Implant (DI Gardener 3)

“Mr Reilly is outside with the local police from Ilkley. Apparently there’s been an accident out on the road between Burley in Wharfedale, and there. Pretty bad, by all accounts.”

Cragg came rushing into the room with an old, faded newspaper in his hand.

“I’m sorry, it’s a macabre hobby of mine. I tend to keep stories of crimes that we’re linked with. You never know when you might need to refer to something.”

Cragg put the paper on a desk and rifled through it.

“Here it is.”

Gardener noticed the headline: ‘Local Nurse On Murder Charge’.

Whilst Cragg read the details, Gardener walked over to the ANACAPA chart, and did his best to draw more lines and add whatever information the desk sergeant came up with.

The door opened, and Reilly walked back in with the traffic police from Ilkley.

“Oh my God,” Cragg said suddenly.

Gardener turned, not sure who to speak to first.

“Boss,” said Reilly, making Gardener’s choice for him. “We’ve found Graham Johnson. It’s not good, I’m afraid.”

“Go on,” said Gardener, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“He’s just been killed in a road traffic accident.”

“What happened?”

“We’re not sure just yet, sir,” said one of the traffic squad “Apparently, he took a bend too fast, didn’t see the roadworks, and ended up running into a flatbed full of steel. I’m afraid he was decapitated.”

Gardener couldn’t really say anything about that. Had they lost a suspect, or a victim? Had something premeditated happened, causing the accident? And why the bloody hell would you not see a flatbed full of steel?

“Are the police at the scene now?”

“Yes sir, we’ve cordoned off the road while we clean up.”

“Check his van for a phone,” said Gardener. “If you find it, I want it back here. I also want his body taking straight to the mortuary. DS Reilly will give you the details.” Gardener started at Reilly. “Sean, can you ring Fitz and brief him?”

“I’d rather not,” said Reilly.

He turned to Cragg. “Maurice, pull up everything you have on Graham Johnson, in particular, a medical history.”

Could Graham Johnson have been a victim of his own involvement? Did he have a device inside his body with a Bluetooth chip simply waiting for the right moment? Even if Johnson had been involved, Gardener felt that they had yet to find the main man.

Cragg drew his attention. “I haven’t got much better news, either, sir.”

“Go on.”

“One of the patients in Sonia Knight’s care died from an overdose of a drug she should never have been given. At the very least, it should have been manslaughter, but Ronson was her brief and he somehow got her off.”

“How the hell did he manage that?”

“Anything was possible with Ronson,” said Reilly. “Who was the patient?”

Cragg glanced around the room solemnly. “Theresa Sinclair, wife of Robert, and sister of Graham Johnson.”

Gardener was busy trying to take everything in when Maurice Cragg dropped another bombshell.

“I remember now what happened four years ago. Young lad was found dead at five o’clock in the morning by one of the local traders, covered up with an alcohol-soaked blanket. That was your unsolved crime. Local folk say it had a lot to do with drugs, but no one’s ever been brought to justice.”