Captives (38 page)

    COLIN MORRIS - A SPECIAL HUSBAND - SADLY MISSED.

    The roses from the bowl were quickly scattered by the wind. The bowl continued to roll back and forth.

    Finn reached for his cigarettes.

    'Stuart.'

    The sound of the voice startled him and he spun round to look at Gregson who was holding the beam on a simple plinth set into the ground. It bore only the name.

    'I've found it,' said the DI.

    

    

    Gregson propped the torch up on a nearby headstone, ensuring that the beam pointed towards the grave of Gary Lucas. Then he shrugged off his jacket, draped it over a marble cross and gripped one of the shovels, driving the blade into the earth.

    'Come on, help me,' he snapped, looking, up at Finn.

    'This is fucking crazy,' the DS said, shaking his head, watching as Gregson lifted huge clods with the spade. His own breath was coming in short gasps now. He wondered if Gregson had gone insane.

    'Dig, for Christ's sake,' the DI snarled. Finally, Finn began to drive his own spade into the moist earth.

    'This isn't right, Frank,' he said angrily.

    Gregson didn't answer, but continued digging, perspiration already beading on his forehead despite the chill wind whipping around them.

    The two men hardly spoke as they burrowed deeper into the earth, leaving mounds of dirt on either side of the hole. Finn paused for a moment to catch his breath but Gregson kept up his labours, digging deeper all the time. His shirt was sticking to him now and he was panting like a cart horse but still he persevered, driving the spade into the soil and hurling dark mud away behind him.

    They were getting close now, he knew it.

    Finn ran a hand through his hair, feeling the slickness of sweat on his face, but one look at Gregson's expression persuaded him to continue digging.

    There was a loud scraping sound of metal on wood.

    They had reached the coffin.

    Gregson immediately scrambed down beside it, scraping earth from the top of the casket with his hands.

    'Give me the torch,' he said, snatching it from his companion and shining it on the lid.

    'What now?' Finn asked, breathlessly.

    Gregson reached up over the side of the grave and found the pick axe.

    'We open it,' he said flatly.

    Finn grabbed him by the shoulders.

    'Frank, you can't do this,' he said angrily.

    'Why the fuck do you think I dug him up, to admire the craftsmanship of the bloody box? I want to see that body.' He pushed his companion away. 'Hold that fucking torch over here,' he rasped, sliding the end of the pick-axe beneath the first of the coffin screws.

    Finn wiped sweat from his face and pointed the torch downwards watching as his colleague exerted all the force he could muster on the other end of the pick.

    As the screw came loose, part of the coffin lid broke away.

    Gregson drove the pick underneath the lid, prizing upwards until the casket snapped again.

    One more screw loose and he'd be able to remove the lid.

    He forced the pick between the two edges of wood and pressed down.

    Finn's heart was thudding madly against his ribs as he held the light steady over the ghoulish tableau.

    The screw came loose with a whine of snapping wood.

    Gregson pulled the lid free and tossed it aside.

    Finn shone the torch into the coffin.

    'Jesus Christ,' he murmured slowly, the colour draining from his cheeks.

    Gregson stood beside him, panting, his eyes riveted. He shook his head very slowly.

    'What the hell is it?' Finn whispered, his voice cracking, almost lost in the blast of wind that swept across them.

    The DI leant forward slightly, still gripping the pick in one hand.

    In the bottom of the coffin was a black dustbin bag, its top secured by a piece of thick string.

    Nothing else.

    No body. No rotting corpse.

    Nothing.

    Gregson used the pick to tear the plastic open while Finn shone his torch at the bag.

    The DI reached in and pulled something out, holding it up.

    A brick.

    There were a dozen more in the dustbin bag.

    'What the fuck is going on?' murmured Finn. 'Where's Lucas?'

    Gregson slumped back against the wall of the grave, his eyes closed. Then he dropped the brick back into the weighted coffin.

    Finn looked at him, his face pale.

    'Where's Lucas?' he asked.

    Gregson shook his head.

    'I wish I knew.'

    

    

    The huge refectory of Whitely Prison was filled with rows of long tables, each of which could seat over fifty men.

    Above, warders patrolled the catwalks, looking down onto the seething mass of grey-clad men, while other uniformed officers stood on either side of the queue for food. More warders were positioned at every third table, eyes constantly flicking back and forth over the rows of faces as they ate.

    The inmates were usually allowed in according to the number of their landing. Each landing would eat in turn, then the refectory would be emptied of mainstream prisoners while the occupants of D Wing were ushered in.

    Those in D Wing were kept in permanent solitary for their own protection. They were men guilty of child molestation or abuse, who had either already been threatened or injured by other inmates. These men, twenty-six of them, would be closely guarded even as they ate before being ushered back to their cells to the jeers and threats of the prisoners who were now locked up again.

    Jim Scott had come to know these men from D Wing and he felt the same disgust and anger towards them as so many other inmates of Whitely. Twice he had seen men from that wing have boiling water thrown over them by the kitchen workers, the last one just two days earlier. After that, Scott was offered a job on kitchen detail. He accepted mainly because it was preferable to the boredom of being locked inside the cell for twenty-three hours of the day.

    He cleaned, peeled potatoes, even helped to cook the vast quantities of food necessary to feed the inmates. He stood at the counter to splash dollops of stew or thick wads of mashed potato onto their plastic trays as each presented it in turn, moving in a slow and well ordered line along the counter, gathering mugs of tea and plastic cutlery at the end before taking their seats.

    Scott was ladling soup into the bowl of a prisoner when he looked up and saw a familiar face.

    Mike Robinson nodded a greeting to him and held out his bowl. Scott scooped soup from the massive copper container.

    'A woman's work is never done, eh?' Robinson chuckled, winking at his cell-mate.

    He reached for a bread roll, allowing the man behind him to pass by, obviously not enticed by a bowl of soup that resembled bubbling vomit.

    Robinson's smile faded rapidly. He looked first at Scott, then back down the line to where a red-haired man stood, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overalls.

    'Clock the geezer with the red hair,' Robinson said.

    Scott looked.

    'See him?' Robinson persisted.

    Scott nodded.

    'His name's Vince Draper. He's one of Ralph Connelly's boys. Remember I warned you there were two of them in here? Watch yourself.' He moved on, noticing one of the warders moving across towards him.

    Scott glanced up and saw that the red-haired man was coming closer. He had the plastic tray in his hand now, about three places back.

    'Fucking cunt,' the words came drifting towards Scott. It was Draper who had spoken them. He was looking directly at Scott.

    The warder who had approached Robinson had retreated to a nearby table, out of earshot.

    Scott ladled more soup and tried to ignore Draper.

    'I knew those three guys you shot, you fucker,' the red-haired man said, drawing closer.

    Robinson glanced back to see what was happening.

    'Did your girlfriend know you killed them?' Draper said, smiling. 'Did you do it to impress her?'

    Scott gritted his teeth.

    'You didn't have to kill three blokes to impress her,' Draper continued. 'You could have waved a twenty-quid note in front of her. That would have impressed her. It's good enough to get anyone else a fucking blow job, isn't it?' He laughed quietly.

    He was two places away now. Scott gripped the handle of the ladle until his knuckles turned white, pouring the boiling soup into the bowl of the man in front of him.

    'I bet she's impressed with Ray Plummer,' Draper said.

    Scott glared at him.

    'Impressed with his money, his power and his cock,' the red-haired man said. 'She must have had it up her and in her mouth enough times.'

    He was level with Scott now.

    Scott could feel himself shaking with rage. He glared at Draper.

    'Fill it up,' Draper said scornfully, pushing the bowl towards Scott. 'Fill it like Plummer fills your bird's cunt.' He smiled. 'Everyone knows about them. Everyone knows she's fucking him. Everyone knows they made a prick out of you.'

    Scott's face darkened; the vein at his temple throbbed. His entire body was quivering.

    'Come on, fill the fucking bowl, Scott,' Draper said. 'Just try not to think about your tart with Plummer's dick stuck down her throat. Carol Jackson, isn't it? Carol "I take it anywhere for a tenner" Jackson.' He leant towards Scott. 'Seems like the only dick she's not getting any more is yours.'

    Scott struck out, bringing the ladle down with incredible force on the top of Draper's head. The blow split his scalp. Already warders were running towards them, but Scott moved quickly.

    He grabbed Draper by the hair and shoved his face downwards into the boiling vat of soup.

    The red-haired man struggled madly as the searing fluid stripped flesh from his face and neck.

    Scott pushed his head deeper, ignoring the pain in his own hand as the boiling liquid lapped around his wrist.

    Others had seen the struggle now and a chorus of shouts and cheers rose from the other prisoners.

    Scott, his face contorted madly, drove down with even greater force, dragging Draper off his feet.

    The entire vat of soup toppled backwards, spraying up in all directions as the copper container hit the floor, spilling its load over the tiles.

    Scott still had hold of Draper's hair. As he pulled the other man upright, he looked into his face. The flesh was red-raw, large portions of it hanging off the muscles where the incredible heat had stripped it away. Slivers of flesh hung like leprous wet tendrils from the blistered mess that had once been Draper's features. The other man was burbling incoherently, his eyes rolling upwards in their sockets, but he remained on his feet, supported by Scott's hand, until finally he felt the thunderous blow from the metal ladel once again. This time it was across his swollen face. His nose was shattered by the impact, blood bursting outwards, spattering his overalls, mixing with the soup and the slivers of skin.

    The first of the warders crashed into Scott, knocking him to the ground.

    The new clash was greeted by a fresh wave of shouts, from the other inmates.

    Another warder pinned him down, forcing the ladle from his grip. A third man pulled Draper away, sickened by the hideous sight of his scalded features. Blisters that had already risen on the face were liquescent and close to bursting.

    Scott struggled in vain as two more officers dragged him to his feet and hauled him away.

    Away from the bloodied image of Draper. Away from the deafening shouts of the other inmates.

    Scott found that he too was shouting, screaming his rage not just at his captors and at Draper but at someone else.

    At Plummer.

    At Carol.

    Consumed by rage unlike anything he'd ever experienced, he was dragged bellowing from the refectory.

    Up above, on one of the catwalks, Governor Peter Nicholson had seen the entire tableau. He watched as Scott was dragged away, his face impassive.

    He stood there for a moment, listening to the cacophony of sound crashing all around him, then walked off.

    

    

    To Finn it was as if they'd been sitting there for hours.

    The Detective Sergeant fidgeted uncomfortably, his hand moving habitually towards the pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, but each time he glanced across the outer office his eyes were met by the sign which proclaimed NO SMOKING in large red letters.

    Beside him, DI Gregson kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, occasionally rubbing the palms of his hands over his thighs. Every now and then he would glance at his watch, wondering how much longer they were going to be kept waiting.

    The outer office of Police Commissioner Lawrence Sullivan was large and brightly decorated. There was a desk behind which sat Lawrence's secretary, an officious woman in her early forties with long auburn hair and, Finn had noticed, a terrific pair of legs. Gazing constantly at her legs had just about made the wait worthwhile, taking his mind off the task to come. She had already offered the men coffee; the DS had accepted but Gregson had refused. Now Finn was considering whether or not to ask for another cup, even if only to watch her sashay out of the office. His request was interrupted when a buzzer on the intercom sounded and she leant forward to press a button. She answered and got to her feet, approaching the two policemen. They also rose and followed her as she beckoned them.