Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  The finality of the words hit him once more; only now, within the confines of the cell, they had an almost deathly abruptness. He looked around the room, at the bunks, the other small bed on the other side of the cell. At the thick metal door, the wooden table and chairs. The slop buckets. There was one single window set about seven feet up the wall, covered by wire mesh as well as being barred. Freedom was now only something to be glimpsed through steel. Death must be similar to this feeling, he thought. The four walls of the cell might as well be the wooden sides of a coffin. There was no such thing as life within prisons, only day-to-day existence. Passing time. Waiting for the only real release, which would come in the form of death; the actual termination of life, not the living death of captivity.

  He had been shown which locker in the room was his and told that one of his cell-mates was on work detail, the other in the exercise yard. Scott didn't really care. He unzipped his bag and took out what few possessions he'd been allowed to bring in to the cell: a small cassette-radio and a few tapes. The towels were prison issue, along with the roll of toilet paper and the clean white T-shirts and underwear. He crossed to his locker and opened it. From the pocket of his overalls he took a photo of Carol. She was smiling out at him, her long blond hair tousled. She was wearing jeans and a denim shirt (which he'd bought her). He looked at that smile.

  A mocking smile?

  He wanted her badly.

  Bitch.

  He needed her.

  She had betrayed him.

  Perhaps she would visit him. He wedged the picture inside the locker door and stood staring at it.

  No, she wouldn't visit him.

  Perhaps she'd write.

  He looked at the photo.

  His jaw was clenched tightly, his eyes narrowed.

  Why did you betray me?

  I love you.

  'Fucking bitch,' he snarled and drove his fist against the door, against the photo.

  When he looked at it, there was blood oozing from two split knuckles.

  Red spots had splashed across the picture. Across her smile.

  Fucking bitch.

  'I love you,' he breathed softly.

  The blood dripped from his gashed hand.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  John Hitch drained what was left in his wine glass and put it down, looking across the table at Carol Jackson, who held his gaze for a moment and then went on eating.

  Beside her, Ray Plummer was struggling to wind spaghetti around his fork but it kept falling back into the dish. Cursing, he began cutting it up, pushing the shorter strands onto his spoon.

  Les Gourmets was busy, to Plummer's relief. The trade in all his restaurants had been slack over the past couple of weeks, and he was glad to see so many lunchtime diners. The babble of conversation was punctuated by the chink of bottles against glasses. Hitch poured himself another glass of Chablis, raised his eyebrows at Carol expectantly and moved the bottle towards her, but she shook her head, covering her glass with one hand.

  As she did he saw the ring on the third finger of her left hand; the large diamond sparkled brightly.

  Fuck knows how much that cost, Hitch thought, glancing at the impressive stone.

  He afforded himself a quick glance at Plummer, who was still struggling with his spaghetti.

  The manager of the restaurant, a short Italian with sad eyes and a pinched face, emerged from the kitchen and chatted briefly with Plummer about the improvement of business.

  Hitch kept his eyes on Carol; by this time, she was beginning to feel uneasy under his almost unwavering stare.

  The manager disappeared a moment later, leaving them alone again to finish their meal.

  'Dozy bloody wop,' muttered Plummer. 'He used to work for Ralph Connelly. Ran one of his clubs in Kensington.'

  'If you don't like him, why did you employ him?' Carol wanted to know.

  Plummer shrugged.

  'When I took over the club from Connelly I agreed to give old Guiseppe there a job,' he explained. 'Just part of the process, sweetheart.' He smiled at Carol. 'It's called diplomacy. We shafted Connelly when we took his shipment of coke but a gang war wouldn't have been any use to either of us. He knew he couldn't win one; I had too much money behind me. So we agreed to compromise with him on certain things, in return for him keeping his nose out of my business.'

  'I still don't trust that cunt,' said Hitch. 'He could still try something.'

  Plummer shook his head.

  'If he was going to do anything, he'd have done it months ago. You worry too much, John.'

  'Maybe you're a little too settled, Ray,' Hitch said challengingly. 'You might get over-confident…'

  Plummer glared at him. 'Are you trying to tell me I've lost my bottle?' he rasped.

  'I didn't say that,' Hitch added hastily.

  'Then what the fuck are you saying?'

  Hitch looked at Carol, then at his colleague.

  'Well, you and Carol, you're sort of settled now, aren't you?' he said. 'You've got enough money to keep you for the rest of your life. It must be easy to lose your grip. Without even realising it, that's all I'm saying. I'm thinking about you.'

  'Your concern is touching, Johnny boy,' chuckled Plummer, 'But don't worry about me. Just because Carol's wearing that ring doesn't mean I'm ready to get out my fucking pipe and slippers, either.' He eyed Hitch malevolently. 'So if you've got any ideas…' He allowed the sentence to trail off.

  'Leave it out, Ray,' Hitch said indignantly, reaching for his glass of wine. He looked round at the other diners. Mostly businessmen. A few couples, laughing and joking, talking animatedly. Fucking yuppies, all of them, thought Hitch, glancing back across the table.

  She's got you where she wants you, you silly cunt, he thought, watching as Carol slipped one hand onto Plummer's thigh, stroking gently as he ate.

  Horny little slag.

  ***

  Carol looked at Hitch and smiled.

  A smile of triumph?

  He held her gaze, allowing his own eyes to drop to her breasts, which were pressing against the clinging material of her dress. He could see the outline of her nipples.

  Got him right where you want him, haven't you?

  She lifted her glass, the light striking the ring, reflecting off the diamond.

  To Carol it was a symbol of victory. A hard-earned trophy fought for and suffered for.

  She felt she deserved it.

  Sometimes she even felt something for Plummer.

  Sometimes.

  It wasn't love, that much she was sure of.

  Gratitude, perhaps. Appreciation that he had provided her with the escape route she had so badly sought? She wasn't sure. What was more, she didn't care. She was here now. She was with him. She wore his ring. She shared his penthouse flat.

  She looked at Hitch and smiled thinly, wetting her lips slightly with the tip of her tongue.

  ***

  The gesture was provocative and he knew it.

  Little slag.

  Beneath the table, his fists were clenched.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  'We spoke on the phone a few days ago.'

  Detective Inspector Frank Gregson shook hands with Governor Peter Nicholson, feeling his own strong grip matched. Nicholson motioned for him to sit down.

  'I'm sorry I couldn't see you earlier, Inspector,' Nicholson said.

  'Detective Inspector,' Gregson corrected him. The Governor smiled thinly.

  He offered the policeman some tea but he declined. 'What exactly can I do for you. Detective Inspector?' Nicholson wanted to know. 'I must say, I was a little surprised by your enquiries.'

  Gregson exhaled.

  'Well, it's like this. I've been investigating a series of murders in London. In each case the killer imitated an MO used before and then killed himself, committed suicide. It took a while to identify the first two but we've finally managed to do that. The third one there was no. mistake with.'

  'I don't see what that has to do with this prison
.'

  'All the killings were committed by men incarcerated here.'

  Nicholson smiled.

  'That's impossible. Are you trying to tell me that some of my prisoners have escaped without me noticing?' He chuckled.

  'Do the names Peter Lawton, Mathew Bryce and Trevor Magee mean anything to you? Because if they don't, let me refresh your memory. They were all in here doing life sentences for murder.'

  'I appreciate the refresher course, Detective Inspector, but I was familiar with those three men. I'nri also familiar with the fact that they are no longer with us. By that I don't mean they've left the prison; I mean they're dead. They died here in Whitely.'

  'I'm aware of that,' Gregson said.

  'Then why are we having this conversation?'

  'Because the three men that I've got in the morgue back at New Scotland Yard are Peter Lawton, Mathew Bryce and Trevor Magee.'

  'You realise what you're saying?' Nicholson murmured incredulously.

  'I know bloody well what I'm saying,' Gregson snapped, 'and if it's any consolation it sounds as crazy to me as it probably does to you. But the fact is, those three men committed nine murders between them in London less than three weeks ago.'

  'Men who looked like Lawton, Bryce and Magee perhaps?'

  'No. Not their doubles. Not their fucking twin brothers, either. Those men,' rasped Gregson, exasperated. 'It's not possible.'

  Gregson got to his feet.

  'I know it's not possible but it's happened,' he said angrily. 'Look, we have more than enough forensic evidence to back up their identity. What I'm asking is, could there have been some kind of mistake here, at your end?'

  Nicholson pressed his finger-tips together.

  'What you mean is, could we, by accident, on three occasions, have released murderers back into society? Could we have let the wrong men go?' His smile faded, to be replaced by a look of anger. 'We might make the odd administrative error, Detective Inspector, but releasing the wrong men doesn't usually fall into that category.'

  'Then you explain what the hell is going on,' Gregson challenged him. 'Because I feel as if I'm running around in circles looking for answers.'

  The two men regarded one another silently across the desk. The silence was finally broken by Nicholson. He got to his feet.

  'There's a simple way to settle this,' he said. 'Come with me.'

  Together they left the office, walking down the short corridor to a set of steps. Nicholson led the way. At the bottom of the steps was another corridor, a much longer one this time. They finally reached a door which opened into the courtyard at the rear of the building. A blast of cold wind hit them. Gregson pulled up the collar of his jacket.

  'What did they supposedly die of?' Gregson wanted to know.

  'I don't remember exactly, but if you'd like to check their medical files before you leave you're quite welcome to,' the Governor said.

  'Thanks, I think I might,' the DI said, following his host towards the church. The weather-vane on top of the small steeple was spinning madly in the wind. A couple of inmates were collecting fallen leaves and stuffing them into black bags. Another man was trimming the grass in the churchyard with a pair of shears, raking the clippings into a sack.

  'This way,' said Nicholson, heading up a short path by the church.

  Gregson followed. The inmates watched them.

  'There,' said Nicholson, pointing at a simple wooden cross.

  Gregson peered at the name on it.

  MATHEW BRYCE.

  'And here,' said Nicholson, pointing at another of the markers.

  PETER LAWTON.

  Gregson felt the wind whipping around him, felt the chill grow more intense.

  There was one more.

  TREVOR MAGEE.

  Gregson looked at the dates on each one, noting the year and month each man had died. All had expired within the last eighteen months.

  'Satisfied?' Nicholson said. 'I don't know who you've got in your morgue back in London, but as you can see they're not the three men you thought they were.'

  ***

  Gregson jabbed the nine on the phone to get an outside line and pressed the digits he wanted.

  He sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room and waited for the phone to be answered. When it finally was he recognised the voice immediately.

  'Stuart, it's me,' he said.

  'How's it going, Frank?' DS Finn wanted to know.

  'I wish I knew,' Gregson said wearily, and repeated what he'd seen at Whitely. 'The fucking graves are there, no question, no mistakes.'

  'The graves are there, fair enough, but there's no mistake about who the three geezers in cold storage here are either. What the fuck is going on?'

  'I wish I knew. Listen, I need you to check something out for me. Go through some files. I want you to check on any murderers who've been convicted and sent to Whitely in the last three years, got it? I want a list on my desk by the time I get back.'

  'When will that be?'

  'Tomorrow. Early afternoon, if I can get a train.'

  'Okay, Frank.'

  'Stuart, just a minute,' Gregson said hurriedly. 'When you check those files there's something specific you should look for. Like I said, I want to know how many murderers have been sent to Whitely in the last three years. More importantly, I want to know how many of those men died there.'

  'What have you got, Frank?' Finn asked, quietly.

  'Maybe nothing. Just check those files. If you find anything, call me here at the hotel.' He gave him the name and the number of the hotel in Buxton. 'Otherwise I'll see you tomorrow.'

  Gregson hung up and sat back on the bed, cradling a glass of whisky in his hand which he'd poured himself from the room's mini-bar.

  He felt as if he needed it.

  Outside it was beginning to get dark.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Scott looked up as he heard the key turn in the lock. The heavy iron door swung open and a man stepped into the cell, the door hurriedly closing behind him. The sound of the turning lock seemed deafening.

  'Scott, right?' said Mike Robinson, crossing to his own bunk. 'Jim Scott?'

  He nodded.

  'How do you know my name?' he wanted to know. Robinson smiled.

  'The same way we know what you're in for,' he said. 'There isn't much we don't know about in here. At least when it comes to other members of the population.' His smile faded. 'Besides, it pays to know a few things about a bloke you're going to be sharing with, especially when that bloke's topped three other geezers.'

  Scott looked at him angrily.

  'I didn't kill them,' he said. 'I was set up.'

  Robinson crossed to the small washbasin in the corner of the cell and spun the taps.

  'Yeah,' he muttered humourlessly. 'You and everybody else in here. We're all innocent, Scott. We were all fitted up.' The smile returned.

  'It's the truth. I didn't kill those men,' Scott insisted. 'Look, I'm one of your cell mates, not a fucking jury, and it's a bit late to start pleading innocence, isn't it?'

  Robinson dried his hands on the towel. 'I don't care if you killed three or three hundred. The only thing I care about is that I've got to share a cell with you. So if you cut your toenails don't leave them lying around on the floor, don't make too much noise if you have to use the slop bucket at night and if you're a shit-stabber then I'll tell you now, my arsehole isn't for rent. Right? I don't care how much snout, cash or force you use, my ring-piece is out of fucking bounds and if you try anything I'll cut your heart out.'

  Scott looked impassively at him, a slight grin on his face.

  'You trying to say I'm queer?' he said quietly.

  'No, I'm just telling you that if you are then you're going to have a long love affair with your right hand because I'm straight and so is Rod. But there's plenty in here who aren't. If you want to find them, good hunting.'

  'Who's Rod?'

  'Rod Porter. The other bloke in this cell. He's on work detail at the moment.' Robinson
swung himself up onto his bunk and pulled a magazine from beneath his pillow.

  Scott regarded him impassively for a moment.

  'You know enough about me,' he said. 'Who are you?'

  'Mike Robinson.'

  Scott extended his hand in greeting.

  Robinson regarded it cautiously for a moment, then shook it, feeling the power in the other man's grip. Scott squeezed more tightly, the muscles in his forearm standing out like chords. When he finally released his grip, Robinson's hand felt numb but he managed to hide the discomfort.

  'You got life, didn't you?' he said.

  Scott nodded.

  Jesus, even the words made him shiver.

  Life.

  'What else do you know about me?' he asked.

  'In the real world you worked for Ray Plummer,' Robinson told him. 'And just a word of warning on that score. There are a couple of Ralph Connelly's boys in here who weren't too happy when they heard you'd blown away three of their mates.'

  'I didn't kill them,' Scott snapped.

  'Sorry, I forgot. You're innocent,' Robinson said. 'Whatever the case, watch your back with Connelly's boys. I'll point them out to you when I get the chance.'

  Scott nodded.

  'You done time before?' Robinson asked.

  Scott shook his head.

  'What about you?' he wanted to know.

  Robinson smiled.

  'I've been in and out since I was ten,' he said with something bordering on pride. 'Remand homes, detention centres, borstals and nicks. They're all much the same. It's usually just the screws who are different. The ones here are okay, as far as screws go. It's the Governor who's the real cunt.' He described Nicholson briefly, and mentioned particularly his words before the visit of the prison delegation. Scott sat on the edge of his own bed listening intently, hands clasped on his knees.

  Robinson was still giving him the low-down on life in Whitely when the key rattled in the door again and it opened to admit Rod Porter. He was wearing a white overall on top of his grey prison issue clothes and he pulled the overall off as soon as he was inside.