Shaun Hutson - Captives

'Why? In case something goes wrong?' Fairham said, challengingly.

'As I said, the work is still relatively new. Until it's completely perfected we'd rather keep it quiet,' the Governor said, glaring once again at the other man.

'I can understand that,' Clinton said, smiling, it seems to be successful though, Mr Nicholson. Full marks to you. We'll be reporting this as very satisfactory progress when we return to Whitehall.'

'Satisfactory?' Fairham snapped. 'This man is using remand prisoners as human guinea pigs and you call that satisfactory?'

'I think you're being a little over-dramatic, Mr Fairham,' Clinton said, smiling patronisingly.

'It is preferable to the alternative of being locked up twenty-three hours out of twenty-four,' Merrick echoed.

Nicholson smiled triumphantly at Fairham.

'What is your view, Miss Hopper?' the Governor wanted to know.

The woman shrugged slightly.

'I suppose I would have to agree with Mr Clinton and Mr Merrick,' she said. 'As long as the patients are volunteers and the risks are explained to them before the operation, I can see no objection myself.'

'You appear to be out-voted again, Mr Fairham,' Nicholson said, smiling.

'I'd like to know a little more about the actual mechanics of the project,' Clinton said. 'How the tracking devices are built, what the operation entails, how the prisoners are monitored. That kind of thing. I will have to make a report to the House, you understand?'

Nicholson nodded, his ingratiating smile spreading.

'Certainly. If you'd like to come back to my office we can discuss it there,' he said, looking at Fairham.

The other man was flushed with anger.

The Governor turned to lead the small procession out.

'We've only seen a small part of the hospital wing,'

Fairham observed. 'I'd like to inspect the facilities here before we leave.'

Nicholson retained his air of calm.

'Of course,' he said, leading them towards a door at one end of the room. It opened out into the infirmary. There were half a dozen prisoners in the beds; other men in white overalls moved among them, performing their duties. One was mopping the floor, another dispensing pills. A third man was pushing a trolley, collecting dirty laundry. Patients and workers alike gave the Governor and his visitors only cursory glances. More lingering looks were reserved for Anne Hopper.

A warder stood at one end of the infirmary, standing by a thick metal door.

Nicholson looked towards him, hoping that none of the visitors noticed the look of apprehension on his face.

He stood back as the visitors moved among the men, speaking to them where possible, usually meeting with only perfunctory grunts in answer to their questions. The Governor caught the eye of the warder at the far end of the infirmary and the man nodded almost imperceptibly. A silent answer to an unasked question. The Governor licked his lips, aware that they were once more dry.

Come on, hurry up and get out of here.

One by one the visitors returned to join him.

They're not going to ask.

Fairham looked to the far end of the infirmary.

'What's through there?' he asked, pointing at the door.

'The morgue,' Nicholson said quickly. 'It's where we keep any prisoners who die until they've been identified, or until arrangements can be made for their burial.'

Fairham nodded slowly.

Come on, come on.

'I think we've seen enough now, Mr Nicholson,' Clinton said.

Fairham was still gazing at the door.

The Governor licked his lips again.

'We'll go back to my office, then,' he said.

At last Fairham tore his gaze away and filed out in front of Nicholson. The Governor glanced back at the solitary warder and nodded.

As he walked out he let out a sigh of relief.

He would return here as soon as the delegation was gone. For now, at least, it was still safe.

FIFTY-ONE

Coffee dripped from the bottom of the cup as DI Frank Gregson lifted it to his mouth and took a sip. It was strong. He pulled the lid from one of the other milk cartons and poured in the contents, stirring until the dark colour lightened.

Opposite him DS Stuart Finn was smoking a Marlboro, blowing out streams of smoke, alternately gazing into the depths of his tea cup and glancing out of the window.

The neon lights outside were barely visible through the sheen of condensation coating the inside of the cafe window. The film of steam combined with the patina of dirt on the glass made them almost opaque. Inside the cafe there were half a dozen other people. At a table in the corner three young girls sat, smoking and chatting quietly, occasionally glancing across at the two policemen.

Two men sat at a table near the counter, one of them pushing huge forkfuls of food into his mouth, the other sipping at a cup of tea.

Another man sat alone at the table next to them, peering at a magazine. Finn noted that he was tracing a column of names and addresses with the tip of his pen, occasionally ringing one with the biro.

The place smelled of fried food and damp.

Finn stubbed out a cigarette in an already overflowing ash-tray and immediately lit another. He noticed that he was almost out of them and fumbled in his jacket pocket for some change to feed into the cigarette machine. On the radio in the background, a voice announced that it was nine-thirty.

'It's weird, isn't it?' said Finn. 'How all these places start to look alike after a while.'

Gregson shrugged.

'The cafes, the bars, the clip-joints,' Finn continued. 'In the bookshops, too, there's something familiar about them, every one of them. Even the same punters, it seems.' He chuckled. 'I was flicking through a couple of magazines at that last place.' He smiled. 'More cunts than a meeting of the Arsenal supporters' club.' The DS shook his head, still grinning.

Gregson didn't return the smile. He merely sipped at his strong coffee and ran a hand through his hair.

'Yeah, the places look familiar and the answers are starting to sound familiar, too,' he said wearily. 'No, never seen him. Never heard anything. Didn't see anything.'

'I wonder if any of the other blokes are having better luck.'

'Are you serious? This whole fucking area is sewn up tighter than a nun's crotch,' Gregson grunted.

'Then why are we here?'

'Because it's our job.'

Finn sucked gently on his cigarette and looked across the table at Gregson, who was peering through the window into the street beyond.

'You knew it was going to be like this, Frank,' he said. 'You knew that no one around here was going to help us. Why call a search in the first place?'

'Procedure,' Gregson told him.

'Bullshit,' Finn said, smiling thinly. 'What do you know?'

'I know that we should be asking questions instead of sitting on our arses drinking cups of tea,' the DI told him, pushing his half-empty cup away.

'Come on, tell me the truth,' Finn persisted. 'You owe me that. We've been working together long enough. If I had a hunch or an idea about these killings I'd tell you.'

Gregson smiled thinly.

'The idea I had was crazy,' he said slowly, 'illogical. Impossible, even. I checked it out. You remember I said to you that the only thing any witnesses could agree on about the first bloke who killed himself was his staring eyes?'

Finn nodded.

'I checked the files, because that rung a bell somewhere. We arrested a bloke called Peter Lawton for a series of armed robberies. Remember me telling you?'

'Yes, I do,' said the DS. 'He's banged up, though, isn't he?'

'In Whitely Prison in Derbyshire. Yeah. He has been for the last six years.'

Finn looked vague.

'The second killer, the one who murdered the girl, I checked out his MO because that sounded familiar, too.'