Shaun Hutson - Captives

Bryce finally rolled off her, grunting as she lashed out with her foot and kicked him in the side. She tried to scream but the gash in the side of her cheek had caused blood to run back into her throat and all she could do was to retch as the coppery liquid clogged her windpipe. She tried to raise herself up, mud sticking to her clothes and hair.

Bryce stabbed her again, just above the right kidney, and she pitched forward, trying to crawl now through the mud, tears of pain and fear streaming down her cheeks. He got to his feet and drove a powerful kick into her side, smiling as he heard a rib crack. He kicked again. And again. He stamped on the back of her head as hard as he could, twisting on his shoe to grind her face further into the mud.

Further into the mud.

He put all his weight on that foot, pressing with all his strength and weight, watching her trying to wriggle free, trying to raise her face from the mud which was suffocating her. Her movements gradually became less frantic, her bloodied hands clutching backwards ever more feebly at his leg.

She wasn't quite dead when he dropped to his knees in the mud beside her, grabbed her matted hair and tugged her face up so that he could look at her.

The initial impact with the ground, despite its softness, had broken her nose. Her face was a mask of blood and sticky mud. Both her lips were split, crimson fluid running over her chin. Bryce rolled her onto her back and began tugging her clothes off, hurling them aside as he reached her underwear, tearing frenziedly at her bra, exposing her breasts, ripping her flimsy knickers off to expose her pubic bush.

He spread her legs wide, using his stained finger tips to part her vaginal lips. For long moments he knelt there gazing at her genitalia, then he reached behind him towards some crumpled, mud-soaked cellophane.

Balling it up he pushed it into her vagina, using his first two fingers to shove it deeper inside her. He found an empty crisp packet, the wrapper from a bar of chocolate. These he also pushed into the swollen orifice, jamming it with such force that he tore one of her vaginal lips. Fresh blood spurted onto the mud.

The ring pull from a can. He drove that into her as well, the metal tearing more of the delicate flesh.

She was still moving, still trying to scream with this fresh pain, this unbearable perversion he was committing. Her jaw was broken; she could not open it to vent her cry of agony.

He used the tip of the knife to force a piece of stone into her riven orifice, the razor-sharp edge gashing her badly.

Mercifully, Paula Wilson passed out.

Bryce crawled over her and looked into her face, pulling open her eyelids as if suspecting she was merely pretending to be unconscious. He stabbed her again, this time in the throat, leaving the knife there, driven with incredible force through her until the tip actually punctured the wet earth and left her pinned there like some exhibit in a museum.

He got to his feet and walked towards the partition, his hands reaching assuredly in the blackness for the can of petrol. He unscrewed the cap and walked back towards Paula. The powerful smell of the fuel filled his nostrils as he tossed the cap away, raising the can into the air.

He tipped it up, feeling the thick fluid cascading down over him, soaking through his clothes, some of it trickling into his mouth. It made him retch, but he stood there until the can was empty and the golden cascade had finished. Then he tossed it to one side and stood there, hands by his sides, looking down at her corpse.

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a lighter, holding it before him for long seconds, petrol dripping from his hand. He flicked it, looking at the flame which glowed dully before him, fluttering in the breeze.

Bryce smiled, feeling the petrol soaking through his clothes, feeling the cold clamminess on his skin. The smell was almost overpowering.

He lit the lighter once more, then, with a slow deliberate movement, he pressed the flame to his petrol-sodden clothes.

It ignited immediately.

THIRTY-TWO

'What is this? Guy Fawkes week?'

Detective Sergeant Stuart Finn took a drag on his cigarette and looked down at the body of Mathew Bryce.

The corpse had been burned beyond recognition, the flesh stripped from the bones, his clothes simply vaporised by the ferocity of the fire. Finn noticed that the stud on Bryce's jeans had melted in the heat, the molten metal having dribbled into the dead man's navel. The air reeked of the sickly-sweet smell of burned flesh.

Detective Inspector Frank Gregson knelt beside the body, his eyes fixed on the face. The mouth was open, stretched wide in an incinerated rictus. A couple of white teeth gleamed in the smoking hole that passed for a mouth but, as Gregson himself looked more closely, he saw that some fillings in the man's mouth had also melted. He prodded the remains with the end of his pen, watching as a sizeable chunk of burned flesh fell away. He got to his feet and motioned for the ambulanceman to replace the blanket over the body, hiding it from view once more.

About a yard from the remains of Bryce lay another blanket-shrouded shape.

The remains of Paula Wilson.

Gregson and Finn wandered across to the second body, both men looking around them.

The building site was a hive of activity now, despite the lateness of the hour. Both uniformed and plain-clothes officers were moving about. Men from forensics were picking their way slowly and carefully over the site, their search aided by several powerful arc lights that had been set up around the perimeter. The cold white glow of the lamps illuminated the murder scene.

Elsewhere on the site men moved around taking photos of the place and of the bodies. Outside in the street, would-be onlookers were kept away by uniformed men. A couple of ambulances stood at the entrance to the site, along with a police car. Unmarked cars were parked opposite. The officers who'd arrived in them were taking statements from those who had seen or heard anything, hoping that there would be some lead to the case, some clue as to why Paula Wilson had been murdered. Perhaps some clue as well to who had killed her.

The bodies had been found by the owner of a record shop in Dean Street. He'd been working late in the office above his shop and had caught sight of the flames coming from behind the partition as he'd been walking down the street towards Shaftesbury Avenue. The man had been taken to hospital suffering from shock. He was now under sedation. He'd managed to burble something about a burned body to a uniformed man who'd been on foot patrol nearby. The uniformed man had called through to New Scotland Yard.

Gregson and Finn had been there within fifteen minutes.

By 12.36 A.M. the area had been sealed off and was swarming with policemen.

'Where the hell is Barclay?' said Gregson as the two men approached the second body.

'He's been called, he's on his way,' Finn said, taking another drag on his cigarette.

Gregson dropped to his haunches and pulled back the blanket that covered Paula Wilson.

His face was expressionless as he studied the body, pulling the cover further down until he revealed the full extent of her injuries. He stroked his chin, his gaze focused on the rubbish stuffed into her vagina. Finn noticed it too and raised his eyebrows.

'Keep Britain tidy, eh?' he murmured quietly.

Gregson ignored his remark, his gaze fixed on the girl's torn and mutilated genital area.

He stuffed her full of rubbish.

Gregson looked at her other injuries, at the wounds in her chest and throat. The cuts on her face and hands. He pointed to the bad gash across her palm and the lesser ones on her fingers.

'Defence cuts,' he noted. 'She was trying to fight him off.'