Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  Scott noticed there were bloodstains on it.

  'Hard day at the office, dear?' chuckled Robinson as Porter crossed to the sink and began splashing his face with water.

  He finally turned and looked at Scott.

  'Well,' he said. 'I suppose a murderer is better company than a ponce.' He extended his right hand. A token of greeting.

  Scott shook it.

  Brief introductions were made and Porter explained about their last cell-mate, just as he had to the prison delegation.

  'There's just one thing, Rod,' Robinson said, still smiling. 'Old Jim here is innocent. He didn't kill those three blokes. He was framed.'

  Porter smiled.

  'How many fucking times do I have to tell you?' snarled Scott. 'It wasn't me who killed them.' There was fury in his eyes.

  'The cheque's in the post, I love you and I promise not to come in your mouth,' Porter added. 'They're the three most common lies, mate. Except inside and you just added the fourth. We're all fucking innocent. I don't know why they don't just open the gates and let us all out now.'

  'Fuck you,' Scott rasped.

  'You don't have to,' said Porter. 'A jury already did that. They fucked me, Mike and you and everyone else in this shithole. There's no virgins in here. The law fucked everybody.'

  Robinson chuckled.

  'Very philosophical,' he said.

  Porter stretched out on his bunk, hands clasped behind his head.

  'So what do you think of the hotel?' he said.

  Scott shrugged. He felt cold, as if all the warmth had been sucked from his body. He sat down on his own bed, exhaling deeply.

  Life.

  He nodded in the direction of the balled-up overall Porter had been wearing.

  'What's that for?' he wanted to know.

  'Work detail,' Porter explained. 'Laundry. I collect it and deliver it. It's better than sitting in here every day. Apart from the hospital wing.' He grunted. 'That's where the blood came from. Blood, shit and Christ knows what else. It used to be used as a punishment: they'd make inmates clean up the hospital wing, that sort of thing. Even make them change sheets and empty fucking bedpans.'

  'What did anybody do to get that punishment?' Scott wanted to know.

  'It was usually if somebody tried to escape,' Porter said.

  Escape.

  'Has anyone ever managed it?' Scott wanted to know.

  'Not since I've been here,' Porter told him. 'A couple of blokes tried to go over the wall about a year ago. Before that, some prat even managed to hide in the boot of one of the warders' cars.' The other two men laughed.

  'Somebody did it a while back,' Robinson said. 'Actually got out. They didn't get far, of course, but they managed to get out of the prison itself…'

  'How?' Scott demanded, cutting him short.

  'This place is very old, as you know. Supposedly there's a network of sewer tunnels running under it,' Robinson explained. 'Most of them have probably caved in by now. But one old boy over in B Wing was telling me that it's like a fucking maze down there. Some geezer got down into the tunnels and found his way out.'

  'Rather him than me,' Porter muttered. 'That was probably how they found him. Just followed the smell of shit.'

  Robinson laughed.

  Scott didn't.

  He sat back on his bed, looking around at the confines of the cell.

  Life.

  He sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily.

  A vision of Carol filled his mind.

  Then Plummer.

  He gritted his teeth.

  'You all right?' Porter asked.

  Scott nodded slowly, opening his eyes.

  When he spoke his words were almost inaudible. 'I was just thinking.'

  LIFE.

  The word screamed inside his brain.

  No. There had to be a way.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  The raindrops against the window sounded like a handful of gravel being hurled at the glass by the strong wind. Rivulets of water coursed down the panes, puddling on the sill.

  Governor Peter Nicholson watched the rain, hands clasped behind his back, his office lit only by the desk lamp at one corner.

  He was looking out over the prison courtyard, watching the sheets of rain falling, the brightness of the observation lights along the prison walls reflecting in his eyes.

  The wall clock ticked somnolently in the silence, each movement of the minute hand magnified by the stillness in the office.

  It was 10.56 P.M.

  'As far as I can see, it's a perfect choice.'

  The voice cut through the stillness like sunlight through night.

  Nicholson didn't turn, hardly seemed to acknowledge the other voice. He merely shifted position slightly, knotted his fingers more tightly together and continued gazing out of the window.

  'No living relatives. There's no family anywhere, as far as I can tell,' said the other voice. 'There's a history of violence, at least that's what the psychological profile says. More recent events would appear to substantiate that supposition.'

  Nicholson remained silent.

  'I need to be one hundred per cent sure, though,' the voice added.

  At last Nicholson turned to face the other occupant of the room.

  Doctor Robert Dexter ran a hand through his hair and nodded slowly, as if answering his own unasked question.

  'How soon do you want to start?' Nicholson asked.

  'I think we should leave it a week,' the doctor told him. 'I need to observe. As I said, I have to be one hundred per cent sure.' He exhaled deeply, in fact, perhaps we ought to wait longer than that.' He looked questioningly at the Governor. 'You said that policeman had been here.'

  'He suspects nothing,' Nicholson said dismissively. 'I showed him the graves.'

  'Even so, it might be an idea to stop work for a while. Just until the fuss has blown over.'

  'What fuss? I told you, I showed him the graves.'

  'But you said they'd identified Lawton, Bryce and Magee. What if he isn't satisfied with your explanation? He might come back.'

  'And find what?' Nicholson leant across the desk and looked closely into Dexter's eyes. 'We've gone too far to turn back now. There's no need to delay the work, let alone stop it altogether. Unless you're beginning to have second thoughts.' He smiled scornfully. 'One failure too many, perhaps?'

  'They were not failures, Nicholson. It can work, I've proved that.'

  'So you say, doctor. I'm yet to be convinced.'

  'It doesn't matter to you if they die, anyway, does it?'

  'Not really, no.'

  'I sometimes wonder why you became involved in the first place.'

  'You know why.'

  'Medical executions,' said Dexter quietly. 'That's what you see them as, isn't it? The ones that don't work.'

  'You know my views,' Nicholson said sharply. 'This current situation is all that concerns me at the moment. Will you do it or not?'

  'I need a week to observe, as I said.'

  Nicholson nodded thoughtfully.

  'However, the choice is perfect,' the doctor continued. He picked up the file that lay on the desk and flipped it open. Amid the plethora of papers there was a photo. He picked it up and studied the contours of the face, a slight smile on his lips.

  'He'll be a good subject,' Dexter murmured. 'I'll operate as soon as I'm ready.'

  He slipped the picture back into the file and closed it, looking once more at the name on the cover:

  JAMES SCOTT.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  Detective Inspector Frank Gregson paced slowly back and forth from one side of his office to the other, his gaze occasionally shifting to the blackboard behind his desk. To the names written on it.

  DS Stuart Finn took a long drag on his cigarette and nodded at the board.

  'Six murderers have been sent to Whitely in the past three years,' he said. 'I checked it out, just like you asked. Four of them died in there, all in the last eighteen months.'
He looked at the blackboard once again.

  'Including our three men,' Gregson said, finally perching on the edge of his desk. He looked at the last name on the list.

  GARY LUCAS.

  'It's a hell of a coincidence,' the DI muttered. 'All died there, all buried there.'

  'All except Lucas,' Finn told him.

  Gregson turned to look at his companion.

  'By terms of his will, Lucas asked if he could be buried near his home, instead of in prison grounds. This burial in unconsecrated ground crap hasn't been enforced since they stopped the death penalty,' Finn went on. 'It's just that none of the other three had any family to protest.'

  'Nor had Lucas, had he?'

  'No; but, like I said, the terms of his will specified he could be buried outside prison grounds. They planted him in a cemetery in Norwood about three weeks ago.'

  Gregson stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  'What did the coroner say was the cause of death?' he wanted to know.

  Finn blew out another stream of smoke, it says cardiac arrest on the death certificate, but a proper autopsy was never carried out,' said the DS, 'The certificate was signed by some geezer called…' he consulted his notes, 'Doctor Robert Dexter. He's down as resident physician at Whitely. The body was prepared there too, you know. They even put him in the coffin and shipped him home instead of leaving it to a local undertaker. Thoughtful, eh?' He took another drag on his cigarette.

  'Jesus Christ,' muttered Gregson, his eyes fixed on the name of Lucas.

  'Lucas must have fitted in well with the other three there,' Finn observed. 'He killed four people, including an eighty-seven-year-old woman, with a claw hammer before he was caught. Apparently he kept the old girl's left hand in his wardrobe. After he killed her he tried taking her wedding ring and when he couldn't get it he hacked her whole fucking hand off.'

  Gregson appeared not to hear this last piece of information. He was already reaching for his phone, jabbing an extension number.

  It rang. And rang.

  'Where the hell is the boss?' he hissed.

  'I should think he's gone home, Frank,' Finn said, 'it is nearly midnight, after all. What do you want him for, anyway?'

  Gregson slammed the phone down, 'If I want an exhumation order he'll need to go and see a magistrate. I want Lucas dug up.'

  'Are you serious?' Finn murmured uncomprehend-ingly. 'You want to dig Gary Lucas up? Why, for Christ's sake? He's dead.'

  'So, apparently, were Lawton, Bryce and Magee.'

  'You know they're dead. You saw their graves.'

  'Yeah, I did. I also saw the three bodies downstairs in pathology. The ones that were positively identified as those same three men.' Gregson pulled his jacket on.

  'Frank, where the fuck are you going?' Finn demanded, standing up as his superior headed for the door.

  'I'm going to find out once and for all what the hell is going on,' Gregson told him.

  Finn gripped his colleague's arm but the DI shook loose.

  'Get off me,' he snapped.

  'This is fucking crazy,' Finn blurted.

  'If you want to help me, that's great,' Gregson said quietly, his voice soft but his tone and expression full of menace. He pointed at Finn. 'If not, stay out of my way.' The vein at his temple throbbed angrily.

  Finn stood there helplessly for a moment, his own breath coming in gasps as he looked into the wild eyes of his superior.

  'Where the hell are you going?' he demanded.

  'Norwood Cemetery.'

  EIGHTY

  The Ford Scorpio came to a screeching halt at the massive wrought-iron gates of the cemetery.

  Gregson looked at the huge barriers and banged the wheel angrily.

  'You didn't expect them to be open, did you, Frank?' Finn grunted. 'Perhaps you should have called ahead and warned them we were on a zombie hunt. They might have laid on some lights too and some fucking shovels.'

  'We're going in there,' Gregson snapped, his face hidden by the gloom of the night. He hauled himself out of the car and walked towards the stone wall surrounding the necropolis. The DI looked up at it, estimating the height to be about six feet.

  He could climb it easily.

  Taking a few steps back he ran at it, gripped the top row of bricks and pulled himself up onto the rampart. Balanced there, he looked into the cemetery. To his right was the chapel of rest; a little to the left of that was a wooden hut he took to be the domain of the cemetery caretaker.

  They would find tools in there.

  'Come on,' he called to Finn.

  'You're fucking mad,' the DS snarled, looking up at him.

  In response Gregson merely leapt down from the wall, landing on the gravel drive of the cemetery and rolling over to cushion his fall. The pieces of stone crunched loudly-beneath him.

  Finn sucked in a deep breath and ran at the wall, springing up and swinging himself over. Cursing quietly, he lowered himself down, dropping the last foot or so to the ground. He set off after Gregson, hearing his own feet crunching gravel as he hurried to catch up with his superior.

  A cold breeze whipped across the open space, stirring fresh flowers on a new grave close by. One of the blooms was lifted from its pot and sent tumbling across the grass.

  Trees towered over both sides of the driveway, which snaked through the vast graveyard like a mottled tongue. Branches stirred by the wind clattered together like muted applause as Finn finally caught up with his companion.

  'Frank…' he began.

  'We've got to get this door open,' Gregson said, ignoring his colleague. He took a step back and kicked at the doorknob. It came loose. Another similar impact and it gave way, the door flying inwards to crash against the wall. Gregson walked in, squinting in the gloom. 'Give me your lighter,' he said to Finn, who fumbled in his pocket and pressed the Zippo into his superior's palm.

  Gregson flicked it on and raised it above his head, the sickly yellow puddle of light spreading out to illuminate the inside of the hut. There was dried mud on the floor and the place smelt damp. Ahead stood a wooden workbench; to the right on the wall there were cupboards. To the left there were tools. Gregson smiled at the shovels, spades, picks and assorted other pieces of hardware.

  'Try and find some lights,' he said to Finn, who shook his head and wandered towards the cupboards.

  In the darkness he cracked his leg against a wheelbarrow, yelping in pain, then cursing as he rubbed his shin.

  Gregson picked up a couple of spades and a pick-axe and turned to see that his companion had discovered a large torch in one of the cupboards.

  'Bring that,' he snapped as Finn flicked it on. The beam was powerful and broad. 'We've got to find the grave.'

  'I joined the force to uphold the law, not play at fucking Burke and Hare,' snapped Finn.

  Gregson smiled thinly and motioned for his companion to lead the way.

  'Take this,' he said, handing Finn a spade.

  'There must be thousands of people buried in this fucking place,' snarled the DS. 'How the hell are we supposed to find one grave? We don't even know where it is.'

  They set off along the driveway, feet sinking into the loose chippings.

  'If Lucas was only buried three weeks ago, I know which part of the cemetery he'll be in,' Gregson reassured his companion. 'A friend of my father's died about a month ago. He was buried here, too. I came along with my old man. All the new ones are put in the same place. It's not far.'

  As they walked Finn shone the torch from side to side, the light picking out graves on either side. Headstones stuck up from the earth like accusatory fingers, many moulded with age. Larger, sepulchral edifices appeared occasionally out of the night; marble reflected the beam of the torch. Some graves had crosses, others were completely unmarked. In many places the grass was overgrown. Great long tufts of it encroached onto the graves, the blades stirred by the strengthening wind.

  As the path sloped upwards slightly, both men spotted a secondary track that was little more th
an a well-worn path carved out by the passage of many weary feet.

  'Over there,' Gregson said, indicating the muddy path.

  They changed direction. Finn sucked in breath.

  'Do you reckon they'll still pay us our police pensions when we're locked up in a nuthouse? Because that's what's going to happen when people find out what we're doing,' he said.

  'This is no joke,' hissed Gregson.

  'You're fucking right it's not,' snapped Finn. 'Traipsing round a graveyard at one o'clock in the morning isn't my idea of a fun way to pass the time.'

  'Give me the torch,' Gregson snapped, taking the light from his companion. He shone it over the headstones, picking out names.

  'It's around here somewhere,' he said, it has to be.'

  'I hope to Christ you're right,' Finn said, pulling up the collar of his jacket against the wind. A tree nearby bowed mockingly, its skeletal branches clacking together.

  Gregson noted that most of the graves had fresh flowers on them. He could smell violets as he moved from one plot to another, moving the torch beam steadily over the monuments, careful not to tread on any of the graves. He noted the names, the inscriptions. The ages.

  VALERIE SUTTON - BELOVED WIFE.

  SLEEPING MARK KELLER - TAKEN BY GOD.

  JONATHAN PIKE - THE LIGHT OF OUR LIFE - DIED MARCH 8th AGED 11 MONTHS.

  'This could take all night,' said Finn. Every time he stepped on a grave he apologised to its occupant, feeling stupid but unable to stop himself.

  Gregson kept the torch beam moving steadily.

  LOUISE PATEMAN - OUR DARLING DAUGHTER - AT REST.

  A metal rosebowl, overturned by the wind, clattered off its plinth and rolled against a headstone.

  'Shit,' hissed Finn, spinning round.

  COLIN MORRIS - A SPECIAL HUSBAND - SADLY MISSED.

  The roses from the bowl were quickly scattered by the wind. The bowl continued to roll back and forth.

  Finn reached for his cigarettes.

  'Stuart.'

  The sound of the voice startled him and he spun round to look at Gregson who was holding the beam on a simple plinth set into the ground. It bore only the name.

  'I've found it,' said the DI.