Implant (DI Gardener 3)

; “Oh, don’t worry about me, sir. We Craggs are made of tough stuff.”

“I’ve no doubt, but I’d hate to see you come to some grief because you’re not getting your rest.”

“Oh, I take rest breaks when I need them. And as I said to you earlier, there’s nothing to rush home for these days.”

“No Mrs Cragg?”

“Not anymore, sir.”

Cragg didn’t elaborate, and Gardener didn’t push. He felt there was a lot more to that story, and it may be best left for another time.

“Okay, Maurice. Well, if you need to speak to me or you need any help, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Gardener turned and saw the room was empty save for his partner.

“Ready for that curry, now?”

Chapter Twenty-four

When Reilly brought the car to a halt outside the station on Park Street, Gardener jumped out and glanced around.

Bursley Bridge was a typically elegant, small Yorkshire town; a pleasant mix of residential homes sharing space with business premises. Opposite was a pub called The Station Hotel; to the left, a row of stone cottages, and to the right, an art gallery, a computer repair store, and a model shop.

He turned and studied the station. To his right he saw gates leading to the car park. The entrance was to his left, flanked by LNER information boards and a small post box in the wall underneath a window. Gardener noticed a man pushing letters into the small post box despite the activity.

Standing near the steps leading into the station was a man around sixty years of age. He’d lost most of his hair, had a bulbous nose and wore thin wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a black business suit, and carried a briefcase and an umbrella. He was overweight, but his posture was erect, militaristic. Judging by the way he went on the attack, so too was his manner.

“Are you the police?” he asked, pointing his umbrella at them.

Gardener and Reilly both flashed warrant cards. Before they had a chance to say anything, the man started again.

“What the bloody hell is going on around here?” He spoke slowly and through gritted teeth.

“Who are you?” Gardener demanded.

“Giles Middleton, General Manager.”

“Like you, Mr Middleton, I have absolutely no idea.” Gardener continued walking as he was talking, trying to show Middleton that he neither had the time nor the patience for his pomposity.

“I’d like some answers to my questions, young man.”

“So would I,” replied the SIO. “And at this moment, mine are more important than yours.”

Gardener pointed to the station entrance. “You see that tape there?” Such was his annoyance at the intrusive little man he spoke very slowly, a trait he’d had all his life. Shouting the odds was not his style. When Gardener became really upset, he would talk very slowly and with care so that he made sure you understood every one of his words.

“That means no one but my sergeant and I are allowed beyond that point. You stay at the bottom of the steps and you do not come into the station. Do you understand?”

Middleton pointed again. “Now you look here–”

“Do you understand?” repeated Gardener.

Middleton opened his mouth.

“Say one more word, and I’ll arrest you for causing an obstruction.” Gardener turned and met PC Robin Nice, one of the officers he’d seen outside the shop in Bramfield the day before.

“What do you have for me?”

“Female, mid-to-late twenties.”