by Ray Clark
IMPLANT
A British murder mystery with a little slice of horror
THE DI GARDENER CRIME FICTION SERIES
BOOK 3
RAY CLARK
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2020
© Ray Clark
Polite note to the reader
This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.
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We hope you enjoy the book.
IMPLANT is the third book in a series of five murder mysteries by Ray Clark. It can be enjoyed as a standalone or alongside the others. Full details about the other books can be found at the end of this one.
Implant. 1. To plant, to insert or fix (in). 2. To instil (an idea etc.) in a person’s mind. 3. To insert (tissue etc.) in a living body – a thing implanted, especially a piece of tissue.
If I were asked to answer the following question: “What is slavery?” and I should answer in one word, “Murder!” my meaning would be understood at once. No further argument would be required to show that the power to take from a man his thought, his will, his personality, is a power over life and death, and that to enslave a man is to kill him. Why, then, to this other question: “What is property?” may I not likewise answer “Theft!”
Pierre-Joseph Proudhon
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Epilogue
More fiction in this series
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Chapter One
The sound of the incoming call broke the silence in the station.
Maurice Cragg, the desk sergeant, glanced up as PC Gary Close reached for his mobile and answered it.
Under normal circumstances, he would not allow personal calls at work, as was the right of any employer. But there were a number of overriding factors that gave way to his leniency. Not the least of which was the fact he was engrossed in a serial on BBC Radio 4, a lost classic from the archives recently discovered. The fact that it was also three o’clock in the morning on Monday, meant the small community police station of Bramfield had little or nothing to actually do.
Also, he liked Gary Close. Close was pretty slim, around six feet tall, with dark brown hair and a rugged complexion that had at some point suffered the effects of teenage acne. Despite being only nineteen, he was no stranger to bad luck. His father had been killed when Gary was eleven. His best friend had died of a drug overdose about four years ago, in extremely strange circumstances. Three months ago, he broke his leg playing Sunday League football, and had returned to work following only a two-month convalescence. And to top it all, his mother Christine had recently been diagnosed with what seemed like an inoperable brain tumour.
Cragg sighed. God, he felt sorry for that lad. But for all that, he had the makings of a damn good copper. He was dedicated, willing to go the extra mile to help out. He’d make detective someday, if his temper didn’t have the better of him.
“What do you mean, three hours?” demanded Gary.
Cragg glanced up again, slightly irritated at the interruption but concerned by Gary’s tone.
“Who is this?” shouted the PC.
Cragg lowered the volume on the radio, taking a keener interest.
Gary moved the phone away from his ear and glanced at the screen. “Number withheld,” he said to Maurice. He raised the mobile and tried to continue the conversation. “Hello?” Gary lowered the cell. “He’s gone.”
“Who has?” Cragg asked, leaning forward in his armchair. They were currently in the back room of the station, which resembled someone’s sitting room. They had a table and chairs, a three-piece suite, a wooden floor with an assortment of rugs, and wallpaper that must have ceased production in the 1950s.
“That’s just it, I don’t know.”
“Well, what was he on about, three hours?”
“When I answered, he just said ‘you’ve got three hours left.’”
“To what? He didn’t say anything else? He didn’t hint towards anything?” asked Cragg, trying to assess whether or not it was serious. In the background the only thing he could hear was the continuation of his serial at a much lower volume.
“No,” replied Gary.
“Did you hear anything else, any background noise? Cars, phones ringing, a party going on somewhere?”
“No, nothing. That’s what was unsettling me.”
“A hoax call, maybe?”
“Could be, but you’d still expect to hear something else, wouldn’t you?”
Cragg glanced at his watch. “Perhaps not, especially at this time of a morning. No hint then as to what was going to happen in three hours? Or where?”
“No.”
“Did you recognize the voice?” asked Cragg.
“No.”
As Cragg was about to ask another question, the station phone rang.
“Bloody hell,” said Cragg. “Not much chance of a relaxing end to the shift, is there?”
He answered after the third ring. Before he could say anything, a concerned voice spoke.
“Is that the Bramfield Police Station?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Cragg. “How can I help you?”
“It’s me that can help you. I live in the town, in a flat above one of the shops at the back of the Market Square, on Spital Street opposite Armitage’s.”
“The hardware store?”
“That’s the one.”
“Can you tell me your name, sir?”
“Jones, Richard Jones.”
“What about the hardware store?”
“Well, it’s three o’clock in the morning, and there’s a light on in the shop.”
“I appreciate your concern, Mr Jones,” replied Cragg, who knew Richard Jones pretty well; he worked nights at the furniture warehouse a couple of miles outside the town, whic
h would explain why he was still up. “Maybe old Armitage can’t sleep.”
“Maybe he can’t, but he’s hardly likely to leave the front door wide open, whatever he’s doing.”
Chapter Two
Alex Wilson was awake, of that he was sure.
But it was hard to tell because he couldn’t see a thing. Wherever he was, it was pitch black. He’d often heard the saying, and had also been in circumstances where it had been dark, but not completely fucking black like it was now.
Alex was more than concerned; the first waves of paranoia were creeping in.
For one thing, he couldn’t move. Every time his brain sent a signal to either his arms or his legs, nothing happened. Equally frightening was that he had tried several times to shift his position, even in the slightest way, without success. He couldn’t even feel his arms or legs, or in fact his entire body.
Did he still have it?
Don’t be fucking stupid, Alex! You must at least still have your body. Otherwise, how would you be able to think things out? The blood must be circulating towards your brain and at least allowing some rational thought.
Unless, of course, his head been removed from his body and he was wired up to machinery which produced thoughts for him.
Alex decided he wasn’t going there. That was irrational!
He tried to work out whether he was horizontal or vertical, but even that seemed impossible.
Maybe that bastard, Lance Hobson, was testing out a new drug, something that wasn’t street legal, to see what kind of effect it would have.
That would obviously take time, which was another puzzle. How long had he been in his current situation? He had no way of working it out. Even if he could move his arm and check his watch, he wouldn’t be able to see it because of how dark it was.
As his thoughts were becoming clearer, he tried as hard as he could to remember the last conscious thing he’d done. He conjured up a picture of meeting Lance Hobson in the car park in Bramfield, outside the public toilets adjacent to the church. But he had no idea when that was.
He suddenly had a vision of his flat. He was in the kitchen, heating up a pan of soup. He had no recollection however of eating it.
Alex sighed. It was bloody hopeless.
Chapter Three
“It’s okay, lad. I can dispatch a car if you like.”
“Where are the others?”
“Further north, at Rudson, investigating an attempted break-in.”
“You could give them a call and see how they’re doing. If they’re nearly finished, let ’em know I’m going, and maybe they can meet me there later. After all, we don’t know what this is yet, and it’ll only take me a few minutes to walk round.”
“If you’re sure,” said Cragg.
“Course I am. Anyway, the doc said I needed the exercise for the leg.”
Gary put his helmet on and stepped out the station front door. The sky was still dark with little cloud and no breeze. The road was quiet: no traffic, no people, not even a brave fox.
The station was situated on Old Bramfield Road, to the north of the town, going towards Bursley Bridge and eventually Harrogate. Armitage’s place was in Carpenter’s Alley, behind the Market Square, at the foot of The Shambles. He estimated it would only take about ten minutes to walk, despite his leg.
It took less than a minute for the bloody thing to start aching – an annoying pulsing sensation.
The accident was still very clear in his mind. They were playing a team from Ilkley. One of their defenders was known locally – and nationally, he shouldn’t wonder – as ‘The Monster’. He’d been sent off more times than any other player in the league, and that was probably the sole reason why Ilkley Town hadn’t been promoted. Maybe their manager would see that one day.
The Bramfield defender, Steve Preece, had supplied the perfect cross for Gary. The goalkeeper was the only man to beat, and Gary reckoned it wasn’t much of a problem. Where The Monster had come from was anyone’s guess.
Gary went down like a sack of spuds, even heard the break. He hadn’t felt any pain at first. He couldn’t remember the exact point at which he had felt pain, but it had more than made up for his initial lack of it.
Gary approached the crossroads in the town centre and turned right on to Wheelgate, passing the shops. He hadn’t seen any people on his walk, and passed only a couple of vehicles approaching from the south side; one of them was a bus with no passengers.
He turned left on to Finkle Street, and his thoughts were once again with his mother.
She had a type of brain cancer called glioma. He remembered the day when she had suddenly started having epileptic fits, right out of the blue. With progression, she’d had more, and had then grown forgetful.
She was so frightened. So was he, come to mention it. He’d lost his father; he wanted to hang on to his mother.
Gary approached the old library, which led to The Shambles. As Armitage’s hardware shop came into view, he could indeed see the light burning in the window, and the front door open.
He glanced behind him and noticed Richard Jones with his pushbike, standing outside The Golden Lion pub. The man waved, wheeling his bike towards Gary. He was dressed in an old trench coat and trousers. Gary reckoned his age to be mid-fifties.
He turned his attention to the old hardware store. It had been a part of the community for as long as he could remember. In fact, the sign above the shop told him it had been established in 1939.
It was a long-fronted building made from different shades of brick, indicating when and where it had been extended. He suspected the main door at the far right side was not the original entrance, which was probably the more central one now used as a window display. To reach the shop you had to walk down four huge concrete steps, with a slope for wheelchairs running down the middle. To the far left was a cycle rack, and a huge potted plant. On the corner of the building an old-fashioned gas mantle was fixed to the wall, unlit.
Gary was about to tell Richard Jones not to come too close when movement caught his attention. About thirty feet in front of him, where the shop ended and a wall separated it from the public toilets and the car park beyond, someone had stepped back into the shadows.
At least, he thought someone had.
Chapter Four
Alex Wilson still had no idea what was going on, or the length of time he’d been wherever he was. In fact, he had no idea how long he had been awake: it could have been minutes, it could have been hours.
It was still pitch black, but whatever thoughts he’d harboured about his possible non-existent carcass were disappearing as feeling had begun to return.
And fucking hell did it hurt!
His first sensation was pins and needles overtaking his entire body, as if the circulation had been stopped and then started again. All his limbs had felt heavy, and he’d felt sick. Within minutes that had turned to pain, proper pain, and the level was increasing with each passing second.
But he still couldn’t move. Not fully anyway. He knew there was something hard against his back, and it felt like his arms were stretched out. The slight movement he was allowed seemed to create a gap between the hard surface and his limb. But that was as far as he could go. The same could be said for his legs, a little movement and no more, as if his feet had been pinned, but by what he could not see because it was still too dark!
Furthermore, something was stopping him opening his mouth. It wasn’t a gag, and it hadn’t been taped up, but he still couldn’t open it. He could only breathe through his nose.
What the hell was going on?
He’d managed to work out that he was vertical, because if he moved his head, it hung forward very easily and it preferred to stay there. Returning it took an effort, and it wouldn’t have done if he’d been lying down.
Had Lance Hobson given him something? Was he under the influence of some new and untested hallucinogenic drug that only Hobson knew about? Was he a guinea pig?
If it was a new kind o
f drug they were going to knock out, they had better do something with it. People wouldn’t come back for more if they suffered symptoms like these.
Hobson was a dangerous bastard, a very rich, dangerous bastard who had everything simply because he had everyone else do his dirty work. Wasn’t that the way with the people at the top of the drug chain? They never sullied their own hands.
Alex went into a spasm as his whole carcass was wracked with a pain equivalent to nothing he’d ever felt before. It filled his entire body from head to foot, as if someone had pulled his fucking nerves through his skin and plugged them into the mains.
Alex twisted and writhed and still could not break free of whatever held him in position.
As his body calmed, he could feel himself bathed in sweat. He was shaking, and although the pain had subsided, his hands and feet continued to throb incessantly.
And then he heard something that momentarily distracted his thoughts.
Footsteps from above.
Chapter Five
After telling Richard Jones to stay outside and keep an eye open for his colleagues, Gary stepped inside the shop.
Armitage’s hardware store was a shrine to the past, and seemed to stock everything anyone would need: tools, paint, varnish, wood, and tiles. If you could name it, old Armitage had it. Moving from the doorway into the main area was like walking through a tunnel. Display boards on either side were crammed full with Hoover bags and belts and other accessories. In front of him was a stand with gardening products and implements, ranging from plant food and compost, to small trowels and forks.
He moved forward slowly, peering into the shop. From his vantage point, he could not see anything untoward. He listened carefully for any movement. There was nothing.
He glanced to his right and saw the counter in front of the back wall of the room. On the extreme left side, near a window – looking out onto what he presumed would be a back yard – was a lift-up hatch, which was down at the moment. Behind the counter he saw a cabinet with hundreds of drawers with brass handles on them. God only knew what they contained.