Implant (DI Gardener 3)

“Would one of you mind telling me what you’re talking about?”

Gardener briefly outlined their thoughts and the evidence they had found. Fitz sat back in his chair.

“That takes some believing. I often wondered what the effect of losing two close family members in such a short space of time would do to the man. But, if you’re looking for suspects, Sinclair certainly had the knowledge. Have you caught Sinclair yet?”

Gardener rose from his chair. “No, but we will before the night’s out.”

Chapter Fifty-five

Lance Hobson had had the house to himself for two hours.

He’d left the basement. Unaware that he was alone, he’d crept around the place very carefully, glancing into every nook and cranny, leaving no stone unturned. He’d started at the top and worked his way down.

An attic room had provided him with a good insight into the man he was dealing with. Sinclair had kept a shrine to his family. Hobson had recognized Adam. He’d remembered the incident four years previously. It had had something to do with that idiot, Wilson.

He’d been scoring drugs in the middle of Bursley Bridge – against Hobson’s express wishes – when he’d suspected he was being filmed. He’d chased young Sinclair and cornered him in the alley leading to the market before calling Hobson. No amount of searching had revealed the so-called phone that he was supposed to have been filming them with. However, the matter had to be put to bed. But Hobson hadn’t known about Adam’s death until a couple of days later.

There were also family photos in the attic, many of Sinclair’s wife, and the three of them as a family unit. That death he did know about, because he’d ordered it. Sinclair’s wife had been in the clinic near Harrogate: the one that Knight had worked her way into with the express purpose of keeping her eye on the woman, whose name, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember. Sinclair’s father had been treating her. Knight was uneasy that Sinclair’s wife, growing in confidence with each passing day, had gone to great lengths to obtain anything she could relating to the death of her son, which could have spelled disaster for them. She’d had to go.

Whilst Hobson had understood Sinclair’s feelings about everything, a score still had to be settled. Hobson may well have been a bad lot, with very few excuses for the things he’d done but in his world it was dog eat dog. And even though he sympathized with the surgeon, he could not allow the man to treat him the way he had done and walk away. Hobson may well have considered trying to bargain with Sinclair, had he not figured he was a dead man himself.

Down in the bedroom, Hobson had used the en suite toilet on more than one occasion, which also gave him the excuse to have his first shower in at least a month. He’d cleaned his teeth, which had hurt. He chose one of Sinclair’s own running suits to wear.

Then he’d glanced in a mirror. He’d wished he hadn’t. God knew how much weight he had lost. His hair had thinned out. His face and his cheekbones had sunk inwards, leaving his eyes bulbous, with dark circles underneath. His teeth had gaps between them – no wonder brushing them had nearly killed him. His body was skin and bone; he could quite clearly see his ribs. There was no wonder he’d felt so bad.

On the ground floor, he’d found further evidence of where he was being holed up. In the study were a number of envelopes with Sinclair’s name and address. He’d found it hard to believe that he had been in Bursley Bridge from the beginning, not too far from his own home in Harrogate.

Leanin

g on the desk for support, he’d thought about his home and his life, and Sonia Knight, which had caused a tear or two. He’d had everything: big house, conservatory, pool. Flash car. More money than he needed. Why the hell hadn’t he called it a day before now? In retrospect, it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d have needed to call it a day before Adam Sinclair’s death in order to escape what had been coming to him.

Before leaving the study, an unexpected bonus had presented itself on the floor underneath the desk. He wouldn’t have known but for a coughing fit, which had rendered him helpless and on his knees, fighting to breathe.

In the kitchen he had found food. He hadn’t eaten for a few days, so he’d taken it easy. He’d scrambled some eggs and made fresh coffee in the percolator, completely at ease, unfazed by the fact that he had not seen a soul since his escape from the basement. People would have to show eventually, especially the man he wanted.

Hobson finished the last of the coffee and placed his cup on the empty plate. The eggs and the coffee had been good. He didn’t feel any better. His body was racked with pain now, from head to toe. His breathing was heavier than it had been in recent days. He suspected that his body was now prone to infection. Earlier, in the study, the coughing fit had resulted in a small amount of blood in his hand after he removed it from covering his mouth.

He was about to investigate the house further when he heard a lock turn. The front door opened, and eventually slammed shut.

Hobson rose from his chair very slowly, not that he had much choice.

Whoever was home went straight up the stairs.

He made his way to the kitchen door and stood behind it, with his hands behind his back.

Eventually, a petite woman with grey hair waltzed into the kitchen, stopping dead at the sight of an empty cup and plate. She was obviously confused, and spoke to herself whilst removing the crockery from the table and into the sink. She muttered something about the doctor knowing better. From that, Hobson worked out that the woman was not his second wife. Maybe she was a housekeeper. Not so good for him. Not as much bargaining power.

The woman turned.

Hobson blocked the doorway.

Her hands flew to her mouth. “Who are you? What do you want? There’s no money here.”

“I don’t want money,” replied Hobson, calmly.

“We have no drugs on the premises. Mr Sinclair doesn’t believe in that sort of thing.”

“I don’t want drugs,” said Hobson. He knew she had lied about the drugs. God knew what he’d been given in the time he’d been held captive. He could tell that his two simple statements had really unsettled the woman.