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The surgeon let out a defeated sigh, which, as far as Gary was concerned, was the first bit of human compassion he’d shown since driving into the car park.
“That was just one risk too many.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” shouted Gary.
“I couldn’t have had this argument last night. I couldn’t take the risk of you informing your colleagues.”
“What?” Gary was stunned by the admission. “Go to my colleagues? And tell them what? That all the crimes during the last few days were down to me?”
“You’re not taking it too well now, are you? I needed a little more time to complete things before you went running off. I never leave anything incomplete, Gary. You should know me by now.”
Gary walked over to the window, clenching and unclenching his fists.
He was confused, but he did realize one thing: he was through talking. It was like having a conversation with a brick wall. The surgeon was hiding behind a force field of some kind, unable to see any wrong in what they had done. All Gary really wanted was to knock seven shades of shit out of him.
Gary thought about what Sinclair had said. Maybe he’d given him a clue, and the way to deal with it was to come clean. After all, what did he have to lose? His father had died; so had his mother. There was nothing left to lose.
He turned and raced towards the surgeon, stopping short by a matter of inches, pointing a warning finger. “I’m going to finish you, Sinclair. You’re right, I should go to the police. I will. I’ll tell them everything.”
“That’s your prerogative.”
Gary backed away slightly. Something told him that Sinclair was still far too calm. After everything that had happened, the threats Gary had made, and still he had not put up a fight. Most people would have panicked, tried to talk him out of it. But the surgeon had acted like a robot. Gary had no idea what was going through his mind. The man was a psychopath. The calm ones always were.
The young PC needed to leave, and soon.
“You really aren’t bothered, are you?”
“I wouldn’t say that, Gary,” said Sinclair.
They were back to first name terms. Gary definitely had to go, come clean to the police as soon as he could. He’d serve time, but what the hell did that matter?
Gary backed away and headed for the door. As he turned the handle and opened it, Sinclair spoke.
“How is your leg, Gary?”
Chapter Fifty-one
Questions: Which two players were sent off in the scandal-ridden Charity Shield match against FA Cup Champions Liverpool, during Don Revie’s last season as manager? Who took over the team and lasted only 44 days, and which England Captain replaced him?
Answers: Billy Bremner & Kevin Keegan. Brian Clough. Jimmy Armfield.
His remaining leg was finally free. Hobson had shouted the answers with what little strength he had left.
He felt disgusting. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d seen the monster who’d held him captive. A few hours maybe, but in that time his health had deteriorated.
He was sure now that he had succumbed to a fever of some description, brought on by the effect of the Ebola virus. His body was in total discomfort all the time. Each and every one of his muscles ached. His head pounded, and his nasal passage and throat felt closed in, obviously inflamed. The rash covered much more of his body, and he was beginning to resemble a burn victim. The diarrhoea had grown worse, and he’d noticed traces of blood in it.
But he was free.
And now, no matter how fucking crap he felt, he was going to fight the remainder of the battle on his terms.
He glanced at the vials on the wall. What was it the surgeon had said?
There were five vials, but only one would cure him. How did he know that to be true?
He didn’t.
But the surgeon had also mentioned a key, hidden somewhere within the four walls.
