Captives (24 page)

    'Mr Nicholson,' Paul Merrick said, brushing loose strands of whispy hair from his face, 'you said you were going to show us some kind of answer to the problems of overcrowding. May I ask when?'

    Nicholson glared at him.

    'Now, Mr Merrick,' he said, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw throbbing angrily.

    The hospital block was ahead of them.

    Nicholson looked up at the grey stone building. It was as dull as the overcast sky. The gaunt edifice appeared to have dropped from the heavens, a lump of the bleak sky fallen to earth inside the prison grounds.

    'What's that?' asked Fairham, pointing at a rusted grille set in the concrete close by the wall of the hospital wing. The grille was about a foot square.

    'It's one of the vents over the sewer shaft,' Nicholson explained.

    'Hardly hygienic, is it?' Fairham noted. 'So close to the hospital.'

    'This prison, as you know, is very old,' the Governor explained. 'The whole place is dotted with vents like that. A network of sewer tunnels runs under the prison. It isn't used now and most of it is blocked off. There's no danger to health from the outlets.'

    As they neared the entrance to the wing, Nicholson slowed his pace imperceptibly. He looked up one last time at the grey edifice, licking dry lips.

    Those inside had been given their instructions. He just hoped to God they had followed them.

    

    

    It was smaller than a man's thumb nail and Nicholson held it between the thumb and finger of his right hand with surprising delicacy.

    The microchip was square and the entire complex structure was encased in smooth plastic. Nicholson laid it on a piece of black velvet that lay on the work top, allowing his visitors to get a better look at the tiny object.

    'Is this some kind of joke?' Fairham asked.

    'Why should it be?' the Governor asked irritably.

    'You promised to show us a way of relieving overcrowding. Is this meant to be it?'

    'The idea was first perfected in America. A number of states are already using it,' Nicholson declared.

    'But that didn't work,' said Fairham.

    'Ours is a different system. The microchip is inserted into the gastrocnemius muscle of the prisoner's leg.' He looked at Fairham with scorn. 'The calf muscle, to keep it simple.' He held the other's gaze for a moment then continued. 'The operation takes less than fifteen minutes. It's carried out under local anaesthetic, there is no pain to the prisoner. No side effects.'

    'What does it do?' Clinton asked, his eyes fixed on the tiny square.

    'Once inside the prisoner's leg it gives off something called a Synch-pulse,' Nicholson said. 'A tiny electrical charge which in turn produces a signal that can be picked up by monitoring equipment here at the prison. It's like a tracking device.'

    'What range has it got?' Merrick asked.

    'Fifteen miles at the moment,' the Governor told him. 'The modifications that are being made to it will probably increase that range by anything up to thirty miles.'

    'And what is the object exactly, Mr Nicholson?' Anne Hopper enquired, looking at the Governor.

    'An end to overcrowding, Miss Hopper,' he said. 'The thing you all seem so concerned about.'

    'How the hell can that,' Fairham jabbed a finger towards the microchip, 'help with overcrowding?'

    'The device is placed in the leg of certain remand prisoners,' Nicholson explained. 'They can then be released from Whitely and monitored on our electronic equipment here. We know where they are twenty-four hours a day.'

    'And what if they move outside the range of the tracking device?' Clinton murmured, his eyes still fixed on the device.

    'We don't allow that to happen,' Nicholson said. 'The prisoners are picked for the operation according to the severity of their crime. Everything is explained to them, including the fact that if they do travel beyond the range of the device they'll be re-arrested and prosecuted for attempted escape. They usually co-operate. It's in their own interests to do so. Many of them prefer this to being stuck inside for twenty-three hours a day. Some are even working while they're on the outside waiting for their trials.'

    'Do I detect a note of compassion in your attitude, Mr Nicholson?' said Fairham, contemptuously. 'You actually sound as if you care about what happens to the men who undergo this operation.'

    'It gets them out of my hair, Mr Fairham,' the Governor said, 'it means that my officers have fewer prisoners to deal with.'

    'How many men has this been tried on so far?' Clinton enquired.

    'Ten,' Nicholson said. 'And all of them have been successful.'

    'And what is your definition of success, Mr Nicholson?' Anne Hopper wanted to know.

    He looked at her impassively.

    'Not one of them tried to escape,' he said. 'They all reported to the police station they'd been assigned to and they all went on to stand trial.'

    'When is the device removed?' Clinton asked.

    'As soon as the trial is over.'

    Clinton stood back and nodded, looking at the microchip then at Nicholson.

    'Well, I must say I'm impressed, Mr Nicholson,' said the MP.

    'Me too,' Merrick echoed, 'it seems a great step forward.'

    Fairham merely prodded the device with one index finger.

    'Who does the operations?' he wanted to know.

    'There are a number of doctors involved,' Nicholson told him. 'None resident at the prison.'

    'That's a pity,' Anne Hopper intoned. 'It would have been interesting to meet them.'

    'The work is still in its infancy, Miss Hopper. They're not too anxious to be put in the limelight just yet,' Nicholson told her.

    'Why? In case something goes wrong?' Fairham said, challengingly.

    'As I said, the work is still relatively new. Until it's completely perfected we'd rather keep it quiet,' the Governor said, glaring once again at the other man.

    'I can understand that,' Clinton said, smiling, it seems to be successful though, Mr Nicholson. Full marks to you. We'll be reporting this as very satisfactory progress when we return to Whitehall.'

    'Satisfactory?' Fairham snapped. 'This man is using remand prisoners as human guinea pigs and you call that satisfactory?'

    'I think you're being a little over-dramatic, Mr Fairham,' Clinton said, smiling patronisingly.

    'It is preferable to the alternative of being locked up twenty-three hours out of twenty-four,' Merrick echoed.

    Nicholson smiled triumphantly at Fairham.

    'What is your view, Miss Hopper?' the Governor wanted to know.

    The woman shrugged slightly.

    'I suppose I would have to agree with Mr Clinton and Mr Merrick,' she said. 'As long as the patients are volunteers and the risks are explained to them before the operation, I can see no objection myself.'

    'You appear to be out-voted again, Mr Fairham,' Nicholson said, smiling.

    'I'd like to know a little more about the actual mechanics of the project,' Clinton said. 'How the tracking devices are built, what the operation entails, how the prisoners are monitored. That kind of thing. I will have to make a report to the House, you understand?'

    Nicholson nodded, his ingratiating smile spreading.

    'Certainly. If you'd like to come back to my office we can discuss it there,' he said, looking at Fairham.

    The other man was flushed with anger.

    The Governor turned to lead the small procession out.

    'We've only seen a small part of the hospital wing,'

    Fairham observed. 'I'd like to inspect the facilities here before we leave.'

    Nicholson retained his air of calm.

    'Of course,' he said, leading them towards a door at one end of the room. It opened out into the infirmary. There were half a dozen prisoners in the beds; other men in white overalls moved among them, performing their duties. One was mopping the floor, another dispensing pills. A third man was pushing a trolley, collecting dirty laundry. Patients and workers alike gave the Governor and his visitors only cursory glances. More lingering looks were reserved for Anne Hopper.

    A warder stood at one end of the infirmary, standing by a thick metal door.

    Nicholson looked towards him, hoping that none of the visitors noticed the look of apprehension on his face.

    He stood back as the visitors moved among the men, speaking to them where possible, usually meeting with only perfunctory grunts in answer to their questions. The Governor caught the eye of the warder at the far end of the infirmary and the man nodded almost imperceptibly. A silent answer to an unasked question. The Governor licked his lips, aware that they were once more dry.

    Come on, hurry up and get out of here.

    One by one the visitors returned to join him.

    They're not going to ask.

    Fairham looked to the far end of the infirmary.

    'What's through there?' he asked, pointing at the door.

    'The morgue,' Nicholson said quickly. 'It's where we keep any prisoners who die until they've been identified, or until arrangements can be made for their burial.'

    Fairham nodded slowly.

    
Come on, come on.

    'I think we've seen enough now, Mr Nicholson,' Clinton said.

    Fairham was still gazing at the door.

    The Governor licked his lips again.

    'We'll go back to my office, then,' he said.

    At last Fairham tore his gaze away and filed out in front of Nicholson. The Governor glanced back at the solitary warder and nodded.

    As he walked out he let out a sigh of relief.

    He would return here as soon as the delegation was gone. For now, at least, it was still safe.

    

    

    Coffee dripped from the bottom of the cup as DI Frank Gregson lifted it to his mouth and took a sip. It was strong. He pulled the lid from one of the other milk cartons and poured in the contents, stirring until the dark colour lightened.

    Opposite him DS Stuart Finn was smoking a Marlboro, blowing out streams of smoke, alternately gazing into the depths of his tea cup and glancing out of the window.

    The neon lights outside were barely visible through the sheen of condensation coating the inside of the cafe window. The film of steam combined with the patina of dirt on the glass made them almost opaque. Inside the cafe there were half a dozen other people. At a table in the corner three young girls sat, smoking and chatting quietly, occasionally glancing across at the two policemen.

    Two men sat at a table near the counter, one of them pushing huge forkfuls of food into his mouth, the other sipping at a cup of tea.

    Another man sat alone at the table next to them, peering at a magazine. Finn noted that he was tracing a column of names and addresses with the tip of his pen, occasionally ringing one with the biro.

    The place smelled of fried food and damp.

    Finn stubbed out a cigarette in an already overflowing ash-tray and immediately lit another. He noticed that he was almost out of them and fumbled in his jacket pocket for some change to feed into the cigarette machine. On the radio in the background, a voice announced that it was nine-thirty.

    'It's weird, isn't it?' said Finn. 'How all these places start to look alike after a while.'

    Gregson shrugged.

    'The cafes, the bars, the clip-joints,' Finn continued. 'In the bookshops, too, there's something familiar about them, every one of them. Even the same punters, it seems.' He chuckled. 'I was flicking through a couple of magazines at that last place.' He smiled. 'More cunts than a meeting of the Arsenal supporters' club.' The DS shook his head, still grinning.

    Gregson didn't return the smile. He merely sipped at his strong coffee and ran a hand through his hair.

    'Yeah, the places look familiar and the answers are starting to sound familiar, too,' he said wearily. 'No, never seen him. Never heard anything. Didn't see anything.'

    'I wonder if any of the other blokes are having better luck.'

    'Are you serious? This whole fucking area is sewn up tighter than a nun's crotch,' Gregson grunted.

    'Then why are we here?'

    'Because it's our job.'

    Finn sucked gently on his cigarette and looked across the table at Gregson, who was peering through the window into the street beyond.

    'You knew it was going to be like this, Frank,' he said. 'You knew that no one around here was going to help us. Why call a search in the first place?'

    'Procedure,' Gregson told him.

    'Bullshit,' Finn said, smiling thinly. 'What do you know?'

    'I know that we should be asking questions instead of sitting on our arses drinking cups of tea,' the DI told him, pushing his half-empty cup away.

    'Come on, tell me the truth,' Finn persisted. 'You owe me that. We've been working together long enough. If I had a hunch or an idea about these killings I'd tell you.'

    Gregson smiled thinly.

    'The idea I had was crazy,' he said slowly, 'illogical. Impossible, even. I checked it out. You remember I said to you that the only thing any witnesses could agree on about the first bloke who killed himself was his staring eyes?'

    Finn nodded.

    'I checked the files, because that rung a bell somewhere. We arrested a bloke called Peter Lawton for a series of armed robberies. Remember me telling you?'