“Are you saying that there is a way to identify this particular card?”
“I doubt it. Cards are very unique. I suspect that the mobile companies who issue brand new phones have records of all the serial numbers of the cards and the phones and be able match them in an instant, but your serial number has been wiped out. Take a look.” Johnson handed back the photocopy. “Someone has very carefully obliterated it.”
Thornton sighed, thinking about the pump inside Alex Wilson, and how the serial number on that had been removed. He supposed that he was hoping for too much, but one never knew when the break would come, and for that reason he could not give up.
Thornton turned and noticed Bob Anderson was still completely engrossed with all the scrap machines. He was beginning to wonder if his partner had found something.
A crash diverted his attention back to Graham Johnson, who was busy cursing the stool for being in his way. Where he’d been going and what he’d been trying to do, Thornton wasn’t sure. One thing he did know, the man seemed to be a little accident-prone.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”
He’d answered a little too quickly for Thornton’s liking, which made the DC wonder if it hadn’t been an accident, and more a diversion tactic for Bob Anderson, who had now joined Thornton at the front counter.
“Well, thank you for your time, Mr Johnson. I’m sorry to have spoiled your morning routine. Before I go, can I ask, are you into games?”
“Computer games? Yes, love my online games. Just don’t get much chance to visit the sites these days, what with the pressure
of work.”
“What about the older ones? You know, the board games from years ago?”
“When I was younger, I think I probably had most of them.”
Thornton produced the copies of the Inspector Catcher and Nurse Willing cards and passed them over.
“Recognize those?”
“Christ, these are old.” Johnson studied them for a few moments, turning them round and round. “I’ve absolutely no idea. Where the hell did you get these?”
“Oh well, thanks for your time,” replied Thornton, passing over his own card. “If you do think of anything, give me a call. Or just pop over to the station and ask for either of us, we’ll be there all day.”
Chapter Thirty
Eighteen hours after the shock of finding himself humiliated and trussed up in a wooden frame, Lance Hobson felt so disgusting that death was becoming the preferred option.
Shortly after the computer monitor had fired up, he had either fallen asleep due to a lack of energy, or passed out through sheer pain.
He’d woken up earlier in the day, sometime around five o’clock. The computer had been active and had informed him of the time. He could remember excruciating pain enveloping his body, his stomach rumbling, and filling the bucket.
He was awake now and it was midday. Glancing down, the bucket had been changed, and a toilet seat had been placed on the top. Hobson wondered what kind of a bastard was holding him captive, because he didn’t find it amusing. He had no control over his aim, so narrowing the gap was of no real advantage. Still, it was simply more mess for someone to clean up. He was sure they’d grow bored in the end.
What would happen then?
The monitor screen changed to bright green, and his whole body suddenly felt as if it had been turned inside out. As though large needles on the inside were trying to force their way through. Perhaps if they were, the end he craved would soon come. He had little strength left in his vocal chords, so what should have been a scream came out as nothing more than a strangulated yelp. When the pain subsided, his body went limp against his restraints. As he reopened his eyes and tried to focus, he became aware of two things.
First, a small frame had been connected to the wall, housing five vials, each containing a liquid. One was clear, the others blue, green, amber, and red. He had no idea what they were.
Second, there was something wrong with his skin. Seriously fucking wrong!
It was red and patchy, and covered with small bumps. If he didn’t know any better, he would say he had measles. But he did know better; he’d had them. It could be a heat rash, but he doubted it. He didn’t have any clothes on, for a start.
He’d killed people for less. But that was when he was someone, a force to be reckoned with. No one messed with Lance Hobson. As far as he was concerned, he’d been the king of the underworld. He’d had the biggest patch, the most affluent income. Flash car, big house, the lot. He’d been the man.
But someone somewhere had obviously not paid the slightest attention to any of that.
A noise from behind the frame halted his thoughts. He heard footsteps, and someone appeared at the corner of his vision, before finally stepping all the way round.