking again. “It was an exciting game in some respects, but we didn’t think it would catch on. We basically did it as a favour to the inventor, and only then because his mother worked for us.”

  “His mother worked for you?” Gardener asked.

  “So how old was the inventor?” asked Reilly.

  “When it was finally developed, eleven, but I believe his brainchild had been in progress for two years. He was ever such a particular little man. An absolute stickler for seeing justice done, even at that young age.

  “I did once hear that three young bullies – or should I say, little thugs – gave him a beating in the playground, over something and nothing. He exacted his revenge in a variety of ways. He wasn’t a violent child, gentlemen. No, he wouldn’t lay a finger on anyone. Didn’t like fighting. He always said: ‘You could solve anything by talking.’ So, he set a number of puzzles, and ran them all over town for no reward whatsoever, just for the sake of seeing those young men frustrated. To my knowledge, they never found out who was responsible for running them ragged.

  “His mother used to bring him to work in the school summer holidays, after school, or on a weekend. He was here more than most people we employed. He’d spend hours in the creative department. Proper little puzzle setter was our Robert. Oh, I remember him well. Always wanting to know about the puzzles in the games and how they were set, and what kind of a mind had created them. He even helped develop some of our commercial games. He couldn’t get enough of it.”

  I bet he couldn’t, thought Gardener.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Gary was feeling pretty edgy as he drove his car into the car park at the Ross & Sinclair Foundation. He pulled it to a stop two spaces away from where Mr Sinclair normally parked his sports car, surprised to see it wasn’t there.

  Gary switched off the engine and, as usual, it ran on for a few seconds. He hadn’t a clue what was wrong with it, apart from the fact that it was bloody old. Someone had mentioned valve timing, but he had no idea about things like that. He was a copper.

  The car was a thirteen-year-old Vauxhall Corsa, and it was all he and his mother had been able to afford. They had both realized that as her condition worsened – and it inevitably would – he would need a car to ferry her around. Eventually she may become housebound, and very probably more dependent on it.

  But according to Mr Sinclair, she was on the mend. Her dependency might be a lifetime away. At least far enough away for him to consider having something of a normal life with his mother for a while longer.

  Gary had not seen her for a couple of days, and he was pretty nervous about doing so now. He glanced at the passenger seat of the car, where he had a fresh bunch of flowers. He wasn’t sure what they were, but the colours were nice. He’d also bought Thornton’s chocolates. She loved those. She would probably scold him for that. But not for the latest Tom Jones CD.

  The Voice from the Valleys had been her favourite singer for years. Gary thought back to when he had first started working at the police station. He’d saved up his wages for a number of weeks to send her down to London to The Wembley Arena to see him live. She hadn’t stopped going on about it for three months. How happy she’d been. It was some time since he’d seen her like that.

  He’d spoken to Mr Sinclair twice yesterday, and had been told that her condition was stable. Or was it comfortable? He couldn’t remember, but suspected they both meant the same thing. He’d also had a word with him earlier today. Mr Sinclair had said that she was still not up to visitors, that his mother was still sedated, and that it would probably be of no benefit to either of them if he called.

  But Gary felt he could not go another day without seeing her, whether she was awake or not. At least if he paid a visit and she was not conscious he could leave the gifts, and when she woke up she would know he’d been. She would know he cared. Not that he doubted that for a minute. He knew if the position were reversed that she would probably never leave his hospital bed whether he was awake or not.

  He jumped out of the car, and as he brought his foot down, a severe pain flared up the entire length of his leg, leaving Gary momentarily grounded on his knees at the side of the car, struggling for breath.

  He twisted around so his legs were straight out in front of him. He rubbed the back of his left leg and suddenly felt something. The young PC located the object and pinched his fingers closer t
ogether. It was small, perhaps an inch long, narrow, with a metallic feel to it, almost like a capsule. He had absolutely no idea what it was; neither could he work out why he hadn’t come across it before. Unless, of course, it was something that had only recently surfaced. He would have to ask Mr Sinclair.

  He stood up, limped around to the passenger side, collected the gifts, and locked the vehicle. As Gary walked into the building, he breathed in the rich aromatic scents of wood, leather, and beeswax. It spoke of the volumes of money that had been spent on the place. The blonde receptionist at the desk smiled as he walked past. She didn’t say anything, but he figured she knew him well enough by now. He didn’t need directions.

  As he walked down the corridor to his mother’s side ward, the only thing he could hear was his own footsteps. The mood in the clinic was sombre and hushed. He couldn’t even hear a conversation. He’d expect a radio, or a television at the very least, or even catch a glimpse of the odd nurse walking around. Today seemed very different. Still, everyone had off-days, he supposed.

  Outside his mother’s room, he composed himself. Why was he so nervous? He guessed it was because he had no idea what he would find. The last time he saw her – two days ago – she was being carted off in an ambulance after nearly screaming the house down. At least there was no pain at the moment.

  But he didn’t like the thought of her wired up to all those machines. There was something final about seeing a person in that situation, as if somehow they were never coming back from the world they were inhabiting. It was hard to imagine where they were, and what they were experiencing. Could they see, hear, or feel anything at all? In their world, were they talking to their friends? Did they think they were with you? What did they think? Did they feel lost and isolated and desperate to return to what they knew?

  Gary put the thoughts at bay and stepped inside. His mum wasn’t there. The bed was empty. The room was bare. None of her belongings were evident.