Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  He decided to return to his flat; he would take the chance. Besides, there were things there he needed. A change of clothes, for one. And after that?

  He gripped the wheel tightly, wincing at the pain that filled his head.

  Plummer.

  Scott ran one index finger tentatively over his forehead.

  Carol.

  She wouldn't be expecting him back, either.

  The bitch.

  How surprised they would be to see him.

  Scott almost smiled. He glanced down at the passenger seat, at the pile of shirts and jeans there.

  And the carving knife that lay hidden beneath.

  This time he did smile.

  As he glanced ahead once more he saw the police car.

  It was travelling slowly up the other side of the road towards him; there was just one man in it.

  Scott gripped the wheel, a reflex action brought about by a combination of pain and panic.

  Should he pull in to the side of the road until the police car had gone?

  It was getting closer. He knew he must make up his mind quickly.

  He drove on, his eyes fixed firmly on the road as he by-passed the vehicle. Its driver offered him only a cursory glance. Scott watched the car in his rear-view mirror, saw it turn a corner and disappear from sight. He exhaled deeply, checking his mirror again to ensure that the police car hadn't turned to follow him. Satisfied that it hadn't he drove on, drawing nearer to his flat.

  He saw no police cars parked outside; no officers waiting for him, at least none in uniform. They'd be plain clothes, he thought, angry with himself. The cars would be unmarked. There was an old Capri parked outside the block of flats where he lived, but it had no occupant. Scott looked around. A group of school-children were making their way noisily across the road in front of him, one of them slapping the bonnet of the Renault as he passed. Scott ignored the children, his eyes flicking back and forth as he drove past the block, satisfied that he was safe. He parked the car behind the Capri and climbed out, walking briskly across to the main doors, the knife tucked inside his jeans, covered by the folds of his shirt.

  He would have to use the knife to get into his flat as he had no keys.

  Wearily he began to climb the stairs. He felt the blade cold against his flesh.

  The razor-sharp blade. He thought of Carol. The knife.

  Plummer.

  He continued to climb.

  NINETY-SEVEN

  'Down there.'

  The pilot tapped Gregson's shoulder and directed his attention towards the ground.

  Through the cockpit windows of the helicopter the DI could see the shape of Whitely Prison standing darkly against the moorland that surrounded it.

  He nodded as the pilot said something else, his voice metallic through the headset the policeman wore. The noise of the rotor blades filled the small cockpit as the twin-engined Lynx cruised smoothly towards its destination. Gregson checked his watch, noting that it had taken less than an hour to reach the prison from London. He glanced behind him to the rear seats, where Finn and two other plain clothes men sat. One of them, a tall man in his early forties called Clifford, was looking distinctly queasy. The other, Sherman, was looking out of the side window, watching the countryside rising up to meet them as the Lynx swept lower.

  Finn was tapping his fingertips against his knees, waiting for the helicopter to land. He didn't like flying at the best of times and the Lynx, as far as he was concerned, offered even less protection in the air than an aircraft. He was looking forward to getting his feet back on firm ground. One glance at Clifford told him the tall man felt the same way.

  'You okay?' Gregson said, raising his voice above the roar of the rotors.

  Finn nodded.

  'Where do you want me to drop her?' the pilot interrupted, tapping Gregson's arm once again.

  The DI scanned the prison below and stroked his chin thoughtfully. From their present height the huge Victorian structure looked like a model. He could see figures moving about within the grounds, some doubtless able to see the approaching chopper and wondering about its presence.

  'Land in the exercise yard,' Gregson answered, pointing. 'There.'

  The pilot nodded and the Lynx went into a swift descent which caused Finn to hold his stomach. The uncomfortable feeling he always experienced upon landing, his ears popping, seemed to intensify in the small aerial vehicle. Clifford thought he was going to be sick. Sherman felt like an extra from Apocalypse Now. He smiled at his own joke.

  Gregson looked down as the Lynx descended, scanning the prison, wondering if Nicholson had seen them coming, wondering what the Governor was thinking as he saw the helicopter dropping gently out of the sky. The DI almost unconsciously touched the exhumation orders inside his jacket pocket. He felt a curious kind of exhilaration as the Lynx went lower, an excitement at the thought of finally finding an answer to the riddle of the killers. If there were answers, they were here at Whitely. He was sure of it.

  The helicopter wavered slightly as the pilot prepared to set down. A strong gust of wind caught it and one of the skids bumped the concrete of the exercise yard but it re-adjusted and gently touched down. The pilot immediately switched off the rotors and Gregson and his companions hurriedly unstrapped themselves, the DI pushing open the passenger door.

  'Keep your heads down,' the pilot yelled as the rotors continued to carve a pattern through the air. 'What do you want me to do?'

  'Wait here for us,' Gregson told him, cupping one hand to his mouth to make himself heard over the dying engines.

  The pilot raised one thumb in an attitude of acknowledgement, watching as the other three men clambered out and hurried away from the helicopter.

  Two warders were approaching them, bewildered by the sudden, unannounced arrival of the Lynx. Before either of them could speak Gregson had taken his ID out and was holding it out in front of him for inspection.

  'I want to see Governor Nicholson,' he snapped. 'Now:

  NINETY-EIGHT

  What if they were waiting inside for him?

  The corridor was deserted, just as the stairs had been during his tortuous climb. Maybe they were waiting in the flat itself.

  Scott hesitated a few paces away, the thought turning over and over in his mind. He reached for the knife and pulled it from his belt, inserting it in the door frame close to the lock.

  He had to take the chance.

  Scott moved the knife gently but firmly and the lock finally slipped.

  He stood close to the door, listening for any signs or sounds of movement. Satisfied that there were none, he pushed the door open and stepped inside the flat, closing the door quickly behind him.

  The place smelt damp. Cupboards were open and furniture lay overturned, the way it had been the day they arrested him. Scott stood looking around for long moments, pressing one hand to his temple as a particularly vehement stab of pain lanced through his brain. He gritted his teeth, thought for a second he was going to pass out. When it cleared, he moved into the bedroom. There he pulled open his wardrobe. His clothes were still there, at least. He tried the bedside cabinet.

  The Beretta was gone.

  He slammed the drawer shut, realising that the police had obviously kept it. Bastards. He sat down on the edge of the bed, acutely aware not only of the pain from his head and his leg but of his weariness, of the stench he was giving off. He decided a shower would remedy both those problems and stumbled through into the bathroom, spinning the cold tap and scooping water to swallow two more aspirins. Then he turned on the shower and pulled off the shirt and jeans he'd been wearing, finally standing naked.

  Scott turned to the bathroom mirror and looked at his reflection. His skin was pale, his eyes sunken through pain and lack of sleep but it was the bandage to which he addressed his attention. With infinite slowness he began to peel it off, finally dropping it onto the floor. There was a piece of gauze on his forehead, held in place by two pieces of surgical tape. Carefully, the
noise of the shower filling the room now, Scott removed them, pulling the encrusted gauze pad free.

  The wound in his skull was less than two inches long, running from just below his hairline, diagonally towards his right eyebrow. The wound was caked with congealed blood and the dark stitches stood out even more vividly against the paleness of his flesh. He looked more closely, the breath sticking in his throat.

  The wound was pulsing gently.

  As he put his forefinger to it, he noticed that his hand was shaking.

  The wound throbbed rhythmically, like a small heart, but the steady beat was not that of his pulse.

  It bumped gently to its own tempo.

  Scott swallowed hard, closing his eyes as a fresh wave of pain hit him.

  Make it stop.

  He moistened a piece of cotton wool and cleaned some of the dried blood from around the wound. The pain was intense. He rubbed both hands across his face and stepped beneath the shower, allowing the streams of water to wash the accumulated filth from him. He closed his eyes briefly, then looked down at the cut on his calf. It was deep and had bled profusely but he could attend to it himself. Besides, it was only a dull ache compared to the excruciating agony inside his skull. He washed quickly, seeing blood swirl around the plug-hole as he stepped out, switched off the shower and began to dry himself.

  He found some bandages in one of the bathroom cabinets and hastily wound one around his calf, securing it with a stout bow. The wound on his forehead, he discovered, could be covered by a large plaster. Careful not to press too hard on the wound, he affixed it, leaning on the sink for support. He swallowed more aspirin and found, to his joy, that the pain was subsiding. He splashed his face with cold water and dried it carefully, satisfied the plaster was in place. Then he wandered back into the bedroom and slipped on a shirt, a fresh pair of jeans and a pair of cowboy boots.

  He slid the knife down the side of one boot.

  He crossed to the phone, checking that it was still connected.

  He dialled Carol's number and waited.

  Waited.

  Nothing.

  Three times he tried it. Three times he was greeted by the ringing tone.

  Finally he pressed down on the cradle, listening to the monotonous buzz of the dial tone for a moment before punching new digits.

  Ray Plummer's phone rang.

  And rang.

  And was picked up.

  'Hello.'

  He recognised the voice immediately.

  'Hello. Who is this?' Carol Jackson wanted to know.

  Scott gripped the receiver in his fist then, with a loud roar, slammed it down the force of the impact shattering the plastic phone in two. He picked it up and hurled it across the room.

  Fucking slag.

  Dirty fucking slag.

  He got to his feet, pulling on the leather jacket he'd taken from the wardrobe, and headed for the door.

  The knife bumped against his leg as he walked.

  The drive to Plummer's flat would take him less than an hour, he guessed.

  But first, he had other tasks to perform.

  NINETY-NINE

  He had seen the helicopter land, seen the four men disembark.

  Now Governor Peter Nicholson heard the commotion outside his office, the raised voices of his secretary and of a man. A man who, seconds later, barged into the office, pushing Nicholson's secretary aside.

  'What the hell is going on here?' the Governor asked.

  'I might ask you the same thing,' Gregson snapped, followed into the room by Finn, Sherman and Clifford.

  'I tried to stop them, Mr Nicholson,' the secretary protested. 'But they…'

  'It's all right,' Nicholson said, waving her away. When the door was shut he turned on the invading policemen. 'How dare you come barging in here like this? I want to know what's going on.'

  'So do we, that's why we're here,' Gregson said, in case you've forgotten, my name is Detective Inspector Gregson…'

  'I remember your last visit,' Nicholson told him scornfully.

  'Good, then you'll remember what it was about. Well, this time I'm not leaving until I get the answers I want.' Nicholson smiled.

  'And what answers are those?' he said, i'm going to find out what's going on in this bloody prison. I'm going to find out how four convicted murderers, supposedly locked up here, could re-appear in London and re-enact their crimes. I'm going to find out what your game is, Nicholson.'

  'Get out of here now before I call your superiors,' the Governor said angrily, turning his back on the policemen.

  'My superiors know I'm here and they know why,' Gregson announced.

  The colour drained from Nicholson's face and he remained with his back to the DI, hiding his expression.

  'Do they know what you're accusing myself and some of my staff of?' he said, some of the bravado gone from his vcrice.

  'Cut the bullshit, Nicholson, we haven't got all day. We've got work to do,' Gregson hissed.

  Nicholson turned to face him.

  'Perhaps you should reconsider what you're doing before it's too late.'

  'It's already too late, too late for you.'

  'And what, exactly, are you proposing to do?'

  'I'm going to open the graves of Peter Lawton, Mathew Bryce and Trevor Magee.'

  'You can't do that,' Nicholson said quietly, the steel gone from his voice.

  'Why not? We've already opened the grave of Gary Lucas,' Gregson told him, leaning forward on the desk. 'And do you know what we found? Nothing. Fuck all. No corpse. Just a bag of bricks. Lucas never died, did he? Just like Lawton, Bryce and Magee never died. You faked their deaths to cover up what you'd done to them here. Then you released them.'

  Nicholson shook his head.

  'You're insane,' he snarled.

  'Maybe I am, but I'm also right.'

  'You can't open the graves,' Nicholson said defiantly. 'I won't allow it.'

  'You have no choice,' Gregson said triumphantly. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the three exhumation orders, hurling them down in front of Nicholson. 'You can read them if you want to, but the most important thing is the signature at the bottom. Look at it.'

  Nicholson picked up one of the documents with his thumb and forefinger, as if he were handling some kind of contagious material. He saw the sweeping hand of Commissioner Lawrence Sullivan on the order and the signature of a well-known Judge.

  'Do you still want to argue with me?' Gregson said.

  Nicholson merely glared at the policeman.

  'The records we had on Lucas say that his body was prepared by your resident doctor,' the DI said. 'Someone called…'

  'Dexter. Dr Robert Dexter,' Finn interjected.

  'I want to speak to him, too,' Gregson insisted. 'No autopsy was carried out on Lucas, according to the records. Did Dexter prepare the other three, as well?'

  Nicholson nodded.

  'Was he the one who experimented on them?'

  'What are you talking about?' Nicholson snapped.

  'There's nowhere to run now, Nicholson. We know it all. We have the bodies back at New Scotland Yard. We know the men were all suffering from massive brain tumours, possibly triggered by some kind of brain surgery. Surgery performed by Dexter. Where is he?'

  'In the hospital wing.'

  'Get him. Now.'

  Nicholson's hand hovered over the phone.

  'And then?' he asked.

  Gregson smiled thinly.

  'We've got some digging to do.'

  ONE HUNDRED

  Scott could see the 'CLOSED' sign on the door of Les Gourmets as he pulled up across the street from it. He parked the Renault and sat behind the wheel for a moment, his head resting against the steering wheel.

  Stop this fucking pain.

  He swallowed hard and opened his eyes, squinting at first to clear the mist of pain that seemed to have clouded his vision. A cobbled walkway ran alongside the restaurant and led to the back entrance. Scott swung himself out of the ca
r and crossed the street. The walkway was wide enough for a small delivery truck and Scott noticed that there was a dark red Rover Sterling parked there.

  He recognised the car; it belonged to Terry Morton.

  As Scott moved towards the rear of the restaurant he saw two men in shirt-sleeves carrying large metal bins to a skip in the back yard of the eatery, emptying waste into the receptacle. He paused for a moment, his hand slipping down to touch the hilt of the knife. He pulled it free and slipped it into the back of his belt, hiding it beneath his jacket.

  Scott moved closer as the men finished their task. He could hear the clanking of pots and pans inside the kitchen at the rear and there were several excitable voices being raised within. He peered around the corner and noticed that the door to the kitchen was open.

  He assumed that Morton was inside.

  He edged towards the back door, cursing as he slipped in a mess of spilled potato peelings. He walked on, into the kitchen of the restaurant. Several curious heads turned to look at him.

  'Can I help you?' one of the staff asked, wiping his hands on a tea-towel.

  'I work for Mr Plummer,' Scott said, regarding the man coldly. 'I noticed one of my friends is here. I saw his car parked round the side. Where is he?'

  The man seemed to relax.

  'Mr Morton is through there in the restaurant with Mr Perry,' he told Scott. 'Shall I tell them you're here?'

  Scott shook his head.

  'No, I'll surprise them,' he said, pushing past the man, who watched as he stepped through the macrame streamers that separated the kitchen from the dining area.

  It was dull inside the restaurant, despite the daylight outside. The shutters were only half-open.

  Morton and Perry were sitting at a table close to the window, a bottle of wine between them. Perry was glancing at a newspaper.