Shaun Hutson - Captives

Hunched over the wheel, Magee smiled.

He was relieved that no one was following him. He didn't want anyone trying to stop him.

Not yet.

SIXTY-FOUR

Detective Inspector Frank Gregson tapped agitatedly on the steering wheel as he looked up at the red light, waiting for it to change.

He revved his engine.

Come on. Come on.

He sped away with them still on amber, narrowly avoiding a car coming the other way. The driver banged on his horn but Gregson drove on at speed, unconcerned by the accident he'd almost caused.

He'd spoken to Houghton less than ten minutes ago.

The DI had returned home and been greeted by Julie telling him that the Records Officer had called. Gregson had asked what it was about. Julie had only been able to tell him that it was urgent. Gregson had called immediately and Houghton had explained about the fingerprints and how he was sure he now had positive identification of at least one of the bodies. Gregson had hardly allowed him to finish speaking before telling him he'd be there as soon as he could.

Julie had asked him what was going on but he'd rushed out without telling her, mumbling only that it was important and that he didn't know when he'd be back.

Now he pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator and eased the Ford Scorpio past a car, cutting in ahead of the driver. Gregson glanced at the clock on the dashboard and estimated that he could be at New Scotland Yard in less than thirty minutes, traffic permitting.

Thirty minutes. It seemed like a fucking lifetime.

However, mingling with that frustration was a small feeling of triumph. He'd been right about Bryce. The copy-cat MO theory he'd come up with had born fruit. It should prove so for the first killer as well. He almost smiled to himself.

He had been proved right, but how could it be? The men he had suspected were in prison serving life sentences. No escapes had been reported.

What the fuck was going on?

'Lima 15, come in.'

The metallic voice that rattled out of his radio made him jump.

'Lima 15, do you read me? If you're there, pick it up, Frank.'

He recognised DI Finn's voice.

'Frank, for fuck's sake…'

Gregson snatched up the handset.

'Lima 15, I hear you,' he said. 'This better be good.'

'Where are you?' Finn wanted to know.

'On my way to see Houghton, he's identified one of the dead killers.'

'Jesus,' muttered Finn. There was a moment's silence, then the DI spoke again. 'Frank, you'd better tell Barclay to have one of his slabs ready.'

'Why?'

'We've got another one,' Finn told him flatly. 'A murder suicide. Just like the other two. The guy tried to torch himself.'

'What happened?' Gregson demanded, hardly slowing down as he drove.

Finn told him about the murders of the tramp and the taxi driver. 'He stole the cab, drove it up Charing Cross Road then aimed the fucking thing at the fountains outside Centre Point. The car blew up as soon as it hit the wall.'

'Shit,' hissed Gregson. 'What about the driver?'

'Well, like I said, he was obviously trying to kill himself. The thing is, when the car hit the wall, he went through the windscreen. He was thrown clear. They fished him out of the water. He's badly cut up from the broken glass but he's more or less in one piece.'

'Any ID on him?' Gregson wanted to know.

'Nothing. Not even a name tag in his fucking underwear. Just like the other two. The only difference is, this geezer doesn't look like burnt toast.'

'No ID at all?' Gregson repeated. 'Could he have dropped it in the car? You said he was thrown clear. He might have been carrying something, it might be lying around…'

Finn cut him short. 'The boys here have been over the area with a fine toothcomb, Frank. I'm telling you. There was no fucking ID. All he had on him was a couple of quid in small change.'

'Where are you now?' Gregson wanted to know.

'I'm still at the scene. We've closed the road off while the boys go over the area. The fire brigade have put out the blaze, thank Christ.'

'Meet me at the Yard in thirty minutes. Stuart, I want a full report on what happened, right?'

'Thirty minutes?'

'Yeah.'

'I'll see you there, over and out.'

The two-way went dead and Gregson replaced it, pressing his foot harder on the accelerator, coaxing more speed from the Scorpio.

Another twenty minutes, he thought, then perhaps at last they might have some answers.

SIXTY-FIVE

Why?

The word kept rolling around in his mind like a marble.

Why?

Jim Scott looked at his reflection in the mirror, studying his features.

Why did they need him for this job? He sighed. Plummer had insisted that he be involved.

Why? Why? Fucking why?

He slammed his hand down on the top of the dressing table, causing some of the bottles to topple over. An aftershave bottle spilled its contents and Scott inhaled the aroma momentarily before stepping back. He crossed to his bed and sat down. Outside the wind was blowing strongly again, wailing around the block of flats. He heard footsteps passing his door as someone made their way home. There was a thumping noise coming from above that was a record player. He got to his feet, staring up at the ceiling, wondering whether or not he should shout to the owner to turn the volume down.

Better still, go up there and tell him.

Scott finally decided to do neither. He wandered out into the kitchen and took a pint of milk from the fridge, supping straight from the bottle.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked back into the bedroom.

Why?

Why did they want him on this particular job?

Why couldn't he get in touch with Carol?

Why hadn't she been in to work?

Why hadn't she called him?

Fucking why?

He slammed the milk bottle down on top of the bedside cabinet, pulling the drawer open.

He reached in and took out the Beretta, cradling it in his hand, working the slide. He held the piece up and sighted it, squeezing the trigger, allowing the hammer to fall on an empty chamber. Finally he lowered the weapon and dropped it onto the bed beside him, then fumbled in the drawer again for the box of ammunition.

He began feeding 9mm shells into the magazine.

***

She could hear him moving about in the sitting room. Carol Jackson rolled onto her back and gazed at the ceiling, aware of the movement from the adjacent room and also of the perspiration that sheathed her body. She ran a finger through the glistening moisture, allowing her hand to trail lower, through her pubic hairs. She felt the wetness of Plummer's semen as it trickled from her. Carol sighed and reached for a tissue from the bedside table.

Plummer called through and asked if she wanted a drink. She called back that she didn't.

For some reason her thoughts turned to Scott. He must be wondering where she was by now. She hadn't been to work for two nights. Carol could imagine his state of mind.

Had he finally realised there was someone else?

If so, what was going through his mind?

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. If only she'd had the courage to tell him she wanted to end their relationship when the cracks had first started to appear. He would have been disappointed. Upset. Perhaps even angry. But now she feared what he might do.

Would he really try to kill her?

She wished she could convince herself that what he'd said had merely been an idle threat. But she knew him too well. There was no avoiding the issue any more. Either he would find out she was seeing Plummer or she would have to tell him.

It was only a matter of time before the truth emerged.

And then?