by Ray Clark
The light had been left on overnight, and Hobson had thought long and hard about the metallic object under his skin, and the suture on his abdomen. They couldn’t be helping him any, either.
For the last half hour, he’d simply sat on his toilet and held his head in his hands, defeated by the manipulation, as much as anything else. If there had been any further questions on his beloved Leeds United, he had almost certainly missed them.
Hobson figured he must have fallen asleep at some time during the night, because when he’d finally woken up, a bottle of water had been placed within reach. He didn’t care whether or not it had been tampered with; he simply unscrewed the top and started drinking. It tasted fine to him.
Hobson ran his hands over his face, and glanced upwards. He saw the computer monitor change question. It took him longer than normal to read it, but when he’d done so, he realized straight away that he knew the answer.
“Name the author of the bestselling books, Paint It White: Following Leeds Everywhere and Leeds United: The Second Coat, a man who has missed only one game, including friendlies, since he started watching Leeds United in 1968?”
Hobson was so excited, he leaned back a little too far, nearly tipping the bucket. That would have been a mistake.
He reached up as far as the frame would allow and shouted, “Gary Edwards.”
His reward came with a creaking sound, and the release of his left leg.
Hobson reached down and rubbed his ankle with both hands. There was a red band around the joint where the clamp had been too tight; all colour had drained from it. It felt funny, and although he wanted to try and stand up, he thought it best not to. One thing at a time.
He glanced at the PC screen again, but the topic of the next question was something entirely different, and he couldn’t hope to answer it in a million years. But however crap he’d been feeling, the release of one of his legs was beginning to make up for it.
Wouldn’t be long now.
What he had not noticed, however, was that the door to his basement had been opened, and the man holding him captive was standing in front of him.
“Well done, Mr Hobson.”
Something had happened to the man. He was normally suave and sophisticated, and almost always dressed in a clean, pressed suit. He may well have been in a suit today, but his right eye was bruised, and starting to swell. His hair was uncombed, and although Hobson couldn’t be sure, it appeared to have a streak of blood in it. When the man had spoken to him, he didn’t appear to be as calm and calculating as usual.
“What’s happened to you?”
“You need to worry about yourself, not me.”
Hobson was about to make another remark when a surge of pain equivalent to what felt like ten thousand volts engulfed his abdomen, pulsating upwards into his head.
Hobson screamed so loud his voice broke. His left leg involuntarily hit the bucket, and he ended up on the floor covered in his own excrement.
“Dear me, Mr Hobson. Now look what we’ve done.”
Hobson’s breathing was erratic. He was sucking in air at an alarming rate, but he was also struggling for breath.
His left hand went to the stitches, where the pain had originated. With his right hand, he was doing his best to support himself. Given the fact that his right leg was still trapped, he thought he was very lucky not to have broken his ankle.
Hobson did not want to do that. When – if – he finally managed to walk out of the frame, not to mention the basement, he wanted all his limbs in as good a condition as he could hope for. He was going to kill the bastard in front of him. And he wasn’t even sure he was going to stop and ask his name.
When his breath returned, he glared up at his captor. “What the fuck have you given me?”
The man stepped backwards, studying the vials before facing Hobson again. “You remember our little talk about honesty?”
“Not likely to forget that, am I?”
“Good. Look at the PC screen.”
Hobson did as he was told. At first he had no idea what he was staring at, so he struggled to reach a standing position in order to see the screen, trying to keep from putting too much pressure on his right leg, which was still clamped in the frame. As he drew level with the image, it finally dawned on him that he was staring at an X-ray. He could see the top half of a body. But he couldn’t quite work out what was going on inside.
“What the hell is this?”
“Take a closer look.”
He did, but he still didn’t understand. The body on the screen appeared to have wires going all over the place: across the chest cavity, up into the head, and down towards the legs that he couldn’t see. It was like an atlas.
“Can’t you see your name underneath?”
He hadn’t done, but when he did, the realization hit home. Hobson’s knees buckled, and he had to grab the side of the frame to remain upright.
He studied the two objects inside the body on the monitor. They were in the very same place as the bump and the stitching on his body. The metallic thing in his chest had to be the one with the wires going off in all directions. There was also something very similar in the area behind where he had the suture.
“Please tell me that isn’t me.”
Losing face was the last thing he wanted, his voice came out like that of a begging child’s, he didn’t know what else to say.
“Of course it’s you.” The doctor’s attitude was matter of fact.
Each time Hobson thought he was managing to gain some confidence, the bastard came in and knocked the wind out of his sails. He stared hard at the doctor.
“What have you done to me? What are those things?”
“Here’s why I asked you about our little chat on honesty. If you remember, I said I would always tell you the truth, because I thought it was more frightening than lying to you.”
Hobson closed his eyes, wanting and praying for his nightmare to end.
“In your chest cavity you have an ICD. In layman’s terms, it’s a defibrillator. It’s something we doctors use to stop or start a heart. In your case, it’s been modified. You can see a number of electrical cables all leading outwards from it. Each one of those cables has been attached to a nerve end in your body, which is why you feel great pain when I want you to.”
From inside his jacket pocket, the doctor withdrew what resembled a TV remote control unit. In order to prove his point, he pressed a button, and Lance Hobson hit the floor like a ton of concrete, writhing around in the excrement once again.
When the pain stopped, Hobson was convulsing, and covered in his own filth. It took him five minutes to regain some composure. Despite his situation, and with great difficulty, he made himself stand up again.
He concentrated on one thought: may the Lord have mercy on the doctor’s soul. It really would be better if he killed Hobson, because if he didn’t, and Hobson freed himself, the bastard was going to suffer like no man ever had.
“What’s behind the stitches?” Not that he wanted to know.
“An implantable insulin pump.”
“What the fuck do I need one of those for? I’m not a diabetic.”
“You’re right, you’re not. Once again, it’s modified. I desperately wanted to get even with you, Mr Hobson, for what you did to me. You are a drug dealer. You prey on innocent victims. You, and people like you, are a virus, stripping society of innocent people like a flesh-eating bug.”
The doctor pulled a phone out of his pocket and held it in front of Hobson. The drug dealer did not recognize the photo of the person on the phone.
“You’ve no idea, have you?” asked the doctor.
He was right, Hobson hadn’t a clue who the person was. The only thing he knew was that the phone was pretty old, by today’s standards.
The doctor flicked to another photo, one that Hobson instantly recognized.
“How did you get a photo of me?”
“The phone belongs to my son, Adam. Or should I say, used to bel
ong to him, before you killed him. The photo I first showed you was my son.
“It happened four years ago, Mr Hobson. Seems that you and Alex Wilson had my son cornered in the alley on Market Street, leading to the indoor market. Adam was given a massive dose of drugs, a lethal cocktail from which he would never recover. His body was doused in alcohol and wrapped in a blanket, to make it look as if he was either a down-and-out, or a drunk. One of the market traders found his body at five o’clock in the morning.
“At some point during the confrontation, he managed to take a photo of you on his phone, and, in fact, record what you did to him. After you left – and before he died – he very luckily dumped it in a skip nearby. I say luckily, because the police never found it. I did. Now, what I did not find out was what had happened to cause all this, or why. I’m sure you know the answer. So, I’m going to give you some more time alone to think about it. The next time we meet, I’d like you to tell me. You know enough about me now to realise that it would not be in your own interest to withhold the information I require.”
The doctor placed the phone and the remote-control unit back in his jacket pocket.
“I think that about concludes our business for the time being. I’m going to leave you now, Mr Hobson, because I have work to do. I will be back.” He turned to walk away.
“Just a minute,” shouted Hobson.
The doctor faced the drug baron.
“The pump. What’s in the pump if it isn’t insulin?”
“Oh yes,” said the doctor. “The pump. Well, I was looking for something that would eat away at your tissues like you and your friends were eating away at society. It took me some time, but I finally found it.
“It contains a genetically modified strain of the Ebola virus. For it to work in the timescale I wanted, and to have any noticeable effect, it had to be held in a liquid suspension and injected into the tissue where the effect was desired. Anything going straight into the bloodstream tends to cause septicaemia, high temperature, circulation collapse, and maybe even generalized clotting. Which could have killed you, possibly painfully, but very rapidly.
“And whilst I want you to die in agony, I do not want you to die very quickly.”
The doctor stopped talking and left the room.
Chapter Forty-two
Back in the incident room, Gardener was still rocked by what he’d discovered at the Ross & Sinclair Foundation. They had questioned Ross further about the computer records. During that time, he’d used his PC and telephone to verify for them he had not been in the country. British Airways had been more than cooperative.
The two officers then drove back to St. James’s Hospital, where they encountered a pretty hostile Andrew Jackson, whom they had actually dragged out of an appointment with a patient. Jackson said he would have Gardener’s badge. The SIO said he didn’t care what threats Jackson made, he wanted information about the computers and the log-in details and who had access, and he wanted it today. Having spoken to the IT team, Gardener left the hospital satisfied that they would meet his demands within two to three hours.
The SIO glanced up at the ANACAPA chart, wondering where the hell to start with it all. He placed the two cards discovered in Ronson’s briefcase onto the board and stood back.
Sergeant Williams came into the room with a cup of tea in his hand, taking a brief sip. “I thought I’d help out for a few minutes, it’s pretty quiet out there.”
“How’s Gary? Have we heard anything about his mother?” Gardener asked.
“I’ve given him some time off. He’s going to see her this afternoon. Apparently she’s doing as well as can be expected.”
“Which is more than can be said for us.”
“I hear things didn’t go too well at the train station this morning.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” said Reilly. “Ronson stepped off the train and dropped down dead in front of us, which suggests he wasn’t our man.”
“Did you find out anything about the three doctors?”
“We have a couple of officers on it now, sir. I did come across something interesting regarding Sinclair’s parents.”
“His parents?” questioned Gardener.
“Yes, you mentioned after going to see Sinclair that he was a bit of a word puzzle buff, and that his mother compiled crosswords and won trophies for it, and that she worked for Walker Brothers games.”
Gardener nodded: all of it was true.
“I took the liberty of checking his parents out. Seems they have retired to a small country estate in Ilkley. I have the address if you need it.”
Gardener was curious. “And I would need it for what reason?”
“I just thought if he was one of the doctors in the frame, who better to ask about him than his parents?”
Gardener was beginning to think he had found two really good officers in Cragg and Williams: he would have liked both of them on his team. “Thank you, David. Good work. Anything on Graham Johnson?”
“Not yet, sir. No one has seen him since yesterday, and we have nothing from ANPR. He must be somewhere. When he shows his face, we’ll have him.”
Williams pointed to the cards on the chart. “I see we have two new additions.”
“Yes, but they don’t tell us very much. It’s obviously the same killer, but we’ve had a lot of trouble interpreting the tarot card.”
“Couldn’t you help, Sergeant Reilly?” asked Williams.
“It’s not as straightforward as you think. Me and my wee wife had a long conversation earlier. So far, all the other cards have indicated the reverse meanings. If we go with the reversed meaning here, it doesn’t make too much sense: fear of change or death, or lack of progress when making important decisions. That wasn’t Ronson. Guilt is also associated with the card, and that could well be him.”
“What about the upright position?”
“Well now, that could have a bearing: satisfactory outcome to a specific matter or period of life.”
“A satisfactory outcome for our killer,” offered Williams. “Meaning that our friendly solicitor has made some dodgy decisions, the outcome of which has gone against the law – and maybe even the killer.”
“That’s pretty much what we’re thinking,” replied Gardener, “that Ronson was as bent as they come. He defended the scum of the earth, mostly drug dealers. On more than one occasion, he managed to keep Hobson out of prison. Maybe his reward for that satisfactory outcome was plenty of money.”
Gardener pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is so bloody frustrating. The entire investigation has been nothing but a series of puzzles the killer has been feeding us.”
“Question is,” replied Williams, “have we worked out the answers?”
Gardener sighed heavily. “Judging by our achievements, I’d say not. Three people dead, one missing. Four possible people in the frame, all with some connection but no concrete evidence against any of them: one of whom we can’t find.”
Gardener stepped back, staring at an aerial map of the county on the board next to the ANACAPA chart. There had to be answer. The chances were it was probably something mundane and simple that they were overlooking. They had been running all over the place, trying their best to solve intricate puzzles, and had probably missed one vital clue sitting right under their noses.
Gardener sighed again when a thought came to mind. If he wanted to think like Sherlock Holmes, maybe he should start acting like him.
“Have we got any pins and some string, maybe some cotton, anything?”
David Williams left the room and came back with the items he’d requested.
“Okay, let’s do something very simple. Alan Radford was the DI in charge when I joined the force, and he took me under his wing. He was succinct and to-the-point, almost as if he spoke in bullet points, and he was damn good at what he did.
“We were struggling once with robbery and violence in Leeds. I remember it dragging on for months. All we had were bits of information. Someone had
seen this or that, a van at the scene, a car at another. One woman said she thought a local gang was involved. She fingered one or two of them, but there was no concrete evidence.
“Radford was studying an aerial map, like we have here, when he started putting pins in various places. Then he crossed the pins with the cotton. Eventually the points overlapped, and we came up with an answer. Not straight away, but one that finally led us to an arrest.”
“I remember Radford,” said Reilly. “I had a lot of respect for that man.”
Gardener stepped up to the map. “Okay, so what do we have?”
“We can start with Bramfield, sir,” said Williams. “That was the first murder.”
Williams put a pin in the map.
“Then we had Bursley Bridge,” said Reilly, taking a pin and pushing it into position.
“Shipston this morning,” said Gardener. After he’d put that one in, he ran the cotton through the three points, forming a straight line.
“So where now?”
“What about the hospital in Leeds?” Reilly offered. “That place seems to be well involved. And Andrew Jackson works there.”
“Okay. Put a pin in.”
“What about Ilkley?” added Williams.
“Ilkley?” questioned Reilly.
“Sinclair’s parents live there.”
“But his parents are not really involved,” Gardener countered.
“I realize that, sir,” replied Williams, “and I know it’s a long shot, but maybe you can satisfy my curiosity by putting a pin there and seeing where that leads us. It is close by, after all.”
Gardener glanced at the map. Following the line through from the hospital in Leeds, he realized that it crossed over Burley in Wharfedale, running alongside the Foundation and the home of Iain Ross.
“That may not be as long a shot as you think, David.”
Gardener pointed out why.
When they had finished with pinning that location and running the cotton through, the two points formed a line that gave them a perfect cross with their previously marked locations. Sitting dead centre was Bursley Bridge, the home of the second murder, Graham Johnson’s computer shop, and Robert Sinclair. The connections were there. Although they had no proof that either of these men was responsible for the crimes committed, it was pretty bloody suspicious that both had a connection to the locations.