IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

  Bob Anderson had not said anything as yet. He remained near the door, glancing out the window.

  Thornton passed the biscuits back. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about an incident that may have taken place on either late evening Sunday, or early hours Monday morning.”

  “Guess that’s why the place is swarming with cops. Has someone been killed?”

  “It is a pretty serious matter,” replied Thornton. “Were you around the town during those hours?”

  “Probably. I live here, above the shop.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “About eight or nine years now.”

  “So you pretty much know everyone in the town?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Do you keep late hours?”

  “I reckon. That’s the thing about computers. They’re unpredictable. Repairs can take minutes or hours. Once you’re in the zone... well, I’ve sometimes been up all night. Lost track of time.”

  “Didn’t happen to be up all night on Sunday, did you?”

  “No. I have been really busy of late, but no all-nighters.”

  “And you haven’t noticed anything unusual going on at the station?”

  There was a slight pause before Johnson answered. Thornton reckoned he was probably a nervous person by nature. He could tell the man constantly bit his nails.

  “Not really, but that station is bloody busy. Napoleon’s always got something going on.”

  “Napoleon?” Thornton asked.

  “You know, Major Middleton, or whatever title it is he’s given himself. Thinks he runs the town, never mind the station. Napoleon is my little joke. He reminds me of Captain Mainwaring out of Dad’s Army. The warden used to hate him, and always called him Napoleon. That’s what I call Middleton. He’s a bit pompous.”

  Amused, Thornton pressed on. “So you haven’t seen any unusual activities outside of normal hours?”

  Johnson appeared to think about it, then said he hadn’t.

  “Notice any strangers around, recently? I realise the pub runs a bed and breakfast, so I suppose there’ll always be strangers of some description around.”

  “No, but I know what you mean,” Johnson replied. “Most of the people we get here are train-spotters, or people who are really into steam, up for the weekend. You can spot ’em a mile off. They’re the only people I’ve seen.”

  “You haven’t noticed a white van hanging around the place?”

  “White vans are pretty common, aren’t they? I dare say I have seen one or two.”

  “You might notice this one, Mr Johnson. The driver’s side brake light wasn’t working.”

  After a moment’s thought, Johnson replied that he hadn’t.

  Thornton decided to move on, figuring there was nothing further to be gained on that subject. So far, very few people they had spoken to had come up with anything concrete they could follow up. But that wasn’t unusual.

  “I noticed you were closed yesterday.”

  “Yes, I had to go out and collect computers that needed repairing. I have contracts with a lot of the major businesses around Leeds and West Yorkshire, so there’s always enough work.”

  “Good to hear it. For a minute when I walked in, I thought you might have been having a closing down sale.”

  Johnson seemed confused for a few seconds, then laughed.

  “Oh, the mess.” He pointed to the piles of machines. “I’m too busy to clean up, but I know where everything is, don’t let that fool you.”

  “It doesn’t,” replied Thornton.

  Bob Anderson had stopped staring out of the window and was now pacing the floor, lifting the odd carcass, as if he was trying to work out what the hell was wrong with them. Thornton knew that wouldn’t be the case. His partner was a bit of a technophobe. Kept well away from things he didn’t understand. Thornton noticed Graham Johnson frown as he watched Anderson. Perhaps he didn’t approve of having his shop casually searched.

  Frank pulled out a blown-up photocopy of the SIM card taken from the implantable insulin pump. “Know anything about these?”

  Johnson leaned forward. “I’ll say. It’s a subscriber identification module.”

  “Pardon,” said Thornton.

  “A SIM card.”

  “I know what it is. I just wondered if you knew anything about them.”

  “How big was it? Do you have a life-size photo, or any dimensions?”

  “What for?”

  “They come in different sizes. Which one have you got?”

  Thornton suddenly felt out of place, and consulted all his notes before saying it was the micro SIM card.

  “The first SIM card was made in 1991 by Munich smart card maker Giesecke & Devrient, who sold them to the Finnish wireless network operator Radiolinja,” continued Graham Johnson whilst staring at the photocopy. “It securely stores the service subscriber key used to identify a subscriber on mobile telephony devices such as mobile phones and computers. The SIM card allows users to change phones by simply removing it from one mobile phone and inserting it into another mobile phone, or broadband telephony device.”

  Thornton quickly realized he had to be very careful with Graham Johnson. His manner indicated he was a logical person who displayed little or no emotion. He would probably answer all Thornton’s questions honestly, but if he started to ask Johnson about his specialised field, he would simply swamp them with his knowledge, unaware that he was doing it.

  “What I meant, Mr Johnson, was do you recognise it?”

  “As it is, no. I could stand here all day and talk technical but it won’t mean anything to you, and I’ll end up boring you to death. You’re in my territory now.

  “All I will say is SIM cards are identified on their individual operator networks by a unique IMSI. Mobile operators connect mobile phone calls and communicate with their market SIM cards using their IMSIs. The first three digits represent the mobile country code. The next two or three digits represent the mobile network code. The final digits represent the mobile station identification number. Normally there will be ten digits, but there could be fewer in the case of a three-digit MNC, or if national regulations indicate that the total length of the IMSI should be less than fifteen digits.”

  Thornton was beginning to wish he hadn’t started the conversation. He had, however, picked up something useful.

  “Are you saying that there is a way to identify this particular card?”

  “I doubt it. Cards are very unique. I suspect that the mobile companies who issue brand new phones have records of all the serial numbers of the cards and the phones and be able match them in an instant, but your serial number has been wiped out. Take a look.” Johnson handed back the photocopy. “Someone has very carefully obliterated it.”

  Thornton sighed, thinking about the pump inside Alex Wilson, and how the serial number on that had been removed. He supposed that he was hoping for too much, but one never knew when the break would come, and for that reason he could not give up.

  Thornton turned and noticed Bob Anderson was still completely engrossed with all the scrap machines. He was beginning to wonder if his partner had found something.

  A crash diverted his attention back to Graham Johnson, who was busy cursing the stool for being in his way. Where he’d been going and what he’d been trying to do, Thornton wasn’t sure. One thing he did know, the man seemed to be a little accident-prone.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

  He’d answered a little too quickly for Thornton’s liking, which made the DC wonder if it hadn’t been an accident, and more a diversion tactic for Bob Anderson, who had now joined Thornton at the front counter.

  “Well, thank you for your time, Mr Johnson. I’m sorry to have spoiled your morning routine. Before I go, can I ask, are you into games?”

  “Computer games? Yes, love my online games. Just don’t get much chance to visit the sites these days, what with the pressure
of work.”

  “What about the older ones? You know, the board games from years ago?”

  “When I was younger, I think I probably had most of them.”

  Thornton produced the copies of the Inspector Catcher and Nurse Willing cards and passed them over.

  “Recognize those?”

  “Christ, these are old.” Johnson studied them for a few moments, turning them round and round. “I’ve absolutely no idea. Where the hell did you get these?”

  “Oh well, thanks for your time,” replied Thornton, passing over his own card. “If you do think of anything, give me a call. Or just pop over to the station and ask for either of us, we’ll be there all day.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Eighteen hours after the shock of finding himself humiliated and trussed up in a wooden frame, Lance Hobson felt so disgusting that death was becoming the preferred option.

  Shortly after the computer monitor had fired up, he had either fallen asleep due to a lack of energy, or passed out through sheer pain.

  He’d woken up earlier in the day, sometime around five o’clock. The computer had been active and had informed him of the time. He could remember excruciating pain enveloping his body, his stomach rumbling, and filling the bucket.

  He was awake now and it was midday. Glancing down, the bucket had been changed, and a toilet seat had been placed on the top. Hobson wondered what kind of a bastard was holding him captive, because he didn’t find it amusing. He had no control over his aim, so narrowing the gap was of no real advantage. Still, it was simply more mess for someone to clean up. He was sure they’d grow bored in the end.

  What would happen then?

  The monitor screen changed to bright green, and his whole body suddenly felt as if it had been turned inside out. As though large needles on the inside were trying to force their way through. Perhaps if they were, the end he craved would soon come. He had little strength left in his vocal chords, so what should have been a scream came out as nothing more than a strangulated yelp. When the pain subsided, his body went limp against his restraints. As he reopened his eyes and tried to focus, he became aware of two things.

  First, a small frame had been connected to the wall, housing five vials, each containing a liquid. One was clear, the others blue, green, amber, and red. He had no idea what they were.

  Second, there was something wrong with his skin. Seriously fucking wrong!

  It was red and patchy, and covered with small bumps. If he didn’t know any better, he would say he had measles. But he did know better; he’d had them. It could be a heat rash, but he doubted it. He didn’t have any clothes on, for a start.

  He’d killed people for less. But that was when he was someone, a force to be reckoned with. No one messed with Lance Hobson. As far as he was concerned, he’d been the king of the underworld. He’d had the biggest patch, the most affluent income. Flash car, big house, the lot. He’d been the man.

  But someone somewhere had obviously not paid the slightest attention to any of that.

  A noise from behind the frame halted his thoughts. He heard footsteps, and someone appeared at the corner of his vision, before finally stepping all the way round.

  Despite the position he was in, Hobson noticed certain things.

  The man was wearing a business suit with a pair of new leather shoes. He was slim, with long, slender fingers, and a very expensive watch, possibly a Cartier. He also had a mask over his face.

  Despite Hobson’s lack of energy, and a general unwillingness to enter into a long, drawn-out conversation, he wanted to know who the man was, and what it was all about. Given his disadvantage, however, he was not going to let his captor see that he was frightened.

  “Who the fuck are you?” asked Hobson.

  “That’s no way to speak to me,” replied the hooded man. “But, despite my dislike of you, Mr Hobson, it would be rather remiss of me not to treat you like a guest in my house.”

  “A fucking guest?” shouted Hobson, but before he could continue, he felt enormous pressure on his body, as if a train had run over it. He tried to scream, but couldn’t. He hadn’t enough strength left.

  As normality returned, he realized that the hooded man had placed a hand inside his jacket pocket seconds before the pain engulfed him. So it had to be something remote he was using. But what?

  Hobson glanced down at his body. Everything seemed to be intact. He couldn’t see anything connected to him, although he only had the front view. So, what was delivering the pain?

  “Where am I?” asked Hobson.

  “Who I am and where you are is not really that important.” The man’s voice was clear-cut and without any trace of accent, his diction precise.

  “It fucking well is to me,” shouted Hobson, still the fighter despite not having the upper hand. “People will be looking for me.”

  His captor calmly placed his hands in his pockets and said, “I doubt that very much.”

  Hobson had to find a way of unsettling him. If the man knew of his reputation, maybe he would start to think about the type of person he was dealing with. “Of course they will. I have friends, dangerous friends.”

  “And who might they be?”

  “Never you mind. But they’ll be out there, and they won’t stop looking.”

  The man put a finger to his mouth, as if he was thinking.

  “Like I said, Mr Hobson, I doubt it. You see, the problem is, I actually have all your friends. Alex Wilson, Sonia Knight. Do either of those names ring any bells?”

  That was enough for Hobson. His growling stomach finally erupted, and he hoped the bucket would receive accordingly.

  “Thought they might,” replied the man, when Hobson’s bowels settled down.

  The wave of diarrhoea had not only depleted what little energy he’d had, but had started the pains in his body again. The boot was certainly on the other foot. Hobson had tried to gain a little bit of respect for fighting back despite his predicament, but he’d achieved nothing.

  “You can’t put your trust in either of those two, and they are about all you have. Unless, of course, you count your bent solicitor Wilfred Ronson, but I wouldn’t bank on him coming to your aid, either. Not unless you were paying, and you’re in no position.”

  The man had done his homework.

  “You’ve given me something, haven’t you?”

  The man smiled. “I certainly have.”

  Hobson didn’t know what to do or say. He had no idea who the man was, or what he had done to him. Surely, there had to be a drug connection. Was he a dealer? He certainly seemed to have the expensive lifestyle that went with it. Dealers, however, rarely did their own dirty work. Hobson was lost.

  “What have you done to me?”

  The man stepped back, and seemed as if he was going to walk away before he answered.

  “I like puzzles, Mr Hobson. I’ve spent my whole life studying puzzles, setting them, working them out. Games as well. Did you ever play games when you were young?”

  “Games? What kind of fucking games? Not the type you play, by the look of it.”

  “Board games. Monopoly, Cluedo, that sort of thing.”

  “Probably did, but I grew out of them. Have you?”

  “I don’t think you ever do. Anyway, let me answer your questions. It would be rather unfair of me not to. I’m going to be honest with you. Because by being honest, it means that I can create a more horrifying environment, much more frightening than if I lie. So I want you to think about one thing when you ask me a question. Make absolutely sure that you want to know the answer.”

  Hobson did think about that, and the man was right. There was something terrifying about having lost all control, only then to be told exactly what the outcome was going to be.

  But Hobson was a fighter, if nothing else. “Go on.”

  “You’re connected to a mainframe, and when I say that, I mean it sincerely. It’s a wooden frame with a number of locks and levers and electric cables.”

 
Hobson’s heart sunk. The bastard was going to electrocute him.

  “If you want to get out alive,” continued the man, “you will notice a computer in front of you, which will randomly generate questions to which you either know the answer, or you don’t. Each time you answer correctly, a lever will be released, which will free a part of your body.

  “Should you successfully get out of the main frame, fastened to the wall is another, much smaller frame, with an antidote to your condition. There are five vials, but only one of them will cure you. All you have to do is choose it. You may have to consult the computer to work it out, should you be in the fortunate enough position of having the luxury of time.”

  Hobson felt hollow inside. He grew cold at the thought of what he’d been infected with. It could be anything. Even worse, how was he to know that the man who held him captive was telling the truth?

  As if in response, the man suddenly removed his mask. He had a square face, with silver hair, but he wasn’t old. His nose was long, and he had a silver moustache.

  But for all that, Lance still had no idea who he was.

  “What have I done to you?” repeated Hobson.

  The man leaned in a little closer. “That’s for another time, Mr Hobson.”

  A period of silence followed, and when Lance Hobson thought the conversation had ended, the man spoke again.

  “As for what I’ve given you, Mr Hobson, well, that’s a rather nasty little piece of work. It’s a virus that interferes with the endothelial cells, lining the interior surface of blood vessels. As the vessel walls become damaged, the platelets are unable to coagulate. Subjects tend to succumb to hypovolemic shock.

  “It has the highest case fatality rate, up to 90% in some epidemics, with an average case fatality rate of approximately 83% over twenty-seven years.

  “You may be clever enough to work out for yourself what it is. If not, the next time we meet, I shall tell you.”

  It wasn’t a question of whether Hobson was clever enough or not, it was more a case of being allowed to think rationally. Which, at the moment, was out of the question.

  “It may surprise you to know, Mr Hobson, that I have studied you for four years. I know everything about you, where you go, who you see, who your friends are, what car you drive, what food you like. Everything, to the point that I probably know you better than you know yourself.