Shaun Hutson - Captives

A ripple of laughter ran around the room.

'In fucking Soho?' grunted Gregson. 'You might as well pull in every bastard who works there.'

More laughter.

'Just talk to them, find out what they've seen,and heard over the last couple of weeks,' the DI said.

'Do you think there's a link between the two killers?' a tall ginger-haired officer asked from near the back of the room.

'It's possible,' the DI said quietly, his gaze still roving around the other men in the room. 'We know it isn't a gang-related thing. Not unless London's been invaded by a bunch of fucking fireaters who haven't quite mastered the trick yet.'

Another ripple of laughter greeted this remark.

'Maybe it's the Irish Fire Brigade,' a voice added and the men laughed even louder.

'All right, all right, enough of the joviality,' said Gregson. He turned towards the map and jabbed at the red-ringed area. 'This area is to be gone over with a fine tooth-comb. You'll each be designated one particular area. We don't want to be tripping over each other. As it is, there'll be more policemen than punters on that patch.' He looked round the room. 'You'll report back to me on a daily basis. I don't care if you think you've got nothing, I want to hear what you know, what you found out.'

'Have either of the dead men been identified yet?' another man asked, puffing on his cigarette.

Gregson shook his head.

'We got a print off the second one from Paula Wilson's body, though.' He pointed to the photo of the print. 'It would seem to be just a matter of time before the man's identified.'

'You seem very sure, Frank,' Finn observed.

'Humour me, eh?' Gregson said wearily.

Should he mention the possible copy-cat overtones of the killings? He decided not to.

'Right,' he continued. 'Let's go. If you move through into the next room you'll find the area you're to work. And, like I said, I want to know everything you hear, what anyone's got to say, from the pimps to the tarts through to the doormen at the clip-joints and the managers of restaurants. Got it?'

The men got to their feet and began filing through the door on Gregson's left, muttering to themselves and each other as they went.

'What are you expecting us to find, Frank?' Finn wanted to know.

'Some answers?' he mused, none too convincingly.

'The way you talk, Frank, I'm beginning to wonder if you know something I don't,' Finn said.

Gregson didn't answer.

FORTY-SEVEN

'What are the nets for?'

Anne Hopper paused beside the rail of landing three and looked over, running her gaze over the wire mesh strung from one catwalk to the other.

'To prevent suicides,' Nicholson explained, standing beside her.

'Are there many attempts at suicide, Mr Nicholson?' Paul Merrick asked.

'No more than usual in a prison this size,' the Governor answered without looking at the other man.

'And how many would be usual?' Reginald Fairham wanted to know.

'There are three or four attempted suicides every week,' Nicholson said, his tone emotionless.

'And how many are successful?' Merrick wanted to know.

'Two or three. It's a good ratio for a gaol with a population this size.' Nicholson began walking again, satisfied that his visitors were following him. Behind them Warders Niles and Swain walked slowly and purposefully, occasionally stopping to peer through the observation slots in the cell doors.

The small procession moved on towards a set of metal stairs that led them down to the second landing. Their footsteps echoed on the metal catwalks.

'The nets aren't that successful, then?' Fairham said, if you have three suicides a week.'

Nicholson caught the note of sarcasm in the other man's voice but he did not turn, did not look at the visitor.

'It wouldn't matter if we welded steel sheets across the landings,' he said. 'They'd still try and kill themselves. There are plenty of other ways than throwing yourself from a walkway.'

The tone of his voice hardened slightly. 'You might be interested to know, Mr Fairham, that the last prisoner who committed suicide by jumping from a landing also took a prison officer with him.'

Fairham didn't answer.

They continued along the walkway, the members of the delegation peering towards the cells or over the rails every so often.

'How many hours a day are the men locked in?' Clinton asked.

'Twenty-two, sometimes twenty-three. It depends on the circumstances,' Nicholson said.

'One hour outside their cells every day,' snapped Fairham. 'That's hardly sufficient, is it?'

'I said it depended on the circumstances,' Nicholson repeated irritably. 'The higher risk prisoners are locked up for longer. Some of the other men are allowed to work outside in the grounds of the prison, as you will see. Others perform duties in the kitchens, the infirmary or the laundry rooms. Every man is allowed a certain amount of time in the recreation room, too.'

'How many are there in each cell?' Clinton wanted to know.

'Usually three,' Nicholson said.

'Would it be possible to have a look inside one?' asked Anne Hopper.

Nicholson stopped his slow strides and turned to look at her.

'If you wish,' he said and nodded to Swain to unlock the nearest cell.

The warder peered through the observation slot then selected a key from the long chain that dangled from his belt. He opened the door and walked in.

'On your feet,' he snapped, glancing at the two occupants. They were both lying on their bunks, one reading, one scribbling a letter on a notepad.

Mike Robinson looked down from the top bunk and saw Swain standing there.

'Mr Swain, what a pleasure,' he said. 'What can we do for you?'

'You can shut your mouth and get on your bloody feet,' snapped Swain.

'Leave them, warder,' said Anne Hopper, moving past him into the cell.

Both men eyed her approvingly as she entered.

'Sorry to disturb you,' she said, smiling.

'No bother, darling,' Robinson told her, grinning. He swung his legs around so that he was perched on the edge of the bunk. He put his pencil and pad aside. Rod Porter peered at her over the top of his book, glancing at the other visitors.

'Less of your lip, Robinson,' hissed Swain. 'Show a bit of respect.'

Robinson caught sight of Nicholson standing on the landing and his smile faded rapidly. He nodded a greeting to the other three visitors, who crowded into the cell as if they were playing some bizarre game of sardines.

There was a table and two wooden chairs at the far end by the slop buckets. Clinton sat down beside the slop bucket and smiled at the two men. Robinson smiled back. Porter merely regarded the man indifferently, his gaze straying back to the woman.

'These are the visitors you were told about yesterday,' Nicholson informed the two men.

'You said there were usually three to a cell,' Clinton observed.

'That's right,' Nicholson repeated.

'There were three of us in here,' said Porter slowly, his gaze flicking from one visitor to the other, but always returning to Anne Hopper. 'Our cell-mate had an accident.'

'Shut it, Porter,' Swain said under his breath.

'No,' said Fairham, raising a hand. 'Let him speak.' He looked at the prisoner. 'What kind of accident?'

'He forgot to test the temperature of his bath water,' Porter said cryptically.

Robinson laughed, looked at Nicholson and then fell silent again.

'I'm not with you,' said Fairham.

'Neither is he, any more,' Porter said.

'What was this man's name?' Fairham wanted to know.

'Marsden,' Nicholson said. 'He was in here for sexual crimes against children.'

'He was a fucking ponce,' Porter said venomously.

'Watch your language,' snarled Swain.

'He was. We all knew it, the screws knew it too. That's why they didn't interfere when he… hurt himself.' The vaguest hint of a smile creased Porter's lips.