Implant (DI Gardener 3)

“Maybe that’s why he isn’t answering his phone?” added Anderson.

The situation was growing worse. Gardener sincerely hoped not. He liked Gary Close. But bent coppers were no good to anyone. When and if they found the evidence to support it, he would love to know what had driven the young PC. The only conclusion Gardener could come to was his mother Christine.

Gardener’s mobile rang. He recognised the number as Andrew Jackson’s.

“Dr Jackson?” he answered.

“Mr Gardener. I’m just calling about the computers at the hospital. I’m afraid I have no good news for you.”

“I’d still like to hear it.”

“Well, it seems that our machines have been tampered with in some way. The IT guys are still trying to get to the bottom of it. But at the moment, I cannot give you a definite answer as to who performed the surgery on Mr Ronson.”

Gardener was not about to play his hand and let Jackson know that he probably knew already.

“Okay, keep trying. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

The call ended.

Mike Sands, the officer in charge of HOLMES, entered the room.

“Mike?” said Gardener.

He had a piece of paper in his hand. “Something here you might want to see that HOLMES has just thrown out. It’s a receipt from the shop that shows Robert Sinclair bought a stack of wood, fixings, and tools from Armitage about five weeks ago.”

Chapter Forty-nine

Albert Armitage and his wife lived in a dormer bungalow out on the old Bramfield Road, halfway between Bramfield and Bursley Bridge. Gardener and Reilly had to negotiate a tree-lined drive, which eventually led to a double garage before they saw the place. To their left was a well-maintained garden with a colourful display of flowers and shrubs. Each window of the bungalow had blinds, and Gardener suspected that being in the business, he would see a lot of Armitage’s handiwork inside.

The old man opened the front door and greeted them. He was dressed in a plain blue shirt, paisley patterned jumper, and a pair of cream trousers.

“Mr Gardener, Mr Reilly. Come on through, the wife and me were just having us afternoon glass of wine in the conservatory.”

They followed him through the house and, as Gardener had suspected, unique, hand-crafted furniture was evident in each of the rooms. They were offered a seat on cane furniture, and the view from the conservatory was pleasant: another large garden full of shrubs and flowers and, at the back, apple and pear trees.

Mrs Armitage nodded and poured them both a cold soft drink whether they wanted it or not and left the room, informing her husband she was going to put the dinner on.

“Lovely place, Mr Armitage,” said Gardener. “I can see it’s very well kept.”

Armitage sipped his wine, and then sat back and folded his arms.

“Any nearer to catching the killer? It’s not that Lance bloke, is it?” he said.

“We are following a number of leads, one of which has brought us here.”

“And what might that be?” asked Armitage.

“The last time we spoke to you, one of the questions we asked was whether or not you’d had any people asking for strange or unusual tools.”

“I remember you asking, but like I said, I hadn’t. There’s that many tools on the market these days that are strange and unusual in their design, but at the end of the day, they’re made that way for a reason. What are you getting at?”

Gardener passed over a copy of the receipt he’d taken from Mike Sands of the HOLMES team. Everything was itemized, and the list ranged from basic screws and nuts and bolts, to all manner of fancy brackets and hinges. There was a lot of wood, and a number of power tools. The final figure came to a little under seven hundred and fifty pounds.

Armitage studied it and then handed it back.

“I do remember that.”

“Do you remember who purchased it all?”