Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  Gregson didn't answer; he was staring at the doorway of 'Loveshow'.

  'Frank. I said, where next?' the DS repeated, blowing out a stream of smoke and looking at his companion. 'Hello, is there anyone in there?'

  Gregson looked impassively at his colleague.

  'Something on your mind?' Finn asked.

  'You could say that,' Gregson told him vaguely. He started walking and Finn followed.

  'You're fucking weird sometimes, Frank, you know that?' he said. 'Who was that tart, anyway?'

  'I said, I arrested her a couple of years ago,' Gregson muttered.

  'You were right, she's good-looking. I'm not surprised you remember her.' The DS chuckled.

  Gregson merely continued walking.

  He remembered her all right.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Ray Plummer looked at his watch, checking the time against the clock on the marble mantelpiece.

  11.24 P.M.

  He crossed to his drinks cabinet and poured himself another large measure of whisky, glancing at the phone every few seconds as if willing it to ring.

  Perhaps it was a wind-up, he thought. There would be no phone call from the mysterious informant. The whole fucking scheme was somebody pissing him about.

  Wasn't it?

  He downed what was left in his glass and thought about pouring himself another. He looked at the phone again. What if the caller rang and couldn't be bothered to hold on?

  Someone pissing about.

  It was a hell of an elaborate plan just for a windup.

  Could it be true about the twenty million?

  He crossed to the drinks cabinet once more and tipped the bottle.

  The phone rang.

  Plummer spun round, almost dropping the bottle and his glass. Whisky slopped onto his hand as he hurried to pick up the receiver.

  'Hello,' he said.

  Cool it. Don't let the bastard think you're too interested.

  'Ray?' said the voice.

  First name terms, now, eh?

  'Yes. What have you got for me?'

  'Ray, are you okay?'

  Plummer frowned.

  There was something wrong here.

  'Who is this?' he said, some of the tension leaving his voice.

  'It's Jim Scott. What's wrong?'

  Plummer exhaled deeply and gripped the receiver tightly in his hand.

  'What the fuck do you want?' he snapped.

  'We've had the law round here tonight,' Scott told him. 'That girl who was killed the other night, they've been checking the area.'

  'Some girl was killed, was she?' Plummer muttered irritably. 'Jim, I couldn't give a toss if the Queen Mum has been gang banged.' The anger returned to his voice. 'I'm waiting for a very important call. Get off the line, will you?'

  'I just thought you should know,' Scott said. 'They spoke to all the staff here. I know everything is covered with the running of the club, but I didn't think you'd be too happy about the Old Bill sticking its nose in.'

  'I couldn't care less, get off the fucking line,' shouted Plummer and slammed the receiver down.

  He stepped away from the phone, angry with Scott for disturbing him but also angry with himself for being so jumpy. He'd been in the penthouse flat since about nine that evening, trying to watch TV, trying to listen to music but with no success. All he could think about was the impending phone call. If it came. John Hitch had seemed convinced that it would and Plummer trusted the instincts of his colleague almost as he trusted his own. And yet.

  11.36.

  Fuck it. No one was calling, he thought.

  He's six minutes late. That's all. Six lousy minutes.

  He turned his back on the phone.

  The strident ringing startled him again, but this time he turned slowly, gazing at the phone.

  Plummer finally plucked up the receiver.

  'Where the fuck were you?' the voice rasped. 'I said I'd ring at half past. Your phone was engaged.'

  'What am I supposed to do, apologise?' Plummer snapped. 'Say what you've got to say.'

  'It's on.'

  'What's on?'

  'The shipment is on its way, you stupid cunt. What do you think I mean?' the voice hissed.

  Plummer gripped the receiver tightly.

  'Listen…'

  The caller cut him short.

  'No, you listen. Perhaps you have a pen and paper with you, or will you be able to remember what I'm going to tell you?'

  'Get on with it.'

  'The shipment of cocaine will arrive two days from now. It's going to be on board a small boat called The Sandhopper. The coke will be in among a load of porn mags and videos, right?'

  'Where is it being unloaded?' Plummer wanted to know.

  'Chelsea Bridge.'

  'What about that warehouse in Tilbury that Connelly bought? You said it was going to be there.'

  'I never said that. I told you Connelly had bought a warehouse. I never said for sure that's where the stuff would arrive.'

  'Chelsea Bridge,' Plummer murmured, more to himself than the caller.

  'Yeah. The drop is scheduled for two in the morning. -There'll be a lorry waiting to pick the stuff up. It'll look like a refrigerated lorry carrying beer.'

  'How many of Connelly's men are involved?' Plummer wanted to know, i'm not sure.'

  'How the fuck are they going to get the stuff up the Thames without the river police tumbling them?'

  'What am I, an information service? That's your problem. That's all I've got to say now. I won't call again. Things are starting to get dangerous now.'

  He hung up.

  Plummer replaced the receiver slowly, massaging his chin thoughtfully with his other hand.

  He was about to phone John Hitch when there was a knock on the door.

  Plummer swallowed hard and froze for long seconds.

  The knock came again, harder, more insistent.

  He moved stealthily to the bedroom, to the wardrobe close to his bed. There was a small safe in the bottom which he hurriedly opened.

  Plummer pulled the Delta Elite 10mm automatic from inside the safe and slid one magazine into the butt. He worked the slide as quietly as he could, chambering a round, then he moved back out into the sitting room towards the door.

  The knock came again.

  'Yeah, all right, I'm coming,' he called, unlocking the door with infinite slowness. He left the chain on, the words of the caller flashing into his mind: Things are starting to get dangerous.

  Precisely how dangerous, Plummer was about to find out.

  He turned the door handle slowly, the automatic gripped in his fist, held high so that he could swing it down into a firing position if necessary.

  He opened the door, allowing it to reach only the length of the chain.

  The Delta Elite was ready as he peered through the gap.

  His voice was coloured with surprise as he gazed at the newcomer.

  'What are you doing here?'

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Plummer slid the chain free, allowing the door to open wider.

  Carol Jackson stepped inside.

  'What's wrong?' Plummer wanted to know, closing the door behind her and slipping the bolts once more. He saw her expression of surprise as she noticed the automatic gripped in his hand. Plummer lowered the weapon, easing the hammer forward and slipping on the safety catch. He laid the pistol down and crossed to the drinks cabinet, pouring glasses of whisky for himself and for Carol. He thought how tired she looked. She took the glass from him and drank.

  'Why the gun?' she wanted to know.

  'It doesn't matter,' he said. 'Just tell me why you're here.'

  'Do I need a reason?' she asked, slipping off her coat and sitting down. She perched on the edge of the sofa, gazing into the mock flames from the gas fire.

  Plummer ran a hand over his hair then stood beside her, touching her cheek with the back of his hand. It was an aberrant gesture but she reached up and touched his hand all the same.

 
; 'The law were in tonight, then?' he said.

  'How do you know?' she asked.

  'Scott told me.'

  She looked up at him, her eyes filled with surprise and something more.

  Fear?

  'Scott's been here?'

  Plummer explained about the phone call.

  'He's going to kill us, Ray,' she said flatly.

  It was Plummer's turn to look surprised.

  'What the fuck are you talking about?' he gaped.

  'I was with him the other night and some of the things he was saying, I know that if he found out about us…' She allowed the sentence to trail off.

  'I thought you weren't seeing him any more.'

  'I was going to finish it, but it's not that easy, Ray.' She recounted the conversation she'd had with Scott, telling Plummer about the gun. 'He'd do it, I know he would.'

  'You're overreacting,' Plummer told her.

  'I'm scared of him,' she blurted. 'And I think you should be, too.'

  Plummer took a sip of his drink and wandered across to the window, peering out into the night.

  'Mind you, he always was a bit unpredictable,' he murmured. 'You didn't tell him you were seeing me, did you?'

  'I'm not stupid, Ray,' she said.

  Plummer smiled thinly and rolled the glass between his hands.

  'So what do you want me to do about it?' he asked. 'If we stopped seeing each other that would solve the problem, wouldn't it?'

  'It's Scott I want to stop seeing, not you,' she told him.

  It's your money I want.

  'So stop seeing him.'

  'I told you, it's not that easy,' she said irritably. 'He won't take no for an answer, I know he won't.'

  'Why the fuck did you get involved with him in the first place?' Plummer wanted to know. 'You knew what he was like, didn't you?'

  'I knew he thought a lot of me. I didn't think he was so obsessed.'

  Plummer laughed.

  'That's a bit strong, isn't it?' he chuckled.

  'You don't know him, Ray,' she said. 'What I've told you is true. He's dangerous.'

  Plummer peered into the bottom of his glass, as if seeking inspiration there.

  'If he's dead he's no threat,' Plummer said, looking at her with cold eyes.

  Carol looked puzzled.

  'Do you want him taken care of? Put to sleep?' Plummer enquired.

  'Killed?'

  He shrugged.

  'Jesus Christ, is that your only answer, Ray? Have him killed? That isn't what I want.'

  'It sounds like you think more of him than you're letting on. You either want him out of your life or you don't.'

  'I don't want him killed.'

  'Still feel something for him?' Plummer enquired. 'Or won't your conscience allow it?' He smiled thinly. 'What do you want to do for the rest of your life, Carol? Hang around with a nobody like Scott, knowing you never dare leave him in case the mad fucker tries to kill you? From the sound of it he'd blow you away without a sepond thought. And he's supposed to love you.'

  Carol could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of one trembling hand.

  'What do you want?' Plummer continued.

  'I want to get away,' she said, her voice cracking. 'From Scott, from that fucking club, from that whole lifestyle.'

  'And how do you expect to do that?' he said flatly. 'It's all you know. It's all you have known.'

  'What about you and me?' she said tearfully. 'Isn't there anything between us?'

  Plummer smiled a predatory smile and crossed to the sofa, seating himself beside her. He put down his drink then took her in his arms, holding her tight. He could feel her tears staining his shirt.

  'It's okay, sweetheart,' he said quietly. 'We'll take care of it. I said I'd look after you, didn't I?'

  She snaked her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Her body was racked by sobs, muffled as she pressed her head against his chest.

  'Don't worry about Scott,' he said, glancing across at the Delta Elite lying on the table. 'I'll take care of everything.'

  Before he comes after me.

  'I don't want him hurt, Ray. Please,' she insisted, her cheeks tear-stained.

  'Don't let him think there's anything wrong,' Plummer told her. 'Carry on seeing him for the time being. Until the time's right.' He looked into her face. 'All right?'

  She nodded slowly.

  'I don't want him hurt,' she repeated.

  Plummer smiled.

  'Trust me,' he whispered, pulling her close. His eyes settled on the automatic once again.

  The night sky was full of rain clouds, swollen and ready to spill their load on the city below. Clouds which made the blackness all the more impenetrable. A tenebrous gloom which had prevented Plummer from seeing anything except the lights from other buildings nearby and his own reflection in the window of the flat.

  Even if he had been aware of the presence, the darkness would have prevented him seeing the man who watched his flat.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  There were rumours of snow on the way and, as Governor Peter Nicholson made his way across the exercise yard of Whitely Prison, he could believe them. The wind was cutting across the open space at great speed, so cold it seemed to penetrate his bones. As he turned a corner it was like being hit in the face by a handful of razor blades.

  If it snowed, as was threatened, there was every possibility that Whitely would be cut off. It had happened twice before in his time as Governor. Once, in the winter of 1983, the snow had drifted up to ten feet around the prison walls; teams of prisoners working virtually round the clock had been unable to keep open the single road that linked Whitely with the outside world. No food had got through and the men had been put on half-rations. There had been rumblings about a riot, but Nicholson had received the warnings with little fear. His men were well equipped to deal with any such eventualities. There were small stock-piles of tear gas in the prison to be used in the event of riots or large scale disturbances and Nicholson would have had no compunction about using them. It transpired that the snow went as quickly as it had come, the road was opened and supplies began getting through regularly again. Possible chaos had been averted.

  Two years ago the same thing had happened, but for a shorter time. If anything, though, the more recent incident had proved more damaging. Prisoners, unable to exercise outside in sub-zero temperatures, had been allowed longer in the recreation rooms. Inevitably, men pushed together for long periods of time became edgy and, by the time the prison was freed from the grip of the snow, three men had been knifed (one of whom had lost a kidney) and another had been beaten severely with a pool cue.

  Nicholson wondered, if the snow came, what he could expect this time.

  He glanced to his left and saw the prison chapel, the weather-vane spinning madly in the powerful breeze. The skeletal trees in the graveyard rattled their branches in the wind, bowing almost to touch the ground as the breeze battered them.

  Ahead of him was the hospital wing, the familiar grey of the stonework matching the colour of the sky.

  Nicholson entered, feeling the warmth immediately. He paused by one of the radiators to warm his hands before approaching the doors that led into the infirmary.

  Inside, the wind rattled windows in their frames. One or two heads turned to look at him as he strode through, glancing at the occupants of the place.

  A man who'd been scalded in the kitchens by cooking oil. Another, who'd been injured in a brawl during exercise, sported fifty-eight stitches from the point of his chin to the corner of his left eye. When he left the infirmary he was due to spend two weeks in solitary. His assailant was already there.

  Another man had his leg in plaster, recovering from a broken ankle. He regarded Nicholson coldly as the Governor passed by.

  A man in white overalls was busy collecting dirty bed sheets and towels, pushing the excrement, and bloodstained linen into a trolley he was pushing up and down the ward. He stepped to one si
de as Nicholson approached him but made sure that he left a sheet soaked with urine dangling from the trolley, hoping that Nicholson would brush against it.

  He didn't.

  Ahead of him, the guard at the locked door stood up as Nicholson nodded. The warder found the key he sought, unlocked the door and allowed Nicholson through.

  The ward beyond was empty but for ten beds, only one of which was occupied.

  There were no windows in the walls, the only light being provided by the banks of fluorescents set high in the ceiling. Walls and floors were of the same uniform grey.

  The one bed that was occupied was at the far end of the ward. As Nicholson headed towards it his shoes beat out a tattoo on the polished floor.

  There was a man standing over the patient looking down at the face completely encased in bandages. The man held a clipboard he was scribbling on. He was tall, his hair grey, his features wrinkled. His cheeks were sunken and the onset of years had given him heavy jowls.

  He turned to face Nicholson as the Governor drew closer. Nicholson thought that he looked vaguely pleased to see him; a small smile hovered on his dry lips.

  'Can you spare me some time?' said Nicholson.

  Doctor Robert Dexter nodded.

  FIFTY-SIX

  The years had not been kind to Robert Dexter. The lines in his face had deepened into clearly defined wrinkles. The flesh of his forehead looked like pastry after someone has drawn a fork across it. He sighed and looked at Nicholson.

  'Any progress?' the Governor said, nodding towards the man in the bed.

  'I was just about to look,' Dexter said, his voice low and guttural.

  With that he reached into the pocket of his white overall and took out a small pair of scissors. He cut the bandages close to the man's chin and began slowly unravelling them, pausing every now and then to lift the man's head. All that was visible was a small gap for his nose; the rest of his head was completely encased in gauze. Dexter continued with his task.

  'If that delegation had got inside here the other day, you and I would be locked up in here,' said Nicholson.

  'Does that bother you?' Dexter said.

  'It's a change we were both prepared to take. We both knew the risks,' Nicholson said.