Implant (DI Gardener 3)

Sonia Knight turned back around and fell to her knees with her arms in the air, her hands clenched in fists. Her screech of agony was heard in full, her pain so great, she had torn her mouth completely open. Gardener couldn’t tell which was her bottom lip, and which was the top.

But it was the view inside her mouth that would be the stuff of his nightmares for a very long time to come.

Chapter Twenty-five

Robert Sinclair stepped out of the shower in his en suite bathroom, and quickly dried himself down.

He loved the summer months, when he could rise at five-thirty, slip into a jogging suit, and go for an early morning run. His house bordered the stream, so he usually left via the back garden and onto the bank.

From there, he ran all the way into Bursley Bridge, which was approximately a mile and a half. Once around the town, through most of the streets, and finally back to his house on the path that bordered the main road.

In the winter months he had a different procedure. His training was undertaken in the gymnasium he’d had built, complete with treadmill, cross-trainer, and a variety of weight machines. As far as he was concerned, his body was a temple, and should be treated accordingly.

Sinclair loved routine. Always had. He liked his breakfast at seven-thirty, to start work at eight. He had an hour at two for something to eat, and then worked through till six. He ate an evening meal – prepared by his housekeeper – at seven, and eventually retired for the evening around ten o’clock. As a trainee doctor, it had never been possible. Given the position he held now, treating private patients, it was much easier to dictate the times and terms on which he would see them.

Having dried and changed into casual clothes, he went down into the kitchen, pausing only once on the staircase to check the time on the grandfather clock. He stepped into the kitchen.

He was ready for the most important meal of the day, which was usually something healthy. Miss Bradshaw never let him down. However, the expression on her face told him that his routine today was about to go AWOL, something he would find difficult to deal with.

“Oh, Mr Sinclair. Dr Ross has just phoned from the clinic. He wants to speak to you immediately.”

Sinclair knew better than to question his housekeeper, because Iain Ross would not have told her anything. The only reason he would call so early was because they must have suffered another setback with Christine Close. Something he didn’t relish hearing.

Sinclair sipped his green tea.

“Here, take this,” said Miss Bradshaw, passing over a small container. “I know you’ll want to leave immediately, but it’s very important that you eat.”

“Thank you. I really had better go. It must be urgent.” Robert Sinclair left the kitchen, went upstairs, and changed into a suit.

Twenty minutes later he was walking into the Ross & Sinclair Foundation. He headed straight for his office, where he found Iain Ross waiting for him. The surgeon was immaculately dressed in a pale blue designer suit with white shirt and blue tie. He was standing by the fireplace. As always, the logs and paper were set, ready for someone to strike up a match.

“Robert,” said Ross. “Good to see you. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Is it Christine?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Ross poured a fresh coffee from the machine in the corner of the room, offering one to his colleague, who declined. “She had two more seizures during the night. I’m afraid she’s unconscious. But she’s been given pretty large doses of phenytoin. She’s comfortable.”

Sinclair had asked Ross to administer the best treatment available, in the hope that it would have bought her some more time. He’d known from the start that he could not guarantee anything. Nothing he did now would work, apart from sedatives and anti-epileptic drugs.

“Is she on a ventilator?”

“Yes,” replied Ross.

Sinclair sighed heavily. The end was in sight. The machine would help her to breath, but the question was, for how long? Someone would eventually have to make the heart-breaking decision of turning the ventilator off. And the only person who could was Gary.

Sinclair didn’t think he was strong enough yet. Gary needed to know, but, for the moment, he would rather keep the details to a minimum.

“Has Gary been in to see her?” he asked Ross.

“Not yet,” replied Ross, sipping his coffee.

“In that case, when he does show up, will you bring him straight into the office? I need to be careful with this one.”

“Would you like me to tell him?”

“No thank you, Iain. I think you’ve done enough already.”