Shaun Hutson - Captives

Hitch was a couple of years younger than his boss but his long blond hair and perpetual sun tan (the product of a solarium) made him look closer to thirty than thirty-six. Morton was the opposite, dark-haired, squat, almost brutish in appearance. He'd been a successful amateur boxer before he joined Plummer's organisation. The flat nose was a testament to his habit of fighting with his guard down. Hitch maintained he could stop buses with his head (and frequently did).

'So, tell me what you found out about Connelly,' said Plummer. 'Is it right he's moving into drugs?'

'As far as we could find out, he's got no plans to expand in that area, Ray,' Hitch said, sipping his drink.

'He's making bundles out of the money business, isn't he?' Morton added. 'Why should he try that other shit?'

'Because that other shit is worth a damned sight more,' Plummer said scornfully.

'Well, we spoke to at least half a dozen members of his firm and none of them knows anything about a shipment of cocaine,' Hitch announced. 'That call must have been someone winding you up.'

'But why?' Plummer wanted to know.

Hitch could only shrug.

'The bit about the warehouse was right,' Plummer continued. 'Connelly's just bought himself a warehouse down by the docks.'

'Maybe his boats unload there, the ones that bring his mags in,' Hitch offered.

Plummer remained unconvinced.

'You spoke to members of his firm,' he said. 'They're hardly likely to tell you what the cunt's planning, are they? Especially if he's planning to take over London with the money he makes from selling that fucking cocaine.' Plummer got to his feet and walked across to the fireplace, staring into the flames.

'There's no reason why he should want to try and "take over",' Hitch said. 'It doesn't make sense, Ray. There's been peace for over three years now. Connelly's not going to fuck it up by starting a drugs war, is he?'

'He might,' Morton offered.

'Oh, shut it, Terry, for fuck's sake,' Hitch said wearily.

'So what are you saying?' Plummer demanded. 'That the call was bollocks? A wind-up? If it was, I'd like to get my hands on the bastard that made it.'

'Forget about it,' Hitch advised, sipping his drink.

The phone rang.

Plummer crossed to it and picked up the receiver.

'Yeah,' he said.

'Ray Plummer.'

'Yeah, who's this?'

'We spoke a few days ago,' said the voice. 'Well, I spoke, you listened.'

Plummer, the receiver still pressed to his ear, turned to look at Hitch.

'You're calling about the cocaine shipment,' he said.

Hitch was on his feet in seconds.

'Well done,' said the voice.

Plummer put his hand over the mouthpiece and jabbed a finger towards the door to his right.

'The phone in the bedroom,' he hissed quietly.

Hitch understood and bolted for the door, picking the receiver up with infinite care so that he too could hear the voice on the other end of the line.

'Are you still interested in the shipment?' the caller wanted to know.

'Maybe,' Plummer said warily.

'What kind of fucking answer is that?'

'I'm interested if it actually exists,' he said.

'It exists all right. Ralph Connelly is going to be spending the money he earns from it pretty soon. Unless you decided you wanted it.'

'What do you get out of this?' Plummer wanted to know.

'That's my business. Now, if you're still interested, be here at this time tomorrow. I'll call then.'

The caller put down the phone.

'Fuck,' roared Plummer.

Hitch emerged from the bedroom.

'Recognise the voice?' Plummer wanted to know.

The younger man shook his head.

'If I was you, Ray,' he said. 'I'd wait for that call.'

FORTY-FIVE

'They're here, Mr Nicholson.'

The Governor of Whitely heard his secretary's voice over the intercom and glanced up at his wall clock. The delegation was punctual, if nothing else. It was exactly 10.00 A.M.

'Show them in, please,' he said, adjusting his tie and rising to his feet as the door was opened.

The first of the four visitors entered and Nicholson recognised him immediately as Bernard Clinton, the MP. He was followed by his companions. The Governor's secretary left them alone in the room, promising to return in a moment with tea and coffee.

Nicholson emerged from behind his desk slowly, almost reluctantly. He extended a hand and shook that offered by Clinton, who introduced himself then presented his colleagues.

'This is Mr Reginald Fairham,' Clinton said, motioning towards a mousy-looking man in an ill-fitting suit. He was tall and pale and when Nicholson shook his hand he found it was icy cold. 'Mr Fairham is the Chairman of the National Committee for Prison Reform,' Clinton explained.

Nicholson said how glad he was to meet him.

A second man, chubby and losing his hair, was presented by Clinton as Paul Merrick.

'Mr Merrick serves in my office in Parliament. He's been active with me in this issue for the last few years,' the MP announced.

Nicholson looked squarely into the chubby man's eyes, scarcely able to disguise the contempt he felt for such a soft, weak handshake. Merrick needed to lose a couple of stone. His hands felt smooth, like those of a woman or someone who's never done a hard day's work in their life. Nicholson gripped Merrick's hand hard and squeezed with unnecessary force, watching the flicker of pain cross the man's face.

The fourth member of the group was a woman, in her mid-thirties, Nicholson guessed. She was smartly dressed in a grey two-piece suit and posed elegantly on a pair of high heels. Her face was rather pinched, tapering to a pointed chin that gave her features a look of severity not mirrored in her voice.

'Good morning, Mr Nicholson,' she said as she shook hands.

'Miss Anne Hopper is a leading member of the Council for Civil Liberties,' Clinton said, smiling obsequiously.

Introductions over, Nicholson motioned for his guests to sit down.

'We appreciate the chance to come to Whitely, Mr Nicholson,' Clinton said. 'Thank you for your cooperation.'

'Why did you choose Whitely?' the Governor asked.

'It is one of the worst examples of overcrowding in any prison in Britain,' Fairham said. 'And it does have one of the worst disciplinary records, too.' He clasped his hands on his knees. 'My organisation has been monitoring it for some time now.'

'Monitoring?' said Nicholson. 'In what way?' He spoke slowly, his gaze never leaving Fairham, who found he could only hold that gaze for a couple of seconds at a time.

'As I said, it has a very bad disciplinary record,' he offered.

'When you have over sixteen hundred violent and dangerous men in one place twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, then the occasional problem does arise,' Nicholson said, leaning back in his seat and pressing his fingertips together.

'But the disciplinary record here is worse than at any other prison in the country. How can you explain that?' Fairham persisted.

'Because the class of prisoner is lower,' the Governor said scornfully. 'Perhaps your monitoring system didn't tell you that.'

'I think Mr Fairham means that we all share a concern over the incident that happened here not so long ago,' Clinton said.

'The death of the remand prisoner,' Fairham interjected, as if reminding Nicholson of something he might have forgotten.

'It was unfortunate, I agree,' the Governor said.

'It wouldn't have happened if the prison had been run more efficiently,' Fairham snapped.

'This prison is run more efficiently than most,' Nicholson rumbled, his eyes blazing. 'My staff are more highly trained than the majority of officers at other prisons in this country. But no matter how well-trained or well-organised warders are, they can't always anticipate the actions of these… men you represent. That killing would have happened in any gaol, not only Whitely. My men are trained to control prisoners, not to read their minds.'