Shaun Hutson - Captives

'It pays the mortgage. Perhaps you should remember that.' He looked at her impassively.

'I work, too, Frank, in case you hadn't noticed. I do my bit towards the running of this house.'

'But it's my bloody job,' he said contemptuously, 'that pays the bills, isn't it? Perhaps you should think about that before you start moaning. What do you want me to do, give it up? Find something else to do?'

'When you're like this I wish you'd never joined the force,' she told him. 'Especially not the murder squad.'

'When I'm like what?' he said, that note of contempt still in his voice.

'You know what I'm talking about. This case, the last few cases, they've been getting you down badly.'

'Bullshit,' he sneered.

'It's not bullshit,' she rasped. 'It's true.' She glanced down at the photos briefly, revolted by them. 'Look at yourself, Frank, dwelling on what this man's done even when you're at home.'

'Do you think I can just wipe it clean when I leave my office?' he said, with scathing contempt. 'Do you think my mind is like a fucking blackboard? You scratch things on it, words, sights, you scratch those on it during the day, then at night I just forget about them? Is that what you think?' He picked up the next picture. It showed what was left of the skull of the cashier who had taken a blast from the Spas in the face. Gregson shoved the picture towards Julie angrily. 'Can you expect me to wipe something like that from my mind so easily?'

She looked away from the picture, feeling her stomach churn.

'I see things like that every day and every night,' he continued vehemently. 'And you expect me to forget them? Have you any idea what goes through my mind? What thoughts are in here?' He prodded his temple with his index finger. 'No, you haven't. You could never understand.'

'Then make me understand,' she said, tears welling in her eyes.

'You really want to know? You really want to hear about my work?' His eyes were blazing now, fixing her in an unflinching stare.

'You should talk about it more often. You bottle things up too much, Frank.'

'Okay, where would you like me to start?' he said, glaring at her. 'Would you like me to tell you what the inside of that bank looked like after that fucking maniac had finished using the shotgun? How there were brains spread over the road when he shot the motorcyclist? Or perhaps you'd be more interested in another case. The one where the woman killed her husband with a carving knife because she'd found out he was having an affair. There were so many knife wounds in him it took us over an hour to count them all. And blood. You want to hear how much blood there was? She severed both his carotid arteries, you see. The ones in the neck. Nearly cut his fucking head off, in fact. She said later that all the time she was stabbing him he kept saying he was sorry. He kept saying he didn't want to die.'

Gregson was sucking in breath through clenched teeth now.

'What else would you like to hear?' he taunted. 'About the four-year-old who'd been sexually abused by her stepfather? He'd used a bottle on her. A beer bottle. Shoved it up her arse. The only problem was he didn't expect it to break. He didn't expect her to scream quite so loudly, so he jammed the rest of the bottle into her face until she shut up. That would have been bad enough but she'd been dead for three days when we found her. He'd put her in the attic. She was blue where she'd lost so much blood, apart from the bits of her that had turned gangrenous. Jesus, it stank in that fucking attic.'

Tears were rolling down Julie's cheeks now as she looked at her husband, the words pouring forth from him with a kind of monstrous glee.

'Is this what you want to hear?' he chided. 'Is this what you want to know about my job? What about the drunk that was mugged in Piccadilly the other night? I mean, there was nothing for them to take so they just beat him to death. They used his head like a football, took runs at him. Two would hold him down while the other one kicked him. Kicked him so hard that three of his front teeth were driven up into the roof of his mouth.'

She got to her feet.

'That's enough,' she sobbed, wiping her eyes.

'I've hardly started,' he said, looking at her. 'I thought you wanted to hear all about my work.' He smiled humourlessly.

'I wanted to help you,' she told him, sniffing.

'How can you help?'

'You should talk to me more.'

'I've just been talking to you and you can't fucking take it. You ask me what I do, you ask me to tell you what goes through my mind, and when I do you can't take it.'

She wiped more tears from her face.

'Can't you see what it's doing to you, Frank?' she asked.

'That's my problem, not yours.'

'It's not just yours. I can't stand to see what this job is doing to you.'

'Why?'

'Because I love you,' she snapped, a note of anger joining the despair in her voice. 'Christ knows why, but I do. Let me help.'

He shrugged.

'You want to help me? Leave me alone. That would be a great help. Get off my fucking back.' The words were spoken without a flicker of emotion.

She turned and headed for the door, turning as she reached it to look angrily at him.

'I tried. Don't ever say I didn't try to help you,' she said tearfully.

'Who asked you to help? Mel No.' He shook his head.

'Frank, please…'

He cut her short. 'You want to help? Then leave me alone.' He looked away from her. He didn't see her leave the room, only heard the door slam.

Gregson took another swallow from the glass. Then he picked the photos up and carefully began to go through them again, one by one.

TWENTY-FOUR

He watched her writhing on the bed, hardly aware of the music that roared out of the speaker above his head.

'… Lady Red light, rock me tonight…'

James Scott leant against the doorframe, peering through the gloom towards the bed where Carol Jackson was naked, a vibrator clutched in one hand. She was running the gleaming phallus up and down her body, pausing occasionally to look at the members of the audience.

There were two men dressed in suits sitting in chairs on one side of the bed, both of them chuckling as they watched Carol's rehearsed gyrations. Every few moments one of them would rub the erection he sported. They continued laughing, nodding towards Carol as she turned to face them, the vibrator between her legs.

Scott sighed as he watched the display.

He'd tried to talk to her when she arrived but she'd been late and she'd had to hurry off and change. She said she'd talk to him later. It offered some ray of hope, at least. He had so much to ask her. Before she'd arrived he had been angry, had told himself he would be firmer with her; but as soon as he'd seen her the anger had evaporated. She was here, that was all that mattered. She was near him.

He watched the display for a moment longer, glaring at one of the customers who whistled appreciatively when she took the vibrator from her vagina and kissed the tip.

As Zena joined her on the bed, Scott turned and headed back towards his office.

He wanted to ask her if she was all right, wanted to know why she hadn't answered the phone when he'd tried her number the previous night. And yet, strong as his curiosity was, something told him that he should not ask. He didn't own her. She wasn't accountable to him.

Yet he felt he had a right to know. After all, they had been seeing one another for over a year.

He sat in his office listening to the dull thud of the music, thinking about Carol and Zena lying on the bed together, performing their usual act.

Where had she been last night?

He sat forward in his seat, angry with himself for dwelling on the matter. He pulled the bottle of Southern Comfort from the drawer in his desk and poured himself a measure, swallowing half in one gulp.