IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

  Gary couldn’t work it out. He stepped back out of the room and checked the number, to see if he had somehow entered the wrong one. No, it was definitely his mother’s.

  He walked back in, laid his gifts on the bed and checked the cupboards. There had to be something wrong. It was as if she had never been here.

  He checked the bathroom. It was the same. Had they taken her home? He couldn’t see how that was possible.

  As Gary turned and glanced around, his stomach started swelling. His vision narrowed, making the room appear smaller.

  He walked towards the door when a nurse in white uniform entered. Her hand went to her mouth and she gave an involuntary shriek, not loud, but enough to show he had startled her.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

  He could see from her name badge that she was called Carla, and she had a north-eastern accent. She was small. Her short black hair was tied up in a bun.

  Gary apologized as well. “I’m sorry. I was looking for me mum.”

  “Your mother?” she questioned.

  “Yes. Christine Close. She was admitted on Monday. Mr Ross was looking after her.”

  Carla’s face seemed to drop as far as the floor, and her eyes took on a vacant expression.

  “Are you Gary?”

  Even before she’d replied, he did not like the feeling that washed over him. His stomach now felt like it had a football in it. His legs were weakening, and he was starting to tremble. He thought he’d said yes, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Carla glanced at the flowers and the other gifts, and he knew at once a serious situation had developed.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  Sorry for what? thought Gary.

  He lifted his hands to his mouth, and then put them in his pockets, then brought them back out again, unsure what the hell to do with them. Whatever else she was going to say, he didn’t think he wanted to hear it, but still had to ask.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Gary… I, er…” She was stumbling over her words now.

  “Can you tell me where me mum is?” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “I think I’d better go and get Mr Ross.”

  “Just a minute,” said Gary. “Where’s Mr Sinclair?”

  “He’s not here at the moment. Has he not spoken to you? I thought he’d phoned you yesterday... last night.”

  Gary’s insides were starting to churn so bad he thought he was going to be sick.

  “What about? Why was he calling me last night?” Gary was in a state of panic. “Don’t you know where my mum is? Has she gone for an operation? Is that it?”

  Carla put her hands out in front of her. “Please, Gary... just wait there, please. I’ll go and get Mr Ross.”

  Before he had the chance to ask her anything else, she swiftly left the room.

  Gary had no idea what was happening, but it obviously wasn’t good. Where the hell was his mother? If something really bad had happened, he would have been told. Maybe she had taken a turn for the worse, and she was having another op. Maybe that’s why Mr Sinclair was not around. He was over at the St. James’s Hospital, operating on her.

  Carla returned with Mr Ross, whose expression was as grave as hers.

  “Gary, are you okay?” asked Ross.

  “No, not really.”

  “It must have been a great shock to you.”

  “What? What must have been a shock to me? Where’s my mum? I just want to see my mum. Do you know where she is?” Gary was losing control. Someone had better tell him something. Right then.

  He noticed Mr Ross step towards him.

  “Gary... have you not been told?”

  “Told? Told what? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Gary fell towards the bed, feeling faint and sick.

  Ross caught him in time and eased him onto the bed. “Please, sit down, Gary.”

  He turned to Carla. “Would you fetch him a glass of water, please?” She did as she was asked. Ross turned back to him.

  “Gary, I’m so sorry. I thought Robert had telephoned you last night. I really don’t know what to say, but we did everything we could.”

  Gary’s eyes were full of tears, and the football had now moved into his throat.

  “What do you mean, phone me last night... did everything you could?”

  The nurse returned with the water. Ross put it on the table near the bed.

  “I’m so sorry, Gary, but your mother passed away last night.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Back at the incident room, Gardener sensed mixed emotions. His team was busy. Some were reading through the files that Cragg had managed to find. Others were updating the ANACAPA chart and making telephone calls.

  He felt an air of excitement. He also realized how tired his men were. Despite the fact that it had not been a long investigation in so far as man-hours were concerned, it had felt like it. The days had been exhausting, and they had been made to fight for every piece of information.

  He drew everyone’s attention, informing his officers of what he and Reilly had been told by Simon Walker.

  “Sinclair invented the game?” asked Bob Anderson, when Gardener had finished.

  “He did more than that,” said Reilly. “According to Walker, he spent his entire life – apart from school hours – in that place. He even got himself involved in some of the commercial games.”

  “What kind of a mind puts together a game as complicated as that at nine years old?” Thornton asked.

  “What I’d like to know is why,” said Gardener. “At that age, most of us are playing football, or hide and seek.”

  “Or watching the telly,” said Reilly. “Given the timescale. It was the early Seventies.”

  “Or playing board games,” added Anderson.

  Gardener smiled at the irony, and then continued. “Walker showed us a copy of the game, with the cards that we have here on the chart. Told us a bit about how it worked, before dropping the bombshell.

  “After we left Walker, we went across to the Foundation, but Sinclair was nowhere to be found. They were trying to raise him. Apparently they lost a patient last night. We also tried his home, but he wasn’t there either.”

  “So, what are we going to do?” asked Paul Benson.

  “Continue with the files. Let’s find every piece of evidence we can, make a water-tight case. Sean and I will concentrate on trying to locate him, and then pick him up for questioning.”

  Cragg raised his hand. “I have some information about Adam’s death that might help.”

  “Go on,” said Gardener.

  “According to witness statements, Adam Sinclair was chased through the town by two people that were never identified. Alex Wilson was fingered, but no one was prepared to state that on oath. The two that chased him had been seen earlier at the crossroads of Bridge Street and Park Street, outside the station gates. It’s a bit of a local haunt for drugs.

  “Adam had been walking home from a party, texting his girlfriend. Maybe the two drug dealers thought he was filming them. Anyway, whatever they thought, they chased Adam and caught him, finally cornering him in the alley on Market Street leading to the indoor market.

  “Later that same night, Lance Hobson was seen in and around the town. The next thing we know, Adam’s body was found doused in alcohol and wrapped in a blanket, either to make it look as if he was a down-and-out, or a drunk. One of the market traders found him around five o’clock in the morning.

  “Estimated time of death was between midnight and two o’clock. The post-mortem revealed he’d been given a massive dose of drugs, a lethal cocktail from which he would never recover.”

  Gardener sighed. Lance Hobson again. Where the hell was that man?

  “It’s highly likely then that Hobson and Wilson had been involved in Adam’s death?”

  “Yes, but it was never proven,” replied Cragg. “No one was prepared to testify against them. We
simply didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute. And even if we had, chances are, Ronson would have got them off.”

  “But that wouldn’t matter to Sinclair, would it now?” said Reilly. “He didn’t need to know whether we could prove it or not. He had enough evidence, as far as he was concerned.”

  “He must have carried out his own investigations,” said Gardener. “What happened to Adam’s phone? If he was texting his girlfriend, he must have had it with him. So where did it end up?”

  “We don’t know, sir. The phone was the one thing we never recovered.”

  “Sinclair obviously found it,” said Reilly. “He must have done. If the call to Sonia Knight’s phone came from Adam Sinclair’s phone, which hadn’t been used for four years, he must have somehow gotten hold of it.”

  “It was probably quite easy for him,” said Gardener. “Think about it, leading surgeon, must have had contacts everywhere. He probably used that to break the scene. What disturbs me is that he found something we didn’t. Why couldn’t SOCO find the phone?”

  “Well, that’s not something we’re going to find out now,” replied Cragg, “but we have enough to go on where Sinclair’s concerned.”

  “Something else bothers me,” said Gardener. “He seems to have been so careful with all the phones up to now. Why did he use Adam’s to activate one of the devices? He must have known that we would find out eventually.”

  No one offered an answer to that question.

  “I’ve got another problem, as well, sir,” said Cragg. “Gary Close.”

  “What about him?”

  “According to this,” Cragg held up a witness statement, “he and Adam Sinclair were friends.”

  “Really? Were they at the same party that night?”

  “No. But Gary was interviewed to see if he knew anything.”

  “And did he?”

  “No. Seems they were quite close. Went to the same school together, played football for the school team, and a local junior team.”

  “Hang on a wee minute,” said Reilly. “Close and Sinclair attended the same schools? Wouldn’t you think the son of a surgeon would go to a public school?”

  “You would have thought so,” said Gardener. “So why didn’t he? Does it say anything in the files about that?”

  “Not that we’ve come across.”

  “Has anyone heard from Gary today?” asked Gardener.

  “No, sir,” replied Williams. “I’ve called a couple of times, but I think he must have his mobile switched off.”

  Gardener turned around and glanced at the ANACAPA chart, studying where all the lines went to: who was implicated, and who was connected to whom. Admittedly, Gary Close was not on the chart, but when Gardener added him, an idea came to mind. He turned back to face Cragg.

  “Maurice, you were in the station two nights ago when the initial call came in at three o’clock in the morning. Who answered the phone?”

  “Gary did. He had to, it was his mobile.”

  “The call came to Gary’s mobile?” Gardener asked, surprised. “Not the station landline?”

  “No sir, not the landline, that rang afterwards.”

  “So at the time, you probably didn’t think it strange, him receiving a personal call. What was said?”

  “Well, I let him answer personal calls on account of his mother’s condition. Gary didn’t say a great deal. He asked, ‘Three hours to what?’, and then I think he said, ‘Who is this?’” Cragg seemed to have finished, but then added: “He also told me it was a withheld number.”

  “And what about the call to the station landline? That was straight after?”

  “Yes, sir. That was from one of our witnesses, Richard Jones, telling us about the hardware shop, and the fact there was a light on.”

  “Now you’ve had time to think about it, doesn’t it strike you as odd? It should have been police business if it concerned the shop. So why didn’t it come in on the station phone?”

  Gardener didn’t wait for an answer before continuing.

  “Fitz told us that Alex Wilson had probably died around six o’clock that morning, and even if we had found him within the time allotted to us, we couldn’t have saved him. Do the math. Gary gets a personal call at three o’clock telling him he has three hours. Or should I say, we have three hours. Alex Wilson dies at six, which is probably the exact time he was meant to die. What conclusion does that leave us?”

  The question remained unanswered. The SIO realized that everyone in the room had to be thinking about the implications of what he’d said.

  Cragg sat down, an expression of defeat on his face. “Don’t tell me that Gary is involved in all of this as well.”

  “I’m not saying he is Maurice, but it doesn’t look very promising, does it? I’d like a history of all Gary’s calls to and from his mobile in the last month. And I also want a list of calls made to and from the hardware shop for the same period.”

  Gardener could tell the case was beginning to affect Cragg personally. He felt as if he had physically kicked the desk sergeant in the stomach. Two people that he must have thought were pretty solid, reliable characters for quite some time, were now involved in a pretty vicious serial killing.

  The door opened and Colin Sharp rolled in. He greeted everyone and took a cold drink from the tray. He threw a file on the table, and quickly munched on a biscuit.

  “You go easy with them, mind,” said Reilly.

  “Surprised we have any left,” retorted Sharp.

  Gardener smiled. Whatever happened, the team remained solid, and still had a sense of humour.

  “What have you got, Colin?”

  “Quite a lot.” He stood next to his senior officer, consulting his notes.

  “I won’t bore you with a lot of the details but Robert Sinclair is quite an achiever. His work mostly involves mending nerves damaged in accidents – severed limbs, digits, that sort of thing. He operates on backs in patients with chronic back pain and collapsed discs.

  “He also had a hand in the pioneering of a new machine, something you attach to the outside of a patient’s arm to stimulate the motor nerves with small electrical impulses. Apparently, it’s designed to make the muscles twitch, to test whether the nerve-muscle path is complete.

  “He’s a keep-fit fanatic, sees his body as a temple. Come rain or shine, he’s always jogging along the river and through the town near where he lives. He has a gymnasium in his house. He only drinks green tea, and eats very healthy foods.”

  “Another nail in the old coffin, there?” said Reilly.

  “What else did his parents have to say about him?” asked Gardener.

  “Apart from working for Walker’s, his mother compiles crosswords for newspapers and magazines. She’s very intelligent.

  “She says that Robert loves puzzles. Plays cards, particularly Bridge, but he loves word games.”

  “Was there any mention of the tarot?” asked Reilly.

  “Tarot?” repeated Sharp, “No, nothing about that.”

  “Maybe the use of the tarot cards was a way of implicating someone else,” said Gardener, “namely Ross. After all, Ross was in the town on Monday morning, seeing to Christine Close.”

  “And a mix up on the computer files at the hospital,” added Reilly, “another way of implicating his colleague.”

  Sharp finished his drink and then said, “Apparently, he has OCD pretty bad.”

  “What did I tell you?” said Reilly. “Light switches.”

  “When he was young, his fascination with puzzles mixed with his OCD in such a way that when he earned money, he bought two copies of everything he wanted. One to play, and one to keep in pristine condition, unopened. Naturally, she got him all the stuff that Walker’s brought out. His mother’s really nice, but I reckon she’s in denial.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Gardener.

  “She reads the papers, listens to the news. I think she suspects what’s happening, but doesn’t want to admit it.”

&nb
sp; “You think she knows her son is behind the murders?”

  “Suspects, maybe. She didn’t say it in so many words, but it’s the impression I got.”

  “What about his father?”

  “That man is a totally different kettle of fish. After Adam died, Robert’s father Peter spent a lot of time with them both. He visited Theresa, Robert’s wife, sometimes two and three times a week at the clinic in Harrogate. She couldn’t accept the death of their son, and had a breakdown. He helped her to come to terms with it. Just when he thought they were making headway, she died in mysterious circumstances. Something to do with the wrong drugs.”

  “I’m just throwing something out here,” offered Reilly, “but you don’t think Sinclair had anything to do with that, do you?”

  “It’s unlikely,” said Gardener. “Unless he was implicated. But why would he have anything to do with his son’s death?”

  “I don’t think he did,” said Sharp. “Peter reckoned that the family were a pretty devoted one. The parents would have done anything for their son.

  “As for Robert, his father could not get through to him. He has the ability to put up a front no matter what the situation. Somehow, he seems to block out everything he does not want to deal with until he’s ready. He also has an obsession for seeing justice prevail, right is right and all that.”

  “That would answer for the game he produced.”

  “What game?” Sharp asked.

  Gardener briefed him on what Simon Walker had told them.

  “That’s interesting. His father mentioned that he hates being the centre of attention. He also said that more than anything, he hates losing control of any situation. He is an absolute control freak.”

  Sharp picked up another two or three sheets of paper. “Peter also told me about a situation between Robert and Theresa. She could not forgive herself for what happened on the night Adam died.

  “Apparently, Adam and his parents had argued that night. All his friends had been going out to the cinema, and then on to a party in Bursley Bridge. Robert and Theresa said they had wanted him home by eleven o’clock, and Adam had said it was too early. Robert said he would only allow Adam to stay later if he had agreed to his father meeting him.