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Reilly leaned forward. “Like mobile phones?”
“Definitely,” said Fitz.
Gardener digested what the pathologist had told them, considering the implications. “So, it’s possible that the text to that phone in the shop could have set off the SIM card in that pump to deliver its lethal compound?”
Fitz leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. “I was coming to that. I think it’s very possible.”
“And the fact that these things are externally programmable means all this could have been set up and timed to the last second.”
“As near as.”
Gardener pondered the situation, the way that both he and Reilly had been manipulated. Dragged into solving clues with an unknown time limit, with the possibility their killer may not have been anywhere near the scene of the crime.
“Could we have saved Alex Wilson? The original message gave us three hours.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” replied Fitz. “Even if you had managed to work out the meaning of the message within the time limit, assuming you reached Wilson by six o’clock, all you would have done was watch him die. By that time, it was too late. The compound was charging around his body, and there is no antidote.”
“Why were his lips sewn together? Was there anything in his mouth?”
“No, nothing,” replied Fitz. “To try and keep him quiet, probably, so as not to alert you lot to the fact that he was in the cellar. The pain that Wilson would have felt is probably beyond describing. The holes in his hands and feet where he’d been crucified were elongated. That man desperately tried to pull himself off the wall. He was in the cellar of a shop in Bramfield, but you’d probably have heard his screams half a mile away.”
“Wonderful,” said Reilly. “The killer obviously knows that we wouldn’t want to rush into a trap in the cellar, but we’d do what we could to save someone who was in trouble.”
“Quite.” Fitz sat back in his chair and finished his coffee. “You might want to consider that there’s more than one person involved.”
“That thought had crossed my mind,” said Gardener. “I think there’s too much here for one person. I would think that one half of the duo has medical knowledge. Could be a doctor, a chemist, maybe even a student. The other half is an electronics expert, IT man, maybe. Someone who’s pretty clued up with technology if you take the Bluetooth chips, the SIM cards, and the externally programmable pumps.”
Gardener glanced at his watch. “Look, Fitz, thanks for all your help. At least it gives us another direction in which to take the investigation. We need to get back to the incident room and discuss all the developments.”
“And I need to get back to my wife before I have to find myself a solicitor.”
Gardener laughed, knowing full well that the elderly pathologist and his wife had a cast-iron marriage. He picked up the implantable pump and placed it in the clear bag alongside the SIM card. He headed for the door, but stopped and turned.
“Just one more question. Do you know a couple of surgeons called Robert Sinclair and Iain Ross?”
“Ross is consultant neurosurgeon at St. James’s Hospital?” replied Fitz. “I certainly do. Why do you ask?”
“No reason, really. It’s just that he’s personally involved with one of the officers at the station. A young PC whose mother has a brain tumour, something called a glioma?”
“Very nasty. A glioma is an extremely serious tumour, very few people survive those,” replied Fitz. “If Iain Ross is on the case, then she couldn’t be in better hands. I’ve known him for years. He and his wife are fans of the opera, and we have met on a number of occasions. Sinclair is also a very good surgeon, but he’s not in Ross’s class. But he’s had more to deal with in his personal life.”
“How so?” asked Gardener.
“The two of you share something in common – losing your wife in tragic circumstances.”
Fitz’s phone chimed as he was about to explain. He answered, and it was immediately obvious he was trying to console a wife who had his tea in the oven and wondered how much longer he’d be. Fitz asked if she would hold for a minute.
“If I were you, I’d pay them both a visit. Especially Ross. He’s a genius, been practicing medicine since the age of sixteen. He has a list of awards as long as your arm. He’s the man you need to talk to with this case.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Gardener and Reilly arrived at the Bramfield police station much later than anticipated. Inside, the lobby was light and warm, and Gardener could hear the voices of the officers going about their business. The aroma of fresh coffee and a mixture of different foods reminded him he had barely eaten since his breakfast.
“Christ, that smells good,” said Reilly. “Listen, boss, do you fancy a curry or something after the meeting?”
“Something sounds nice, even if it is a curry,” replied Gardener.
Cragg appeared from a back room with a tray of cups. “Good to see you, sir. We’re all here. Most of the lads are in the incident room already. Plenty of tea and coffee available.” He made his way across the lobby to the conference room as if he’d been a part of Gardener’s team forever. Gardener was about to follow him when he noticed Gary Close also emerge from the back room, a mug in his hand.
