Implant (DI Gardener 3)

“Did he tell you anything useful?”

“You could say that.”

Gardener’s phone chimed, cutting the conversation short. “DI Gardener.”

“Mr Gardener? It’s Andrew Jackson here.”

“What can I do for you, Dr Jackson?”

“It’s about the defibrillator we found inside the mouth of your victim.”

“Go on.”

“We’ve checked all the stock here at the hospital. It’s all present and correct.”

Gardener was disappointed. “Well, thanks for checking.”

“Oh, that’s not all. I do recognize your ICD. It’s part of a number to be returned to the manufacturer, a company called KarGen, here in Leeds. We had a faulty batch, maybe four or five. I’m not quite sure what the problem was, but they should all have been returned over a month ago.

“I’ve checked the returns forms and there appears to be a discrepancy. You see, the same man always signs for returns at KarGen, only this time it was someone else. I cannot read the signature, which suggests something is amiss. I have the feeling that they were not returned at all.”

“Unless the person who normally signs off was on holiday, Dr Jackson. But that said, I want a list of all the staff, including directors, and the man responsible for returning them.”

There was a pause where Gardener could almost hear the cogs spinning round in Andrew Jackson’s mind.

“That’s a bit of a tall order,” he replied.

“I appreciate that, but this is a murder investigation.”

Chapter Thirty-three

Reilly pulled the car to a halt outside the railway station in Bursley Bridge. It was another warm day with a blue sky unspoiled by clouds. Members of the public were still present, trying to breach the scene. Even though their police car was unmarked, reporters had spotted it, converging on them before Gardener had his hand on the door handle.

As he and Reilly exited, the questions started.

“Sir, Darren Smith, Yorkshire Post. Can you tell us anything?”

Gardener ignored him and made his way to the station entrance.

“Geoff Hughes, Yorkshire Echo. Has someone been killed? The public has a right to know.”

Gardener stopped and stared at the man. He was no more than five-foot tall, and almost as round. His head desperately clung to what hair remained, and he wore half-lens spectacles.

“What they have, Mr Hughes, is a right to the truth, something you lot seem to know very little about.”

“That’s a bit strong,” shouted the reporter.

“Truth hurts, does it?” replied Gardener. “Oh, I’m sorry, you wouldn’t know, would you?”

The reporter was about to protest further when Gardener turned and walked away.

“You heard him,” said Reilly. “Now when we have something, we’ll tell you.”

Both men flashed their warrant cards to the officer guarding the entrance before continuing up the steps and into the station. Gardener was pleased he hadn’t seen Giles Middleton standing vigil.

Everywhere he stared, the POLSA team – plus his own officers – were on their hands and knees conducting a painstaking fingertip

search, which must be rankling them as much as him. It was a thankless, painstaking task that was unlikely to yield any result, but it had to be done.