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Mabel Bradshaw had come out of the house. She had covered her face with
her hands. If she’d seen that, she would have nightmares for the rest of her life, thought Gardener.
Reilly was on his feet and had already covered the ground between him and Sinclair.
“Are you satisfied now?” he asked the surgeon.
“Very,” replied Sinclair. “Mission complete.”
Gardener glanced at his partner. “Sean, the cuffs?” He suddenly remembered the comment Simon Walker had made earlier in the day: ‘He was ever such a particular little man. An absolute stickler for seeing justice done.’
Gardener faced Sinclair.
“Robert Sinclair. I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“Pardon?” replied the surgeon.
“If you’re having hearing problems, Mr Sinclair, I can recommend a doctor.”
What happened next did not shock Gardener at all.
Sinclair started to cry like a baby.
“He killed my wife and son, Mr Gardener.”
The sobs were like a storm breaking on the mainland. You could wait for days, but when it came, you were not prepared. His whole body buckled under the emotional pressure, and he fell to his knees.
“What did you expect me to do? Sit back and let him take the lives of the people I loved?” sobbed Sinclair. The tears flowed freely, given the fact that he was handcuffed.
“I had nothing left.”
Sinclair glanced towards the heavens, whispering, “And now... now…” He glanced back at Gardener, “I have nothing.”
Gardener led Sinclair to the car, thinking how many other people had nothing left: Wilson, Knight, Hobson, Ronson, Johnson – possibly even the innocent bystanders like Albert Armitage, and one of their own, Gary Close. How many lives had been ruined for the sake of a mistake? The fact that someone happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? How destinies can change in a fraction of a second.
Sinclair apologized to his housekeeper. What for, Gardener wasn’t sure.
As he lowered Sinclair into the car, Gardener said, “I can understand your grief, Mr Sinclair, but what I would have expected you to do was call us, the police, and let us deal with it.”
Sinclair stared at Gardener. It was an intense glare, and made him feel like he was staring down the barrel of a gun for the second time tonight.
“You lot couldn’t even find the phone.”
Sinclair then stared down his chest.
“It’s in my inside pocket... if you want it.”
Epilogue
Maurice Cragg was sitting alone at the desk in the back room. On the table in front of him, he had a cup of tea, and a couple of digestive biscuits.
He picked up the tea, clasping the cup between both hands, desperately trying to make sense of something that didn’t make any at all. Three days ago, everything appeared fine on the surface. Since then, six people had been killed, one of which was a policeman, a young man he had known for some years. And one of the county’s most respected surgeons, someone he’d known even longer, had been arrested.
He was alone in the station. The HOLMES lads had gone home for the day. They would be returning tomorrow to collect everything. Two of his men were out attending to a burglary. DI Gardener and DS Reilly had taken their suspect to Millgarth in Leeds.
He simply couldn’t begin to work out what had gone wrong, and when it had all started.
In the corner of the room, the desktop PC that Maurice liked to think was Gary’s machine – because he didn’t really know how to work them – pinged. The screen saver disappeared, and the computer seemed to be going into self-destruct mode as far as he could see: flashing lights and beeping noises all over the bloody place.
