by Ray Clark
“Should I?” repeated Gary. “What’s that supposed to mean? You were looking after her, and now you’re talking to me as if neither of us counted for anything. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Sinclair opened his suitcase and pulled out a number of files, which he placed in a variety of drawers either in his desk, or in a filing cabinet, going about his business as if Gary wasn’t even in the room.
“There are always casualties in war,” Sinclair said eventually.
Gary didn’t know what he meant.
“What are you talking about?” he screamed. “Who the hell are you at war with? Not me!”
“We’ve been in a war from the beginning, young man. Against the drug dealers, the people who killed my wife and son. Casualties, Gary, all of them; my wife, my son, your mother. We have to expect casualties when we are fighting a war.”
“You’re a doctor for God’s sake, where’s your compassion?”
Sinclair stared at Gary. “You’re allowing your emotions to cloud your judgment. You must not let your emotions enter into this.”
Gary Close fell back into one of the leather armchairs, totally defeated by what he was up against.
“Your mother was never going to recover anyway.”
That comment brought Gary to his feet again, running on adrenaline. “You didn’t tell me that when we started this, did you?”
The door to the surgeon’s office opened, and Iain Ross popped his head around the frame.
“Is everything okay, Robert?”
“It’s fine, Iain,” replied Sinclair, walking towards the door. “Gary is upset, naturally. And who wouldn’t be, he’s just lost his mother.”
“Is there anything I can do?” asked Ross.
“No, I’ll be perfectly fine. I’m quite capable of dealing with the situation. Please, go back to whatever you were doing.”
Mr Ross didn’t seem too happy about the decision, but left anyway. Gary didn’t think he would leave the building altogether, which was good as far as he was concerned, because they may well need a witness before too long.
Sinclair closed the door and returned to his desk. “Please keep the noise down, Mr Close. Shouting will not help either of us.”
“I can’t believe you. Someone’s died, and you don’t care.”
“Of course I care. I don’t like losing patients. I take it personally when I do, but I can’t save them all. If I allowed my emotions to come into it every time I lost a patient, I would have given up practicing a long time ago.”
Gary had had enough. “I risked my career for you. I got you what you wanted, all the information on the druggies, where they were, what they were up to. I even managed to get a set of keys to the shop so as you could carry out your work. And all for what? Nothing, by the looks of things. Your part of the bargain was that you would treat my mother.”
“And we did.”
“You said you would save her.”
“No I didn’t,” replied Sinclair, standing opposite the young PC, meeting his glare. “I said I would try. But you were not the only one taking the risks.”
“What risks did you take?” asked Gary.
“Without me, your mother would not have lasted as long as she did, nor would she have been as comfortable. The drugs and the medication she needed cost a fortune. And what you have to remember is that no NHS hospital would supply them. But because of the position I was in, I was able to make sure she got the best of everything. And she did. But I could not guarantee it would save her.”
“You led me to believe you could.”
“No, I did not. I told you from the start I would do everything I could, and I did.”
Gary ran his hands though his hair, and down his face. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. He wasn’t sure how to deal with what was happening.
“Why didn’t you tell me she’d died last night?”
Sinclair didn’t reply immediately. In fact, Gary thought he was going to ignore the question altogether.
The surgeon let out a defeated sigh, which, as far as Gary was concerned, was the first bit of human compassion he’d shown since driving into the car park.
“That was just one risk too many.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” shouted Gary.
“I couldn’t have had this argument last night. I couldn’t take the risk of you informing your colleagues.”
“What?” Gary was stunned by the admission. “Go to my colleagues? And tell them what? That all the crimes during the last few days were down to me?”
“You’re not taking it too well now, are you? I needed a little more time to complete things before you went running off. I never leave anything incomplete, Gary. You should know me by now.”
Gary walked over to the window, clenching and unclenching his fists.
He was confused, but he did realize one thing: he was through talking. It was like having a conversation with a brick wall. The surgeon was hiding behind a force field of some kind, unable to see any wrong in what they had done. All Gary really wanted was to knock seven shades of shit out of him.
Gary thought about what Sinclair had said. Maybe he’d given him a clue, and the way to deal with it was to come clean. After all, what did he have to lose? His father had died; so had his mother. There was nothing left to lose.
He turned and raced towards the surgeon, stopping short by a matter of inches, pointing a warning finger. “I’m going to finish you, Sinclair. You’re right, I should go to the police. I will. I’ll tell them everything.”
“That’s your prerogative.”
Gary backed away slightly. Something told him that Sinclair was still far too calm. After everything that had happened, the threats Gary had made, and still he had not put up a fight. Most people would have panicked, tried to talk him out of it. But the surgeon had acted like a robot. Gary had no idea what was going through his mind. The man was a psychopath. The calm ones always were.
The young PC needed to leave, and soon.
“You really aren’t bothered, are you?”
“I wouldn’t say that, Gary,” said Sinclair.
They were back to first name terms. Gary definitely had to go, come clean to the police as soon as he could. He’d serve time, but what the hell did that matter?
Gary backed away and headed for the door. As he turned the handle and opened it, Sinclair spoke.
“How is your leg, Gary?”
Chapter Fifty-one
Questions: Which two players were sent off in the scandal-ridden Charity Shield match against FA Cup Champions Liverpool, during Don Revie’s last season as manager? Who took over the team and lasted only 44 days, and which England Captain replaced him?
Answers: Billy Bremner & Kevin Keegan. Brian Clough. Jimmy Armfield.
His remaining leg was finally free. Hobson had shouted the answers with what little strength he had left.
He felt disgusting. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d seen the monster who’d held him captive. A few hours maybe, but in that time his health had deteriorated.
He was sure now that he had succumbed to a fever of some description, brought on by the effect of the Ebola virus. His body was in total discomfort all the time. Each and every one of his muscles ached. His head pounded, and his nasal passage and throat felt closed in, obviously inflamed. The rash covered much more of his body, and he was beginning to resemble a burn victim. The diarrhoea had grown worse, and he’d noticed traces of blood in it.
But he was free.
And now, no matter how fucking crap he felt, he was going to fight the remainder of the battle on his terms.
He glanced at the vials on the wall. What was it the surgeon had said?
There were five vials, but only one would cure him. How did he know that to be true?
He didn’t.
But the surgeon had also mentioned a key, hidden somewhere within the four walls.
Hobson glanced around. The door to the basement was shut, and
there was very little else apart from a central heating boiler. Certainly very few places to hide a key.
That would be another statement without a grain of truth.
He stared at the vials again, debating what to do, when he noticed two plain white envelopes on the floor beneath them.
It took every ounce of strength he had to move. Finally, he bent down and retrieved them.
He opened both envelopes.
In the first he came across a card. He hadn’t the faintest idea what it was or what it meant.
Against a white background, he saw a king sitting on a throne between two columns, holding a sword in his right hand, and a pair of scales in his left. The king’s robe was red. Behind him was a purple backdrop – curtains maybe. Above his crown were the Roman numerals XI. Along the bottom of the card was one word: Justice.
Hobson understood that the card was meant for him because of the one word, although he had no idea where the card had come from. It didn’t matter. He would, however, make sure the surgeon understood his version of the word justice.
Breathing heavily, he took a card out of the second envelope.
He had no idea what that was either. It had a figure on the front, obviously a judge because his name was The Lord Chief Justice Dunne. He held a gavel in his right hand, and pointed his finger at the viewer of the card with his left, no doubt for the benefit of whoever held it.
Losing interest, he threw both cards onto the floor, glancing at the vials yet again.
Hobson made a decision. He’d been given no reason to trust the monster at all.
Fuck the vials. He was no longer prepared to play the game for anyone else. He was a dead man anyway. So, with what little time he had left, he was playing it his way.
He walked slowly towards the basement door.
Chapter Fifty-two
The ringing phone startled him.
Gary stole a glance at the dashboard. His mobile was lodged in a hands-free cradle, and he could see from the display that it was Sinclair.
He pushed the button and immediately went on the attack.
“You’re not going to talk me out of it, Sinclair!”
“I have no intention, Gary.”
“Good. Then why have you called me?”
“To ask you to think about what you’re doing.”
“So you are trying to talk me out of it.” Gary slowed down as he approached the bend. As a policeman, he should know better than anyone else the dangers of using a phone while driving, hands free or not.
“On the contrary, Gary, I’m simply asking you to be careful.”
Gary couldn’t understand what Sinclair was doing. Fifteen minutes ago he’d shown no remorse whatsoever, hadn’t even tried to stop him leaving the Foundation. So what was he playing at now?
“Just fuck off, Sinclair,” shouted Gary. “You had your chance. Too late now.”
“Like I said, Gary, take care. Dusk is approaching. Roads can be treacherous.”
Gary hurled further abuse at the phone, but it was too late. The connection had been cut.
“Bastard,” he shouted, and then screamed again due to the pain in his left leg.
Chapter Fifty-three
Gardener and Reilly were on the A65 heading towards the Ross & Sinclair Foundation. After having digested all the information from the incident room, they had only one option: arrest Robert Sinclair.
Dave Rawson had been the final member to join them, and he’d informed them that he’d spoken to the dog-walking couple at the Harrogate Arms. Although they hadn’t remembered all of the registration of the white van, they had supplied the first two letters and numbers.
The husband had also stopped and tried to engage Graham Johnson in conversation about the vehicle that night, because he was currently in the market for one. The dogs had been uneasy around the carpet that Johnson claimed he and his colleague had recently bought and were shoving into the back of the van. He had seemed nervous and unwilling to talk, fidgety, biting his nails. His colleague had remained at the rear of the van without speaking a word. The couple hadn’t been able to describe him.
Gardener had put a marker on the PNC against Sinclair’s vehicle: ‘to be stopped and detained if found.’ The vehicle was also on the ANPR database. A number of the local officers had been posted in and around Bursley Bridge. Before he’d left the station he’d called Sinclair’s housekeeper, but the phone remained unanswered. Staff at the Foundation said he had been there.
He suddenly realized the car was slowing down.
“We’ve got a problem, boss,” said Reilly.
Ahead of them, Gardener noticed three cars parked at the side of the road at odd angles.
Reilly brought their pool car to a stop, and both officers jumped out. As Gardener walked towards the small gathering of motorists, he flashed his warrant card. He glanced past the broken fencing and saw a silver Vauxhall Corsa wrapped around a tree. The front of the car had a huge V-shaped dent going back almost to the dashboard. The wheels were splayed outwards. The windscreen was smashed, the driver’s door open, with a body dangling out of the car.
Gardener’s heart sunk when he saw Gary Close.
Whilst Reilly controlled the crowd and used his phone for back-up and an ambulance, Gardener walked through the fence and over to the body.
He checked for a pulse. Gary Close was dead. His skin was tinged blue, and his swollen tongue lolled out of the right side of his mouth. He was clutching his mobile phone.
“Jesus Christ! What’s happened to him?” asked Reilly, as he joined his SIO.
“I’ve no idea, Sean. It looks to me like he’s suffocated, but how the hell that’s happened is anyone’s guess.”
Reilly glanced past Gardener in the direction of the A65 and the Foundation. “Seems to me like he was driving at high speed. Look at the state of the car. You reckon he’s been to see Sinclair?”
“Probably,” said Gardener. “According to a report earlier, Sinclair was supposed to have been there.”
“I wonder if young Gary here has had an attack of conscience. Maybe he confronted the doc about it all.”
“That would be enough to cause an argument, send tempers flaring.”
“They have a fight, Gary leaves in a rage and doesn’t pay attention to what he’s doing, ends up smashing into a tree.”
“I’d go along with that, Sean, if Gary wasn’t blue. Something’s happened to him. You don’t suffocate without a reason.”
The approaching sirens halted their conversation. Along with an ambulance, Thornton and Anderson arrived in one car, and Fitz in another.
“I might have known you two would be involved,” said Fitz, walking towards them with a case in one hand and wearing an overcoat. “If anyone’s going to disturb me at odd hours, it’s usually you two.”
Fitz glanced at Close. “Oh my word, what’s happened here, then?”
“Why do you always ask us what’s happened?” asked Reilly.
“The Lord only knows. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Perhaps it’s a senior moment. I’m sure it will pass.”
“I doubt it.”
Gardener noticed Thornton and Anderson closing off the road with scene tape. Two officers from traffic division had turned up and were helping.
Steve Fenton, the CSM, was the next to arrive. Gardener put on a set of latex gloves, and handed him Gary’s mobile phone as he approached.
“I need the results as fast as possible, Steve.”
“He’s died within the last fifteen minutes,” said Fitz, glancing up at the SIO as he knelt over Gary’s body. “Respiratory failure judging by the colour of his skin.”
“Fitz, I’m going to need the post-mortem done immediately, I need those results, like yesterday.”
“You’re going to have a lot to answer for when my wife sees you next.”
Gardener oversaw the removal of the body. Once Fitz had left, he asked the traffic cops to remain at the scene and coordinate a diversion for the time being.
> Steve Fenton stood behind him, finishing a call on his mobile.
“Good news,” he said to Gardener. “We’ve located the signal from Johnson’s mobile when he called Ronson. He was at Sinclair’s house.”
“Good work, Steve. Can you get all the information off Gary’s mobile for me? Give me a call when you have it.”
Fenton nodded and returned to his car.
Gardener addressed his partner. “Let’s get to the Foundation. I doubt he’s still there, but you never know.”
“I’ve just had a thought,” said Reilly. “We were there earlier and the staff were all a bit down, they said they’d lost a patient. You don’t think that was Gary’s mother, do you?”
Gardener sighed. “I sincerely hope not, but it might explain what happened to Gary.”
“Only partly. Wrapping his car around a tree through grief might be one option, but he wouldn’t have suffocated.”
Gardener could only nod in agreement. He turned his attention to Thornton and Anderson. “You two follow us. If Sinclair isn’t at the Foundation, I’d like you both to wait there while we go to his house.”
On arrival at the Foundation, Sinclair’s car was not in the car park. The receptionist said he had been there, but he’d left about ten minutes ago.
Iain Ross was walking towards the reception desk when he saw the two officers. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
“Not unless you can tell us where Sinclair is,” said Reilly.
“I’m afraid I can’t. He was here earlier.”
“We know that. Did you speak to him?”
“Only briefly. He was with Mr Close.”
“And how did they seem?” asked Gardener.
“Mr Close was upset, naturally.”
“Why do you say that?”
“His mother died yesterday, last night to be precise.”
Gardener’s heart sank.
“Due to a terrible mix-up,” continued Ross, “he didn’t find out until this afternoon. I had to tell him.”
“Who should have told him?” asked Reilly.