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“Somewhere accommodating,” repeated Gardener, “like a big house, or a foundation?”
“Or a hospital,” suggested Reilly, “but I doubt you could get away with that.”
“Food for thought,” replied Gardener. “It doesn’t really move us on except to put two people into the frame who are probably not the ones you’d suspect.”
“Sinclair and Ross?” suggested Colin Sharp.
“I really can’t see either of those two being involved,” said Cragg.
“You wouldn’t think so, Maurice,” said Gardener. “And I would doubt it myself, unless we find a connection with Graham Johnson.”
“There’s always Andrew Jackson at the hospital,” said Reilly.
“Time would be his problem,” said Gardener, “he only breathes because it’s automatic.”
Further topics discussed included the PolSA team at Bursley Bridge, the house-to-house, the pub guests, train-spotters and, finally, the station manager Giles Middleton, but most of the comments brought nothing new to the table.
“Still a bit of an open playing field,” Dave Rawson finally offered.
“Yes, but I do feel we’re getting somewhere.” Gardener smiled. The meeting had been a good one. The team had their actions; perhaps it was time to wind down a little earlier than last night.
He was about to say as much when Cragg demanded their attention.
“There is one more thing, sir. It’s pretty serious.” Judging by the expression on the desk sergeant’s face, he meant it.
“Go on,” said the SIO.
“We’ve had a call from a gentleman whose son has apparently gone missing.”
“Missing? Where’s he calling from?”
“Churchaven, sir.”
Gardener thought about that for the moment. “Well, that’s where I live. Who is it?”
All eyes were on Gardener now. Children going missing was a serious business, especially as Gardener had had first-hand experience during the Christmas murders case.
A smile cracked Cragg’s face as he started laughing.
“A gentleman called Malcolm Gardener, sir. Said he hasn’t seen his son Stewart since Sunday night, and if I came across him, will I send him home early for his tea?”
Reilly’s infectious laughter instigated the entire room, and Gardener could feel his face reddening. He knew he would never live it down.
Chapter Thirty-six
Lance Hobson was confused on a number of levels.
Sitting on the toilet seat on top of the bucket with his legs still shackled, he wondered if that had been its sole purpose all along: somewhere to rest his weary body if he found he could play the game and become a winner.
The first hint that he would ever walk free from it all came five hours ago, when he’d actually managed to answer one of the random questions thrown out by the computer. The man holding him captive had obviously been right when he said he knew Lance. Despite feeling so crap, it hadn’t taken Hobson long to work out that the ones he was able to answer with relative ease were all about his favourite childhood football team, Leeds United.
Hobson had been an ardent follower since he’d been taken to the Elland Road stadium in 1982, when he was five years old. His father had bought him everything he needed to become a true supporter: shirt, hat, gloves, scarf; even strip to play on outside.
He couldn’t remember too much about those early matches, but the game and the club had started to make a real impact in 1985, when former player Billy Bremner took over the team. During that year, Lance, eight at the time, had managed to secure a place in the youth team, and had spent more time at the ground, taking any odd jobs he was given, acquiring first-hand knowledge about his pride and joy. Within three years, everything had changed. He’d fallen in with the wrong crowd, and found a life of crime far more attractive. His love for the club did not wane, but his ability to play the game did. The rest – as they say – is history. Despite his extensive knowledge, however, the questions his captor had fed into the computer were not as easy as he would have wanted.
At two o’clock in the morning, Hobson had woken up with every joint in his body engulfed by pain. The computer was on, still throwing out conundrums for him to work on. The time limit on the questions meant that they were refreshed every two or three minutes. He’d lost interest early on, and had stopped trying to answer questions on subjects he felt he had little or no knowledge of, despite what his captor had told him.
Then he’d noticed something. The subject of Leeds United was raised, and with it the possibility that he may be able to work his way out his mess. The first two questions remained unanswered because they were too far back in team history for his memory, and he ran out of time. He’d realized he would have to do better if anything was going to happen. Thankfully, his newfound interest allowed him to forget about his mystery virus, and any pain it brought.
