Captives (25 page)

    'Yes, I do,' said the DS. 'He's banged up, though, isn't he?'

    'In Whitely Prison in Derbyshire. Yeah. He has been for the last six years.'

    Finn looked vague.

    'The second killer, the one who murdered the girl, I checked out his MO because that sounded familiar, too.'

    'And?'

    'It matched with the MO of a guy called Mathew Bryce who was also arrested over eighteen months ago. He's doing time in Whitely as well. What conclusions can you draw from that?'

    Finn shrugged.

    'That someone copied them,' he said.

    'Or that they both escaped and duplicated the crimes they were originally arrested for.' Gregson smiled when he saw the look on Finn's face. 'See why I didn't mention it before? It's fucking crazy. We know they didn't escape because we would have heard, the whole country would have heard. They're still inside Whitely.' The phrase on both the files he'd read re-surfaced in his mind.
Term being served.
'But if someone imitated the crimes committed by Lawton and Bryce, what's to stop somebody else imitating murders committed by any killer locked up in any jail in the country?'

    'That still doesn't explain why they torched themselves,' Finn observed.

    Gregson shrugged.

    'On that point,' he said, 'your guess is as good as mine.' The DI got to his feet and headed for the door. The other occupants of the cafe watched him go. Finn left some money for the tea and coffee on the table, then fed change into the cigarette machine and pulled a packet out. He joined his superior at the door, pulling up the collar of his jacket as they stepped out into the street.

    'Where to next?' he said, cupping his hand around the Marlboro he was trying to light.

    'Over there,' said Gregson, nodding in the direction of the neon-shrouded building opposite.

    The lights formed the word 'Loveshow'.

    

    

    'Scotty. Police.'

    Zena Murray emphasised the last word with distaste, stepping back to allow the two plain clothes men into Jim Scott's office. Gregson was the first in and he looked across at Scott indifferently as Finn entered, smiling thinly by way of a greeting.

    'What can I do for you?' Scott wanted to know. 'The licence is in order, we haven't had any trouble on the premises and, as far as I know, my boss is bunging the back-handers in the right places. So, what can I help you with?'

    'A comedian, eh?' said Gregson, flatly. 'Everyone's a fucking comic when the law arrive, aren't they?' The two men locked stares for a moment. 'You're Jim Scott, right? Manager of this… place?'

    Scott nodded.

    'Ray Plummer owns it, doesn't he?' Finn added, looking around the office.

    'Actually it's a tax dodge for the Prime Minister,' Scott said smugly. 'What does it matter?'

    'Look, Scott, we don't want to be here any more than you want us to be here,' Gregson told him. if I wanted to wade around in shit I'd go for a walk down a sewer. We just want to ask you a few questions and get out. We've already spoken to your staff. The quicker you answer our questions the quicker we'll be out of your hair.'

    Scott glanced at each of the policemen in turn, then motioned to the chairs close to his desk.

    'Have a seat,' he offered.

    'No thanks,' said Gregson, wrinkling his nose.

    'It's no problem, I can get it disinfected afterwards,' Scott told him.

    Gregson met the other man's gaze and pulled a small photograph from the inside pocket of his jacket. He dropped it on to the desk in front of Scott who picked it up, studying the outlines of Paula Wilson's face.

    'That girl was killed a couple of streets away from here the night before last. Have you seen her around here before?' the DI wanted to know.

    'We don't get many girls coming in here as spectators,' Scott said, tossing the photo back across the desk.

    'She might have come in with a boyfriend. This is supposed to be a show for couples to watch too, isn't it?' Gregson observed.

    'Never seen her. I'm usually in here. I don't go out front much.'

    'This is the nerve centre, is it?' Gregson said, smiling, scornfully. 'Where all the big decisions are taken?'

    'I told you, I don't know the girl. I can't help you. Why don't you piss off? And don't forget to shut the door on your way out.' Scott sat down at his desk and turned his attention to the ledger he had before him.

    'How many staff have you got here?' Finn asked.

    'It varies. Between six and eight,' Scott told him.

    'And you're in charge of all of them?' Gregson said with mock respect. 'What it must be to have responsibility, eh?'

    Scott glared at the DI.

    'I don't remember you showing me any fucking ID.' he snapped.

    Both men flipped open the thin leather wallets they carried. Scott gazed at the photos, then at their faces.

    'Satisfied?' said Gregson.

    Scott nodded.

    'Yours is a better likeness,' he said to the DI, a smile flickering on his lips. 'You look a miserable cunt in the picture, too.'

    Gregson held his stare for a moment, a smile forming at the corners of his own mouth.

    'I'm surprised I don't know you,' he said quietly. 'Geezers like you usually have form, or has Plummer been recruiting up-market?'

    Scott merely glared at the DI. The heavy atmosphere was finally interrupted by Finn, heading towards the door.

    'Come on, Frank,' he said wearily. 'Let's get out of here. He doesn't know anything and we've got other places to check.'

    The DS actually had his hand on the door handle when it was turned.

    He stepped back a pace, smiling broadly as he saw the young woman who stood before him, looking slightly surprised. She returned his smile as she stepped inside the office, glancing across at Scott's desk. Gregson eyed her disinterestedly.

    'They're coppers, Carol,' Scott told her. 'Here to ask some questions,' he sneered.

    'Another member of your staff?' Finn enquired. He showed Carol his ID as he spoke. She looked at him again but this time there was no smile on her face.

    'Questions about what?' she wanted to know.

    Never taking his eyes from her, Gregson slipped out the photo of Paula Wilson and quickly explained the reason for his and Finn's presence, enquiring whether or not the face in the monochrome picture rang any bells.

    It didn't.

    'Happy now?' Scott asked, noticing that Gregson was still gazing at Carol.

    
Stop staring, you bastard.

    'Well, well,' said the DI, smiling thinly. 'Long time no see, eh, Carol?'

    Scott glared at the policeman then at Carol.

    
What the fuck is this?

    'How long's it been now?' Gregson continued. 'Two years?'

    She looked at him through narrowed eyes.

    'How the hell do you know him?' Scott wanted to know, unable to contain his anger.

    'We met on a professional basis,' said Gregson, his smile broadening. 'I arrested her for soliciting.' He allowed his gaze to travel slowly up and down her shapely body. 'No wonder you were doing such good business,' he said. 'You still look good.'

    Scott clenched his fists until his nails dug into the palms of his hands.

    Carol didn't answer. Like some naughty child who's been caught playing a prank she just kept her head low, staring at the floor.

    'Maybe I'll see you again,' the DI said as he and Finn reached the door.

    'Just get out,' hissed Scott.

    They closed the door and were gone.

    Scott brought his hand crashing down on the desk top, his face pale with rage, the vein at his temple throbbing.

    'Did you recognise him when you walked in?' he demanded.

    'Jim, that was in the past,' she said. 'Besides, it's nothing to do with you. It was my problem.'

    'How did he catch you? Had you fucked him before he lifted you?' There was a stinging vehemence in Scott's words.

    Carol looked angrily at him, turned and headed for the door.

    Scott shot out a hand and grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her round.

    'Had he?' he roared.

    She struck him hard across the left cheek with the flat of her hand.

    'Get off me,' she shouted.

    Scott moved a pace towards her, his face stinging from the blow, his eyes bulging wide.

    'You don't own me, Jim,' she hissed, her voice faltering slightly as she saw the look of pure rage etched across his features. She opened the office door. 'You don't own me.' She slammed it behind her and walked away hurriedly, her heart beating madly against her ribs.

    Inside the office Scott touched the cheek she had slapped, his breath still coming in gasps.

    'Bitch,' he hissed, turning back to his desk. He found the bottle of Southern Comfort and poured himself a large measure. His breathing gradually slowed as he propped himself against one edge of the desk, drinking. Again he touched his cheek, but this time he felt no anger, merely a deep sorrow.

    One thought surfaced in his mind.

    Would she forgive him?

    

    

    Outside in the street Finn lit up another cigarette and looked at his watch.

    'Where to next?' he said, pulling up the collar of his jacket.

    Gregson didn't answer; he was staring at the doorway of 'Loveshow'.

    'Frank. I said, where next?' the DS repeated, blowing out a stream of smoke and looking at his companion. 'Hello, is there anyone in there?'

    Gregson looked impassively at his colleague.

    'Something on your mind?' Finn asked.

    'You could say that,' Gregson told him vaguely. He started walking and Finn followed.

    'You're fucking weird sometimes, Frank, you know that?' he said. 'Who was that tart, anyway?'

    'I said, I arrested her a couple of years ago,' Gregson muttered.

    'You were right, she's good-looking. I'm not surprised you remember her.' The DS chuckled.

    Gregson merely continued walking.

    He remembered her all right.

    

    

    Ray Plummer looked at his watch, checking the time against the clock on the marble mantelpiece.

    11.24 P.M.

    He crossed to his drinks cabinet and poured himself another large measure of whisky, glancing at the phone every few seconds as if willing it to ring.

    Perhaps it was a wind-up, he thought. There would be no phone call from the mysterious informant. The whole fucking scheme was somebody pissing him about.

    Wasn't it?

    He downed what was left in his glass and thought about pouring himself another. He looked at the phone again. What if the caller rang and couldn't be bothered to hold on?

    Someone pissing about.

    It was a hell of an elaborate plan just for a windup.

    Could it be true about the twenty million?

    He crossed to the drinks cabinet once more and tipped the bottle.

    The phone rang.

    Plummer spun round, almost dropping the bottle and his glass. Whisky slopped onto his hand as he hurried to pick up the receiver.

    'Hello,' he said.

    
Cool it. Don't let the bastard think you're too interested.

    'Ray?' said the voice.

    
First name terms, now, eh?

    'Yes. What have you got for me?'

    'Ray, are you okay?'

    Plummer frowned.

    There was something wrong here.

    'Who is this?' he said, some of the tension leaving his voice.

    'It's Jim Scott. What's wrong?'

    Plummer exhaled deeply and gripped the receiver tightly in his hand.

    'What the fuck do you want?' he snapped.

    'We've had the law round here tonight,' Scott told him. 'That girl who was killed the other night, they've been checking the area.'

    'Some girl was killed, was she?' Plummer muttered irritably. 'Jim, I couldn't give a toss if the Queen Mum has been gang banged.' The anger returned to his voice. 'I'm waiting for a very important call. Get off the line, will you?'

    'I just thought you should know,' Scott said. 'They spoke to all the staff here. I know everything is covered with the running of the club, but I didn't think you'd be too happy about the Old Bill sticking its nose in.'

    'I couldn't care less, get off the fucking line,' shouted Plummer and slammed the receiver down.

    He stepped away from the phone, angry with Scott for disturbing him but also angry with himself for being so jumpy. He'd been in the penthouse flat since about nine that evening, trying to watch TV, trying to listen to music but with no success. All he could think about was the impending phone call. If it came. John Hitch had seemed convinced that it would and Plummer trusted the instincts of his colleague almost as he trusted his own. And yet.

    11.36.

    
Fuck it. No one was calling,
he thought.

    He's six minutes late. That's all. Six lousy minutes.

    He turned his back on the phone.

    The strident ringing startled him again, but this time he turned slowly, gazing at the phone.

    Plummer finally plucked up the receiver.

    'Where the fuck were you?' the voice rasped. 'I said I'd ring at half past. Your phone was engaged.'