Shaun Hutson - Captives

'You pay me,' she reminded him. 'You could do something about that.'

'I don't pay you. Scott does.'

'He pays me what you tell him to pay me.'

Plummer brushed a hand across the front of his hair.

'You still seeing him?' he wanted to know. 'Or should I say are you still fucking him?'

'I see him occasionally,' she confessed. 'It's all over between us, though; it's just that I can't seem to get around to telling him.'

'Does he know about you and me?' Plummer wanted to know. For a moment she saw a flicker of uncertainty on the older man's face.

'Would it matter if he did?' she asked.

It would make it easier for me, splitting up with him if he did.

'I suppose not,' Plummer said. 'It's just that he's a bit unpredictable. Flies off the handle a bit quick, sometimes.'

You're scared of him.

The realisation brought a slight smile to her lips and she touched the locket almost unconsciously. It wasn't the first gift he'd bought her. She had a solid gold Cartier watch at home, endless amounts of silk underwear. He'd even taken her to Paris for a weekend about six weeks ago (she'd told Scott she'd been visiting relatives in the North). Of course she couldn't wear any of the things to work, Scott would want to know where they had come from.

'You shouldn't spend your money on me, Ray,' she said, looking at the pendant again.

'It's only money,' he said. Plummer enjoyed spending, enjoyed buying her things. He enjoyed impressing her with his wealth. Besides, she was a very good-looking young woman; he liked being seen with her. A number of his friends had remarked on her good looks, good figure. They envied him and he liked that. It was a good enough reason to hang on to her.

For the time being.

'Someone's got to look after you,' he said, stroking her hair.

'You're going to look after me?' she asked, smiling.

You're going to help me escape the life I hate?

He smiled.

'Who else is going to do it?' he wanted to know.

No one. She knew that. He was her only way out and she didn't intend to let him go. Whatever she had to do to keep him happy, she would do it.

Happy, was that the word? Perhaps satisfied was more apt.

'Take care of me, Ray,' she said softly, her eyes filling with tears. She leant forward and put her head on his chest.

Be careful, the mask is slipping.

He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer.

'Don't worry, darling,' he said, his face impassive. 'I'm here.'

So make the most of it while you can.

The phone rang.

'What the fuck…' Plummer hissed, looking at his watch and then across at the bedside clock, as if to reassure himself of the time.

2.36 A.M.

The ringing continued.

'Shit,' he grunted and reached for the phone, picking up the receiver. 'Hello.'

'Ray Plummer.'

He didn't recognise the voice.

'Yeah. Do you know what fucking time it is?' he snapped.

'Shut up.'

'Who the fuck are you talking to…'

'Shut up and listen.'

'Who are you? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't hang up.'

'Because I've got something to tell you, you cunt. Something to your advantage. Now shut the fuck up and listen.'

EIGHTEEN

Plummer sat up, the receiver pressed tightly to his ear, his eyes narrowed.

'Listening?' the voice chided.

'Yeah, go on,' he rasped.

Carol looked at him and mouthed 'Who is it?' but he raised a hand to keep her quiet.

He concentrated on the voice, listening to every syllable in an effort to work out his caller's identity. If it was somebody pissing about he'd have their fucking head.

'You're probably wondering why I called,' said the voice.

'Just get on with it. What do you want?'

'Patience is a virtue, Plummer. Now, do you want to hear what I've got to say, or shall we stop now?'

'You couldn't tell me anything I wanted to know anyway.'

'Oh ye of little faith.'

'Are you going to get to the fucking point, or what?' Plummer's initial bewilderment had turned to anger. He felt tempted to slam the receiver down.

'The point is you are about to be shat on from a great height,' the voice told him.

'By who?'

'Ah, now that's why I called. Interested now?'

He was about to shout something down the phone when the caller continued.

'Whoever has the most money controls London, right? Whether it's you or one of your… associates. You all own property, clubs, gambling places. You own people. I'm right, aren't I? The one with most money stays in control.'

'Yeah,' Plummer said slowly.

'Ralph Connelly is about to receive a shipment.'

'Of what?'

'Cocaine.'

'That's bollocks. Connelly doesn't deal in drugs. He makes all his cash by laundering other people's money. He does some of mine, for fuck's sake. I knew you were full of shit. Get off the fucking line…'

'Cocaine worth twenty million pounds. The shipment's coming in six days from now.'

Plummer hesitated.

Twenty million.

'Why should I believe you?' he asked.

'Don't. It makes no odds to me but twenty million, you'll agree, is a lot of money. By my reckoning that should make Connelly top dog.'

'How did you find out about this cocaine?'

'That's my business.'

'Then why make it mine too?'

'Just call it personal reasons.'

'You want a cut,' Plummer said, smiling thinly.

'I said it was personal.'

'Look, any arsehole could ring me and tell me something like this. There's still no reason why I should believe you.'

'Connelly bought a warehouse in Tilbury about a week ago, didn't he?'

Plummer paused for a moment.

'Yeah, he did.'

'What would he want with a fucking warehouse? Like you said, laundering is his business.'

'And business is good. Why would he want to start up with drugs?'

'Like I said, twenty million is a lot of money. Would you turn it down? He was offered the shipment by some people in France.'

Plummer stroked his chin thoughtfully.

'How do you know all this?' he asked, even his anger receding now.

'That's not important. What I do need to know is, are you interested in the cocaine?'

'Yeah, I am. Twenty million…'

The caller cut him short.

'I'll be in touch soon.'

He hung up.

'Wait,' snarled Plummer. Then, hearing the buzz of a dead line, he slammed the receiver down. 'Cunt,' he hissed. Watched by Carol he clambered out of bed and padded through into the sitting room to pour himself another drink. Who the fuck had called him? he wondered. His interest had been aroused. Twenty million notes. Jesus. That was interesting. He smiled.

He might not have smiled so broadly had he realised his flat was being watched.

NINETEEN

Scott replaced the receiver and sat staring at it for a moment.

He would ring again in five or ten minutes.

Outside, the wind had dropped slightly but the rain had intensified. It slapped against his window, the constant spattering like a thousand birds pecking at the glass.

Try again now.

He reached towards the phone.

No. Leave it.

Instead he hauled himself out of bed, angry that he'd been denied the welcome oblivion of sleep. He crossed the small bedroom to the dressing table, which bore a motley selection of after-shave bottles and deodorant cans, some empty. There were wage slips, too, piled up in order and weighed down with an ashtray still full of dog-ends.

There was a framed photo of himself and Carol.

He picked it up and ran his glance over it, his eyes pausing every so often to look at her face.

The picture had been taken about eight months earlier. They had managed to get out of London one night and spent two days in Brighton. The weather had been good and the picture showed Carol in a bikini, her arm around his shoulder. He'd asked some bloke sitting near them to take the picture, relieved when it had come out so well.