by Ray Clark
Reilly switched the recorder off and collected the tapes. On his way out, Gardener stopped, then turned and walked back to the table.
“Just one more question. We were talking to Maurice Cragg earlier, and he made a comment that I didn’t pay too much attention to at the time. But in light of recent information, I’m now very curious.”
Pollard glanced at Gardener but said nothing.
“He said he hadn’t seen Lance Hobson for a while. So, when was the last time you saw him?”
Pollard didn’t answer, but something in his expression told Gardener that was one of the things he was still holding back on. The SIO suspected when they did find out, Pollard would be singing like a canary.
Chapter Eighteen
Iain Ross pulled his car to a halt outside 15 The Mount in Bramfield and switched off the engine. With perfect timing, his mobile rang. The display informed him that it was his secretary, Fiona Barton.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Mr Ross, I’m so sorry to bother you, your wife phoned, said you’d had a visit from the police.”
“Really? Is everything okay?”
“They just wanted to ask you a few questions to help with their inquiries, but they wouldn’t say what it was about.”
“Did they leave a name?”
“Yes, Patrick Edwards. He said he would call back, but if you were in the vicinity of the station in Bramfield, would you mind calling in.”
Ross glanced at his watch. He could pay a visit, but it would all depend in what condition he found Christine Close. In all honesty, he wasn’t expecting good news.
“Was he by himself?” Ross asked.
“Yes, Mr Ross, he was.”
“Okay, Fiona, it can’t be anything serious, so please don’t worry. Once I’ve finished my house call here, I should have time to see them before afternoon surgery.”
Ross glanced at Number 15 once more. It was a two-storey semi-detached with UPVC windows and doors, and a grey slate roof. The garden was neatly trimmed, with a water feature and a bench and a short wall with wrought iron framework.
He’d decided to make an unscheduled call after what he’d witnessed in the early hours of the morning. Considering her deterioration over the last three days, he suspected it wouldn’t be long before he would have to hospitalize her.
He collected his medical bag and left the car, exchanging pleasantries with one of the neighbours who happened to pass the gate before he reached it.
The front door opened before he’d shut the gate and headed down the path.
Gary Close ran out dressed in a blue T-shirt and jeans, with nothing on his feet. Ross could see that he was on the verge of tears, very probably a breakdown. His expression was one of surprise.
“Why are you here, Mr Ross?” asked Close. “Where’s Mr Sinclair?
Ignoring his question, Ross asked, “Gary, what’s wrong?”
“It’s me mam. Quick, please, I think she’s dying.”
Ross entered the house and went straight into the living room. It was clean and tidy and spacious. The walls were decorated with emulsion in two-tone pastel colours; different shades top and bottom, divided by a border. Everything matched, the carpet, the curtains, the light shades, even the cushion covers. The only unpleasant factor was the smell, but that couldn’t be helped.
Christine Close had once been an attractive thirty-eight-year-old woman with a head of glossy, shoulder-length black hair, and firmly defined features both in face and body. She was now little more than a skeleton, whose hair and complexion had taken a serious battering due to her grave condition.
His first glance told him she was losing her fight.
Less than six months previous she had been diagnosed with a glioma. Unlike other cancers, a glioma grows in the confined space inside the head, and is particularly damaging because it sprouts and spreads within the brain. Each year, approximately eighteen thousand people are diagnosed with glioma. Most die within twelve months.
Ross placed his medical bag on the floor. Talking to Christine would be impossible because she was having a seizure, her third in three days. Her arms and legs were contracting. She was biting her tongue, and had suffered a loss of bladder control.
“Please, Mr Ross, do something.”
“It’s okay, Gary. I can give her something to help, but we do need to talk.” Ross bent down and prepared the only thing he could, ten milligrams of diazepam.
“Gary, can you please hold your mother’s arms? I understand that this really is unpleasant for you, but the quicker we treat her, the quicker we can arrange for something more intensive.”
Gary did as he was told but continued to ask questions.
“Will she have to go into hospital?”
Ross injected the diazepam, and then used his phone for an ambulance. Luckily, the Bramfield hospital was only round the corner, so the vehicle would not be too long. The problem, however, was that they were not equipped to deal with her.
Within five minutes the medics were walking through the door, and Ross told them exactly what had happened. He gave instructions to take her directly to the Ross & Sinclair Foundation, which was on the A660, between Otley and Burley in Wharfedale. Ross said he would follow in his car.
He turned his attention to Gary while they were preparing Christine.
“I’m sorry, Gary, I didn’t answer you. Yes, I’m afraid your mother will have to go to hospital.”
“But surely she’ll feel much better here. She has her sister to help while I’m working.”
Ross guided the young PC into the kitchen and sat him down at the table. “It’s for the best. While she’s at home, we can’t give her the care and attention she needs and deserves. And look at what it’s doing to you and your aunt. You’re both worn out with it all.”
“I’m okay, Mr Ross, really I am. We’re coping.”
“In a fashion, young man, but look at you. Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
Gary hung his head, as if he was ashamed.
“Gary, please listen to me. You asked where Mr Sinclair was and why he wasn’t here. I’m afraid your mother’s condition isn’t something he can help with. He’s not a neurosurgeon. But he has relayed everything he knows about your mother to me and he’s asked me to take her case personally, as a favour to both him and you. I want to continue to do my best for your mother, really I do, but I can’t do that here at the house. Are you aware that I was here in the early hours of the morning?”
Gary obviously wasn’t due to his shocked expression.
“Your aunt didn’t tell you, did she? And I don’t blame her. She was trying to protect both of you, just as I am.”
“Why were you here?” asked Gary.
“Your aunt thought your mother was having another fit. Gary, your mother has had a fit every day this week. What she has is very serious. I’ve allowed her stay at home much longer than I should have done, but it really is for the best that we put her into the clinic, where she’ll receive professional, round the clock care.”
Gary broke down and wept openly. The neurosurgeon understood his feelings. Gary thought that because he was a policeman, he would be able to take care of her. He’d repeatedly begged Ross’s partner, Robert Sinclair, to leave her at home where he could keep an eye on her, and so could everyone else in the family. They took it in turns, covering the twenty-four hours between them. But they were not professionals. Gary obviously now felt he had let his mother down.
But she wouldn’t know. Right now, Ross knew she wouldn’t be conscious of anything around her, and experience told him that there was every possibility she would not come out of the latest seizure. But he did not have the heart to tell the young PC, whose world started and ended with his mother. God knew he’d been long enough without a father.
Gary Close raised his head. “Is she going to die?”
Ross felt completely hollow. What could he say? “I’m going to do my best for her, Gary, as I’ve always done.”
&n
bsp; The young PC gripped the surgeon’s arms. “But Mr Sinclair said all her treatment would make her better. He said it.”
“Gary, I understand how you’re feeling right now. What was said to you at the time was she would have a much better chance of fighting and surviving with the right treatment. We gave her the best that money could buy.”
Ross paused. He was going to have to be really careful with his next sentence. “Sometimes, it isn’t enough.”
He noticed the change in Gary so he continued. “But listen to me. We’re a long way from over yet. Your mother is a fighter. She’s not going to give up, and neither am I.”
The medics called Ross to the living room. They had made Christine Close comfortable and had installed her into the ambulance. Gary joined them.
“Would you like to go with her in the ambulance, Gary?”
“Are you coming?” His eyes were like saucers. He must have been petrified.
“Yes, of course. I’ll follow in my car.”
“Where are you taking her, round the corner?”
Ross realized that even though he’d instructed the medics to take her to his own private clinic, Gary would never have heard him say that, not the world he was living in right now.
“No, she’s coming to my clinic. They can’t treat her round the corner, they’re only equipped for minor injuries.”
Gary grabbed Ross by his arms again. “But, Mr Ross, it’s miles away. She doesn’t know anyone. She’ll be frightened when she comes round.”
“Gary, please, it’s for the best. We can see to her needs much better. She has been before. She knows us, and she’ll soon get to know everyone else. By the time she leaves my clinic, we’ll all be on first name terms.”
Gary seemed to accept what he was saying and started to limp towards the ambulance.
Ross noticed and asked if his leg was okay. He’d known about the football injury and the operation that had followed.
Gary nodded but didn’t say anything.
In his car, Ross phoned the Foundation and asked them to prepare a private room, supplying the details of the patient he was admitting.
Within ten minutes, after breaking every speed limit in the neighbourhood, the ambulance pulled up outside the Ross & Sinclair Foundation; a very modern, tinted glass and steel building constructed to the highest standards. The glass was so dark it was almost impossible to see inside.
Two nurses, two doctors, and a gurney were ready, and Christine Close was wheeled into a private side room. It resembled a small country cottage living room, with beams on the ceiling and dark oak skirting, equipped with everything you would expect in your own home: a TV, DVD, hi-fi, small fridge, tables and chairs, and a cupboard. It was en suite. The only addition not found in a home was the state-of-the-art medical equipment.
While the staff made Christine Close comfortable, Ross walked through to his private office. It was also finished in dark oak, with bookcases floor to ceiling containing an extensive collection of medical texts. He had armchairs, coffee tables with copies of The Lancet in view, and a large desk with a PC. The room had an open fire, which was currently set with logs and ready to light at the strike of a match. It was also en suite.
He stood against the fireplace, leaning against the hearth with his arms open, defeated. Between them they had done everything they could to save Christine Close’s life, but it didn’t seem to have been enough.
Before he had time to even consider what course of action to take from here, the door opened and Robert Sinclair entered. He was slim like Ross, due to an excessive workout routine. He had wavy grey hair, and was currently dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and blue tie, and expensive leather shoes. Judging by his expression, he was extremely concerned by what he’d seen.
“How is she?” asked Sinclair.
“Not good,” replied Ross.
“Is she conscious?”
“No.”
“Where’s Gary?”
“He’s keeping vigil outside the room.”
Sinclair sighed. “I’ll be honest, I know it’s more your field but I don’t think she’ll recover from this. The fits are too frequent.”
“Don’t berate yourself, Robert. We’ve done the best we could.”
“It’s not enough, though, is it?”
“You know as well as I do, however we’d have treated her, it would never have been enough. And let’s be honest, she’s had the very best.”
“And I want it to stay that way. Whatever she needs in the time she has left,” said Sinclair, “she gets it, and so does Gary. I’ll pick up the tab.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gardener and Reilly were back in the incident room. Maurice Cragg had joined them; so, too, had Sergeant Williams. Patrick Edwards had completed his little task, and was also with them. Information from his team was being filtered back at a steady pace, because the ANACAPA chart was starting to take shape. Crime scene photographs were pinned to it.
“The fancy car with the private plate, R1 OSS, belonged to a doctor, sir,” said Patrick Edwards. “Iain Ross, he lives in Burley in Wharfedale.”
“What make of car was it?” asked Reilly.
“A Mercedes.”
Although he was no expert when it came to cars, he had not seen one as sporty as that little number. “What model is it?” he asked.
“An SL 400, sir,” replied Edwards. “It’s a real piece of equipment. A coupe, top of the range.”
“Okay for some,” said Gardener. “Did you go and see him?”
“Yes, but he was out. His wife was home. Apparently he was on a call here in the town. She also confirmed that he was in Bramfield in the early hours of the morning, attending to Christine Close.”
“That’s Gary’s mum, isn’t it?” Gardener asked Cragg.
“Yes, sir, she’s seriously ill, by all accounts.”
“Armitage mentioned something about that.”
“He’s well known around these parts, sir,” replied Cragg. “A damn good doctor, as is his partner, Robert Sinclair, and he’s no stranger to tragedy. They have a private clinic, very successful.”
“Brain tumour, isn’t it?” asked Gardener. “How’s Gary coping with all this?”
“Bloody well, if you ask me,” said Cragg.
“Is she still at home?”
“No, sir. Gary phoned earlier to say she’d been taken to the clinic.”
Gardener made a mental note to speak to Gary Close. God knew if anything happened, Gary was going to need some help, and though Gardener realized it was not his place, he could make sure a word in the right ear would have the desired effect. He remembered all too well the effect of the death of a close family member: your world could crumble instantly. A picture of his late wife Sarah entered his head.
Eager to continue with the investigation, Gardener asked Williams if he had copies of the Inspector Catcher card found at the scene. The sergeant nodded and passed them over.
“Okay, Patrick,” said Gardener. “I want you to join Colin Sharp at the shop. I’m sure he’ll have his hands full. Before you go, take a copy of this card with you, and see if you can find out anything. I’m sure there’s a toy shop in the town.”
“I’m on it, sir.” Edwards left the room.
Gardener briefed Cragg and Williams on what he and Reilly had discovered while interviewing Jackie Pollard.
“I thought I hadn’t seen Lance Hobson for a while.”
“Did you find an address for us?”
“Yes, sir.” Cragg handed Gardener a slip of paper from a notepad.
“According to our files, Hobson started when he was twelve – stealing cars, breaking and entering. Did a couple of stretches in a young offender’s institute. Got into the big league when he was about eighteen, delivering parcels and prospecting youngsters. Seems he shared a cell with Alex Wilson when he spent time in Armley for violent assault.”
“What about Sonia Knight?”
“She’s another piece of work, sir,” repl
ied Cragg. “She lives with Lance Hobson; runs his empire, so to speak. Used to be a duty nurse at one of the private care homes out near Harrogate. I forget the name, but I’ll have it before long.”
“Interesting,” said Reilly. “Another one with medical knowledge?”
“Possibly”
A knock on the door captured the attention of everyone in the room, halting the conversation.
The CSM, Steve Fenton, entered. He had with him two Faraday bags containing two phones, only one of which Gardener had passed him earlier in the morning, as well as a file folder of what Gardener hoped was his findings.
“Come in, Steve.”
“Before I start, you’re not going to like this. Can I grab a coffee?”
“We have no objection to sharing our coffee,” said Reilly.
“Not that, you lunatic.”
“Just for that you can only have coffee. No biscuits, mind.”
Fenton turned to Cragg. “I should keep your biscuits under lock and key, if you haven’t already lost them all.”
Cragg smiled and Gardener laughed.
“What have you got for us, Steve?”
Fenton was as tall as Gardener. He weighed around twelve stone, and his features were similar to his SIO. He had short black hair, a rugged complexion, and maintained a reasonably slim physique. Gardener had long since become accustomed to Fenton’s eyes, which differed in colour from day to day. The contact lenses had confused him, at first.
Fenton took a sip of coffee and sat down, arranging his treasure trove in order. He held up a clear plastic bag. “This is the good news.”
“What is it?”
“A piece of torn cloth, from a pair of Levi’s by the look of it. I know it’s only small, and probably bloody hard to follow up on, but it’s something. We found it in the cellar. About halfway down the steps, there’s a nail sticking out. You’d have to be unlucky to catch it, but someone has.”
“Excellent,” replied Gardener. “Let’s get someone on that,” he said to Sergeant Williams. “I know it’s laborious, but leg-work is like that. It can also be invaluable. Get someone to call on all the local clothes shops, see if anyone recognizes it.”