Implant (DI Gardener 3)

“But you weren’t using Google for the answers, were you?”

“Not really.”

“So come on, out with it. You’ll have to tell if you want me to fix it.” Graham offered them another biscuit each and finished his cup of tea. “Have either of you been on sites you shouldn’t have?”

With a defeated expression and a lowering of heads, they admitted they had.

“Which ones?”

They reeled off a whole load of names that he wasn’t happy with, but at the end of the day it appeared to be straightforward porn. “And I’m not going to find anything illegal on here, am I?”

“What do you mean?”

“Anything involving children or animals?”

“No, no, honestly, mister, there’s nothing like that.” Both of them had spoken at once and completely out of sync, so it sounded like a jumbled mess.

Graham believed them. “Okay, so you were surfing the Net, looking at boobs and things, and then what happened?”

“It just stopped working.”

“Stopped working, how?”

“It started playing up, flickering screen, funny sound,” said one.

“Then it just went blue and started buzzing,” said the other.

“Oh my God, you didn’t get the Blue Screen of Death, did you?”

Neither seemed to have a clue what he was on about, obviously not as up on computer talk as they had imagined.

“It looks like it,” one replied.

“That could be serious, guys. Even if I can fix it, I doubt very much I’ll be able to get it back to its original state without your pa knowing. Something will be different, and it won’t be long before he finds out. And it won’t be cheap.”

“He’s gonna kill us,” one said to the other.

Chapter Thirteen

By the time Gardener and Reilly had made some headway, the residents of Bramfield were going about their business. All except Armitage’s, that was.

To his credit, George Fitzgerald, the Home Office pathologist, had arrived within half an hour of Gardener’s request, and so too had most of his team. Once he’d briefed Fitz and was happy that the scene had been secured to his satisfaction, the scenes of crimes officers had been given specific instructions to tear the place to bits.

Albert Armitage had visited the premises and handed over the keys: he’d said he would see Gardener and Reilly at the police station once he had informed his wife of what had happened. Although technically a suspect, the officer in charge didn’t for one minute think Armitage would do a runner. He did, however, send a junior officer with him.

From the station, Gardener had made phone calls: one to the FSS at Wetherby, requesting a scientist; one to MIT – the HOLMES operators – to meet him at Bramfield police station to set up an incident room.

Maurice Cragg greeted them as they walked in.

“You’ll be needing a cup of tea, sir?” Cragg asked, although it was more a statement.

“Breakfast as well, Maurice, if you can sort something out for us.”

“I certainly can. There’s a bakery about fifty yards from the station. One of the lads can take an order for us all and nip down there.”

Gardener hadn’t realized how hungry he was until then. He’d pretty much jumped out of bed and left the house within ten minutes. His shirt, suit, and tie had all been pressed and hanging ready, but food had not crossed his mind.

“Thank you.” Gardener passed over ten pounds. “I’ll have something healthy, and whatever you and Sean are having. Whilst junior runs out for the order, can you show me around?”