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“I only said I was like him. There is a limit, even for friends.”
Gardener laughed. He could always count on the Irishman for that. He knew from past experience that Sean Reilly had seen things in Ulster that would make his hair fall out, never mind curl up. As far as he was concerned, he could not walk into the current situation with a better man. Assuming he was actually telling the truth.
The night was warm and clear. The tree-lined road was a pleasure to walk. There were no cars on the road, and the only sound Gardener could hear were their footsteps. By the time they walked through the gates onto the drive, the whole situation had been turned upside down.
Floodlights lit up the entire front of the house. Sinclair was standing near his car. Mabel Bradshaw was backed up against the wall of the house about three feet from the front door, a hand clamped around her throat by a man holding a gun, which he had pointed at Sinclair.
“Who the fuck are you?” shouted the man with the gun.
Gardener kept his hands in front of him where the gunman could see them. “Are you Lance Hobson?”
“What of it? You look like pigs to me.”
Gardener was horrified at the state of Hobson. He did not resemble any of the photographs that Gardener had seen. The man was a mere shell of himself. Where had he been, and what the hell had happened to him?
“Come on now, son. Put the gun down. You don’t want to do anything stupid.”
“He did that when he broke into my property and threatened us,” said Sinclair.
“Fuck off, Sinclair. Why don’t you tell them the truth? You and me have a score to settle.” Hobson glanced at Gardener. “And it doesn’t involve you lot, or anybody else for that matter.”
“Then why are you holding her hostage?” asked Reilly.
“That’s my business.”
“Mr Hobson, you’ve already told us your argument is with Mr Sinclair, and it involves no one else,” said Gardener. “In which case, you should let your hostage go.”
Hobson glanced at Sinclair. “I’m waiting.”
Sinclair glanced at Gardener. “I have no idea what he’s talking about, Mr Gardener. I’ve had a very long and tiring day, and I returned home from an important meeting to find this lunatic in my house, brandishing a gun.”
“Lying bastard,” shouted Hobson, leaving Mabel Bradshaw and taking a step towards the surgeon.
“Calm down, Hobson,” shouted Reilly. “Whatever’s going on here, we can talk about it.”
Hobson pointed the gun at Reilly, which, as far as Gardener was concerned, was the wrong thing to do, even if it was loaded and you were a crack shot. The Irishman was so unpredictable, he could turn almost any situation to his own advantage.
“Keep out of it.”
Mabel Bradshaw had not moved. She was obviously too frightened.
Gardener took a step in her direction, only to discover that he was now facing the gun.
“I don’t want to have to blow your head off, copper.”
“I don’t want you to, either,” said Gardener. He glanced at Sinclair, and then at Hobson. “Seeing as he isn’t going to talk, maybe you can tell us your version of events.”
Gardener heard a car behind him. The armed response unit had arrived. Four officers all wearing protective Kevlar clothing, and each with his own rifle.
Gardener held up his right hand and waved slightly to signal that he did not want them any further than the gate.
Reilly must have read his intentions, because he backed away from Gardener – never taking his eyes from the situation – and spoke to the officers.
Gardener turned back to Hobson. “I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“Tell me what’s happened. He clearly isn’t going to,” said Gardener, pointing to Sinclair. “And you’re claiming you did not break in. So, tell me what’s happened.”
