Implant (DI Gardener 3)

Despite the position he was in, Hobson noticed certain things.

The man was wearing a business suit with a pair of new leather shoes. He was slim, with long, slender fingers, and a very expensive watch, possibly a Cartier. He also had a mask over his face.

Despite Hobson’s lack of energy, and a general unwillingness to enter into a long, drawn-out conversation, he wanted to know who the man was, and what it was all about. Given his disadvantage, however, he was not going to let his captor see that he was frightened.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked Hobson.

“That’s no way to speak to me,” replied the hooded man. “But, despite my dislike of you, Mr Hobson, it would be rather remiss of me not to treat you like a guest in my house.”

“A fucking guest?” shouted Hobson, but before he could continue, he felt enormous pressure on his body, as if a train had run over it. He tried to scream, but couldn’t. He hadn’t enough strength left.

As normality returned, he realized that the hooded man had placed a hand inside his jacket pocket seconds before the pain engulfed him. So it had to be something remote he was using. But what?

Hobson glanced down at his body. Everything seemed to be intact. He couldn’t see anything connected to him, although he only had the front view. So, what was delivering the pain?

“Where am I?” asked Hobson.

“Who I am and where you are is not really that important.” The man’s voice was clear-cut and without any trace of accent, his diction precise.

“It fucking well is to me,” shouted Hobson, still the fighter despite not having the upper hand. “People will be looking for me.”

His captor calmly placed his hands in his pockets and said, “I doubt that very much.”

Hobson had to find a way of unsettling him. If the man knew of his reputation, maybe he would start to think about the type of person he was dealing with. “Of course they will. I have friends, dangerous friends.”

“And who might they be?”

“Never you mind. But they’ll be out there, and they won’t stop looking.”

The man put a finger to his mouth, as if he was thinking.

“Like I said, Mr Hobson, I doubt it. You see, the problem is, I actually have all your friends. Alex Wilson, Sonia Knight. Do either of those names ring any bells?”

That was enough for Hobson. His growling stomach finally erupted, and he hoped the bucket would receive accordingly.

“Thought they might,” replied the man, when Hobson’s bowels settled down.

The wave of diarrhoea had not only depleted what little energy he’d had, but had started the pains in his body again. The boot was certainly on the other foot. Hobson had tried to gain a little bit of respect for fighting back despite his predicament, but he’d achieved nothing.

“You can’t put your trust in either of those two, and they are about all you have. Unless, of course, you count your bent solicitor Wilfred Ronson, but I wouldn’t bank on him coming to your aid, either. Not unless you were paying, and you’re in no position.”

The man had done his homework.

“You’ve given me something, haven’t you?”

The man smiled. “I certainly have.”

Hobson didn’t know what to do or say. He had no idea who the man was, or what he had done to him. Surely, there had to be a drug connection. Was he a dealer? He certainly seemed to have the expensive lifestyle that went with it. Dealers, however, rarely did their own dirty work. Hobson was lost.

“What have you done to me?”

The man stepped back, and seemed as if he was going to walk away before he answered.

“I like puzzles, Mr Hobson. I’ve spent my whole life studying puzzles, setting them, working them out. Games as well. Did you ever play games when you were young?”

“Games? What kind of fucking games? Not the type you play, by the look of it.”

“Board games. Monopoly, Cluedo, that sort of thing.”