Shaun Hutson - Captives

'Some of this new stuff that's been coming in is fucking ace, I tell you,' Kinsellar said, making another note. 'Especially the German stuff. The krauts certainly know what they're doing when it comes to porn.' He chuckled, hawked and swallowed. 'I got a load of videos in the other day. You've never seen anything like it. Birds eating each other's shit. I was fucking amazed.' He smiled. 'I just kept thinking, "I hope they got it right on the first take". I mean, it's difficult enough getting an actress to cry on cue, isn't it? But to shit on cue.' The sentence disappeared beneath that mucoid chuckle.

Scott continued pushing the trolley, his mind elsewhere.

Carol wouldn't be in until eight that night.

He had another nine hours before he could ask her where she'd been last night when he was trying to call her.

They rounded a corner and began down another aisle.

'You're quiet today, Jim,' Kinsellar noticed at last.

They don't call you flash for nothing, George, do they? thought the younger man.

'Business bad, is it?'

'Business is fine.'

It's me that's fucked up.

'You still seeing that bird that works at the club?' Kinsellar wanted to know. 'Whatsername…'

'Carol,' Scott said, reaching for another magazine and flipping it open. He studied the first few pages, looking at the girls lying on a bed, their fingers thrust deep into their vaginas, their labia spread wide for the prying camera. He dropped the magazine into the trolley and walked on.

'Yeah, I'm still seeing her,' Scott said wearily.

'You don't sound very enthusiastic.'

Scott rounded on him.

'What do you want, a fucking blow-by-blow of the last two months?' he snapped.

'All right,' Kinsellar said, taking a step back. 'No need to bite my fucking head off. I just wondered if I could help. If you wanted to talk about it.'

'Stick to selling the mags, George. Being an agony aunt doesn't suit you,' Scott rasped.

'You young blokes are all the same. Think you know it all when it comes to women, don't you?'

'I wish I knew something. Anything. I don't understand them.'

'You and every other bloke around, my son,' Kinsellar told him. 'I've been married twice, lived with two other birds, the last one for fifteen years, and I'm still none the wiser. But I've seen more of them than most.'

'Are we talking crotches now, George?' Scott said acidly. 'Well, come on, let me have it. Let's hear some advice from the world's number one cunt expert.'

'Somebody really did rattle your cage this morning, didn't they?' Kinsellar said. 'You had a row with her, is that it?'

Scott shook his head.

'No, I haven't had a row with her,' he said. 'That's the trouble. We've hardly spoken in the last couple of weeks.' He suddenly became aware that he was opening up to Kinsellar. 'Fuck it, why am I telling you?'

'A trouble shared…'

'Fucks up two people instead of one. I know,' snapped Scott. 'Now can you stop asking me questions about Carol?' He glared at the older man.

Kinsellar shrugged and followed him in silence for a few paces.

'You still shagging her?' he asked at last.

Scott spun round, his eyes blazing. He grabbed the older man by the lapels of his jacket and hurled him up against one of the bookshelves, his face only inches away from Kinsellar's.

'No more questions,' he hissed through clenched teeth.

Kinsellar tried to nod but Scott's fists beneath his chin prevented that gesture.

'All right,' he croaked.

Scott held him a moment longer then pushed him away.

A large figure appeared at the end of the aisle. Six-four and over sixteen stone, he was Kinsellar's nephew, biceps and chest hardly covered by the T-shirt he wore, muscles pumped up by years of loading and unloading lorries and generally helping with the older man's business. He looked at his uncle then at Scott.

'It's all right,' Kinsellar called to him. 'Go back to work, Bernie. There's no bother.'

Bernie hesitated a moment, his gaze held by Scott.

You want some, too? Come on then, you big fucker.

Scott could feel the vein at his temple pulsing angrily.

The big man disappeared again.

Scott pushed the trolley on.

'You're bloody crazy,' Kinsellar said, catching up to him. 'I was only asking a question.'

'You ask too many questions, George. It's my problem, so I'll sort it out, right?' He looked unblinking at the older man, who nodded.

'You ought to watch that temper of yours, son. It's going to get you into bother one day.'

Scott looked at him impassively.

'What about the videos?' he asked.

***

The ordering took less than half an hour. Scott sat in Kinsellar's office gazing into space, a mug of tea gripped in one hand. He didn't seem to notice that it was burning his fingers. He finally looked across at the older man and got to his feet.

'I'd better go,' he said, glancing at his watch.

Another eight hours before he could see Carol.

'I've got some good stuff coming in next week,' Kinsellar told him. 'German again. Some bird in a video having toothpicks shoved through her cunt lips.'

'Just send some over, eh?' He headed towards the door.

'Are you seeing Carol tonight?' the older man asked.

Scott turned slowly to look at him, his face darkening.

'I told you not to ask me any more questions about her, George,' he rasped.

'Just curious,' he said, a slight grin on his face. 'Maybe it comes with age.' He cackled his mucoid giggle.

'And I told you, you ask too many questions.'

'I've got one more,' Kinsellar said, reaching for a magazine that lay on his desk. He flipped it open to the centre spread where a girl with her legs spread wide and fingers parting her moist vagina was smiling into the camera.

'What is it?' asked Scott.

Kinsellar held up the centrespread.

'Where do you reckon she lives?'

TWENTY-TWO

Detective Inspector Frank Gregson leaned back on the two rear legs of his chair and began rocking gently, his gaze rivetted to the sheets of paper on his desk.

They were statements taken from witnesses to the shooting in the Haymarket two days ago. Jesus, it seemed longer than two days. It seemed like a fucking eternity. Maybe it would be an eternity before they identified the mysterious killer. Once that was done they might at least have a chance of figuring out why, when escape had been possible he had chosen to kill himself.

No word had come up from the pathology labs from Barclay as yet. He was still working on the remains of the corpse, trying to find some clue in the twisted, blackened remnants of humanity that might give them a lead on the individual who had, for no apparent reason, taken six lives (one of the victims on the critical list had died late the previous night) and then killed himself, all in the space of about five minutes.

Where did he come from?

Where did he get hold of the weapons?

Why did he chose to strike where he did?

Fuck it , thought Gregson, it was all questions and no answers so far.

The statements didn't help much, either.

'One says he was blond, another says he was ginger,' the DI muttered, flipping through the neatly typed sheets. 'One says short hair, another says tied in a pony-tail. It's a wonder they all managed to agree he was the same fucking colour.'

On the other side of the desk, DS Stuart Finn pulled a Marlboro from the packet and jammed it between his lips. He lit up, blowing a long stream of blue smoke into the air.

The DS was holding a photo-fit picture on his lap. It was held firmly in place by a bulldog clip at the top and bottom.

'That's the artist's impression,' he said, handing the sketch to Gregson. 'Based on the witnesses' statements.'