Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  Captives

  Shaun Hutson

  The murders had been savage and apparently motiveless. Carbon copies of killings committed years earlier and by men currently incarcerated in one of Britain's top maximum security prisons. How could this be?

  Detective Inspector Frank Gregson must find the answers. Answers which will bring him into conflict with one of those prisoners, a man framed for a murder he didn't commit and determined to discover who framed him and why.

  These two obsessive men, on their private quests, will clash as they seek the truth which links Whitely Prison with London's seedy underworld of sex-shows and drug barons.

  One wants vengeance, the other wants the truth. What they discover threatens not only their lives but their sanity…

  Shaun Hutson

  Captives

  ***

  'The man who writes what others are afraid even to imagine.'

  -Sunday Times

  'You can't read shaun hutson for more than a minute or two without starting to squirm.'

  -Daily Express

  'An expert in the art of keeping the reader turning the pages.'

  -Time Out

  ***

  Dedicated to Mr Wally Grove.

  My most valued friend. From one unsociable bastard to another.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As with all my books, there now follows a list of everyone or everything that contributed to the writing and beyond. Even if it was only to try and keep yours truly something approaching sane. To everyone mentioned you have either my thanks or my admiration (some even have both).

  Extra special thanks to Gary Farrow, my manager, for his continuing efforts to ensure that anyone but us pays for expenses (and, no, I'm still not wearing a bloody suit). Thanks, mate. Thanks also to Chris Page at 'the office' (despite his taste in football teams). Many thanks to Mr Damian Pulle, the Houdini of the VAT returns.

  Very special thanks to Nick Webb for his faith and his matchless ability to find gut-busting restaurants. To John O'Connor, Don Hughes, Bob Macdonald, Terry Jackson and Dave Kent and, especially, all my sales team for hammering everyone into submission. You don't release this lot, you unleash them. Thanks also to everyone in publicity and marketing. Extra special thanks to Caroline Bishop who put up with me 'on the road' (I promise to wear a vest next time, C.B…). But to everyone who contributed to a superb campaign, I thank you. To Barbara Boote and to John 'I know that one' Jarrold, many thanks. In fact, to everyone at Little Brown/Warner I extend my thanks.

  Special thanks, as ever, to Peter Williams and Ray Mudie. To Tom Jones (no, not that one) and UCI. To Steve Hobbs at Bletchley Library for his help and interest.

  Very special thanks to Mr James 'this is how this one is going to end' Hale, editor par excellence (have I spelt that right, James?).

  To Brian 'I've got two tickets here and by the way there's another one arriving soon' Pithers. To Graham Rogers at 'Late Night Late' (I always wanted to be on TV, Graham). Thanks also to 'Mad' Malcolm Dome and Phil Alexandar at RAW, to Jerry Ewing at METAL FORCES and to Krusher at KERRANG. (and GLR of course…) Thanks to Gareth James, John Gullidge, Nick Cairns and John Martin. To John Phillips, or should I say Rikki…

  Massive, immeasurable thanks to David Galbraith (and to ROCK POWER) for the meat pie and the day of a lifetime and also to Dave 'can I have your autograph Mr Gilliam' Evans.

  Extra Special thanks to the phenomenal Margaret Daly who tried to kill me in Dublin, but in the nicest possible way. Thank you for your amazing work.

  Many thanks, as ever, to Broomhills Pistol Club, particularly to Bert and Anita. To Dave Holmes who sat and talked to me without giving a toss I'd only end up with three hours sleep. Thanks, mate… Keep the sick jokes coming.

  Special thanks to all the staff and Management at The Holiday Inn, Mayfair, for their continued friendliness and kindness. Thanks also to everyone at Dromoland Castle in Ireland, to the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong, the Barbados Hilton and to Bertorelli's in Notting Hill Gate.

  Thanks are due, as ever, to Steve, Bruce, Dave, Nicko and Janick for allowing me to share their stage and re-live more dreams. I am eternally grateful. Thanks also to Rod Smallwood, Andy Taylor, everyone at Sanctuary Music and to Mr Merck 'sliced into fifteen pieces by lunchtime' Mercuriadis.

  Many thanks to Mr Jack Taylor, Mr Amin Saleh and Mr Lewis Bloch for all their help and advice. Thanks also to Mr Brian Howard at Russells for removing a rather annoying stone from my boot.

  Thanks, for different reasons, to Alison at EMI, Shonadh at Polydor, Georgie and Zena.

  Many thanks to Ian Austin who deserves a line on his own and who, in fact, deserves much more. The man whose ability to talk is surpassed only by his value as a friend. Thanks.

  Indirect thanks to Queensryche, Nevada Beach, Thunder, Harlow, Black Sabbath and Great White. Also to Oliver Stone, Martin Scorsese, Walter Hill and Michael Mann.

  This novel was, as ever, written on Croxley Typing Paper, wearing Wrangler Jeans and Puma Trainers (I don't give up easily you know…) Also many thanks to Yamaha Drums, Zildjian cymbals and Pro-Mark sticks for helping me clear numerous mental blocks… (come on, if I can try for some jeans I can try for a cymbal or two…)

  My greatest thanks, as always, go to my Mum and Dad for everything they've done and continue to do and for my long suffering, ever-patient wife, Belinda. For putting up with me through this and other novels and for enduring the ups and downs of yet another season of me worshipping Liverpool FC, you have, and always will have, my thanks and my love.

  And to you, my readers, for still being there, for sticking with me, thanks. To those of you joining the ride for the first time, welcome. Thank you all.

  Shaun Hutson

  Revenge is a kind of wild justice…

  -Francis Bacon

  PART ONE

  What is good? All that heightens the feeling of power, the will to power, power itself in man

  -Nietzsche

  I don't believe in Love,

  I never have, I never will.

  I don't believe in Love.

  It's never worth the pain that you feel.

  -Queensryche

  ONE

  He knew he was going to die.

  Knew it.

  He didn't think he might. Didn't wonder if he would.

  Brian Ellis knew he was going to die.

  The barrel of the shotgun was less than a foot from his face. It poked through the shattered remains of the safety glass partition, so close he could smell the oil and cordite from the yawning muzzle.

  From that muzzle seconds earlier had come a thunderous blast which had ripped through the toughened glass as if it had been spun sugar.

  It had been at that point that Brian Ellis had filled his pants. He stood there now, reeking. Standing there with a dark stain spreading across the front and back of his trousers. He couldn't think, couldn't move. All he was aware of was the sickening warmth around his lower body coated in his own excreta.

  And he was aware that he would die.

  He wanted to scream. Wanted to be sick. Wanted to pray. Wanted to bellow at the top of his lungs that he was only twenty-three and he didn't want to die. Please don't kill me. Please, Jesus Christ, God Almighty for fuck's sake don't make me die.

  The barrel of the Spas wavered closer to him and he began shaking uncontrollably.

  Alarm bells were ringing; somewhere else in the bank a child was crying. A baby. Someone was sobbing. Someone was moaning.

  Brian heard the sounds but none registered in his mind.

  All that registered was the sure and certain conviction that he would soon be dead.

  The alarm had gone off automatically as soon as the safety glass had been blasted away. There had been no furtive attempts by one of the other
cashiers to find the alarm button that linked the bank directly with Vine Street police station. There'd been no need. Besides, this wasn't a film where the cashiers and customers stood around calmly (if somewhat worried) while tills were rifled, lives were threatened and then masked men ran from the bank into the arms of the law, who had arrived in the nick of time after being alerted by that single, secret alarm. How comforting was fiction.

  The man who stood in front of Brian Ellis wasn't wearing a mask; he hadn't warned everyone to be quiet, hadn't told them that if they did as they were told no one would be hurt.

  He had walked straight through the door of the Midland Bank in the Haymarket, pulled a Spas automatic shotgun from inside his coat and opened fire. First he shot a woman who had been standing close to the door counting money before she pushed it into her purse. She now lay in a bloodied heap, her limbs tangled like those of a puppet with cut strings. Her handbag and its contents were strewn across the marbled floor, some five pound notes having come to rest in a puddle of her blood.

  Scarcely had the sound of the first shot died away than the gunman had fired again, into the counter glass. It had exploded inwards, showering those behind it with fragments of needle sharp crystal. One of the other cashiers had suffered a badly cut face. It was her moans that Brian could hear as she tried to pull a thin fragment of glass from one corner of her eye.

  The child he could hear crying was in a pram at the other end of the counter. The mother was crying softly too.

  Don't make me die.

  His mind shrieked it again.

  The gunman was looking at him, as if he had recognised him. A vague recollection of a face seen in a crowd. His face was calm, his eyes narrowed. These were not the staring eyes of a madman. There was deliberation in his movements. He appeared unfazed by the strident ringing of the alarm bells that continued to fill the bank.

  'Give me the money,' the man said calmly, his eyes never leaving Brian's.

  But Brian couldn't move.

  'Now,' the man snapped, pushing the barrel of the shotgun closer to the cashier's face.

  Despite its earlier lapse, his bladder managed to bring forth more. Brian felt more fluid running down his leg, soaking into his trousers.

  Please don't kill me.

  He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes.

  Dear merciful Christ, not now.

  'The money,' rasped the gunman through clenched teeth.

  The child was still crying.

  'Shut that fucking kid up,' snarled the man without turning his head. He actually poked the barrel of the Spas against Brian's cheek.

  Sirens.

  Oh sweet fucking Jesus. Lord God in Heaven please…

  The sirens were blaring from the direction of Piccadilly. They would be here in a matter of moments.

  Please, make him go. Please God, make him go now.

  The alarms continued to screech. The baby was still crying. And the sirens came closer.

  A look of mild annoyance passed fleetingly across the gunman's face. He took a step back.

  Not now. Don't make me die now. Please God don't…

  He fired once, the barrel only six inches away from Brian's face. The report was massive, drowning out all the other sounds for a moment as the discharge tore most of the cashier's head off. He remained upright for a second, blood spouting from what remained of his cranium, then he pitched forward, sprawling over the counter.

  If God had heard Brian's prayers he had chosen to ignore them.

  The gunman turned and headed for the door. As he reached it he paused and looked at the woman with the pram.

  The child was still crying.

  He looked at her, then at the pram, then he fired twice.

  Both blasts struck the pram, ripping through it.

  He pushed the door and walked out into the street.

  Those passing saw the shotgun; some screamed, some ran. Some just froze.

  A police car, blue lights spinning madly, sirens screaming, came roaring around the corner into the Haymarket. The gunman gritted his teeth and looked behind him. The traffic lights were on red.

  The traffic was at a halt.

  He tossed the Spas to one side, digging inside his jacket for a pistol. Pulling the Smith and Wesson 9mm automatic free, he ran towards a motorcyclist who was idly revving his engine, watching the lights, waiting for them to change. Exhaust fumes poured from the pipe of the 850cc Bonneville.

  The lights were still on red.

  The police car drew closer.

  The gunman shot the motorcyclist once in the back of the neck, pushing his body from the bike, gripping the powerful machine by the handlebars to prevent it toppling over. He swung himself onto the seat, twisted the throttle and roared off, the back wheel spinning madly on the slippery road before gaining purchase.

  He swung left into Panton Street.

  The police car followed.

  TWO

  As the Bonneville rounded the corner into Panton Street its rider found himself faced with an oncoming car.

  The driver of the car blasted on his hooter as much in surprise as annoyance, looking on in bewilderment as the bike shot up onto the pavement and sped off.

  A second later the police car skidded round in pursuit, slamming into the front of the car as it passed, shattering one headlamp.

  Inside the police car Constable Norman Davies was speaking rapidly into the two-way radio, giving the location of the unit and also attempting a description of the man they were pursuing. He gave the number plate, forced to squint to read it as the bike hurtled back and forth from pavement to road, swerving past both parked and moving cars alike. Davies also called for assistance and for an ambulance to go to the bank in the Haymarket; although he had not seen the carnage inside, it was standard procedure.

  Besides, he and his companion, Ralph Foster, now hunched over the wheel in concentration, had seen the motorcyclist shot. Davies winced as he remembered the police car inadvertently running over one of the dying man's outstretched legs.

  He was informed that other mobile units were in the area and closing in on the bike, and that routes were being shut off. The man, he was assured, wouldn't get far.

  Foster spun the wheel to avoid an oncoming car, jolting the Rover up onto the kerb. The driver of the other car also struggled to guide his vehicle out of the way. The blue lights and the wailing sirens were remarkably effective in clearing a path through even the most densely packed traffic, thought Davies, still gripping the handset, one eye on the fleeing gunman.

  'Heading for Leicester Square,' Davies observed as the bike roared on.

  Fragmented phrases floated to him across the airwaves as the Rover hurtled on in pursuit.

  '… closing in from Coventry Street…'

  '… three dead… Haymarket…'

  '… in pursuit… identity unknown…'

  '… armed… dangerous…'

  Davies couldn't agree more with the assessment of their quarry.

  The bike was heading towards the junction of Panton Street and Whitcomb Street. Leicester Square lay just beyond.

  From an underground car park ahead a van emerged, reversing in front of the bike. The rider didn't hesitate, merely gunned the engine and sent the Bonneville rocketing up onto the pavement once more, ignoring the two people who had just emerged from the Pizzaland on the corner. He struck one. The other managed to jump back but hit the window of the restaurant and the glass gave way. There was a loud crash as he fell backwards through the clear partition, sprawling across a table as glass rained down on him.

  'Oh Christ,' murmured Davies.

  The bike spun to the left again, up Whitcomb Street, still against the traffic.

  Foster twisted the wheel and the rear of the Rover skidded on the wet ground, spinning round to slam into the side of the van. A jarring thud seemed to run the length of the vehicle, and both policemen winced, but Foster floored the accelerator and sped after the bike.

  The rider did not once
afford them even the most cursory glance. He was hunched over the handlebars, gripping the throttle, seemingly oblivious to the cars he sped past in the wrong direction. The wind streamed into his face, sending his shoulder-length hair flapping out behind him as he rode.

  The street seemed to be filled with a cacophony of blaring hooters and shouts or screams as pedestrians found themselves forced to leap from the pavements as the Bonneville surged along, its rider oblivious to those he struck.

  Ahead he saw a man snatch a child up into his arms and duck down beside a parked car, shaking as the police car also passed within a whisker of them.

  Another police car was approaching from the left, lights and sirens joining its companion in a discordant melody.

  The motorcyclist paused for a moment then sped off up Wardour Street, past the Swiss Centre, pursued now by two police cars.

  'Units covering from Shaftesbury Avenue,' a metallic voice informed Davies. 'Give your position.'

  He did just that, almost dropping the handset as Foster sent the car slamming into the side of a passing transit, sparks spraying into the air as metal grated on metal. A hub-cap came free, Davies didn't know from which vehicle, and went spinning across the road.

  Many pedestrians had now stopped on the roadside and were watching the chase. Others walked on, ignoring it. More than one tourist hurried to take photos.

  The Bonneville was speeding towards the traffic lights at the top of the street, leading into Shaftesbury Avenue.

  They were on red.

  'Right, you bastard,' snarled Davies.

  The rider worked the throttle and gathered speed.

  Still red.

  The needle on the speedo of the motorbike touched sixty. The bike shot across the lights as if fired from a cannon.

  'Keep going,' yelled Davies, watching the bike speed past an oncoming Sierra, causing the driver to brake suddenly. There was a loud crash as a Cortina close behind slammed into the back of the other car. The Sierra was shunted forward, rolling towards the onrushing police car.