Captives (35 page)

    He stood by the door, listening for movement, and again heard the slow footsteps, pacing back and forth over the carpet. The creak of the one loose board.

    Dexter closed his eyes for a moment. Perhaps it would just be best to walk away this time. Go to bed. Go back downstairs.

    He heard breathing on the other side, close to the door. As ever, he was aware that the occupant was listening for him, was perhaps aware even now of his presence there. The time to turn back had passed. He knew he must enter.

    Dexter unlocked the door, turned the knob and walked into the room.

    His heart was thudding hard against his ribs and he felt the first droplet of perspiration pop onto his forehead.

    The occupant of the room was sitting in one corner. Dexter closed the door behind him.

    

    

    
Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

    -
Romans 12:19

    

    
… in this last and final hour,

    
You can't hide.

    
There's nowhere now that you can run…

    -
Black Sabbath

    

    

    The door crashed shut, the loud clash of metal on metal reverberating inside the cell.

    James Scott stood in the centre of the small room for a moment, looking round, then sat down on the edge of the bottom bunk.

    He felt numb, as if his entire body had been pumped full of novocaine. There was a lead weight where his heart should have been. He felt as if every last drop of feeling had been sucked out of him. The past two days had passed quickly, so quickly in fact that the events of those four days were somewhat hazy. And yet still he retained memories of that time. Like splinters in his mind.

    The journey to the court. The police had brought a suit he'd requested from his flat and he'd changed into that, shaved and smartened himself up.

    The trial.

    He had decided, as advised, to plead guilty and proceedings had moved with dizzying speed. The gun had been produced as evidence. Pictures of the dead men had been circulated around the jury. Scott could remember one of the jurors in particular. She had been in her mid-forties, a smart, efficient-looking woman who had hardly taken her eyes off him throughout the trial. And he had seen hatred in those eyes. When sentence -had been passed he glanced at her and was sure he could see the trace of a smile on her lips.

    Scott had heard little of the Judge's summing up or, indeed, of his comments after the life sentence had been passed. Just the odd word here and there, like 'horrendous', 'brutal', 'cold-blooded' or 'dangerous', had filtered through the screen that seemed to have erected itself around him. He felt as if he'd been inside a cell ever since his arrest, imprisoned within his own mind.

    He had spent much of the trial gazing around the court room particularly into the public gallery, but not once did he see Carol.

    
Bitch.

    God, how he needed her now.

    If only he could have spoken to her one last time before he'd been taken down. Touched her. Kissed her. But that was not to be. She was gone now, out of his life as surely as if she were dead.

    After sentence had been passed he had been taken to the cells, then back to Dalston in a black van. From there he'd been taken in a police van to Whitely by two police officers.

    The journey, despite the distance between London and the prison, had taken a surprisingly short time. Or so it seemed to Scott. It was as if time had lost all meaning, as if even that were conspiring to hasten him to this place where he would spend the rest of his life.

    The rest of his life.

    The finality of the words hit him once more; only now, within the confines of the cell, they had an almost deathly abruptness. He looked around the room, at the bunks, the other small bed on the other side of the cell. At the thick metal door, the wooden table and chairs. The slop buckets. There was one single window set about seven feet up the wall, covered by wire mesh as well as being barred. Freedom was now only something to be glimpsed through steel. Death must be similar to this feeling, he thought. The four walls of the cell might as well be the wooden sides of a coffin. There was no such thing as life within prisons, only day-to-day existence. Passing time. Waiting for the only real release, which would come in the form of death; the actual termination of life, not the living death of captivity.

    He had been shown which locker in the room was his and told that one of his cell-mates was on work detail, the other in the exercise yard. Scott didn't really care. He unzipped his bag and took out what few possessions he'd been allowed to bring in to the cell: a small cassette-radio and a few tapes. The towels were prison issue, along with the roll of toilet paper and the clean white T-shirts and underwear. He crossed to his locker and opened it. From the pocket of his overalls he took a photo of Carol. She was smiling out at him, her long blond hair tousled. She was wearing jeans and a denim shirt (which he'd bought her). He looked at that smile.

    A mocking smile?

    He wanted her badly.

    
Bitch.

    He needed her.

    She had betrayed him.

    Perhaps she would visit him. He wedged the picture inside the locker door and stood staring at it.

    No, she wouldn't visit him.

    Perhaps she'd write.

    He looked at the photo.

    His jaw was clenched tightly, his eyes narrowed.

    
Why did you betray me?

    
I love you.

    'Fucking bitch,' he snarled and drove his fist against the door, against the photo.

    When he looked at it, there was blood oozing from two split knuckles.

    Red spots had splashed across the picture. Across her smile.

    
Fucking bitch.

    'I love you,' he breathed softly.

    The blood dripped from his gashed hand.

    

    

    John Hitch drained what was left in his wine glass and put it down, looking across the table at Carol Jackson, who held his gaze for a moment and then went on eating.

    Beside her, Ray Plummer was struggling to wind spaghetti around his fork but it kept falling back into the dish. Cursing, he began cutting it up, pushing the shorter strands onto his spoon.

    Les Gourmets was busy, to Plummer's relief. The trade in all his restaurants had been slack over the past couple of weeks, and he was glad to see so many lunchtime diners. The babble of conversation was punctuated by the chink of bottles against glasses. Hitch poured himself another glass of Chablis, raised his eyebrows at Carol expectantly and moved the bottle towards her, but she shook her head, covering her glass with one hand.

    As she did he saw the ring on the third finger of her left hand; the large diamond sparkled brightly.

    
Fuck knows how much that cost,
Hitch thought, glancing at the impressive stone.

    He afforded himself a quick glance at Plummer, who was still struggling with his spaghetti.

    The manager of the restaurant, a short Italian with sad eyes and a pinched face, emerged from the kitchen and chatted briefly with Plummer about the improvement of business.

    Hitch kept his eyes on Carol; by this time, she was beginning to feel uneasy under his almost unwavering stare.

    The manager disappeared a moment later, leaving them alone again to finish their meal.

    'Dozy bloody wop,' muttered Plummer. 'He used to work for Ralph Connelly. Ran one of his clubs in Kensington.'

    'If you don't like him, why did you employ him?' Carol wanted to know.

    Plummer shrugged.

    'When I took over the club from Connelly I agreed to give old Guiseppe there a job,' he explained. 'Just part of the process, sweetheart.' He smiled at Carol. 'It's called diplomacy. We shafted Connelly when we took his shipment of coke but a gang war wouldn't have been any use to either of us. He knew he couldn't win one; I had too much money behind me. So we agreed to compromise with him on certain things, in return for him keeping his nose out of my business.'

    'I still don't trust that cunt,' said Hitch. 'He could still try something.'

    Plummer shook his head.

    'If he was going to do anything, he'd have done it months ago. You worry too much, John.'

    'Maybe you're a little too settled, Ray,' Hitch said challengingly. 'You might get over-confident…'

    Plummer glared at him. 'Are you trying to tell me I've lost my bottle?' he rasped.

    'I didn't say that,' Hitch added hastily.

    'Then what the fuck are you saying?'

    Hitch looked at Carol, then at his colleague.

    'Well, you and Carol, you're sort of settled now, aren't you?' he said. 'You've got enough money to keep you for the rest of your life. It must be easy to lose your grip. Without even realising it, that's all I'm saying. I'm thinking about you.'

    'Your concern is touching, Johnny boy,' chuckled Plummer, 'But don't worry about me. Just because Carol's wearing that ring doesn't mean I'm ready to get out my fucking pipe and slippers, either.' He eyed Hitch malevolently. 'So if you've got any ideas…' He allowed the sentence to trail off.

    'Leave it out, Ray,' Hitch said indignantly, reaching for his glass of wine. He looked round at the other diners. Mostly businessmen. A few couples, laughing and joking, talking animatedly. Fucking yuppies, all of them, thought Hitch, glancing back across the table.

    
She's got you where she wants you, you silly cunt,
he thought, watching as Carol slipped one hand onto Plummer's thigh, stroking gently as he ate.

    
Horny little slag.

    

    

    Carol looked at Hitch and smiled.

    A smile of triumph?

    He held her gaze, allowing his own eyes to drop to her breasts, which were pressing against the clinging material of her dress. He could see the outline of her nipples.

    
Got him right where you want him, haven't you?

    She lifted her glass, the light striking the ring, reflecting off the diamond.

    To Carol it was a symbol of victory. A hard-earned trophy fought for and suffered for.

    She felt she deserved it.

    Sometimes she even felt something for Plummer.

    Sometimes.

    It wasn't love, that much she was sure of.

    Gratitude, perhaps. Appreciation that he had provided her with the escape route she had so badly sought? She wasn't sure. What was more, she didn't care. She was here now. She was with him. She wore his ring. She shared his penthouse flat.

    She looked at Hitch and smiled thinly, wetting her lips slightly with the tip of her tongue.

    

    

    The gesture was provocative and he knew it.

    
Little slag.

    Beneath the table, his fists were clenched.

    

    

    'We spoke on the phone a few days ago.'

    Detective Inspector Frank Gregson shook hands with Governor Peter Nicholson, feeling his own strong grip matched. Nicholson motioned for him to sit down.

    'I'm sorry I couldn't see you earlier, Inspector,' Nicholson said.

    'Detective Inspector,' Gregson corrected him. The Governor smiled thinly.

    He offered the policeman some tea but he declined. 'What exactly can I do for you. Detective Inspector?' Nicholson wanted to know. 'I must say, I was a little surprised by your enquiries.'

    Gregson exhaled.

    'Well, it's like this. I've been investigating a series of murders in London. In each case the killer imitated an MO used before and then killed himself, committed suicide. It took a while to identify the first two but we've finally managed to do that. The third one there was no. mistake with.'

    'I don't see what that has to do with this prison.'

    'All the killings were committed by men incarcerated here.'

    Nicholson smiled.

    'That's impossible. Are you trying to tell me that some of my prisoners have escaped without me noticing?' He chuckled.

    'Do the names Peter Lawton, Mathew Bryce and Trevor Magee mean anything to you? Because if they don't, let me refresh your memory. They were all in here doing life sentences for murder.'

    'I appreciate the refresher course, Detective Inspector, but I was familiar with those three men. I'nri also familiar with the fact that they are no longer with us. By that I don't mean they've left the prison; I mean they're dead. They died here in Whitely.'

    'I'm aware of that,' Gregson said.

    'Then why are we having this conversation?'

    'Because the three men that I've got in the morgue back at New Scotland Yard are Peter Lawton, Mathew Bryce and Trevor Magee.'

    'You realise what you're saying?' Nicholson murmured incredulously.

    'I know bloody well what I'm saying,' Gregson snapped, 'and if it's any consolation it sounds as crazy to me as it probably does to you. But the fact is, those three men committed nine murders between them in London less than three weeks ago.'

    'Men who looked like Lawton, Bryce and Magee perhaps?'

    'No. Not their doubles. Not their fucking twin brothers, either. Those men,' rasped Gregson, exasperated. 'It's not possible.'