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“Is this yours?”
“Well it’s on my desk, so it must be,” replied Jackson.
Gardener ignored the sarcasm. He picked up the magazine and leafed through it. The ten-page article he found on games covered most everything but the one he wanted.
“Are you into games?” he asked Jackson.
“My grandfather introduced me to them a few years back before he died. He had a huge collection, even some from his childhood. He left them to me. As you can imagine I don’t have a great deal of time to play them but I intend to one day. I’m quite fascinated how popular they were. And still are, according to that magazine.”
Gardener sifted through his pocket and pulled out the game card sealed in the polythene bag. “Ever seen this one?”
Jackson stared at it. “Christ, where did you get that?”
“Did your granddad have an edition of this game?”
“No,” replied Jackson, “but I didn’t think one existed. I just thought it was a myth.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Only that it’s a bit of a holy grail of games, very collectible, very limited. There was something in the magazine about six months ago.”
“Do you still have it?” asked Reilly.
Jackson glowered at the desk and then at the detectives. “Somewhere, but I doubt I could lay my hands on it.”
“Can you try for us, please, Dr Jackson? It could prove very invaluable. Give me a call if you do.”
Leaving Jackson’s office, Gardener had his phone in his hand, talking to Sergeant Williams at Bramfield. He wanted background information on Robert Sinclair, Iain Ross and Andrew Jackson.
He left the hospital with mixed feelings. He was elated that they were heading out with something positive, but disappointed that Ross’s name had cropped up again. Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone, however.
It took another half an hour before they arrived at the Foundation, a gigantic, high-tech building that resembled something out of Star Trek.
“Jesus Christ,” said Reilly, parking the car. “There’s some money here.”
The pair of them entered the air-conditioned reception. A blonde receptionist sat in front of a glass and chrome desk, and Gardener wondered if they were plastic surgeons as well. She had to be the most perfect specimen he’d ever seen. The girl didn’t have a visible blemish on her.
Both men showed their cards, and Gardener felt as if that’s all he’d done all morning. He told her they wanted to speak to Dr Ross immediately, before asking if Ro
bert Sinclair was in office as well. The receptionist corrected him, telling him it was “mister,” not doctor, and that Sinclair wasn’t but Ross was in attendance.
Within two minutes, they were in an office furnished to the highest standards. Leather suite, dark oak furniture, and a brick-built fireplace with an open log fire ready for a match to strike. The ceiling had a chandelier, and the walls had a variety of oils that were, in Gardener’s opinion, out of place – especially the one above the fireplace.
Ross was as smooth as Sinclair. He was wearing a grey Italian designer suit and shoes that matched the colour of his hair – which was damp. He was slim and handsome, and spoke with a deep, resonant voice. He was the type of person who gestured with his hands as he spoke. “How can I help you? Do you mind if I sit down, I’ve just recently had an intense workout?”
Gardener glanced to the chair, and he and Reilly also took one.
“I knew the Times crossword was tough but I didn’t realize it was that hard,” said Reilly.
Ross simply smiled.
“That’s an unusual painting above the desk,” said Gardener.
Ross turned and glanced at it. “It represents strength.”
“Is it a tarot card?” asked Reilly.
“I couldn’t tell you,” replied Ross.
