by Ray Clark
“Then why are you holding her hostage?” asked Reilly.
“That’s my business.”
“Mr Hobson, you’ve already told us your argument is with Mr Sinclair, and it involves no one else,” said Gardener. “In which case, you should let your hostage go.”
Hobson glanced at Sinclair. “I’m waiting.”
Sinclair glanced at Gardener. “I have no idea what he’s talking about, Mr Gardener. I’ve had a very long and tiring day, and I returned home from an important meeting to find this lunatic in my house, brandishing a gun.”
“Lying bastard,” shouted Hobson, leaving Mabel Bradshaw and taking a step towards the surgeon.
“Calm down, Hobson,” shouted Reilly. “Whatever’s going on here, we can talk about it.”
Hobson pointed the gun at Reilly, which, as far as Gardener was concerned, was the wrong thing to do, even if it was loaded and you were a crack shot. The Irishman was so unpredictable, he could turn almost any situation to his own advantage.
“Keep out of it.”
Mabel Bradshaw had not moved. She was obviously too frightened.
Gardener took a step in her direction, only to discover that he was now facing the gun.
“I don’t want to have to blow your head off, copper.”
“I don’t want you to, either,” said Gardener. He glanced at Sinclair, and then at Hobson. “Seeing as he isn’t going to talk, maybe you can tell us your version of events.”
Gardener heard a car behind him. The armed response unit had arrived. Four officers all wearing protective Kevlar clothing, and each with his own rifle.
Gardener held up his right hand and waved slightly to signal that he did not want them any further than the gate.
Reilly must have read his intentions, because he backed away from Gardener – never taking his eyes from the situation – and spoke to the officers.
Gardener turned back to Hobson. “I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“Tell me what’s happened. He clearly isn’t going to,” said Gardener, pointing to Sinclair. “And you’re claiming you did not break in. So, tell me what’s happened.”
Sinclair stepped forward. “Are you going to believe him over me?”
Hobson raised the gun at the doctor. “Stay right where you are!”
“I might,” said Gardener to Sinclair.
“This is outrageous,” said Sinclair. “Do you know who I am?”
“I know who you think you are,” said Gardener.
“I am a leading member of the community. I’ll have your badge when this is over.”
“Assuming you’re still alive. As for who you are, it’s my guess from what’s been happening that you think you’re The Lord Chief Justice Dunne. Ring any bells?”
Sinclair’s expression remained unchanged, but his eyes flamed. Gardener felt he’d touched a nerve.
“You can cut out the act, Mr Sinclair. We know all about your wife and son.”
“Hey,” shouted Hobson. “I know who that is.” He reached inside his running suit.
Gardener backed away slightly.
Hobson pulled out an envelope and tossed it to the ground. “In there.”
Gardener glanced at the envelope, then back at Hobson.
“Go on, pick it up.”
He was about to, but Reilly rejoined him. He retrieved it and showed Gardener the card inside. Although they had not seen it used on any of the victims, Gardener remembered it from the game in Simon Walker’s study.
“Your shout, Mr Hobson. Tell me what you know.”
Hobson seemed to be having trouble. Gardener could see the terrified expression in his eyes, which turned to tears as his bottom jaw started to quiver. Perhaps it had all become too much.
“I’ve been here fucking ages. I don’t even know how long.” He stared at Gardener. “What date is it?”
“August 3rd,” he replied.
“Oh Christ,” said Hobson, defeated, trying to compose himself. “That bastard took me from outside my house back in May.”
Sinclair said nothing. He continued to stare at Hobson.
Gardener noticed that the armed response unit had taken positions, their rifles raised. He stepped to one side, trying to make sure they had a clear shot at Hobson.
“Do you know what he’s done to me?”
“Judging by what he’s done to others, I can imagine,” said Gardener, sensing the situation was defusing.
“He kept me in his basement, locked in a wooden frame.”
Gardener could see that Hobson was close to breaking point when he heard another car pull up. Officers Thornton and Anderson jumped out. They joined the armed response unit.
He glanced at the house. Mabel Bradshaw had gone. Where, he wasn’t sure. Hopefully inside, if she had any sense.
Hobson had actually lowered the gun. “He had a computer wired up to my body, and the frame. I had to answer questions in order to free myself. He also had me wired up to some fucking pacemaker, with wires running all over my body, touching nerves, so that when he wanted, he could press a button and give me pain like I’ve never had.”
Hobson turned to Sinclair and screamed, “So where is it you bastard? How come you haven’t given me a blast?”
Sinclair remained calm. “Lucky for you, it’s in the house.”
“So you’re not denying it?” Gardener asked the surgeon.
“What would be the point?”
Hobson pulled his running suit top upwards. “And look at this! What do you think that is hiding?”
Gardener saw the scar, a mirror image of Alex Wilson’s.
“An implantable insulin pump at a guess.”
Hobson’s head shot up. “How did you know that?”
“Alex Wilson had one in the same place.”
“Bet he didn’t have his filled with the fucking Ebola virus.”
Everyone took a step back with that sentence.
“Ebola?” said Reilly.
“Not quite, Mr Hobson,” said Sinclair, his arms folded across his chest.
“What?” Reilly asked. “So he hasn’t got the Ebola virus?”
“Oh yes, he has,” replied Sinclair. “But his is modified, it acts much quicker than the standard virus.”
Gardener was lost for words.
Hobson suddenly sunk to his knees. In his left hand he held the gun, which was pointed at the ground. His right hand was across his chest, and he had the most horrific grimace on his face.
“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed.
Gardener could see the man was in serious pain. He shouted to Frank Thornton. “Ambulance, now!”
Hobson screamed, and let loose with a horrible bowel movement.
“You can’t save him, Mr Gardener,” said Sinclair.
The screaming subsided. Hobson glared at the surgeon. “I know what you think of me, Sinclair, but I’m not like you. I never intentionally killed anyone in my life. I didn’t even know about your son’s death until a day or so later.”
Sinclair snorted.
“I really don’t give a fuck what you think of me, Sinclair, but I reckon I’ve paid the price, and you probably think we’re even now.”
Hobson grimaced again, holding his chest.
“But we’re not, not in my book. You’re one up on me, and I have a score to settle,” he rasped. “Only then can I save myself.”
Gardener stepped forward.
Hobson raised the gun. “Get back, you bastards!” He continued to raise the gun towards the sky and let off a round.
Everyone hit the deck instantly, giving the armed response unit every opportunity.
The second shot came immediately afterwards.
When the dust had settled, Gardener raised his head, only to find that Hobson had shoved the gun inside his own mouth and blown his brains halfway across the drive.
Sinclair was on his feet, wiping down the front of his suit.
Mabel Bradshaw had come out of the house. She had covered her face with
her hands. If she’d seen that, she would have nightmares for the rest of her life, thought Gardener.
Reilly was on his feet and had already covered the ground between him and Sinclair.
“Are you satisfied now?” he asked the surgeon.
“Very,” replied Sinclair. “Mission complete.”
Gardener glanced at his partner. “Sean, the cuffs?” He suddenly remembered the comment Simon Walker had made earlier in the day: ‘He was ever such a particular little man. An absolute stickler for seeing justice done.’
Gardener faced Sinclair.
“Robert Sinclair. I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“Pardon?” replied the surgeon.
“If you’re having hearing problems, Mr Sinclair, I can recommend a doctor.”
What happened next did not shock Gardener at all.
Sinclair started to cry like a baby.
“He killed my wife and son, Mr Gardener.”
The sobs were like a storm breaking on the mainland. You could wait for days, but when it came, you were not prepared. His whole body buckled under the emotional pressure, and he fell to his knees.
“What did you expect me to do? Sit back and let him take the lives of the people I loved?” sobbed Sinclair. The tears flowed freely, given the fact that he was handcuffed.
“I had nothing left.”
Sinclair glanced towards the heavens, whispering, “And now... now…” He glanced back at Gardener, “I have nothing.”
Gardener led Sinclair to the car, thinking how many other people had nothing left: Wilson, Knight, Hobson, Ronson, Johnson – possibly even the innocent bystanders like Albert Armitage, and one of their own, Gary Close. How many lives had been ruined for the sake of a mistake? The fact that someone happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? How destinies can change in a fraction of a second.
Sinclair apologized to his housekeeper. What for, Gardener wasn’t sure.
As he lowered Sinclair into the car, Gardener said, “I can understand your grief, Mr Sinclair, but what I would have expected you to do was call us, the police, and let us deal with it.”
Sinclair stared at Gardener. It was an intense glare, and made him feel like he was staring down the barrel of a gun for the second time tonight.
“You lot couldn’t even find the phone.”
Sinclair then stared down his chest.
“It’s in my inside pocket... if you want it.”
Epilogue
Maurice Cragg was sitting alone at the desk in the back room. On the table in front of him, he had a cup of tea, and a couple of digestive biscuits.
He picked up the tea, clasping the cup between both hands, desperately trying to make sense of something that didn’t make any at all. Three days ago, everything appeared fine on the surface. Since then, six people had been killed, one of which was a policeman, a young man he had known for some years. And one of the county’s most respected surgeons, someone he’d known even longer, had been arrested.
He was alone in the station. The HOLMES lads had gone home for the day. They would be returning tomorrow to collect everything. Two of his men were out attending to a burglary. DI Gardener and DS Reilly had taken their suspect to Millgarth in Leeds.
He simply couldn’t begin to work out what had gone wrong, and when it had all started.
In the corner of the room, the desktop PC that Maurice liked to think was Gary’s machine – because he didn’t really know how to work them – pinged. The screen saver disappeared, and the computer seemed to be going into self-destruct mode as far as he could see: flashing lights and beeping noises all over the bloody place.
But then something else happened.
The screen cleared, the machine calmed, and Maurice could see a document.
He placed his cup on the table, lifted himself out of the chair, and put on a pair of reading glasses before reaching the machine.
Glancing at the monitor, he saw a letter written to him. The only thing Maurice knew how to do was print, so he did.
When the printer had finished, he collected the paper and sat back in his armchair.
Dear Maurice,
If you’re reading this, something serious has happened, probably to me.
I won’t waste time telling you why I’ve done it, but I do owe you some kind of an explanation.
Since my dad died, I’ve been lucky enough to have two father figures in my life: you were one. You investigated his death, and eventually put the coked-up arsehole who ran him over behind bars.
I spent time with you, and I realized the one thing I wanted to do was join the force, protect people, put the bad guys away like the bastard who killed my dad. I know it sounds like a cliché, but there it is. So working with you was an added bonus. The other person who influenced me was Adam’s dad, Robert.
Me and Adam were big mates. When he died I was well gutted. Not as much as when my dad died, though. Adam was also killed by a pair of drug-crazed lunatics, who chased him through the town because they thought he was filming them. He wasn’t. Thing was, he did actually film his own death. He shoved the phone into a crack in the wall and left it on record. Although Lance Hobson didn’t do it, he was involved. Don’t ask me how, but his father Robert, had the phone (still has, for all I know), and he knew what had happened.
It seems that Adam’s mother was also killed by one of Hobson’s gang, Sonia Knight. I don’t know much about that.
Robert Sinclair had probably lost out bigger than me. He was the only person who understood what I was facing when my mam was diagnosed with the brain tumour. There was no chance I could afford what it was going to take to treat her. But Sinclair came up with a once in a lifetime offer, one that was really non-negotiable.
He said he would authorize my mam’s treatment to be covered by a hospital grant. I don’t understand everything, but what it meant was she would have the only treatment available that would help her lead a normal life, and I didn’t have to pay for it. Well... not with my own money anyway.
Sinclair told me all about Hobson, Ronson, Wilson, and Knight. He told me what they had done, and he wanted revenge, like you could never understand. All I had to do was help him. I had to feed him everything I knew about them: everywhere they hung out, where they went, who they saw, who they were selling to, everything. And I also had to get hold of copies of the keys to Armitage’s shop.
The rest is history. But at least you know now what I’ve done. I’ve let you down, Maurice, but try looking at it from my point of view. In my position, what would you have done? Would you have upheld the law and let the drug dealers that we couldn’t run to ground carry on, or would you have helped? You know how much I hate drugs, and the bastards that peddle them. Look at all the misery they’ve caused us. It was either them or my mam. As far as I was concerned, it was no contest.
But I didn’t do it without a conscience. I recorded every last detail of everything we did, and I placed it upstairs in the file room. You can’t miss it. It’s in a bright orange folder.
As I said at the start, if you’re reading this, something has gone wrong, and it’s possible that I’m dead. Let’s face it, if I was still alive, you wouldn’t be reading this anyway. It’s also possible that Sinclair may have gotten away with everything, and even though he deserves to, the law is the law. So I want you to go upstairs and grab the file and give it to DI Gardener. It has everything he needs to do his job.
Don’t be sad, Maurice. Things may not have worked out for me, and whatever else seemed bad to me, you got me through it.
Yours, Gary
Maurice put the file on the desk, removed his glasses, and wiped his eyes.
Gary Close was one unlucky man. Why did the worst things always happen to the nicest people?
Maurice Cragg felt as if he had lost everything as we
ll. The last three days had been the most intense investigation he had ever been involved in, but the senior officers had made him feel more alive than he had done in years.
He had a feeling that things were never going to be the same again.
More fiction in this series
If you enjoyed IMPLANT, you’ll love the other books in the series:
IMPURITY
Book 1 in the DI Gardener crime fiction series
Someone is out for revenge. A grotto worker is murdered in the lead up to Christmas. He won’t be the first. Can DI Gardener stop the killer, or is he saving his biggest gift till last?
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B081Z817GY/
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B081Z817GY/
IMPERFECTION
Book 2 in the DI Gardener crime fiction series
When theatre goers are treated to the gruesome spectacle of an actor’s lifeless body hanging on the stage, DI Stewart Gardener is called in to investigate. Is the killer still in the audience? A lockdown is set in motion but it is soon apparent that the murderer is able to come and go unnoticed. Identifying and capturing the culprit will mean establishing the motive for their crimes, but perhaps not before more victims meet their fate.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B082SYZCFW/
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B082SYZCFW/
IMPRESSION
Book 4 in the DI Gardener crime fiction series
Police are stumped by the case of a missing five-year-old girl until her photograph turns up under the body of a murdered woman. It is the first lead they have and is quickly followed by the discovery of another body connected to the case. Can DI Stewart Gardener find the connection between the individuals before the abducted child becomes another statistic?
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08917ZGG9/
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B08917ZGG9/
IMPOSITION
Book 5 in the DI Gardener crime fiction series
When a woman’s battered body is reported to police by her husband, it looks like a bungled robbery. But the investigation begins to turn up disturbing links with past crimes. They are dealing with a killer who is expert at concealing his identity. Will they get to him before a vigilante set on revenge?
