Implant (DI Gardener 3)

Gardener noted that Reilly was leaving the room for the benefit of the tape.

Reilly quickly returned and called Gardener over to a corner, where he informed him that the SOCOs had found Pollard’s shoes matched the same pattern as footmarks lifted off the floor inside the shop. But there were no fingerprints of any description on the padlock packaging.

Pleased, Gardener returned to his seat. “Let’s talk about the NHS.”

“It’s in a terrible state. That’s the government for you.”

Gardener leaned forward. “Let’s forget politics and small talk. As you said, the quicker you answer our questions, the quicker you can leave.”

Pollard smiled. “I thought you picked me up on a burglary charge, yet you come in here asking all sorts. So far, none of it to do with the charge I’m here for.”

“How observant. NHS, what were you doing for them?”

Pollard sighed and sat back, arms folded. For a short while, Gardener thought he had decided to shut up shop, so he maintained the silence as well.

“I started as a junior doctor.”

“Interested in that sort of thing, are you?” asked Reilly. “Anatomy?”

“Well, I must have been.”

“Were you specializing in anything?” asked Gardener. “Any particular field?”

“To start with, it was general medicine. My mother died when I was ten years old. My father was a bastard, a drunken bastard...”

Gardener had not expected the change of attitude. Pollard was cooperating, so he didn’t interrupt.

“He used to beat me whenever he got the chance, no fucking reason. I spent that much time repairing myself, I started to enjoy it, found something rewarding in it.” Pollard stopped talking for a moment before adding, “How sad is that?”

“So what made you want to continue?”

“My mother. I realized after a while that he must have beaten her, too. She often had cuts and bruises, which she used to tend to herself. She taught me a little bit of first aid. The interest went from there. I read books, and thought maybe it would be a good idea to become a GP.”

“Which hospital did you apply to?”

“St. James’s, where else?”

“How many years did you train for?”

“About five. Started as a junior doctor, passed through a training grade to house officer, and spent a lot of time in general surgery.”

“So, what the hell went wrong?” asked Reilly. “Sounds to me like you had a damn good career lined up. Why did you blow it?”

Pollard sighed heavily. “Why does anyone blow it? Money’s crap, hours too long. I got greedy. I was introduced to another side of the medical world. Saw just how rich I could be with only half the effort.”

Gardener brought the subject back to the hospital. “How would you describe your surgical skills?”

“Pretty good. They were training me to be a surgeon. They even expected I’d study further, become a member of the Royal College of Surgeons.”

Gardener figured he’d struck gold, not insofar as having the killer handed to him on a plate, but he reckoned he’d found a subject that Pollard would talk about freely and without losing his temper. However, he had what he needed, so now it was time to change things. From the file he’d read, he knew the rest, and preferred to tackle another subject.

“Tell us about Lance Hobson.”

Lighting the touch paper was how Gardener would describe the difference. From Pollard’s expression, there must have been some real hatred between the two of them, suggesting that Cragg had been right when he reckoned that Pollard wanted to take over the patch.

“What do you want to know?”

“Whether or not you know him, for a start,” replied Gardener.