Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  'It gets them out of my hair, Mr Fairham,' the Governor said, 'it means that my officers have fewer prisoners to deal with.'

  'How many men has this been tried on so far?' Clinton enquired.

  'Ten,' Nicholson said. 'And all of them have been successful.'

  'And what is your definition of success, Mr Nicholson?' Anne Hopper wanted to know.

  He looked at her impassively.

  'Not one of them tried to escape,' he said. 'They all reported to the police station they'd been assigned to and they all went on to stand trial.'

  'When is the device removed?' Clinton asked.

  'As soon as the trial is over.'

  Clinton stood back and nodded, looking at the microchip then at Nicholson.

  'Well, I must say I'm impressed, Mr Nicholson,' said the MP.

  'Me too,' Merrick echoed, 'it seems a great step forward.'

  Fairham merely prodded the device with one index finger.

  'Who does the operations?' he wanted to know.

  'There are a number of doctors involved,' Nicholson told him. 'None resident at the prison.'

  'That's a pity,' Anne Hopper intoned. 'It would have been interesting to meet them.'

  'The work is still in its infancy, Miss Hopper. They're not too anxious to be put in the limelight just yet,' Nicholson told her.

  'Why? In case something goes wrong?' Fairham said, challengingly.

  'As I said, the work is still relatively new. Until it's completely perfected we'd rather keep it quiet,' the Governor said, glaring once again at the other man.

  'I can understand that,' Clinton said, smiling, it seems to be successful though, Mr Nicholson. Full marks to you. We'll be reporting this as very satisfactory progress when we return to Whitehall.'

  'Satisfactory?' Fairham snapped. 'This man is using remand prisoners as human guinea pigs and you call that satisfactory?'

  'I think you're being a little over-dramatic, Mr Fairham,' Clinton said, smiling patronisingly.

  'It is preferable to the alternative of being locked up twenty-three hours out of twenty-four,' Merrick echoed.

  Nicholson smiled triumphantly at Fairham.

  'What is your view, Miss Hopper?' the Governor wanted to know.

  The woman shrugged slightly.

  'I suppose I would have to agree with Mr Clinton and Mr Merrick,' she said. 'As long as the patients are volunteers and the risks are explained to them before the operation, I can see no objection myself.'

  'You appear to be out-voted again, Mr Fairham,' Nicholson said, smiling.

  'I'd like to know a little more about the actual mechanics of the project,' Clinton said. 'How the tracking devices are built, what the operation entails, how the prisoners are monitored. That kind of thing. I will have to make a report to the House, you understand?'

  Nicholson nodded, his ingratiating smile spreading.

  'Certainly. If you'd like to come back to my office we can discuss it there,' he said, looking at Fairham.

  The other man was flushed with anger.

  The Governor turned to lead the small procession out.

  'We've only seen a small part of the hospital wing,'

  Fairham observed. 'I'd like to inspect the facilities here before we leave.'

  Nicholson retained his air of calm.

  'Of course,' he said, leading them towards a door at one end of the room. It opened out into the infirmary. There were half a dozen prisoners in the beds; other men in white overalls moved among them, performing their duties. One was mopping the floor, another dispensing pills. A third man was pushing a trolley, collecting dirty laundry. Patients and workers alike gave the Governor and his visitors only cursory glances. More lingering looks were reserved for Anne Hopper.

  A warder stood at one end of the infirmary, standing by a thick metal door.

  Nicholson looked towards him, hoping that none of the visitors noticed the look of apprehension on his face.

  He stood back as the visitors moved among the men, speaking to them where possible, usually meeting with only perfunctory grunts in answer to their questions. The Governor caught the eye of the warder at the far end of the infirmary and the man nodded almost imperceptibly. A silent answer to an unasked question. The Governor licked his lips, aware that they were once more dry.

  Come on, hurry up and get out of here.

  One by one the visitors returned to join him.

  They're not going to ask.

  Fairham looked to the far end of the infirmary.

  'What's through there?' he asked, pointing at the door.

  'The morgue,' Nicholson said quickly. 'It's where we keep any prisoners who die until they've been identified, or until arrangements can be made for their burial.'

  Fairham nodded slowly.

  Come on, come on.

  'I think we've seen enough now, Mr Nicholson,' Clinton said.

  Fairham was still gazing at the door.

  The Governor licked his lips again.

  'We'll go back to my office, then,' he said.

  At last Fairham tore his gaze away and filed out in front of Nicholson. The Governor glanced back at the solitary warder and nodded.

  As he walked out he let out a sigh of relief.

  He would return here as soon as the delegation was gone. For now, at least, it was still safe.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Coffee dripped from the bottom of the cup as DI Frank Gregson lifted it to his mouth and took a sip. It was strong. He pulled the lid from one of the other milk cartons and poured in the contents, stirring until the dark colour lightened.

  Opposite him DS Stuart Finn was smoking a Marlboro, blowing out streams of smoke, alternately gazing into the depths of his tea cup and glancing out of the window.

  The neon lights outside were barely visible through the sheen of condensation coating the inside of the cafe window. The film of steam combined with the patina of dirt on the glass made them almost opaque. Inside the cafe there were half a dozen other people. At a table in the corner three young girls sat, smoking and chatting quietly, occasionally glancing across at the two policemen.

  Two men sat at a table near the counter, one of them pushing huge forkfuls of food into his mouth, the other sipping at a cup of tea.

  Another man sat alone at the table next to them, peering at a magazine. Finn noted that he was tracing a column of names and addresses with the tip of his pen, occasionally ringing one with the biro.

  The place smelled of fried food and damp.

  Finn stubbed out a cigarette in an already overflowing ash-tray and immediately lit another. He noticed that he was almost out of them and fumbled in his jacket pocket for some change to feed into the cigarette machine. On the radio in the background, a voice announced that it was nine-thirty.

  'It's weird, isn't it?' said Finn. 'How all these places start to look alike after a while.'

  Gregson shrugged.

  'The cafes, the bars, the clip-joints,' Finn continued. 'In the bookshops, too, there's something familiar about them, every one of them. Even the same punters, it seems.' He chuckled. 'I was flicking through a couple of magazines at that last place.' He smiled. 'More cunts than a meeting of the Arsenal supporters' club.' The DS shook his head, still grinning.

  Gregson didn't return the smile. He merely sipped at his strong coffee and ran a hand through his hair.

  'Yeah, the places look familiar and the answers are starting to sound familiar, too,' he said wearily. 'No, never seen him. Never heard anything. Didn't see anything.'

  'I wonder if any of the other blokes are having better luck.'

  'Are you serious? This whole fucking area is sewn up tighter than a nun's crotch,' Gregson grunted.

  'Then why are we here?'

  'Because it's our job.'

  Finn sucked gently on his cigarette and looked across the table at Gregson, who was peering through the window into the street beyond.

  'You knew it was going to be like this, Frank,' he said. 'You knew that no one ar
ound here was going to help us. Why call a search in the first place?'

  'Procedure,' Gregson told him.

  'Bullshit,' Finn said, smiling thinly. 'What do you know?'

  'I know that we should be asking questions instead of sitting on our arses drinking cups of tea,' the DI told him, pushing his half-empty cup away.

  'Come on, tell me the truth,' Finn persisted. 'You owe me that. We've been working together long enough. If I had a hunch or an idea about these killings I'd tell you.'

  Gregson smiled thinly.

  'The idea I had was crazy,' he said slowly, 'illogical. Impossible, even. I checked it out. You remember I said to you that the only thing any witnesses could agree on about the first bloke who killed himself was his staring eyes?'

  Finn nodded.

  'I checked the files, because that rung a bell somewhere. We arrested a bloke called Peter Lawton for a series of armed robberies. Remember me telling you?'

  'Yes, I do,' said the DS. 'He's banged up, though, isn't he?'

  'In Whitely Prison in Derbyshire. Yeah. He has been for the last six years.'

  Finn looked vague.

  'The second killer, the one who murdered the girl, I checked out his MO because that sounded familiar, too.'

  'And?'

  'It matched with the MO of a guy called Mathew Bryce who was also arrested over eighteen months ago. He's doing time in Whitely as well. What conclusions can you draw from that?'

  Finn shrugged.

  'That someone copied them,' he said.

  'Or that they both escaped and duplicated the crimes they were originally arrested for.' Gregson smiled when he saw the look on Finn's face. 'See why I didn't mention it before? It's fucking crazy. We know they didn't escape because we would have heard, the whole country would have heard. They're still inside Whitely.' The phrase on both the files he'd read re-surfaced in his mind. Term being served. 'But if someone imitated the crimes committed by Lawton and Bryce, what's to stop somebody else imitating murders committed by any killer locked up in any jail in the country?'

  'That still doesn't explain why they torched themselves,' Finn observed.

  Gregson shrugged.

  'On that point,' he said, 'your guess is as good as mine.' The DI got to his feet and headed for the door. The other occupants of the cafe watched him go. Finn left some money for the tea and coffee on the table, then fed change into the cigarette machine and pulled a packet out. He joined his superior at the door, pulling up the collar of his jacket as they stepped out into the street.

  'Where to next?' he said, cupping his hand around the Marlboro he was trying to light.

  'Over there,' said Gregson, nodding in the direction of the neon-shrouded building opposite.

  The lights formed the word 'Loveshow'.

  FIFTY-TWO

  'Scotty. Police.'

  Zena Murray emphasised the last word with distaste, stepping back to allow the two plain clothes men into Jim Scott's office. Gregson was the first in and he looked across at Scott indifferently as Finn entered, smiling thinly by way of a greeting.

  'What can I do for you?' Scott wanted to know. 'The licence is in order, we haven't had any trouble on the premises and, as far as I know, my boss is bunging the back-handers in the right places. So, what can I help you with?'

  'A comedian, eh?' said Gregson, flatly. 'Everyone's a fucking comic when the law arrive, aren't they?' The two men locked stares for a moment. 'You're Jim Scott, right? Manager of this… place?'

  Scott nodded.

  'Ray Plummer owns it, doesn't he?' Finn added, looking around the office.

  'Actually it's a tax dodge for the Prime Minister,' Scott said smugly. 'What does it matter?'

  'Look, Scott, we don't want to be here any more than you want us to be here,' Gregson told him. if I wanted to wade around in shit I'd go for a walk down a sewer. We just want to ask you a few questions and get out. We've already spoken to your staff. The quicker you answer our questions the quicker we'll be out of your hair.'

  Scott glanced at each of the policemen in turn, then motioned to the chairs close to his desk.

  'Have a seat,' he offered.

  'No thanks,' said Gregson, wrinkling his nose.

  'It's no problem, I can get it disinfected afterwards,' Scott told him.

  Gregson met the other man's gaze and pulled a small photograph from the inside pocket of his jacket. He dropped it on to the desk in front of Scott who picked it up, studying the outlines of Paula Wilson's face.

  'That girl was killed a couple of streets away from here the night before last. Have you seen her around here before?' the DI wanted to know.

  'We don't get many girls coming in here as spectators,' Scott said, tossing the photo back across the desk.

  'She might have come in with a boyfriend. This is supposed to be a show for couples to watch too, isn't it?' Gregson observed.

  'Never seen her. I'm usually in here. I don't go out front much.'

  'This is the nerve centre, is it?' Gregson said, smiling, scornfully. 'Where all the big decisions are taken?'

  'I told you, I don't know the girl. I can't help you. Why don't you piss off? And don't forget to shut the door on your way out.' Scott sat down at his desk and turned his attention to the ledger he had before him.

  'How many staff have you got here?' Finn asked.

  'It varies. Between six and eight,' Scott told him.

  'And you're in charge of all of them?' Gregson said with mock respect. 'What it must be to have responsibility, eh?'

  Scott glared at the DI.

  'I don't remember you showing me any fucking ID.' he snapped.

  Both men flipped open the thin leather wallets they carried. Scott gazed at the photos, then at their faces.

  'Satisfied?' said Gregson.

  Scott nodded.

  'Yours is a better likeness,' he said to the DI, a smile flickering on his lips. 'You look a miserable cunt in the picture, too.'

  Gregson held his stare for a moment, a smile forming at the corners of his own mouth.

  'I'm surprised I don't know you,' he said quietly. 'Geezers like you usually have form, or has Plummer been recruiting up-market?'

  Scott merely glared at the DI. The heavy atmosphere was finally interrupted by Finn, heading towards the door.

  'Come on, Frank,' he said wearily. 'Let's get out of here. He doesn't know anything and we've got other places to check.'

  The DS actually had his hand on the door handle when it was turned.

  He stepped back a pace, smiling broadly as he saw the young woman who stood before him, looking slightly surprised. She returned his smile as she stepped inside the office, glancing across at Scott's desk. Gregson eyed her disinterestedly.

  'They're coppers, Carol,' Scott told her. 'Here to ask some questions,' he sneered.

  'Another member of your staff?' Finn enquired. He showed Carol his ID as he spoke. She looked at him again but this time there was no smile on her face.

  'Questions about what?' she wanted to know.

  Never taking his eyes from her, Gregson slipped out the photo of Paula Wilson and quickly explained the reason for his and Finn's presence, enquiring whether or not the face in the monochrome picture rang any bells.

  It didn't.

  'Happy now?' Scott asked, noticing that Gregson was still gazing at Carol.

  Stop staring, you bastard.

  'Well, well,' said the DI, smiling thinly. 'Long time no see, eh, Carol?'

  Scott glared at the policeman then at Carol.

  What the fuck is this?

  'How long's it been now?' Gregson continued. 'Two years?'

  She looked at him through narrowed eyes.

  'How the hell do you know him?' Scott wanted to know, unable to contain his anger.

  'We met on a professional basis,' said Gregson, his smile broadening. 'I arrested her for soliciting.' He allowed his gaze to travel slowly up and down her shapely body. 'No wonder you were doing such good business,' he said. 'You stil
l look good.'

  Scott clenched his fists until his nails dug into the palms of his hands.

  Carol didn't answer. Like some naughty child who's been caught playing a prank she just kept her head low, staring at the floor.

  'Maybe I'll see you again,' the DI said as he and Finn reached the door.

  'Just get out,' hissed Scott.

  They closed the door and were gone.

  Scott brought his hand crashing down on the desk top, his face pale with rage, the vein at his temple throbbing.

  'Did you recognise him when you walked in?' he demanded.

  'Jim, that was in the past,' she said. 'Besides, it's nothing to do with you. It was my problem.'

  'How did he catch you? Had you fucked him before he lifted you?' There was a stinging vehemence in Scott's words.

  Carol looked angrily at him, turned and headed for the door.

  Scott shot out a hand and grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her round.

  'Had he?' he roared.

  She struck him hard across the left cheek with the flat of her hand.

  'Get off me,' she shouted.

  Scott moved a pace towards her, his face stinging from the blow, his eyes bulging wide.

  'You don't own me, Jim,' she hissed, her voice faltering slightly as she saw the look of pure rage etched across his features. She opened the office door. 'You don't own me.' She slammed it behind her and walked away hurriedly, her heart beating madly against her ribs.

  Inside the office Scott touched the cheek she had slapped, his breath still coming in gasps.

  'Bitch,' he hissed, turning back to his desk. He found the bottle of Southern Comfort and poured himself a large measure. His breathing gradually slowed as he propped himself against one edge of the desk, drinking. Again he touched his cheek, but this time he felt no anger, merely a deep sorrow.

  One thought surfaced in his mind.

  Would she forgive him?

  ***

  Outside in the street Finn lit up another cigarette and looked at his watch.

  'Where to next?' he said, pulling up the collar of his jacket.