Implant (DI Gardener 3)

“I will get out of here,” replied Hobson, “make no mistake. Then I’m going to kill you.”

“Are you really? Don’t tell me, you’re going to do that because of what I’ve done to you?” asked the man in front of him.

“No. As a matter of fact,” replied Hobson, desperately fighting to keep his feelings in line, “what I’ve done to you is more important to me. You must have a fucking good reason for all of this, so let’s hear it. What exactly have I done to you?”

The man walked around the room, removing the towel from his shoulders, wiping his face and forehead. Eventually he stood before Lance and leaned over, but not close enough to come within striking distance. He obviously knew that Hobson’s legs were still locked up, as he stood far enough away to be able to keep his captive out of harm’s reach.

“To me personally, nothing,” replied the man. “But you and low life scum like you were responsible for my son’s death. I swore blind that I would hunt you down and I would get even with you. It’s taken me four years, but I wasn’t going anywhere. It simply gave me more time to prepare a very satisfactory revenge.”

Suddenly, despite all the bravado, the courage, the staring into the face of adversity, the boot was on the other foot again. Hobson had obviously been fooling himself if he’d thought it could ever be any other way.

His mind whirled like a roller coaster. There were so many questions. The most prominent being who the hell had he killed four years ago?

Chapter Thirty-seven

Reilly parked the car at the back of The Corn Exchange and switched off the engine. He activated the central locking, and both he and Gardener set off to find Ronson’s office.

“You never did tell me the punishment your dad metered out,” commented the Irishman. “So what happened, then? A slap on the back of your legs and off to bed without any supper?”

Gardener smiled. “Oh, the wit of the Irish. So, what happened to you, a personality transplant?”

“God, no, I didn’t get off so lightly. I started working with you.”

Gardener laughed as they crossed the road in front of the circular building, heading towards the pedestrian access of Kirkgate.

“Well, he had to have his say, you know what he’s like. I think he thinks I’m still a child.”

“Only natural, boss,” replied Reilly. “You’ll always be his boy no matter what age you are.”

“He must have had forgiveness in his soul. He’d made a nice shepherd’s pie, which we had with honey-roast parsnips, vegetables, and roast potatoes. It was the first cooked meal I’d had in three days. And we also had homemade bread and butter pudding.”

“Jesus wept. I don’t know how you can eat that stuff.”

“That coming from a human garbage disposal.”

“Even we have standards!”

Gardener spared a thought for his father, Malcolm. Following Sarah’s death, he’d offered his help, and had moved into their home temporarily. The house was detached and large enough, centrally located in the small but picturesque village of Churchaven. The relationship had worked out so well that the arrangement had become permanent, which pleased his son Chris, who was now considering a career in law.

Malcolm was always available for his grandson, especially when Gardener could not be there for one reason or another. He helped Chris with his homework, cooked his meals, catered to most of his whims in general, and regularly took him to the cinema. They shared a great love of films.

The streets of Leeds were full of people on their way to work, hopping on and off buses. The market traders were busy with their stalls, something that always pleased Gardener. He noticed a window cleaner plying his trade early. The food stalls were up and running, smells of cooked breakfast permeating the air, mingling with the aroma from the local bakers. Gardener knew which he preferred, which no doubt differed to his partner’s tastes.

They entered a small side street off Kirkgate, where Wilfred Ronson’s offices were situated. Both men glanced up at an exterior that had seen better days. A lot of the buildings had been cleaned by the council over the last few years and were much smarter for it. Ronson’s had obviously been missed.

There were four brass plaques on the wall at the side of the door. Three of them were highly polished: one belonged to a shipping office, another an accountant, and the third an interior designer. The fourth had a dull, tarnished finish. That was Ronson’s.

Gardener pushed the door open and was greeted with a long, winding staircase. He caught an odour of lavender and beeswax. A deep blue carpet covered the floor. Adorning the walls were a number of oils featuring ships and seascapes. The building had two offices upstairs and two on the ground floor, one of which was Ronson’s. The place was as silent as the grave.

Gardener did not bother to knock, but simply opened the door and entered, surprised to find it actually open. He suspected most solicitors didn’t start before ten.

Ronson’s office was large, accommodating two desks and an inordinate number of files, which were conveniently stored on shelves with the overspill left on desks and chairs. The place resembled a burglary.

In the corner he noticed tea and coffee facilities. The enclosed space smelled musty, and he suspected from the grime on the windows that they had never been opened. What he couldn’t understand was why the door was unlocked, and the office unoccupied.

“Christ,” said Reilly. “You’d think with the money he made he’d be able to afford something better than this.”

“Even if he couldn’t,” replied Gardener, “cleaners don’t cost much, do they?”