Captives (41 page)

    'Why not?' Gregson asked, exasperated.

    'Because this isn't just police business, it's political,' Sullivan said. 'What the hell do you think the Press would make of it? Police officers, digging up graves in a prison to find out whether or not the men supposedly buried there are really dead? There's a Home Office report testifying to the efficiency of Whitely Prison and you're trying to tell me there's a conspiracy going on there with the full knowledge of the Governor.'

    'At least consider the facts, sir,' Gregson said, leaning forward. 'We have irrefutable proof that the four men lying in the pathology lab supposedly died anything up to a year before they actually did. We know their identities. We know the death of at least one of them was faked. They all duplicated their original crimes, they all committed suicide. Every one of the four was suffering from a massive brain tumour at the time of his death, and every one had been an inmate at Whitely Prison.'

    Sullivan exhaled deeply, sitting back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He looked at the pictures of his wife and kids on the corner of his desk, reaching across to straighten one of them slightly. When he spoke again his tone was softer.

    'Gregson, I have considered the facts,' he said. 'But I've also considered something you obviously haven't. Namely, the consequences. Have you stopped to think, once, of the ramifications involved if you're right?' He looked at the DI whose gaze never faltered. 'Christ alone knows, there's enough public concern about what goes on in our prisons at the moment; can you imagine what would happen if you were proved to be right? A conspiracy of officials at one of the country's leading maximum security prisons? As I said, it isn't just a police matter. It's a question of politics, too. Politics and ethics.'

    'I'm sure the people that Lucas and the others killed would be impressed if they were alive to hear you, sir,' Gregson said acidly.

    'I can't sign those exhumation orders,' the Commissioner said wearily.

    'Why not?' snapped Gregson. 'It's our only way of finding out once and for all what's going on. How many more times has this got to happen before you'll agree?'

    'Appeals to my conscience won't work,' Sullivan told him.

    'I'm not appealing to your conscience, I'm appealing to your common sense.'

    There was a heavy silence, finally broken by Sullivan. 'You're so sure you're right,' he began.

    'The evidence…'

    Sullivan cut him short. 'I know all about the bloody evidence,' he interrupted, holding up a hand to silence the DI. 'But just suppose, for one second, that you're wrong.'

    'Then I'll resign,' Gregson said flatly.

    'You and all the rest of us, too,' Sullivan said, looking around the room. 'You still don't know why the murderers are being released again.'

    'And the only way I'll do that is by getting inside Whitely and seeing inside those graves,' the DI said. 'You could be wrong,' Sullivan repeated, it's a chance I'm willing to take.'

    The Commissioner rubbed both hands over his face. 'Well, I'm not willing to take that chance,' he said. Gregson got to his feet angrily.

    'That means you won't sign the papers for the magistrate's order?' he rasped.

    'Not until I've thought about it more.'

    'How much longer is that going to be?' Gregson wanted to know.

    'As long as it takes,' Sullivan told him. 'Now get out.' As the three men filed out of the office Sullivan called to the DI.

    'You want an answer?' he said, reflectively. 'You can have one. In forty-eight hours.'

    'Forty-eight hours could be too long,' Gregson snapped.

    'You don't have a choice. I'll give you my answer then.'

    Gregson nodded, closing the office door behind him.

    Sullivan turned his chair to face the sun, looking out over London, the beginnings of a headache throbbing at his temples.

    Outside, the sun had been obscured by a thick bank of dark clouds.

    Sullivan closed his eyes, fingertips pressed together beneath his chin as if he were praying.

    It seemed most appropriate.

    

    

    Pain.

    Pain like he'd never experienced before.

    Jesus, it felt as if his head were going to explode. As if someone were filling it steadily with molten lead, his veins swelling inexorably.

    
Make it stop.

    James Scott tried to open his eyes but even that simple act seemed beyond him. Whatever he did, it brought more pain.

    
For fuck's sake stop it.

    He clenched his fists, the veins on his arms standing out like cords.

    It was into one of these bulging veins that the needle had been pushed, puncturing the throbbing vessel as if it-were some kind of bloated worm.

    Scott hardly felt it. The massive agony that filled his head eclipsed everything else. He groaned softly, the sound muffled. Again he tried to open his eyes and, again, found it impossible. There was only darkness. Was he blind? Sightless and voiceless, only his pain for company? What was happening to him?

    'Scott.'

    He heard the voice close by. Whispered so close he could feel the breath on his ear.

    'Scott. Can you hear me?'

    He tried to speak but no sound would come; his throat felt as if it had been scoured with steel wool. He croaked something inaudible, wondering if his ability to speak had gone the way of his sight. And all the time there was the pain.

    'If you can hear me, move the fingers of your right hand,' the voice said.

    Scott tried but couldn't. Paralysis, blindness and an inability to speak. He only needed deafness and he had a full set.

    'Move your fingers,' the voice urged.

    Again he tried, this time managing it.

    Christ, that pain was still there, screaming inside his head.

    'Good,' said the voice.

    Scott moved his lips but still no sound would come. He opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish.

    'I've given you 50cc of morphine,' the voice told him. 'That should help the pain quickly.'

    Scott was sure his head was going to explode. He was beginning to wish it would; at least it would mean an end to this pain.

    
This unbearable, fucking pain.

    He clenched his fists, not realising at first that he'd managed to move his hands.

    'That's good,' the voice assured him.

    Scott lay still, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He was aware of the pain subsiding slightly; perhaps the morphine was working. His skull still felt as if it were full of boiling steel, but the agony was diminishing by the second. He tried to swallow, but it felt as if someone had filled his mouth and throat with chalk. He could only make a strangled hissing sound.

    'Drink,' the voice said and Scott felt the cold edge of a beaker against his lips. Drops of water splashed onto his tongue and down his throat. He gasped.

    The pain was still there but it was easing off now.

    He was still blind, though.

    It took him a moment or two to realise that his eyes and, indeed, most of his head were covered by bandages. More water spilled into his mouth. Some of it ran down his chin, to be wiped away by a gentle hand.

    'You can hear me?' the voice said. It was a statement rather than a question.

    'Yes,' Scott croaked hoarsely.

    'The operation is over. You've been unconscious for ten hours.'

    It felt like ten years.

    'Was it successful?' Scott asked, a renewed stab of pain jolting him.

    'You're alive, aren't you?' Dexter said. 'I won't know how successful for a while yet.'

    'How long is a while?'

    'You must be patient. All I want you to do now is rest.'

    'Take the bandages off my eyes,' Scott said quietly.

    Dexter gently cut through the gauze until he revealed the two cotton wool pads covering Scott's eyes. He lifted each one away with a pair of small forceps, noticing how dark the lower lids were.

    'Open them slowly,' he instructed.

    Scott tried but couldn't.

    The pain throbbed inside his head once more.

    'I can't,' he hissed.

    'Yes, you can,' Dexter insisted, reaching for a piece of cotton wool. He soaked it in liquid and gently rubbed Scott's lids. When he tried again he managed to open his eyes. The light caused the pain to intensify and he snapped them shut quickly. After a moment or two, however, he opened them again, the lids unfurling like ancient roller blinds. He could make out Dexter's blurred shape. He blinked to clear his vision, his eyes still narrowed.

    The image sharpened.

    'Can you see?' Dexter wanted to know.

    'Yes,' said Scott, a note of relief in his voice.

    'Rest now,' the doctor told him. i'll be back to check on you in a couple of hours.' He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing inside the ward. He disappeared through a door at the end and Scott was left alone.

    He looked slowly to his left and right, the movement of his eyes causing him pain but nothing as intolerable as that he'd experienced upon waking. He saw that the ward comprised just six beds; only his was occupied. The windows were large, arched and equipped with shutters that were pulled shut. It was difficult to tell whether it was night or day beyond them. A single light in the ceiling above provided the only source of illumination. Scott stared at it until his eyes hurt and the throbbing pain in his skull began again.

    
Stop the pain.

    As he lay there with his eyes closed it lessened and he let out a sigh of relief.

    He was tired; his eyelids felt as if they'd been weighted.

    Sleep.

    If he slept, though, he had no guarantee the pain would not creep over him again like some malignant invader.

    There was always the morphine. Sleep. Pain. Morphine.

    A simple equation.

    He closed his eyes.

    He slept.

    

    

    'Scott.'

    He heard the voice, perhaps in a dream.

    'Scott.'

    More insistent now. A hand on his arm.

    
Get out of my dream.

    He opened his eyes.

    Pain. Not as bad as before.

    He blinked hard, trying to make out the features so close to his own.

    'It's me, Porter,' the other man said, his voice low.

    Scott recognised his cell-mate.

    'What are you doing here?' he said, his throat dry. He reached for the water on the table beside him but couldn't get it. Porter put the beaker in his hand and helped him drink. 'How did you get in here?' Scott persisted.

    'Laundry, remember? I was told to bring in some clean sheets, leave them here.' He looked at his cell-mate. 'What the fuck have they done to you?'

    'Listen to me.' Scott gripped the other man's wrist with almost unnatural strength for someone in his weakened state. 'I need your help. I've got to get out of here.'

    'Out of where?' Porter said scornfully.

    'Out of Whitely.'

    'You couldn't get out of fucking bed.'

    'With your help I can,' Scott hissed, wincing as he felt the stab of pain in his skull.

    
No, please, not that again.

    'Help me, Porter.'

    'How?' the other man asked. 'You look as if you're ready for the fucking morgue.'

    'I'm not going to any morgue,' Scott snarled, his eyes blazing, 'I'm getting out and you're going to help me. Now listen to me. There isn't much time.'

    Porter sat on the edge of the bed as Scott began to speak.

    Rain clouds were filling the skies, hastening the onset of evening.

    It would be dark in three hours.

    

    

    The needle slid easily into his vein and Scott looked down at it, welcoming the morphine as it was pumped into his system.

    Anything to stop the pain.

    Dexter swabbed the puncture and fixed a small plaster over it.

    'You should be all right for the rest of the night now,' he assured Scott. 'One of the orderlies will be around if the pain gets too bad, but I've told them not to disturb you until the morning.'

    Scott sucked in a deep breath.

    Dexter reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen-light which he shone first into Scott's left eye then his right, watching the pupils react accordingly. He nodded to himself.

    'You should be fine until the morning,' he said. He turned to leave, pausing at the door to take one final look at Scott. He walked out, leaving the patient alone.

    
Take it easy now. Take your time.

    He glanced at the wall clock.

    8.36 P.M.

    The pain in his head was just a dull ache now, thanks to the morphine. He wondered how long it would stay like that.

    
Forget the pain.

    He closed his eyes.

    Silence.

    Scott awoke in a stillness broken only by the spattering of rain against the windows. Through the gloom he could see the clock.

    11.06 P.M.

    He blinked hard, feeling a slight pain in the roof of his skull. He turned his head slowly from side to side; the pain was never very far away. Yellow light spilled beneath the door from the room beyond. He could hear no sounds of movement from the other side of the door.