Implant (DI Gardener 3)

“Probably did, but I grew out of them. Have you?”

“I don’t think you ever do. Anyway, let me answer your questions. It would be rather unfair of me not to. I’m going to be honest with you. Because by being honest, it means that I can create a more horrifying environment, much more frightening than if I lie. So I want you to think about one thing when you ask me a question. Make absolutely sure that you want to know the answer.”

Hobson did think about that, and the man was right. There was something terrifying about having lost all control, only then to be told exactly what the outcome was going to be.

But Hobson was a fighter, if nothing else. “Go on.”

“You’re connected to a mainframe, and when I say that, I mean it sincerely. It’s a wooden frame with a number of locks and levers and electric cables.”

Hobson’s heart sunk. The bastard was going to electrocute him.

“If you want to get out alive,” continued the man, “you will notice a computer in front of you, which will randomly generate questions to which you either know the answer, or you don’t. Each time you answer correctly, a lever will be released, which will free a part of your body.

“Should you successfully get out of the main frame, fastened to the wall is another, much smaller frame, with an antidote to your condition. There are five vials, but only one of them will cure you. All you have to do is choose it. You may have to consult the computer to work it out, should you be in the fortunate enough position of having the luxury of time.”

Hobson felt hollow inside. He grew cold at the thought of what he’d been infected with. It could be anything. Even worse, how was he to know that the man who held him captive was telling the truth?

As if in response, the man suddenly removed his mask. He had a square face, with silver hair, but he wasn’t old. His nose was long, and he had a silver moustache.

But for all that, Lance still had no idea who he was.

“What have I done to you?” repeated Hobson.

The man leaned in a little closer. “That’s for another time, Mr Hobson.”

A period of silence followed, and when Lance Hobson thought the conversation had ended, the man spoke again.

“As for what I’ve given you, Mr Hobson, well, that’s a rather nasty little piece of work. It’s a virus that interferes with the endothelial cells, lining the interior surface of blood vessels. As the vessel walls become damaged, the platelets are unable to coagulate. Subjects tend to succumb to hypovolemic shock.

“It has the highest case fatality rate, up to 90% in some epidemics, with an average case fatality rate of approximately 83% over twenty-seven years.

“You may be clever enough to work out for yourself what it is. If not, the next time we meet, I shall tell you.”

It wasn’t a question of whether Hobson was clever enough or not, it was more a case of being allowed to think rationally. Which, at the moment, was out of the question.

“It may surprise you to know, Mr Hobson, that I have studied you for four years. I know everything about you, where you go, who you see, who your friends are, what car you drive, what food you like. Everything, to the point that I probably know you better than you know yourself.

“I’m a very sporting man. The answers required for the questions designed to free you are well within the bounds of your limited knowledge.

“Once you are out of the frame, you need to make a decision on which liquid to drink. The computer will help you there, with a variety of clues. Once the correct answer is given, and you have found the necessary liquid to save your life, you can occupy your free time by trying to find the key to unlock that door in the corner, also hidden somewhere in this room.”

Chapter Thirty-one

In Reilly’s car on the way to Robert Sinclair’s house, Gardener sat in the passenger seat, trying to make sense of what was happening. Within twenty-four hours, the victims had doubled, and the suspects had diminished.

Although willing to accept that Jackie Pollard could be their killer, he was unhappy with the lack of evidence. There had certainly been enough to detain Pollard for a further twelve hours, but he’d soon turned around any thoughts of another extension. The necessary paperwork had duly been signed, and a very despondent Pollard had left the police station pending further inquiries.

The news of Sonia Knight’s demise now meant that instead of being a suspect, Pollard could possibly be the next victim.

The whereabouts of Lance Hobson was paramount in the investigation. Had he discovered what Knight and Pollard had been up to? If so, why would he have killed Alex Wilson? Unless Wilson was in on the deception.

Despite what Jackie Pollard thought about Wilson being a major snitch, maybe he had turned and was blackmailing Knight. Had Knight killed Wilson? Had Wilson threatened to tell Hobson, leaving Knight with no option? Either way, it was unlikely that Gardener and his partner would actually find that out, with Knight having been disposed of.

Which led him back to Hobson, who had not been seen for a month. He’d met Pollard at The Harrogate Arms, had a drink, and then left. Where had he gone from there? Probably not home. The building seemed as if it had been empty for all of that time. Gardener had sent Dave Rawson over to the Harrogate Arms to interview the staff and the owners, which would hopefully reveal something. CCTV footage would be handy, but he doubted anyone kept recordings that long.

The other problem with Lance Hobson being involved was that he was not a doctor. If he was running things, then there had to be someone else working with him. But that made it a three-man operation. There was nothing to say it wasn’t a whole gang, but Gardener did not think a large number could operate on such a scale and keep everything under wraps. Someone somewhere would be seen or would let something slip. No, his money was on a smaller number.

Frank Thornton had called him as he was leaving the station to tell him about the interview with Graham Johnson, the owner of the computer shop.