IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

“Missing? Where’s he calling from?”

  “Churchaven, sir.”

  Gardener thought about that for the moment. “Well, that’s where I live. Who is it?”

  All eyes were on Gardener now. Children going missing was a serious business, especially as Gardener had had first-hand experience during the Christmas murders case.

  A smile cracked Cragg’s face as he started laughing.

  “A gentleman called Malcolm Gardener, sir. Said he hasn’t seen his son Stewart since Sunday night, and if I came across him, will I send him home early for his tea?”

  Reilly’s infectious laughter instigated the entire room, and Gardener could feel his face reddening. He knew he would never live it down.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Lance Hobson was confused on a number of levels.

  Sitting on the toilet seat on top of the bucket with his legs still shackled, he wondered if that had been its sole purpose all along: somewhere to rest his weary body if he found he could play the game and become a winner.

  The first hint that he would ever walk free from it all came five hours ago, when he’d actually managed to answer one of the random questions thrown out by the computer. The man holding him captive had obviously been right when he said he knew Lance. Despite feeling so crap, it hadn’t taken Hobson long to work out that the ones he was able to answer with relative ease were all about his favourite childhood football team, Leeds United.

  Hobson had been an ardent follower since he’d been taken to the Elland Road stadium in 1982, when he was five years old. His father had bought him everything he needed to become a true supporter: shirt, hat, gloves, scarf; even strip to play on outside.

  He couldn’t remember too much about those early matches, but the game and the club had started to make a real impact in 1985, when former player Billy Bremner took over the team. During that year, Lance, eight at the time, had managed to secure a place in the youth team, and had spent more time at the ground, taking any odd jobs he was given, acquiring first-hand knowledge about his pride and joy. Within three years, everything had changed. He’d fallen in with the wrong crowd, and found a life of crime far more attractive. His love for the club did not wane, but his ability to play the game did. The rest – as they say – is history. Despite his extensive knowledge, however, the questions his captor had fed into the computer were not as easy as he would have wanted.

  At two o’clock in the morning, Hobson had woken up with every joint in his body engulfed by pain. The computer was on, still throwing out conundrums for him to work on. The time limit on the questions meant that they were refreshed every two or three minutes. He’d lost interest early on, and had stopped trying to answer questions on subjects he felt he had little or no knowledge of, despite what his captor had told him.

  Then he’d noticed something. The subject of Leeds United was raised, and with it the possibility that he may be able to work his way out his mess. The first two questions remained unanswered because they were too far back in team history for his memory, and he ran out of time. He’d realized he would have to do better if anything was going to happen. Thankfully, his newfound interest allowed him to forget about his mystery virus, and any pain it brought.

  The first question that he had been able to answer was: “Leeds United’s predecessor team, Leeds City FC, was formed in 1904, but was forcibly disbanded by The Football League in 1919 for what?” He’d heard about the reason, and somehow managed to scream out the answer on the very edge of the time limit. It concerned allegations of illegal payments to players during the First World War.

  When the loud creaking noise came, it had startled the life out of him. The frame in which he was held suddenly moved, allowing his right arm to drop by his side. The pins and needles as the blood returned made him feel sick.

  The second question, and the subsequent release of his left arm, came at four-thirty. “One of Leeds United’s first nicknames, the Peacocks, came from the original name of Elland Road, ‘The Old Peacock Ground’, which was named by the original owners of the ground. Who were they, and what was it named after?”

  That one had been pretty easy: Bentley’s Brewery. The nickname came from their pub ‘The Old Peacock’, which still faces the site.

  That answer had allowed him to sit down for the first time in forty-eight hours. Even then, it had been an extremely slow process, because he was still in the dark. The only time the cellar light burst into life was when his captor came to talk to him. Aware of what was in the bucket below him, Lance had been very careful when lowering his body to the seat.

  He had spent his time since with his eyes either on the screen or the vials in the frame on the wall, his last obstacles to freedom.

  God help the bastard keeping him when that happened.

  Eventually the questions about Leeds United had dried up, allowing him further time to figure out his predicament.

  He’d wondered if the man who had him was making his escape easy. If so, why? Surely if he had gone to such lengths to abduct him, make him disappear, torture him, and very likely do the same to his colleagues, why the hell would he make escape an easy thing? The only answer Hobson could come up with was that the man had something far more serious in mind. Perhaps Hobson was only playing round one of his game. Should that be the case, he was in trouble. The opening round of any game was usually pretty easy.

  And what reason did the man have for everything he’d done to him? Yesterday, the man had told him that he’d been studying him for four years. How had he done that without Hobson knowing? He’d obviously infiltrated his life in some way, but Hobson did not recognize him when he’d had his first glimpse. He still didn’t have a clue about the man’s identity. What had he done to the man four years ago that had created such animosity?

  The more he’d thought about it, the more convinced he became that the answer had its roots in drugs. Because that’s all Hobson had been involved in since he had left school. His life of crime had started when he was twelve, stealing cars and burning them out. But he seriously doubted it had anything to do with that. Anyway, whatever the reason, it was something that had happened four years ago, and he had certainly given up stealing cars by then.

  With so much time on his hands, he’d also considered the state of his health. At the moment, he was no worse than yesterday, but he was no better, either. He thought back to what he’d been told about the virus, and tried to rack his brains. What the fuck had he been infected with? He was fully aware of the things you could pick up from dirty needles: AIDS, hepatitis, possibly HPV. None of those made someone feel so bad so quickly, though. Whatever he’d been given was far more lethal.

  One thought frightened him even more: was his captor lying about the vials on the wall? Did they really contain an antidote? Or something even worse?

  Hobson did not want to think about that. He tried to put any thoughts of freedom, or an antidote, to the back of his mind. He was in the game now for one reason. He was determined to free himself and take his revenge. He was going to kill the man who had him, irrespective of whatever he was supposed to have done four years ago. According to his captor, Hobson had started it. Well, Hobson had news for him. He was damned well going to finish it, too.

  The light coming on nearly blinded him. He felt a sudden wave of nausea and wrapped his arms around his torso, pressing his hands against his stomach.

  He almost jumped out of his skin when those same hands passed over a very rough piece of skin. Fighting the shock of discovering he glanced down his body. There was no mistaking the fresh, clean stitching on his abdomen, about six inches long.

  He struggled and tried to concentrate, quickly feeling the rest of his torso. He did not come across any more wounds, but what he did find was a small oval-shaped lump on his chest. He ran his hands over the object, and his skin was extremely sensitive to the touch. It felt blistered, and hurt him as he pressed on it. It had a very hard, metallic feel to it, and was, in fact, underneath the skin.

&nb
sp; Once again, not being a doctor, he had no idea what it was. He doubted very much it would come out, though.

  Hobson was revolted by the fact that the monster who had him seemed to be turning him into a freak.

  The basement door suddenly opened, and the very man he was thinking about walked in, wearing a tracksuit and trainers. He had a towel draped around his shoulders, sweating profusely and breathing a little heavy. Hobson thought it was a pity that he was unable to take advantage right now.

  “Good morning, Mr Hobson. I see we’ve made some progress.”

  The man’s condescending manner was really beginning to wind Hobson up.

  “You’d better hope I don’t make any more, sunshine,” Hobson replied.

  “If you say so.”

  Christ, he was a smug bastard. Lance had to give him that. He wished he could stand up and take a pop at the man.

  “I’m pleased to see that you’ve figured out which questions you can answer. Makes things more interesting, don’t you think?”

  “For who?” replied Hobson.

  “Both of us, of course. Tell me, have you worked out yet what I’ve infected you with?”

  Hobson gripped the sides of the toilet seat. It was all he could do to control his emotions, but he realised he might well gain more satisfaction if he could. But despite trying to fool himself into thinking he didn’t care what the man had given him, deep down, he did. He ignored the question and went on the attack.

  “I will get out of here,” replied Hobson, “make no mistake. Then I’m going to kill you.”

  “Are you really? Don’t tell me, you’re going to do that because of what I’ve done to you?” asked the man in front of him.

  “No. As a matter of fact,” replied Hobson, desperately fighting to keep his feelings in line, “what I’ve done to you is more important to me. You must have a fucking good reason for all of this, so let’s hear it. What exactly have I done to you?”

  The man walked around the room, removing the towel from his shoulders, wiping his face and forehead. Eventually he stood before Lance and leaned over, but not close enough to come within striking distance. He obviously knew that Hobson’s legs were still locked up, as he stood far enough away to be able to keep his captive out of harm’s reach.

  “To me personally, nothing,” replied the man. “But you and low life scum like you were responsible for my son’s death. I swore blind that I would hunt you down and I would get even with you. It’s taken me four years, but I wasn’t going anywhere. It simply gave me more time to prepare a very satisfactory revenge.”

  Suddenly, despite all the bravado, the courage, the staring into the face of adversity, the boot was on the other foot again. Hobson had obviously been fooling himself if he’d thought it could ever be any other way.

  His mind whirled like a roller coaster. There were so many questions. The most prominent being who the hell had he killed four years ago?

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Reilly parked the car at the back of The Corn Exchange and switched off the engine. He activated the central locking, and both he and Gardener set off to find Ronson’s office.

  “You never did tell me the punishment your dad metered out,” commented the Irishman. “So what happened, then? A slap on the back of your legs and off to bed without any supper?”

  Gardener smiled. “Oh, the wit of the Irish. So, what happened to you, a personality transplant?”

  “God, no, I didn’t get off so lightly. I started working with you.”

  Gardener laughed as they crossed the road in front of the circular building, heading towards the pedestrian access of Kirkgate.

  “Well, he had to have his say, you know what he’s like. I think he thinks I’m still a child.”

  “Only natural, boss,” replied Reilly. “You’ll always be his boy no matter what age you are.”

  “He must have had forgiveness in his soul. He’d made a nice shepherd’s pie, which we had with honey-roast parsnips, vegetables, and roast potatoes. It was the first cooked meal I’d had in three days. And we also had homemade bread and butter pudding.”

  “Jesus wept. I don’t know how you can eat that stuff.”

  “That coming from a human garbage disposal.”

  “Even we have standards!”

  Gardener spared a thought for his father, Malcolm. Following Sarah’s death, he’d offered his help, and had moved into their home temporarily. The house was detached and large enough, centrally located in the small but picturesque village of Churchaven. The relationship had worked out so well that the arrangement had become permanent, which pleased his son Chris, who was now considering a career in law.

  Malcolm was always available for his grandson, especially when Gardener could not be there for one reason or another. He helped Chris with his homework, cooked his meals, catered to most of his whims in general, and regularly took him to the cinema. They shared a great love of films.

  The streets of Leeds were full of people on their way to work, hopping on and off buses. The market traders were busy with their stalls, something that always pleased Gardener. He noticed a window cleaner plying his trade early. The food stalls were up and running, smells of cooked breakfast permeating the air, mingling with the aroma from the local bakers. Gardener knew which he preferred, which no doubt differed to his partner’s tastes.

  They entered a small side street off Kirkgate, where Wilfred Ronson’s offices were situated. Both men glanced up at an exterior that had seen better days. A lot of the buildings had been cleaned by the council over the last few years and were much smarter for it. Ronson’s had obviously been missed.

  There were four brass plaques on the wall at the side of the door. Three of them were highly polished: one belonged to a shipping office, another an accountant, and the third an interior designer. The fourth had a dull, tarnished finish. That was Ronson’s.

  Gardener pushed the door open and was greeted with a long, winding staircase. He caught an odour of lavender and beeswax. A deep blue carpet covered the floor. Adorning the walls were a number of oils featuring ships and seascapes. The building had two offices upstairs and two on the ground floor, one of which was Ronson’s. The place was as silent as the grave.

  Gardener did not bother to knock, but simply opened the door and entered, surprised to find it actually open. He suspected most solicitors didn’t start before ten.

  Ronson’s office was large, accommodating two desks and an inordinate number of files, which were conveniently stored on shelves with the overspill left on desks and chairs. The place resembled a burglary.

  In the corner he noticed tea and coffee facilities. The enclosed space smelled musty, and he suspected from the grime on the windows that they had never been opened. What he couldn’t understand was why the door was unlocked, and the office unoccupied.

  “Christ,” said Reilly. “You’d think with the money he made he’d be able to afford something better than this.”

  “Even if he couldn’t,” replied Gardener, “cleaners don’t cost much, do they?”

  Gardener heard a door open and close in the hall they had recently been standing in. The solicitor’s door then creaked, and a woman jumped and screeched when she saw them both standing there.

  “Oh my word, you gave me such a fright.” She held her hand to her chest as if to prove the point.

  She was very frumpily dressed in a brown skirt and tweed jacket, with a white blouse and a square-shaped hat on her head. Her face was long and angular, and she had grey hair and a deep voice. He saw no wedding ring. Gardener guessed her age around, or possibly past, retirement.

  “I’m very sorry, but we’re not open yet.” She then went off on a tangent. “I don’t know what Mr Ronson will think. I had a few days off last week. We had a temp in. I thought I’d come in early and catch up. Never realized I’d have the whole place to clean. What on earth do these temps do all day?” Her head was constantly bobbing up and down. “Not a great deal by the looks of things. Still
, it’s not as if he’s actually starting work today.”

  Gardener flashed his warrant card and made the introductions. “It’s Mr Ronson we came to see.”

  “Oh dear, he’s still on holiday, I’m afraid. Won’t be back to work until next Monday.”

  “We know that, but we also know that officially he’s due back today. How long has he been away, Miss...”

  “A month now. It’s Miss White. The doctor said it would be good for him. He’s been working too hard, you see. That’s Mr Ronson for you. I tried to tell him all those hours are no good for you.”

  Gardener could see they were going to have a hard time with the secretary. She seemed nice enough, but she was the type that always answered questions with her own opinions, and she had plenty of them. He wondered if she knew anything about the solicitor’s drink problem.

  “We’re investigating a double murder, Miss White. Can you tell us where he’s been and how long he’s been there?”

  “A double murder! Oh my word, you people have to look at some awful things. I don’t know how you do it, really, I don’t. He’s been recuperating in Madeira.”

  “But he is due back today?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  She moved around the room, having removed her hat and coat and hung them on a peg behind the office door. She made her way over to the other side of the office and started making tea.

  “Would you gentleman like one? I always think you should start the day with a cup of tea. Never did my father any harm, and he lived till he was ninety-five.”

  “We could be in for a long wait, boss,” said Reilly.

  “I was beginning to think that. But at least she’s not being evasive.”

  When the secretary had finished making her drink and was sitting comfortably behind her desk, he addressed her again. “Can you tell us anything about his surgery, Miss White?”

  She put her hands to her chest. “That was an awful business. I came in one morning, about three months ago, and found Mr Ronson slumped over his desk, right there.” She pointed at the desk opposite hers. “I called an ambulance immediately. He’d had a heart attack. They kept him in the hospital for weeks, checking him out, doing their tests.”