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He knew that Ronson’s death was going to exhaust an already overstretched team. Last night, when he had left the incident room, he felt a glimmer of hope that they were heading in a positive direction. Now, he had a mountain the size of Ben Nevis to climb, especially with what he needed to know today. The hardest job would be capturing transmission signals in the area and trying to trace their origin.
Gardener and Reilly stepped out of the office and back into the booking hall. They were about to leave, when Steve Fenton came after them.
“Sir, found these.”
He had two plain white envelopes in a clear evidence bag.
“Where were they?”
“In the briefcase. But someone had been clever. They were sewn into the lining. The stitching had been left unfinished at the end. You had to look closely to spot it.”
Gardener thanked him and took them. If he’d actually needed more proof that it was the same man, here it was.
“Come on, Sean, let’s get to the hospital.”
Reilly drove. Gardener produced a pair of latex gloves and removed and opened the envelopes. In the first, he had a tarot card known as Judgment. The top part of the card had an angel with wings against a blue background, blowing a trumpet with a St. George flag attached. Below the angel were a number of naked people with their arms outstretched. What that meant, he had no idea. But as soon as they arrived at the hospital, he would have Sean telephone Laura for an explanation.
The second envelope revealed yet another game card. The really disturbing part about it was the character on the card, ‘Barrister Bent’, was the spitting image of Wilfred Ronson as they had seen him on the platform, right down to the coat and the deerstalker. He even held a similar briefcase. Like the Inspector Catcher card, Barrister Bent also had a balloon coming from his mouth, with a phrase written in: “Don’t worry about a thing, son.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Reilly brought the car to a halt in the hospital car park and switched off the engine.
Inside the hospital, it took them nearly fifteen minutes to track down Andrew Jackson. Gardener had to have the staff put out a call; they found he had finished up in theatre within the last five minutes, and would be with them in the next five.
They waited in his office. Jackson seemed equally as harassed as they had seen him yesterday.
“Gentlemen,” he greeted them, striding across to his desk and sitting in the chair. “How can I help you this time?”
Gardener came to the point. He was in no mood for the doctor trying to close ranks on him. “Wilfred Ronson is a solicitor whose name has come up more than once during our investigation. We met him off a train this morning, and he dropped dead in front of us.”
“Oh, dear,” said Jackson.
“Yes, oh dear,” repeated Gardener. “Turns out he had an ICD fitted here at the end of June.”
“What are you suggesting?” asked Jackson, standing.
“Can you tell us who operated on him?”
“I don’t think I can. Ever heard of client confidentiality, Mr Gardener?”
“Never mind all that bollocks,” replied Reilly. “This is a murder investigation. We want to know who fitted the ICD, and the exact date.”
“I think it’s best if I consult a solicitor before I say another word.”
“The next words you speak will be from the inside of a cell if you carry on,” said Gardener. “Now, as my sergeant has pointed out, we’re investigating murder and we are trying to get to the truth: we are not breaking confidentiality codes here. We are simply asking for the name of the doctor. I can, if you’d like, shut this place, and keep you rooted here to your desk until I get a warrant, but I don’t think you want that inconvenience any more than I do. So please, just do as we ask.”
Jackson seemed to think Gardener’s speech made sense, and tapped a few keys on his keyboard. “When did you say?”
“Sometime around the end of June.” It took another few minutes, but the doctor found what they were after.
“Mr Ross. A Mr Iain Ross, spelling the first name with two ‘I’s. June 28th.”
“Thank you,” said Gardener. “Is he here today?”
“No, but you will find him at the Ross & Sinclair Foundation. He’s a part owner and works with Robert Sinclair.”
That was all he needed but another thought struck him as he turned leave the office. He spotted the edge of the collector’s magazine he’d seen last time. Moving all the papers for a better view, he studied the cover. The issue had a big spread about retro games and the Cluedo board was on the front.
