IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

“Although I was the surgeon in charge of Christine Close, I asked Robert if he would speak to Gary because he knew him much better than I did.”

  “In which case, you’ll probably find it was no mix-up,” said Reilly.

  “What are you trying to say?” asked Ross with a hint of a challenge.

  “Mr Ross,” said Gardener, “are you staying here for the remainder of the evening?”

  “I hadn’t intended to.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you did. And if Robert Sinclair makes an appearance, I want you to call me immediately.” Gardener handed over a card.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Ross. “Is Robert in some sort of trouble?”

  “Just do as I ask, Mr Ross. And to see that you do, I am posting two of my officers on the door.”

  “Do I need to call my solicitor?”

  “We’re not arresting or detaining you. It’s Sinclair we want to talk to. All we’re asking for is your cooperation.”

  “What’s he supposed to have done?”

  Gardener didn’t answer the question. He had more important matters to attend to.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  The two detectives entered the theatre in the mortuary. There were four steel gurneys, and although three were occupied, Fitz was working alone on the body of Gary Close. The young man had been opened up in the usual manner, with a Y-shaped incision into the chest cavity.

  As Gardener closed the door he could smell the formaldehyde, and chose to remain near Fitz’s office door, where he could smell something much better in the form of fresh coffee.

  The pathologist turned and greeted them both. “Are you joining me over here?”

  “No,” replied both men in unison.

  Gardener had had his fill of these places. He’d seen the inside of more dead bodies than he cared to remember and had no desire to see another. Especially one so young as Gary Close, who, despite his age, had had more than his fair share of tragedy. If ever Gardener thought he was hard done by, he would only have to stop and think about Gary Close.

  Fitz moved away from the body and disrobed, throwing his green gown and gloves in the bin. He washed his hands at the sink and guided them both into his office.

  He poured three coffees and placed them on the desk.

  “What have you found?” asked Gardener.

  “I removed this from his leg.” Fitz passed over a tiny capsule that was not really much bigger than a standard antibiotic. It was transparent, and Gardener could quite clearly see a micro SIM card inserted in one half. He couldn’t imagine what compound the other half would have been filled with. Why else would Gary Close have suffocated?

  “As you can see, our friend with his devastating Bluetooth technique has been up to his tricks again.”

  “What’s happened? What was in there?”

  “I wondered at first whether or not it was acute cyanide poisoning, but that usually takes a lot longer, and causes a red or ruddy complexion because the tissues are not able to use the oxygen in the blood.

  “However, just before you arrived, I managed to run a couple of tests, and I’m pretty sure it’s botulinum toxin, a protein produced by the bacterium clostridium botulinum. It’s extremely neurotoxic.”

  “What the hell is that?” asked Reilly.

  “You or I would know it by the trade names, Botox or Dysport.”

  “Botox?” repeated Gardener. “I thought that was used to treat wrinkles.”

  “It is used for various cosmetic and medical procedures. It’s also one of the most powerful poisons known to man. A tiny amount used in the wrong place would cause respiratory failure due to the paralysis of the respiratory muscles, which is exactly what happened to young Close out there. And I reckon it will have killed him within five to ten minutes.”

  “So, Gary’s driving along in his car, going where, we’re not sure, when his phone rings. That sets off the Bluetooth signal, activates the chip, which sends out the poison. The killer doesn’t have to lift a finger other than call him.”

  “I think you’re on the right line,” replied the pathologist, sipping his coffee.

  Gardener sighed. “Which brings us back to Robert Sinclair and his insurance policy.”

  “Looks that way,” said Reilly. “Close and Sinclair were working together. I wouldn’t mind betting Sinclair had a hold over Gary through his mother.”

  “Especially when you consider Adam and Gary were friends. It must have been a bonus to Sinclair to have someone so close, and be a policeman as well.”

  “Would one of you mind telling me what you’re talking about?”

  Gardener briefly outlined their thoughts and the evidence they had found. Fitz sat back in his chair.

  “That takes some believing. I often wondered what the effect of losing two close family members in such a short space of time would do to the man. But, if you’re looking for suspects, Sinclair certainly had the knowledge. Have you caught Sinclair yet?”

  Gardener rose from his chair. “No, but we will before the night’s out.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Lance Hobson had had the house to himself for two hours.

  He’d left the basement. Unaware that he was alone, he’d crept around the place very carefully, glancing into every nook and cranny, leaving no stone unturned. He’d started at the top and worked his way down.

  An attic room had provided him with a good insight into the man he was dealing with. Sinclair had kept a shrine to his family. Hobson had recognized Adam. He’d remembered the incident four years previously. It had had something to do with that idiot, Wilson.

  He’d been scoring drugs in the middle of Bursley Bridge – against Hobson’s express wishes – when he’d suspected he was being filmed. He’d chased young Sinclair and cornered him in the alley leading to the market before calling Hobson. No amount of searching had revealed the so-called phone that he was supposed to have been filming them with. However, the matter had to be put to bed. But Hobson hadn’t known about Adam’s death until a couple of days later.

  There were also family photos in the attic, many of Sinclair’s wife, and the three of them as a family unit. That death he did know about, because he’d ordered it. Sinclair’s wife had been in the clinic near Harrogate: the one that Knight had worked her way into with the express purpose of keeping her eye on the woman, whose name, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember. Sinclair’s father had been treating her. Knight was uneasy that Sinclair’s wife, growing in confidence with each passing day, had gone to great lengths to obtain anything she could relating to the death of her son, which could have spelled disaster for them. She’d had to go.

  Whilst Hobson had understood Sinclair’s feelings about everything, a score still had to be settled. Hobson may well have been a bad lot, with very few excuses for the things he’d done but in his world it was dog eat dog. And even though he sympathized with the surgeon, he could not allow the man to treat him the way he had done and walk away. Hobson may well have considered trying to bargain with Sinclair, had he not figured he was a dead man himself.

  Down in the bedroom, Hobson had used the en suite toilet on more than one occasion, which also gave him the excuse to have his first shower in at least a month. He’d cleaned his teeth, which had hurt. He chose one of Sinclair’s own running suits to wear.

  Then he’d glanced in a mirror. He’d wished he hadn’t. God knew how much weight he had lost. His hair had thinned out. His face and his cheekbones had sunk inwards, leaving his eyes bulbous, with dark circles underneath. His teeth had gaps between them – no wonder brushing them had nearly killed him. His body was skin and bone; he could quite clearly see his ribs. There was no wonder he’d felt so bad.

  On the ground floor, he’d found further evidence of where he was being holed up. In the study were a number of envelopes with Sinclair’s name and address. He’d found it hard to believe that he had been in Bursley Bridge from the beginning, not too far from his own home in Harrogate.

  Leanin
g on the desk for support, he’d thought about his home and his life, and Sonia Knight, which had caused a tear or two. He’d had everything: big house, conservatory, pool. Flash car. More money than he needed. Why the hell hadn’t he called it a day before now? In retrospect, it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d have needed to call it a day before Adam Sinclair’s death in order to escape what had been coming to him.

  Before leaving the study, an unexpected bonus had presented itself on the floor underneath the desk. He wouldn’t have known but for a coughing fit, which had rendered him helpless and on his knees, fighting to breathe.

  In the kitchen he had found food. He hadn’t eaten for a few days, so he’d taken it easy. He’d scrambled some eggs and made fresh coffee in the percolator, completely at ease, unfazed by the fact that he had not seen a soul since his escape from the basement. People would have to show eventually, especially the man he wanted.

  Hobson finished the last of the coffee and placed his cup on the empty plate. The eggs and the coffee had been good. He didn’t feel any better. His body was racked with pain now, from head to toe. His breathing was heavier than it had been in recent days. He suspected that his body was now prone to infection. Earlier, in the study, the coughing fit had resulted in a small amount of blood in his hand after he removed it from covering his mouth.

  He was about to investigate the house further when he heard a lock turn. The front door opened, and eventually slammed shut.

  Hobson rose from his chair very slowly, not that he had much choice.

  Whoever was home went straight up the stairs.

  He made his way to the kitchen door and stood behind it, with his hands behind his back.

  Eventually, a petite woman with grey hair waltzed into the kitchen, stopping dead at the sight of an empty cup and plate. She was obviously confused, and spoke to herself whilst removing the crockery from the table and into the sink. She muttered something about the doctor knowing better. From that, Hobson worked out that the woman was not his second wife. Maybe she was a housekeeper. Not so good for him. Not as much bargaining power.

  The woman turned.

  Hobson blocked the doorway.

  Her hands flew to her mouth. “Who are you? What do you want? There’s no money here.”

  “I don’t want money,” replied Hobson, calmly.

  “We have no drugs on the premises. Mr Sinclair doesn’t believe in that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t want drugs,” said Hobson. He knew she had lied about the drugs. God knew what he’d been given in the time he’d been held captive. He could tell that his two simple statements had really unsettled the woman.

  “Why are you wearing Mr Sinclair’s clothes?” she asked him.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her. “Who are you?”

  She seemed to have lost her tongue.

  Hobson helped her to find it by taking a couple of steps into the room, and raising the gun he’d found in the study level with her head.

  The woman let out an involuntary yelp and went into a faint. She held on to the side of the table and eased herself into a chair.

  “I’m waiting,” said Hobson.

  “I’m his housekeeper,” she eventually said. “Would you please put that thing down?”

  “Why? Am I making you nervous?”

  “Oh, dear,” she cried, once again burying her head in her hands.

  “Name!” shouted Hobson, banging the gun on the table.

  She jumped so quickly she nearly fell out of the chair.

  “Mabel Bradshaw.”

  Hobson could see that it took every ounce of effort she had to utter those words, which meant he wasn’t going to obtain much information out of her by brute force.

  He lowered the gun.

  “Thank you, Mabel. You can calm down. It’s not you I’m after. I don’t want money, and I don’t want drugs. Don’t reckon either of those would be much use to me in my condition.”

  “Is it medical help you’re after?”

  “You could say that.”

  She placed her hands on the table, continually twisting a handkerchief she had removed from the sleeve of her cardigan.

  “If it’s Dr Sinclair you want, I’m sure he won’t be far away.”

  “Now you’re talking my language.”

  “I’m sure he can help you. What is it? What’s wrong with you?”

  “You’d better ask the good doctor that.”

  “Pardon?” replied Mabel Bradshaw, quite clearly not grasping the situation.

  “Surprise you, that, does it?”

  “I really don’t follow you, Mr…?”

  “Hobson. I said, you’d better ask your boss, the doctor, just what the hell it is he’s done to me.”

  Mabel Bradshaw blew her nose. “Done to you?”

  “Yes, done to me,” said Hobson. “Quite the man, your Mr Sinclair. I’ve been here a bloody long time.”

  The housekeeper made no reply. Perhaps she was beginning to think the man in front of her was deluded. Maybe that he’d escaped from a local asylum. Well, she wouldn’t be far wrong with that one, would she?

  He leaned in close to her, tiring of the game. He had no idea how much time he had left, but of one thing he was certain: he would make damn sure he lived long enough to finish off every last member of the Sinclair family, starting with psycho surgeon.

  “Yes. I’ve been here some time. I’ve been holed up in the fucking basement while your boss did exactly as he wanted with me.”

  Hobson pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “So, I’m going to sit here and wait for him, and you can keep me amused. And you’d better hope that he comes back soon, because my patience is running out!”

  “We can’t have that, can we, Mr Hobson?” said a voice from behind.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  “He said what?”

  “He said they were being held at gunpoint.”

  “Where?” Gardener asked.

  “At his home,” replied Cragg.

  Gardener and Reilly had tried the Foundation once more after leaving Fitz at the mortuary. Before returning to the police station in Bramfield, Gardener had made a quick call to the Sinclair residence, which had once again gone unanswered. Now he had Maurice Cragg telling him that Sinclair had called them to say they were being held at gunpoint in his own home.

  “How do you have the time to make a phone call to the police if someone has a gun on you?” Gardener asked Cragg, glancing at Sean Reilly, who had brought the car to a halt in a lay-by.

  “He said he’d just returned home from an important meeting, sir. When he opened the front door, he could hear raised voices. One was his housekeeper, and the other a male with a deep voice that he didn’t recognize. So he sneaked down the passage and glanced around the doorframe in the kitchen. His housekeeper was sitting at the table, held at gunpoint.”

  “We’re on our way. And Maurice, call for an armed response unit and have them meet us there as soon as possible.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Gardener thought he had finished his conversation with Cragg when the desk sergeant suddenly shouted down the phone, “Please be careful, Mr Gardener.”

  Gardener turned to Reilly. “That was Cragg. You’ve probably guessed by now that Sinclair is at home. He’s walked in on his housekeeper and an unidentified male. Looks like a hostage situation.”

  “Do we know who’s holding the gun and why?” replied Reilly.

  “Cragg hasn’t said so.”

  “I wonder if it’s Hobson.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “And where are they?”

  “In the kitchen, apparently.”

  Reilly checked his rear-view mirror, then turned the car around.

  Gardener glanced at his watch. They were five minutes away from Sinclair’s place. It had been yet another long, demanding day, that was now nowhere near over. Finding Sinclair at his house and arresting him would have been too much to ask. Walking into
an explosive situation like the one that was developing wasn’t something you would like at the beginning of the day, never mind the end.

  Reilly had decided to park the car approximately a hundred yards from the house.

  “Not much point in letting everyone know we’re here.”

  “Good thinking, Sean.”

  “That’s why you’re still alive,” replied the Irishman. “I’m like your presidential bodyguard. You know, the man who takes the bullet.”

  “In that case, you can go in first.”

  “I only said I was like him. There is a limit, even for friends.”

  Gardener laughed. He could always count on the Irishman for that. He knew from past experience that Sean Reilly had seen things in Ulster that would make his hair fall out, never mind curl up. As far as he was concerned, he could not walk into the current situation with a better man. Assuming he was actually telling the truth.

  The night was warm and clear. The tree-lined road was a pleasure to walk. There were no cars on the road, and the only sound Gardener could hear were their footsteps. By the time they walked through the gates onto the drive, the whole situation had been turned upside down.

  Floodlights lit up the entire front of the house. Sinclair was standing near his car. Mabel Bradshaw was backed up against the wall of the house about three feet from the front door, a hand clamped around her throat by a man holding a gun, which he had pointed at Sinclair.

  “Who the fuck are you?” shouted the man with the gun.

  Gardener kept his hands in front of him where the gunman could see them. “Are you Lance Hobson?”

  “What of it? You look like pigs to me.”

  Gardener was horrified at the state of Hobson. He did not resemble any of the photographs that Gardener had seen. The man was a mere shell of himself. Where had he been, and what the hell had happened to him?

  “Come on now, son. Put the gun down. You don’t want to do anything stupid.”

  “He did that when he broke into my property and threatened us,” said Sinclair.

  “Fuck off, Sinclair. Why don’t you tell them the truth? You and me have a score to settle.” Hobson glanced at Gardener. “And it doesn’t involve you lot, or anybody else for that matter.”