IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

  On his desk, next to his computer, sat a fresh cup of coffee, which he’d no doubt made using his expensive machine. If Gardener’s memory served him right, the coffee maker had been a gift from Mrs Fitz, priced at somewhere in the region of £600. Apart from a couple of prints on the wall and a framed photograph of his wife, the only other decorative item in the office was a plaque, above and behind Fitz’s head which read: Hic Locus Est Ubi Mors Gaudet Succurrere Vitae. ‘This is the place where death rejoices to teach those who live.’

  Gardener liked Fitz because he had a no-nonsense attitude. He wasn’t afraid to tell you what he thought, despite your rank. He’d never forgotten the first time they’d met. Fitz had given his car keys to a young, fresh-faced PC – whose SIO was the legendary Alan Radford – and asked him to fetch a parcel from the boot of his car. Fitz immediately opened the package, and to Gardener's horrified amazement it had contained a human heart. He’d felt nauseous for the rest of the day.

  George Fitzgerald had an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of his profession, something he'd been practicing for nigh-on forty years. He could – at any given point – quote from almost any criminal file in history when prompted. He had a tall, lean frame, with a wrinkled complexion. Half-lens glasses perched on the end of his nose, which he constantly cleaned due to his work. How they managed to stay on was beyond Gardener.

  Gardener sensed the pathologist was very tired. Fitz ran his hands down his face in an effort to wipe away his fatigue. He finished his coffee, reached behind, and reduced the volume of the music.

  “How are you getting on?” he asked.

  Gardener sat down, pretty tired himself. He gave Fitz a brief summary of the case and the problems it had so far caused.

  “Would you like a coffee? It’s fresh.”

  “I’d love one. What about you, Sean?”

  “Count me in. I need something to keep me awake. God knows when this day’s going to end.”

  “Sounds like we’ve all had a bad one,” said Fitz, pouring and passing the drinks.

  “It’s been a bloody long one,” replied Gardener. He glanced at his watch. He’d been up and on the case for sixteen and a half hours straight, and what they had so far achieved had been very little: one body, a number of possible suspects, and no evidence to pinpoint the killer with.

  Fitz took a mouthful of the coffee. His expression said to Gardener that it was the only thing he’d had today that pleased him.

  “What have you got for us?” Gardener asked, hoping the pathologist would provide something positive before they had the final incident room meeting.

  “I’ve been working most of the day on your corpse. Finished about four o’clock and started making the notes. I’ll send you the full report through in a couple of days, but there is something we need to discuss that might focus your mind for the next few hours.”

  “Hours?” questioned Reilly. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Depends which way you look at it,” said Fitz. “Might not be what you want to hear, but it’ll certainly intensify your investigation.”

  Fitz pointed to his desk. “Ever seen one of those?”

  Gardener followed the line of his finger to the object sitting on his desktop. It was a round disc approximately an inch-and-a-half in diameter, and half-an-inch thick. The centre was made of alloy, which seemed to be encased in a white plastic material, with a very long and narrow plastic tube attached to it.

  “No. What is it?”

  “It’s an implantable insulin pump.”

  “Something to do with diabetes?” asked Reilly.

  “Have you been force-feeding him fish?” Fitz asked Gardener.

  “I’m not privy to his diet, that’s usually constructed and sent straight from NASA.”

  “Would you listen to the two of you? And will you stop talking about me as if I’m not here? You can hurt a man’s feelings, so you can,” Reilly said.

  “It’s unlikely with a skin as thick as yours.”

  Gardener laughed at Fitz’s remark. A joke from the pathologist wasn’t a bad sign.

  Fitz continued. “That’s exactly what it was for, originally. It’s an insulin-delivery device that can be surgically implanted under the skin of someone who has diabetes. The pump delivers a continuous basal dose through a catheter into the patient’s abdominal cavity. Patients can also self-administer a bolus dose with a remote-control device.

  “They were first tried in the 1980s. In America they are still classified as investigational devices, only accessible in clinical trials. They’ve been available in Europe for quite a number of years.”

  “And you’re telling us this because?” asked Gardener.

  “Alex Wilson.”

  “Was he a diabetic?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?” Gardener asked.

  “When I opened him up this morning, I paid particular attention to the abdominal area. The surgical stitching was very recent, fresh, clean, and could only have been performed by a professional. But there was nothing missing. This device,” Fitz held up the pump, “or should I say, modified device, had been placed inside his body. The long thin tube had been inserted directly into the largest vein available.”

  Gardener leaned forward and studied the pump.

  “Was it full of insulin?”

  “Not at all,” replied Fitz. “We’re going to have to wait for the toxicology report to be absolutely certain, but there are a number of things I can tell you to be going on with.

  “Firstly, it’s difficult to say with any certainty what killed Alex Wilson, because he was a known drug user and some of the damage to the major organs will most likely be the effect of whatever he was taking. However, I have found traces of sodium hydroxide in this pump.”

  “Which is what?” asked Gardener.

  “You and I would know it as caustic soda, a household chemical used for unblocking drains. It’s a very strong alkali. It attacks metals. Turns fat into soap, which is how it unblocks sinks. It burns skin and damages eyes.

  “In this case, the caustic soda was released by the insulin pump. The pain would have been horrific. It damaged the blood vessels, the blood, and then went on to attack the organs that receive the most blood: the liver, stomach, brain, heart, and kidneys. This pump is almost certainly what caused Alex Wilson’s demise.”

  Gardener sat back and sighed heavily, trying to work out how and when that had taken place. “Alex Wilson went missing on Thursday night. I think it’s safe to assume that he was back in the cellar on Sunday at some point, or the very early hours of Monday morning. Would that be enough time to do what was done?”

  “Certainly, if you knew what you were doing,” said Fitz. “And I think there’s enough evidence to support the fact that whoever did this was very good at his job.”

  “So, it had to be someone with medical knowledge,” said Gardener.

  “Looks that way,” said Fitz, rising and pouring another coffee. He offered a refill for the two officers, but both declined.

  “Where can you get these things? Is the name of the manufacturer on it, or a model number?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes, we should be able to see that kind of information. They always have a serial number. But, as I said, this one has been modified, and the serial number has been erased.”

  “And there’s no manufacturer’s name on it?” Gardener asked.

  “No,” replied Fitz. “It was probably with the serial number.”

  “Sounds like our man knows what he was doing. More evidence to suggest a medical specialist,” said Reilly. “Any idea who makes them?”

  “I’m sorry,” replied Fitz. “I deal with dead people, and they have no use for them. It’s pretty specialized, but I’m sure some of the doctors at St. James’s Hospital would be able to enlighten you.”

  “There’s more to this story, isn’t there?” Gardener asked. “You mentioned a modification?”

  “Yes. I understand that these pumps are exter
nally programmable. This one has been changed in such a way that it will deliver the substance when it’s told to.”

  “Told to?” repeated Gardener. “How?”

  Fitz rifled through a folder on his desk.

  “It has a SIM card in it. This thing is working through Bluetooth. It’s a technology that allows your computer, monitor, mouse, keyboard, PDA, or anything else with a Bluetooth chip to communicate by radio instead of cables.

  “In order to get rid of the cables, companies developed infrared.

  “But then things went a step further, and they developed Bluetooth. The devices simply need to be within ten metres of each other. They work by using radio chips. When a Bluetooth device detects another one nearby, it automatically links to it.”

  Reilly leaned forward. “Like mobile phones?”

  “Definitely,” said Fitz.

  Gardener digested what the pathologist had told them, considering the implications. “So, it’s possible that the text to that phone in the shop could have set off the SIM card in that pump to deliver its lethal compound?”

  Fitz leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. “I was coming to that. I think it’s very possible.”

  “And the fact that these things are externally programmable means all this could have been set up and timed to the last second.”

  “As near as.”

  Gardener pondered the situation, the way that both he and Reilly had been manipulated. Dragged into solving clues with an unknown time limit, with the possibility their killer may not have been anywhere near the scene of the crime.

  “Could we have saved Alex Wilson? The original message gave us three hours.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” replied Fitz. “Even if you had managed to work out the meaning of the message within the time limit, assuming you reached Wilson by six o’clock, all you would have done was watch him die. By that time, it was too late. The compound was charging around his body, and there is no antidote.”

  “Why were his lips sewn together? Was there anything in his mouth?”

  “No, nothing,” replied Fitz. “To try and keep him quiet, probably, so as not to alert you lot to the fact that he was in the cellar. The pain that Wilson would have felt is probably beyond describing. The holes in his hands and feet where he’d been crucified were elongated. That man desperately tried to pull himself off the wall. He was in the cellar of a shop in Bramfield, but you’d probably have heard his screams half a mile away.”

  “Wonderful,” said Reilly. “The killer obviously knows that we wouldn’t want to rush into a trap in the cellar, but we’d do what we could to save someone who was in trouble.”

  “Quite.” Fitz sat back in his chair and finished his coffee. “You might want to consider that there’s more than one person involved.”

  “That thought had crossed my mind,” said Gardener. “I think there’s too much here for one person. I would think that one half of the duo has medical knowledge. Could be a doctor, a chemist, maybe even a student. The other half is an electronics expert, IT man, maybe. Someone who’s pretty clued up with technology if you take the Bluetooth chips, the SIM cards, and the externally programmable pumps.”

  Gardener glanced at his watch. “Look, Fitz, thanks for all your help. At least it gives us another direction in which to take the investigation. We need to get back to the incident room and discuss all the developments.”

  “And I need to get back to my wife before I have to find myself a solicitor.”

  Gardener laughed, knowing full well that the elderly pathologist and his wife had a cast-iron marriage. He picked up the implantable pump and placed it in the clear bag alongside the SIM card. He headed for the door, but stopped and turned.

  “Just one more question. Do you know a couple of surgeons called Robert Sinclair and Iain Ross?”

  “Ross is consultant neurosurgeon at St. James’s Hospital?” replied Fitz. “I certainly do. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, really. It’s just that he’s personally involved with one of the officers at the station. A young PC whose mother has a brain tumour, something called a glioma?”

  “Very nasty. A glioma is an extremely serious tumour, very few people survive those,” replied Fitz. “If Iain Ross is on the case, then she couldn’t be in better hands. I’ve known him for years. He and his wife are fans of the opera, and we have met on a number of occasions. Sinclair is also a very good surgeon, but he’s not in Ross’s class. But he’s had more to deal with in his personal life.”

  “How so?” asked Gardener.

  “The two of you share something in common – losing your wife in tragic circumstances.”

  Fitz’s phone chimed as he was about to explain. He answered, and it was immediately obvious he was trying to console a wife who had his tea in the oven and wondered how much longer he’d be. Fitz asked if she would hold for a minute.

  “If I were you, I’d pay them both a visit. Especially Ross. He’s a genius, been practicing medicine since the age of sixteen. He has a list of awards as long as your arm. He’s the man you need to talk to with this case.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Gardener and Reilly arrived at the Bramfield police station much later than anticipated. Inside, the lobby was light and warm, and Gardener could hear the voices of the officers going about their business. The aroma of fresh coffee and a mixture of different foods reminded him he had barely eaten since his breakfast.

  “Christ, that smells good,” said Reilly. “Listen, boss, do you fancy a curry or something after the meeting?”

  “Something sounds nice, even if it is a curry,” replied Gardener.

  Cragg appeared from a back room with a tray of cups. “Good to see you, sir. We’re all here. Most of the lads are in the incident room already. Plenty of tea and coffee available.” He made his way across the lobby to the conference room as if he’d been a part of Gardener’s team forever. Gardener was about to follow him when he noticed Gary Close also emerge from the back room, a mug in his hand.

  “Sean, can you tell everyone I’ll be there in a few minutes? I want to talk to Gary.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Gardener intercepted the young PC and asked if he had a minute and somewhere they could talk. They ended up sitting in a couple of old armchairs in an area where Gary and Cragg spent much of their time on the night duty.

  “Are you sure you want to be here, Gary?” Gardener asked.

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I know about your mum. Cragg mentioned a problem, and Armitage told me a little more. Sean and I have just been to see the pathologist, and he told us of the severity of her condition. I’m truly sorry to hear about it, which is why I asked if you are sure you want to be here.”

  Gary stared at Gardener as if he had misunderstood.

  “I don’t know where I want to be, sir.”

  “I understand. I also realise that being here may in some way help you to cope. Is this the first time she’s been hospitalised during the course of her illness?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How have you managed until now?”

  “Over the last few weeks my aunty has looked after her while I’ve been at work. Now she’s...” Gary almost struggled to say the word, but he regained his composure. “Things will be a little easier. But I just couldn’t sit there, watching her. There’s nothing I can do.”

  Gardener leaned forward. “Going into hospital doesn’t mean that she isn’t going to come out. It probably means that she needs more specialist care to help her get over her latest setback. I don’t want you to think that you’re failing in your duty towards your mother because this has happened.”

  “I know what you mean, sir.”

  “But I do want you to promise me that if things get any worse, you’ll tell me. Please don’t keep it to yourself. I can’t help you if you do.”

  From Gary’s expression, Gardener felt that he had gained the officer’s trust, which was exactly what he
wanted. All his team knew that in spite of being the senior officer, he was also their friend, and there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for any of them should they find themselves in a difficult position.

  “Don’t take the whole weight of this on your own shoulders. I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. My wife died in my arms on the streets of Leeds. I still blame myself for what happened, although I am aware that nothing I could have done would have prevented it. And it was only through the help of my friends and close family that I got through it. We’re all here for you.”

  Gardener stood up to leave. “I have to get back to the incident room. I simply wanted you to know that I know about your unfortunate circumstances, and I may have to mention it during the meeting.”

  Gary Close stood up as well and offered his hand. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

  Gardener shook it and smiled. “Before we go in there, Dr Fitzgerald, my home office pathologist, tells me that doctors Sinclair and Ross are on the case. You know them well?”

  “Yes, sir. Sinclair sorted out my leg when I broke it in a rugby match about three months ago.”

  Gardener decided to leave it there. “Okay, let’s go and discuss what we’ve all found out today.”

  As he and Close entered the incident room, his team was still deep in conversation. He noticed that the ANACAPA chart had grown during his absence, which meant Maurice Cragg was taking his duty seriously. The desk sergeant was another member of staff that he wanted to have a talk with; he was concerned about the hours Cragg was putting in. But for all that, he seemed as fresh as a daisy. In a room full of people, however, the most amusing scene was his sergeant, Sean Reilly, with a coffee in one hand, a wrap in the other, and a cake of some description on a plate to one side of him. God only knew how he stayed so slim.

  Gardener grabbed a cup and had a sip of tea before addressing them.

  “Okay, lads, if we can have a bit of hush, please? It’s been a long and tiring day, and I suspect when I tell you what Sean and I have discovered, it isn’t about to get any better.