IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

  “And what was the outcome?” Reilly asked.

  She took a sip of tea and clasped her hands around the cup. Gardener wondered why. It wasn’t cold out.

  “He had something fitted, but I’m not sure what. I certainly don’t think it was a pacemaker, because I remember them saying his heart was good, had a steady rhythm.”

  Gardener’s own heart sank. He didn’t like what he was hearing. Instead of Ronson being involved, he could be another victim. The SIO was convinced that something big had gone down somewhere, involving all these people. He was determined to figure out what it was.

  “Do you have any details of his surgery? Where it was done, doctor’s name?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the doctor, officer, but I know he had his operation at St. James’s Hospital here in Leeds.”

  Not again, thought Gardener. Odd how that name seemed to be cropping up a lot.

  “When was that?” asked Reilly.

  “Let me see…” She placed one hand on her head and started rubbing it, as if that would help. “I found him at the beginning of June. I think he had his operation at the end of the month, and then spent some time in there afterwards. He then went on holiday when he got out, and he’s due back today. I’ve spoken to him a number of times and he sounds like he’s doing really well.”

  “Can you tell us where and when he’s due to land, and where he’s going from there?”

  She opened a drawer and consulted a schedule. “He should have landed at seven o’clock in Manchester. His train is due into Shipston in about twenty minutes.”

  “In that case, we’ll meet him off the train,” said Gardener. “I’d like his mobile number.”

  “Is all this necessary? The man has recently had heart surgery. I’m sure he won’t want you lot meeting him off the train and questioning him about murders that he probably knows nothing about.”

  “I never said we were going to question him about murders, Miss White. Now, if he calls you and he hasn’t heard from us, tell him we will be meeting him at the station, and to stay put in the waiting room till we arrive.”

  Both officers left without giving the secretary the opportunity to say anything further. But she did have her mouth open at the ready.

  * * *

  It took them only twenty minutes to reach Shipston. In that time, Gardener made three calls to Ronson’s phone. All were unanswered. The SIO had to be content with leaving messages, each more urgent than the last. When he’d asked at the ticket office about the train, he was told it was due in on Platform 1 within the next five minutes.

  Shipston was a Grade II listed station that had been restored to its Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway appearance, with huge wooden name boards and raised lettering. There was, Gardener noticed, a heated waiting room with a well-stocked bookcase, a working signal box, and a staggered platform linked by a subway. On any other day, the place would have been beautiful and well worth a visit. Given his recent contact with stations and the reason he was here, his surroundings only served to diminish his patience by the second.

  Gardener turned to see where his partner was and couldn’t help but smile when he saw him with two coffees and a small packet of biscuits.

  Reilly shrugged. “Got to keep your strength up.”

  “Keep going and you’ll make Geoff Capes look small,” said Gardener.

  “What time’s the train due?”

  “Anytime now, according to the ticket inspector. I have a bad feeling about this, Sean.”

  “Can’t blame you after what we’ve seen. Has he not answered his phone, then?”

  “No. All I’ve done is leave messages.”

  “Do you reckon something’s happened to him? On the train, maybe?”

  Gardener glanced around. Both platforms had about thirty people on them despite it being early morning. No doubt some were commuters, but a lot of them had cameras and were photographing everything in sight.

  “I hope not, for all our sakes.”

  Gardener suddenly heard a siren, not unlike the one heard from leaving a phone off the hook. A loudspeaker announced the arrival of the train from Manchester.

  “Guess we’re about to find out,” said Reilly.

  The tracks vibrated, and Gardener heard the noise of the train letting loose steam. In the distance, he could see the locomotive approaching.

  The train stopped. People jumped off. Others stepped on. There seemed to be no sign of the man they were there to meet.

  The conductor walked up and down the platform with a flag in one hand, and a whistle in the other. Gardener was about to give up when he noticed a porter leaning towards one of the windows. He appeared to be having a conversation with someone when the door suddenly opened. A man reached out and placed a suitcase on the platform.

  Gardener breathed a sigh of relief when Ronson stepped down from the train. He shook hands with the porter. The conductor blew the whistle and raised his flag. The train slowly departed.

  Ronson walked towards them, wearing a long coat and a deerstalker. In one hand he carried a briefcase, with the other he dragged his suitcase. He had a pipe in his mouth.

  “Thought it was too good to be true,” said Reilly. “Take a bit more than a dodgy ICD to kill that bent bastard.”

  Gardener silently agreed.

  “Mr Ronson,” Gardener greeted him.

  “I thought it was you ringing my phone. Can’t get away from you lot no matter where I end up.”

  “Why didn’t you answer it?” Reilly asked.

  “I’m on holiday. Not back till Monday. Whatever it is, it can wait!”

  “Maybe not,” replied Gardener. “We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t a matter of life and death.”

  Ronson’s mobile rang again, the trill sound coming from within his coat.

  The solicitor rolled his eyes into his head and threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

  But Ronson’s eyes never came back round to face Gardener. Instead, he hit the platform like a solid block, his briefcase landing about ten feet away. The woman whose leg it hit started screaming as Gardener knelt and felt for a pulse.

  There wasn’t one.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Gardener stood up and immediately assessed the situation, scanning the station for all possible exits, trying to work out how many people were present.

  Sean Reilly had his back to him, also glancing around. The train had pulled out of the station, but it was not so far down the track that it couldn’t be stopped.

  “Sean, get on the phone and arrange for the team to meet us here. Request extra back-up. As of now, this place is shut.”

  Gardener ran across the platform to the booking hall.

  As he reached the hall, the clerk was already out of his booth and craning his neck down the track to obtain a better view. He flashed his warrant card.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ian, sir. Ian Kelsey.”

  “Is the manager around?”

  “He’s got an office at the back of the ticket booth.”

  “Good, go and get him and do not leave the hall to go out onto the platform. And while you’re at it, get him to stop the train that’s just left.”

  Gardener glanced back in Reilly’s direction. He could see his sergeant multi-tasking already. He had his phone in one hand, whilst talking to the porter and pointing at the corpse with the other. At the same time, he was also herding people like sheep towards the waiting room.

  Gardener reached the entrance to the station and saw around a dozen people, expectantly waiting, wondering what was going on. Warrant card in hand, he addressed them.

  “I’d like each and every one of you to step into the booking hall and remain there until I say so.” Not wanting to waste time waiting for them to do it voluntarily, he began ushering them in himself.

  He noted a mixture of expressions, fear, wonder, concern, and annoyance. One person made a comment about police harassment. Gardener swore to himself that if he heard
another word about that, he would show them exactly what police harassment really meant.

  As he was about to close the door, he noticed a couple of Panda cars turn up. Six constables jumped out, so he led two of them into the booking hall, then closed and locked the door behind them.

  As he turned, he saw Ian Kelsey with the manager. He was perhaps the tallest man Gardener had ever seen, not to mention the thinnest. He had a pale complexion. In fact, Gardener thought Ronson was in better condition, and he’d died within the last five minutes. Gardener showed his card yet again.

  “DI Gardener. And your name is?”

  “Darren Rafferty, I’m the station manager.”

  “There’s been an incident out on the platform. I’m closing your station until further notice.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  “A man has died, and I have every reason to suspect foul play.”

  “Oh my God!” exclaimed Rafferty, bringing his hands to his mouth.

  “How many exits are there on the station?”

  Rafferty thought for a moment before replying there were four, including the booking hall. He then ran back into his office.

  Gardener turned to the remaining police constables. “You two grab a couple more constables and go and cover those exits. Which one of you is the most senior?”

  “I am, sir. Colin Wilson.” The man stepped forward. He was big and beefy, built very similar to Dave Rawson on his own team.

  “Okay, Colin. I want you to take the details of everyone here, including their mobile phone numbers. My team will soon be arriving, so you’ll have some more help. No one comes into the station, and no one leaves until you know exactly who they are and why they are here. If you have any spare men out there, ask them to cover the platform opposite. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gardener addressed Rafferty as he came back into the booking hall. “Have you stopped the train that’s just left?”

  “Yes. In fact, if you walk out there, you should be able to see it.”

  “I want you to call upon as many staff as you have and block the tracks both sides of the station. I want no more trains in or out of this place until I say so.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. I want a list of all the staff that work here, names and addresses.”

  The man scurried back into his office like a mouse heading for a cheese mountain.

  Gardener returned to the desolate platform. There were no trains, and very few people. Reilly had somehow managed to usher everyone into the waiting room and shut the door. He stood guard outside. Gardener glanced across to the opposite platform. The two local policemen were doing the same.

  “Do you think he’s here?” asked Reilly as Gardener approached.

  Gardener glanced around. “I can’t see why he’d need to be. We already know he’s using the phones to set things in motion.”

  “But killers love to watch their victims die. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Fair comment. So if he is, we’ll have him. No one’s getting out of here until I know who they are.”

  “We have to find out who did the operation on Ronson.”

  “We will, believe me,” said Gardener.

  The SIO noticed that one of the people in the waiting room was opening the door and glancing around.

  Gardener pointed. “Can you sort that lot out? Get everyone’s name and details. I’m going across that side to see if those lads can keep everyone there under control.”

  Gardener used the subway to reach the other platform. He instructed the two officers there to collect information, before returning to his side of the station.

  There was no doubt in his mind that Ronson, like Wilson, had been deliberately killed. He wondered if Ronson’s death had been planned first, only to be completed when an opportunity presented itself. The secretary told them that he’d had his operation at the end of June. That was over a month ago. What the hell had happened, and when?

  How long had their killer been harbouring his grudge? And for what? It had to be something serious.

  He was grateful to see that Steve Fenton, the CSM, was standing on the platform when he returned.

  “Steve, good to see you.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s Wilfred Ronson, the solicitor.”

  “I gathered that much. I think I’ve seen him before.”

  “We came to meet him off the train. Neither Sean nor I could work out whether or not he was implicated, so we needed to talk to him. His secretary told us this morning that he’d had heart surgery at the end of June.”

  “So he’s a victim?” Fenton rolled his eyes, much like Ronson had done. Only the CSM’s came back down.

  “Exactly. Ronson stepped off the train, and his mobile rang. Then he simply dropped dead. Funny thing is, I’d called him three times on the way here, and each call went to voicemail. And before his phone rang, he spoke to us and said he knew I’d been ringing him, so whoever is controlling all of this is clever enough to program the SIM cards to react to whatever numbers he wishes.”

  At his own mention of SIM cards, Gardener made a mental note to contact the police station in Bramfield to see if there was any news on Graham Johnson.

  More of the crime scene team arrived. Steve Fenton told them he wanted a marquee around the body.

  “Steve?” Gardener said. “I want his phone sent off immediately for testing. I want to know who rang him.” Gardener glanced along the platform and saw Ronson’s briefcase. “And can you also check through his briefcase, see if you can find anything we need to know?”

  “Will do.”

  Wasting no further time, Gardener used his mobile to call Desk Sergeant Williams at Bramfield and ask if he could action one of his men to identify the cell masts covering Shipston station, and do a cell dump on each. He told Williams he needed all the phone numbers in the area within the last hour. Williams, in turn, told him there was still no news on Graham Johnson.

  Before Gardener had the chance to do anything else, most of his team arrived at the platform, having the good sense to stand outside the booking hall and move no further.

  He instructed Frank Thornton and Bob Anderson to put together a question set for potential witnesses, and to assist the local constables on the other platform in gathering all names and addresses. Gardener then ordered Paul Benson and Patrick Edwards to take over for Sean Reilly and do the same. He tasked Dave Rawson to help Colin Wilson in the booking hall with the people there. He also told Rawson to call The Harrogate Arms and have the landlord take the dog walkers’ names and address if they showed up, so that Rawson could head over there after his station duties. It would please him no end if they could confirm the number plate of the van on the night Lance Hobson went missing.

  Gardener then addressed his DC, Colin Sharp. “I’d like you to oversee this operation in my absence. Sean and I need to go to St. James’s Hospital and follow up on Ronson’s operation. Can you organize action teams to visit all of the people here at the station today? Frank and Bob are putting a question set together that they can all use. Someone might have seen something. For what it’s worth, I don’t think the killer is here. He doesn’t need to be.”

  “What about that train, sir, over there? He could be on that. He may have been watching as Ronson got off, and knew he could get away easy enough.”

  “That has gone through my mind, Colin. As soon as we have all names and addresses from everyone here, and you’re satisfied, let them all go. Then you can start on the train. The station manager has had specific instructions that no one leaves the train until we say so. In fact, whilst they’re organizing questions to ask, you go down there and tell them why they’re waiting. But first of all, come with me.”

  As Gardener glanced down the track, he could see workmen in orange protective clothing putting out the blockades as he’d asked.

  The three officers entered the booking hall. Colin Wilson and Dave Rawson had ever
ything under control. Most of the people were now seated and seemed a little calmer. He left them to it, and he and Reilly entered the ticket office and went through to the manager’s room, where Rafferty was currently barking orders into the phone.

  The small room was very clean and smelled of leather and beeswax. A wine-coloured Chesterfield settee matched a dark red carpet. The walls were pastel colours and had a variety of paintings. Rafferty was sitting at a desk that housed a computer, and what Gardener took to be photos of his family. When he placed the phone in its cradle, he seemed very harassed.

  “My God, I never realized how hard it was to cancel and reroute trains. I’ve spoken to some pretty unhelpful people in the last few minutes, Mr Gardener, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “We appreciate what you’re doing.” Gardener pointed to Colin Sharp. “This is DC Sharp. He’s going to be in charge in my absence. I know this incident is rather unfortunate, but we really are needed somewhere else.”

  “What actually happened out there?” asked Rafferty. He gestured for them to sit down, but each man remained standing.

  “I’m afraid I can’t go into too much detail, other than to say a man died after exiting the train.”

  “Oh my word, I hope he hadn’t eaten a National Rail sandwich.”

  “That’s a good one,” scoffed Reilly. “But I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about on that score.”

  Rafferty managed a smile.

  “Where were you, Mr Rafferty, when all this happened?” asked Gardener.

  “In my office. I’ve been here all morning.” He then glanced at his watch. “Well, since eight o’clock, anyway. I came in through the booking hall. My ticket clerk, Ian, was already here. He made me a cup of tea, and I came in here to get on with some work. Next thing I knew, he was back in here telling me the police were on my platform and a man was dead. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Do you have CCTV on the station?”

  “Yes, we do. I know it’s a country station, but you can’t be too careful all the same.”