Captives (36 page)

    Gregson got to his feet.

    'I know it's not possible but it's happened,' he said angrily. 'Look, we have more than enough forensic evidence to back up their identity. What I'm asking is, could there have been some kind of mistake here, at your end?'

    Nicholson pressed his finger-tips together.

    'What you mean is, could we, by accident, on three occasions, have released murderers back into society? Could we have let the wrong men go?' His smile faded, to be replaced by a look of anger. 'We might make the odd administrative error, Detective Inspector, but releasing the wrong men doesn't usually fall into that category.'

    'Then you explain what the hell is going on,' Gregson challenged him. 'Because I feel as if I'm running around in circles looking for answers.'

    The two men regarded one another silently across the desk. The silence was finally broken by Nicholson. He got to his feet.

    'There's a simple way to settle this,' he said. 'Come with me.'

    Together they left the office, walking down the short corridor to a set of steps. Nicholson led the way. At the bottom of the steps was another corridor, a much longer one this time. They finally reached a door which opened into the courtyard at the rear of the building. A blast of cold wind hit them. Gregson pulled up the collar of his jacket.

    'What did they supposedly die of?' Gregson wanted to know.

    'I don't remember exactly, but if you'd like to check their medical files before you leave you're quite welcome to,' the Governor said.

    'Thanks, I think I might,' the DI said, following his host towards the church. The weather-vane on top of the small steeple was spinning madly in the wind. A couple of inmates were collecting fallen leaves and stuffing them into black bags. Another man was trimming the grass in the churchyard with a pair of shears, raking the clippings into a sack.

    'This way,' said Nicholson, heading up a short path by the church.

    Gregson followed. The inmates watched them.

    'There,' said Nicholson, pointing at a simple wooden cross.

    Gregson peered at the name on it.

    MATHEW BRYCE.

    'And here,' said Nicholson, pointing at another of the markers.

    PETER LAWTON.

    Gregson felt the wind whipping around him, felt the chill grow more intense.

    There was one more.

    TREVOR MAGEE.

    Gregson looked at the dates on each one, noting the year and month each man had died. All had expired within the last eighteen months.

    'Satisfied?' Nicholson said. 'I don't know who you've got in your morgue back in London, but as you can see they're not the three men you thought they were.'

    

    

    Gregson jabbed the nine on the phone to get an outside line and pressed the digits he wanted.

    He sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room and waited for the phone to be answered. When it finally was he recognised the voice immediately.

    'Stuart, it's me,' he said.

    'How's it going, Frank?' DS Finn wanted to know.

    'I wish I knew,' Gregson said wearily, and repeated what he'd seen at Whitely. 'The fucking graves are there, no question, no mistakes.'

    'The graves are there, fair enough, but there's no mistake about who the three geezers in cold storage here are either. What the fuck is going on?'

    'I wish I knew. Listen, I need you to check something out for me. Go through some files. I want you to check on any murderers who've been convicted and sent to Whitely in the last three years, got it? I want a list on my desk by the time I get back.'

    'When will that be?'

    'Tomorrow. Early afternoon, if I can get a train.'

    'Okay, Frank.'

    'Stuart, just a minute,' Gregson said hurriedly. 'When you check those files there's something specific you should look for. Like I said, I want to know how many murderers have been sent to Whitely in the last three years. More importantly, I want to know how many of those men died there.'

    'What have you got, Frank?' Finn asked, quietly.

    'Maybe nothing. Just check those files. If you find anything, call me here at the hotel.' He gave him the name and the number of the hotel in Buxton. 'Otherwise I'll see you tomorrow.'

    Gregson hung up and sat back on the bed, cradling a glass of whisky in his hand which he'd poured himself from the room's mini-bar.

    He felt as if he needed it.

    Outside it was beginning to get dark.

    

    

    Scott looked up as he heard the key turn in the lock. The heavy iron door swung open and a man stepped into the cell, the door hurriedly closing behind him. The sound of the turning lock seemed deafening.

    'Scott, right?' said Mike Robinson, crossing to his own bunk. 'Jim Scott?'

    He nodded.

    'How do you know my name?' he wanted to know. Robinson smiled.

    'The same way we know what you're in for,' he said. 'There isn't much we don't know about in here. At least when it comes to other members of the population.' His smile faded. 'Besides, it pays to know a few things about a bloke you're going to be sharing with, especially when that bloke's topped three other geezers.'

    Scott looked at him angrily.

    'I didn't kill them,' he said. 'I was set up.'

    Robinson crossed to the small washbasin in the corner of the cell and spun the taps.

    'Yeah,' he muttered humourlessly. 'You and everybody else in here. We're all innocent, Scott. We were all fitted up.' The smile returned.

    'It's the truth. I didn't kill those men,' Scott insisted. 'Look, I'm one of your cell mates, not a fucking jury, and it's a bit late to start pleading innocence, isn't it?'

    Robinson dried his hands on the towel. 'I don't care if you killed three or three hundred. The only thing I care about is that I've got to share a cell with you. So if you cut your toenails don't leave them lying around on the floor, don't make too much noise if you have to use the slop bucket at night and if you're a shit-stabber then I'll tell you now, my arsehole isn't for rent. Right? I don't care how much snout, cash or force you use, my ring-piece is out of fucking bounds and if you try anything I'll cut your heart out.'

    Scott looked impassively at him, a slight grin on his face.

    'You trying to say I'm queer?' he said quietly.

    'No, I'm just telling you that if you are then you're going to have a long love affair with your right hand because I'm straight and so is Rod. But there's plenty in here who aren't. If you want to find them, good hunting.'

    'Who's Rod?'

    'Rod Porter. The other bloke in this cell. He's on work detail at the moment.' Robinson swung himself up onto his bunk and pulled a magazine from beneath his pillow.

    Scott regarded him impassively for a moment.

    'You know enough about me,' he said. 'Who are you?'

    'Mike Robinson.'

    Scott extended his hand in greeting.

    Robinson regarded it cautiously for a moment, then shook it, feeling the power in the other man's grip. Scott squeezed more tightly, the muscles in his forearm standing out like chords. When he finally released his grip, Robinson's hand felt numb but he managed to hide the discomfort.

    'You got life, didn't you?' he said.

    Scott nodded.

    Jesus, even the words made him shiver.

    
Life.

    'What else do you know about me?' he asked.

    'In the real world you worked for Ray Plummer,' Robinson told him. 'And just a word of warning on that score. There are a couple of Ralph Connelly's boys in here who weren't too happy when they heard you'd blown away three of their mates.'

    'I didn't kill them,' Scott snapped.

    'Sorry, I forgot. You're innocent,' Robinson said. 'Whatever the case, watch your back with Connelly's boys. I'll point them out to you when I get the chance.'

    Scott nodded.

    'You done time before?' Robinson asked.

    Scott shook his head.

    'What about you?' he wanted to know.

    Robinson smiled.

    'I've been in and out since I was ten,' he said with something bordering on pride. 'Remand homes, detention centres, borstals and nicks. They're all much the same. It's usually just the screws who are different. The ones here are okay, as far as screws go. It's the Governor who's the real cunt.' He described Nicholson briefly, and mentioned particularly his words before the visit of the prison delegation. Scott sat on the edge of his own bed listening intently, hands clasped on his knees.

    Robinson was still giving him the low-down on life in Whitely when the key rattled in the door again and it opened to admit Rod Porter. He was wearing a white overall on top of his grey prison issue clothes and he pulled the overall off as soon as he was inside.

    Scott noticed there were bloodstains on it.

    'Hard day at the office, dear?' chuckled Robinson as Porter crossed to the sink and began splashing his face with water.

    He finally turned and looked at Scott.

    'Well,' he said. 'I suppose a murderer is better company than a ponce.' He extended his right hand. A token of greeting.

    Scott shook it.

    Brief introductions were made and Porter explained about their last cell-mate, just as he had to the prison delegation.

    'There's just one thing, Rod,' Robinson said, still smiling. 'Old Jim here is innocent. He didn't kill those three blokes. He was framed.'

    Porter smiled.

    'How many fucking times do I have to tell you?' snarled Scott. 'It wasn't me who killed them.' There was fury in his eyes.

    'The cheque's in the post, I love you and I promise not to come in your mouth,' Porter added. 'They're the three most common lies, mate. Except inside and you just added the fourth. We're all fucking innocent. I don't know why they don't just open the gates and let us all out now.'

    'Fuck you,' Scott rasped.

    'You don't have to,' said Porter. 'A jury already did that. They fucked me, Mike and you and everyone else in this shithole. There's no virgins in here. The law fucked everybody.'

    Robinson chuckled.

    'Very philosophical,' he said.

    Porter stretched out on his bunk, hands clasped behind his head.

    'So what do you think of the hotel?' he said.

    Scott shrugged. He felt cold, as if all the warmth had been sucked from his body. He sat down on his own bed, exhaling deeply.

    
Life.

    He nodded in the direction of the balled-up overall Porter had been wearing.

    'What's that for?' he wanted to know.

    'Work detail,' Porter explained. 'Laundry. I collect it and deliver it. It's better than sitting in here every day. Apart from the hospital wing.' He grunted. 'That's where the blood came from. Blood, shit and Christ knows what else. It used to be used as a punishment: they'd make inmates clean up the hospital wing, that sort of thing. Even make them change sheets and empty fucking bedpans.'

    'What did anybody do to get that punishment?' Scott wanted to know.

    'It was usually if somebody tried to escape,' Porter said.

    
Escape.

    'Has anyone ever managed it?' Scott wanted to know.

    'Not since I've been here,' Porter told him. 'A couple of blokes tried to go over the wall about a year ago. Before that, some prat even managed to hide in the boot of one of the warders' cars.' The other two men laughed.

    'Somebody did it a while back,' Robinson said. 'Actually got out. They didn't get far, of course, but they managed to get out of the prison itself…'

    'How?' Scott demanded, cutting him short.

    'This place is very old, as you know. Supposedly there's a network of sewer tunnels running under it,' Robinson explained. 'Most of them have probably caved in by now. But one old boy over in B Wing was telling me that it's like a fucking maze down there. Some geezer got down into the tunnels and found his way out.'

    'Rather him than me,' Porter muttered. 'That was probably how they found him. Just followed the smell of shit.'

    Robinson laughed.

    Scott didn't.

    He sat back on his bed, looking around at the confines of the cell.

    
Life.

    He sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily.

    A vision of Carol filled his mind.

    Then Plummer.

    He gritted his teeth.

    'You all right?' Porter asked.

    Scott nodded slowly, opening his eyes.

    When he spoke his words were almost inaudible. 'I was just thinking.'

    LIFE.

    The word screamed inside his brain.

    No. There had to be a way.

    

    

    The raindrops against the window sounded like a handful of gravel being hurled at the glass by the strong wind. Rivulets of water coursed down the panes, puddling on the sill.

    Governor Peter Nicholson watched the rain, hands clasped behind his back, his office lit only by the desk lamp at one corner.

    He was looking out over the prison courtyard, watching the sheets of rain falling, the brightness of the observation lights along the prison walls reflecting in his eyes.

    The wall clock ticked somnolently in the silence, each movement of the minute hand magnified by the stillness in the office.