Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  Scott took a couple of steps towards them.

  It was Morton who saw him first.

  Jesus Christ,' he murmured.

  'Not quite,' said Scott softly, a thin smile on his face.

  'You're supposed to be banged up,' Morton told him, as if imparting information only he was aware of.

  'Yeah, well, there's been a change of plan,' Scott told him.

  'You look like shit, Jim,' Perry said, putting down his paper. 'What happened?'

  'It's a long story. Where's Plummer?'

  The two men looked at each other, then back at Scott.

  'Why?' Morton asked.

  'I want to talk to him. We've got some business to discuss. About twenty years' worth.' Scott moved closer.

  Perry's hand moved to the inside of his jacket.

  'Back off, Jim,' he said, his hand touching the butt of the.357 inside his jacket.

  'Fuck you,' rasped Scott and moved the last few paces towards them with lightning speed.

  He pulled the knife free as Perry went for the pistol.

  Scott brought the knife round in a wide arc, the powerful backhand swing catching Perry across the face, slicing through his cheek and shearing off bone. A flap of skin fluttered uselessly. Perry shrieked in pain, blood spouting from the wound. He fell backwards off the chair, the gun falling from his hand.

  Scott kicked it away from him, driving his weight against the table at the same time, knocking Morton back against the window.

  Perry made a grab for the pistol but Scott kicked him hard in the side of the face, shattering his left cheek bone. Then he himself snatched up the.357, aware of shouts from behind him as the terrified staff watched the struggle.

  Scott swung round, bringing the pistol to bear on Morton, who was reaching for his own gun.

  'You fucking…'

  The words were drowned by the massive discharge of the.357, the sound amplified within the confines of the deserted restaurant. Scott was blinded momentarily by the searing muzzle-flashes as he fired three times.

  The first bullet missed, shattering the window behind Morton, but the second two struck home. One tore through his chest to the left of the sternum, exploded a lung and erupted from his his back, carrying blood and portions of bone with it.

  The other heavy-grain slug caught him in the stomach, doubling him up as it macerated a large portion of the duodenum and pulverised the liver on its deadly course. Morton was hurled backwards by the impact, blood jetting from the wounds, his own pistol falling to the floor.

  He pitched forward, crashing into the table, spilling the bottle of wine, sending it flying. Scott stepped back and looked down at Perry, who was still trying to crawl away.

  Scott shot him once in the back of the head, the bullet blasting away a sizeable portion of his skull, exposing his brain. He lay in a spreading pool of blood, his body twitching spasmodically.

  Moving quickly now, Scott snatched up the pistol Morton had dropped, jamming the Smith and Wesson 459 automatic into his belt. He then rifled through the dead man's pockets and found his car keys. These he dropped into his own pocket before straightening up and moving across to Perry.

  Scott found two full quick-loaders in the man's jacket. Each one carried six hollow-point.357 rounds. He pocketed those, too, then hurried towards the rear of the restaurant, where the staff who hadn't bolted in panic at the sound of gunfire were standing paralysed with fear. At one of the stoves a gas flame leaped high beneath a large copper pot. Scott's eyes narrowed.

  'Get out,' he shouted at the staff. 'All of you, get out of here, now.' The sight of the.357 and the tone of Scott's voice combined to accelerate the evacuation. He crossed to the gas flame and stuck a balled up tea towel in it, watching as the material ignited. He tossed it inside the dining area, then threw another after it, watching with delight as flames began to lick at chairs and tables, began to ignite table cloths. Fire spread rapidly, greedy tongues of it flaring wildly inside the room. Scott looked through the curtain of flames to the bodies of Morton and Perry, then turned and headed out into the yard and around the corner to the waiting Rover. He unlocked it and clambered in, sliding behind the wheel.

  He stepped on the accelerator and the car sped away past the front of the restaurant.

  Smoke and flame were already belching through the shattered front window.

  Another few minutes and the entire building would be an inferno.

  ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

  All three of the coffins were empty.

  They lay beside the graves, as if forced up from the dark earth, now discarded by it.

  Empty.

  Gregson moved slowly between them, not quite ready to believe the evidence of his own eyes but aware of the twinge of triumph deep within him.

  The wind, blowing across the cemetery, ruffled his hair as he stood looking at the boxes. Beside him Sherman, Clifford, Finn and the two warders who had helped to disinter the caskets also looked on.

  Nicholson and Dexter said nothing.

  'There was a reason for it,' said Dexter finally.

  Nicholson looked contemptuously at him.

  'I'm not interested in your reasons,' Gregson told him.

  'It was to help the men,' Dexter protested.

  'What about the public, you bastard,' snapped the DI. 'You released murderers back into society, knowing they'd kill again.'

  'No,' Dexter protested. 'The experiments would have worked. Their violent tendencies would have been cured.'

  'Well they weren't, were they? You're as guilty of murder as the men who actually pulled the triggers or used the knives.'

  'They got what they deserved,' said Nicholson. 'They died. Died as they would have done thirty years ago. We did the country a favour by experimenting on men like Bryce and Magee. What else would they have done? Sat here for the rest of their miserable lives feeding on taxpayers' food, clothed by the state, protected.'

  'Well, it's over now, Nicholson,' said the DI. 'You're both under arrest.'

  'It isn't over,' the Governor told him flatly.

  'What the hell do you mean?'

  'A man escaped from here last night. Another man we'd experimented on.'

  Gregson's expression changed to one of shock.

  'Who was he?' he demanded.

  'He can't have got far,' Dexter said, dejectedly. 'I only operated…'

  'Who was he?' Gregson roared.

  'His name was James Scott,' Nicholson said.

  Finn and Gregson looked at each other.

  'How long's he been gone?' the DI wanted to know.

  'We can't be sure,' Dexter said. 'Probably since late last night.'

  'Jesus Christ,' murmured Gregson. He looked at Finn. 'Stuart, you take care of things here. I've got to get back to London as quickly as possible.'

  'You think Scott will head back there?' the DS said.

  'It's the only place he knows,' Gregson said, stepping over an empty coffin. 'I'll put out an alert to all units to watch for him. If he got a car he's probably there by now.' He looked at Dexter. 'Have you any idea what you've done?' he snarled.

  'All I wanted to do was help them,' Dexter said quietly.

  Finn pushed him and Nicholson away, nodding in the direction of the graves.

  'Fill those in,' he said.

  Gregson ran off across the cemetery, almost slipping on the mud in his haste. He sprinted across the exercise yard towards the waiting helicopter, wrenching the passenger side door open. The pilot hurriedly stubbed out his cigarette and looked in surprise as the DI scrambled into the other seat.

  'Get us back to London as fast as you can,' Gregson told him. 'Move.'

  He was already strapping himself in as the pilot switched on the motor and the rotors began to turn, carving an arc through the air as they rotated with increasing speed. The power built up rapidly.

  Gregson clenched his fists together, his emotions a curious mixture of elation and foreboding. Elation that his theory had been proved correct. And foreboding a
t what Scott might do or, indeed, might have already done.

  As the Lynx rose into the air he found that his hands were shaking.

  ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

  'I don't want to kill you, Rick. But I will if I have to.' Rick Calder froze when he heard the voice. He felt the colour drain from his face, felt his bowels loosen as the barrel was prodded into the small of his back.

  'Open it up,' James Scott told him, watching as Calder turned the key in the lock that secured one of the two metal grilles at the front entrance of 'Loveshow'. Calder hooked his fingers beneath the sliding screen of metal and pushed upwards.

  'I thought you were inside,' he said quietly. His hands shook as he tried to find the key to open the door.

  'Yeah, you and everybody else,' Scott told him, prodding him a little harder with the 459. 'Come on, get a fucking move on.' He looked to his right and left, satisfied that the gun he held was hidden from the view of any passers-by.

  Calder finally found the right key and unlocked the door, stumbling inside as Scott pushed him through the entrance and slammed the door behind them. He winced as he felt that all-too familiar pain inside his head, throbbing and pulsing. His brain seemed to be swelling, trying to burst through his skull.

  'How the fuck did you get here?' Calder wanted to know, turning to face the other man, seeing the automatic levelled at him.

  'It doesn't matter,' Scott told him.

  'Jim, I didn't have anything to do with this,' Calder blurted. 'I don't know what you want with me. I haven't done anything to you.'

  Scott thought Calder was going to start weeping.

  'I know you haven't,' he said flatly. 'It isn't you I want,' he continued.

  'So what are you doing here? Did you escape? How did you get out?' Calder's words were almost incoherent, they were spoken so quickly.

  'Rick, just shut it, will you?' snapped Scott, taking a pace towards him. 'Give me the keys.'

  Calder handed them over without hesitation.

  'Take them, do what you want. Just don't hurt me, please,' Calder babbled, his eyes flicking from Scott's face to the barrel of the Smith and Wesson, 'I'll help if you want, just don't hurt me.'

  'Rick, shut up will you,' Scott said wearily.

  'I'll shut up, I'll shut up. Whatever you want, Jim. I'll shut up. Don't hurt me, though. I won't say anything else but…'

  'For fuck's sake,' hissed Scott, taking another step towards Calder, whose eyes widened in terror. 'Shut up,' he roared.

  He struck Calder on the temple with the butt of the pistol, the sound of metal on bone making a sickening thud. Calder dropped like a stone and lay still. Scott leant back against the wall, his breath coming in gasps. There was an ugly cut on Calder's temple, and already the area around it was beginning to darken. A thin trickle of mucus dribbled from his mouth.

  Scott gritted his teeth.

  Stop this fucking pain.

  He sucked in several deep breaths, his hands pressed to his temples, his eyes closed.

  He stood there for several seconds, finally taking one last glance down at the prone figure of Calder. Then Scott made his way downstairs.

  He slapped on lights as he reached the bottom of the flight. Everything was how he'd last seen it. The bed in the centre of the room, the old chairs and sofas. The fading pictures on the peeling walls. He walked through towards his office, past the changing room, selecting the key to his office. He walked in, looking round.

  Scott exhaled wearily and walked across to his desk.

  With a shout of anger he overturned it, then snatched up the chair, swinging it wildly around his head, smashing the light bulb as he lashed out. The chair shattered and he was left holding just one of the legs. Brandishing it like a club, he headed back into the other room. There he smashed the nearest picture on the wall, overturned chairs and sofas. He picked up one of the small coffee tables and hurled it across the room, watching as if broke against the far wall. Scott's breath was coming in gasps now as he moved towards the small bar.

  He stuck out his hand and, with one movement, swept the bottles from the shelves. They landed on the floor, glass shattering, contents spilling everywhere. He picked up one bottle and hurled it across the room, watching it smash against the far wall. Then another. And another. The place was filled with the sound of breaking glass. He hurled the bottles at the pictures, at the bed, at the walls. When there were no bottles left he ripped the shelves from their brackets, wielding one like a staff, breaking it across the bar top.

  Scott picked up a handful of match books. He struck one match and held it close to the others, watching them ignite, then he dropped the flaming bundle to the floor.

  The alcohol that had been spilled there ignited immediately, flames leaping up around his feet. He moved away from the bar and lit more matches, tossing them onto the bed, the sofas. All went up with a loud whump. Flames began to take hold now, scorching their way across the floor in the wake of the spilled drink. Like the tentacles of some fiery octopus the flames shot out in all directions, incinerating everything they touched.

  Satisfied that the fire had taken hold, Scott headed for the stairs, thick smoke already swirling around him.

  As he reached the top of the stairs he noticed that Calder had regained consciousness. He was sitting up, tentatively touching the spot where Scott had hit him.

  As he saw the other man he cowered back against the wall.

  'Jim, please…' he began.

  'If I was you, I'd get out of here, Rick,' Scott told him and headed for the door.

  Thick black smoke was already beginning to fill the stairwell behind him.

  'Oh Jesus,' murmured Calder, seeing the noxious clouds coming from below.

  Scott pushed the door and stepped out on to the pavement, striding across to the Rover which was parked across the street. He slid behind the wheel and started the engine, noticing that, as Calder bolted from the building, the smoke billowed out of the door after him.

  The flames had taken a grip. They would work their way up the stairs, destroying everything.

  Scott watched for a moment longer then started the engine. As he shifted position slightly he could feel the two pistols jammed into his belt. They had a reassuring bulkiness to them. In one pocket he had the two quick-loaders, in the other a couple of spare magazines for the automatic.

  He took one last look at 'Loveshow', smoke now belching from its door, and drove off.

  ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

  'How much further?'

  DI Frank Gregson looked at his watch then at the pilot, who adjusted his microphone before speaking.

  'Another twenty or thirty miles,' the pilot told him.

  Gregson muttered something under his breath and looked out of the side window, watching the cars on the motorway below speeding along. The journey had seemed to take an eternity, although he realised they had been in the air less than forty-five minutes. Already the outskirts of London were appearing below them; the areas of greenery they had passed over when first leaving Whitely were now giving way to more densely populated conurbations.

  The steady drone of the rotor blades continued and the maddening sensation of little or no speed only served to exacerbate the policeman's impatience. Again he checked his watch.

  He'd called through to New Scotland Yard within minutes of leaving Whitely, to tell them that Scott was loose and probably back in the capital. He had also said that the man was possibly armed and extremely dangerous. Gregson had asked for armed squads to aid in the hunt for the fugitive. The radio had been conspicuously quiet, apart from the pilot picking up flying instructions. Despite Gregson's insistence that someone get back to him with a progress report, nothing had disturbed the airwaves yet.

  He glanced at the radio and thought about calling again.

  Had Scott been caught yet?

  Had he been cornered?

  Gregson wondered if he might even have been shot?

  But no information had been forthcoming. No pieces of know
ledge for him. Christ, he felt helpless.

  'Tango Zebra, come in.'

  The metallic voice over the radio seemed to startle Gregson.

  The pilot flicked a switch on his control panel.

  'Tango Zebra, I hear you, over,' he said.

  'I want to speak to Detective Inspector Gregson,' the voice said.

  Gregson tapped his microphone and the pilot nodded.

  'Gregson here. What have you got?' he said.

  'James Scott has been sighted in two places.'

  'Where? How long ago?'

  'He killed two men at a restaurant called Les Gourmet about an hour ago. The men are believed to be Terry Morton and Joe Perry.'

  'What do you mean, believed to be?' Gregson snapped.

  'After he killed them he set fire to the place. The bodies were quite badly burned. He also wrecked and burned the place where he used to work, a clip joint called "Loveshow". Both places, as you probably know, were owned by Ray Plummer. Morton and Perry worked for Plummer. It seems like Scott's on a little crusade.'

  'When was he last seen?' the DI demanded.

  'About forty minutes ago. He's driving a stolen Rover Sterling which belonged to one of the men he killed.'

  Gregson chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment.

  'Tango Zebra, can you hear me?' the voice said, insistently.

  'Don't try to take Scott alive, do you understand?' the DI said.

  Silence from the other end.

  'Did you hear what I said? Don't try to take him alive. Is that understood?'

  'Understood.'

  The Lynx was descending now, the shapes and outlines of the buildings below becoming more discernible.

  if you see Scott,' he said, 'Shoot to kill. Over and out.' He switched off his microphone.

  The pilot looked across at him, saw the expression on his face and decided to say nothing.

  Below them Gregson could see the Thames, winding through the city like a dirty ribbon.

  It wouldn't be long now.

  ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR

  The black police transit van stood with its back doors open, two uniformed men waiting.