Shaun Hutson - Captives

'When will he back?' he said finally. 'Can you get him to call me as soon as possible? It's very urgent. It concerns three of the inmates there.' They saw Gregson's features harden. 'Who are you, anyway?' He sighed. 'All right, perhaps you can help me. Their names are Peter Lawton, Mathew Bryce and Trevor Magee. I need to speak to Governor Nicholson about them as soon as possible, do you understand?' The other three saw a flicker on the DI's face. 'Say that again?' He looked across Finn, a look of bewilderment on his face. He shook his head slowly. 'Can you tell me when?'

'What the fuck is this?' Finn whispered, still watching his superior.

'Thank you,' said Gregson. 'Tell Governor Nicholson to ring me on this number as soon as possible.'

Gregson put down the phone.

'Well?' said Finn.

The DI looked at Houghton.

'Are you sure that's Trevor Magee?' he said, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing.

Houghton held up his hands.

'Frank, for God's sake,' he sighed, if I had children I'd swear on their graves. It is Magee. There's no question of it.'

'And you're sure about the others as well?'

Houghton nodded.

'According to that guy I just spoke to,' said Gregson quietly, 'Trevor Magee died six months ago. As a matter of fact he's buried in the same piece of ground as Peter Lawton and Mathew Bryce. They never left Whitely. All three of them are buried there.'

SIXTY-SEVEN

There was an explosion of blood and the nose seemed to burst.

The coloured man fell backwards, his legs buckling under him, a look of pain on his face.

As he fell the spectators rose, a chorus of shouts and cheers ringing around the arena.

'Good punch,' Ray Plummer shouted approvingly. The coloured boxer looked into the referee's eyes, then watched his fingers; he was raising them one at a time as he counted. His opponent was dancing about in a neutral corner, one eye on his quarry. The other eye had been closed for most of the fight by a left hook that had caused a large amount of swelling both above and below the brow. He was older, pale-skinned and looked too thin to be a welterweight, but the right cross that had put his younger opponent down had belied his looks.

As the referee reached the mandatory eight the black fighter rose quickly to his feet.

'Come on, Robbie,' shouted Plummer, cupping one hand to his mouth.

Beside him Carol watched the modern-day gladiators as they came at each other. She was wearing a tight red dress which showed off her shapely legs. It clung to her so tightly that she wore no underwear beneath. Plummer liked that. He also liked it when he saw other men around the ringside looking at her approvingly. Look all you want, he thought. She's with me. She ran a hand through her hair and glanced up at the fighters again, one arm linked through Plummer's.

She saw him look at his watch again. He'd been doing it all evening.

'Are you expecting someone?' she asked. 'You keep looking at your watch.'

He shook his head, smiled at her briefly then returned his attention to the fight.

The younger fighter seemed to have recovered from the knockdown. Despite the blood streaming from his nose, he was driving in a series of combinations which looked to have his opponent in trouble.

'Work the body!' one of his cornermen shouted.

'Cover up!' the other fighter's trainer responded.

'Get away from him!' Plummer bellowed, watching gloomily as a body punch brought down his fighter's guard and a thunderous uppercut lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing to the canvas. 'Oh, fuck it,' murmured Plummer, as the referee started counting.

'If he counts until tomorrow night your boy won't get up, Ray,' said the tubby man sitting on Plummer's left.

Plummer nodded and glanced at his watch again.

10.46 P.M.

The referee made a sweeping gesture with his arm over the prostrate figure of the white fighter. It might as well have been the last rites.

Some members of the crowd moved away towards the bar between contests. Others were content to sit and wait, reading their programmes or gazing around. Television cameras were covering the bill and a number of those opposite the prying lenses spent the time waving at the cameras. Two men passed by and looked down at

Carol, who crossed her legs, dangling one high-heeled shoe from her toes.

She noticed with disgust that there were several droplets of blood on the patent leather. One of the perils of sitting ringside.

Plummer looked at his watch again and sighed.

10.48.

There were still nearly three hours to go.

The other staff had gone home. Jim Scott had locked up. Now he stood in his office drinking from a paper cup, swilling the Southern Comfort around, staring into the liquid.

***

The knock on the door was at precisely one minute after midnight.

He went upstairs and opened it, allowing John Hitch inside.

'You set?' Hitch asked him.

Scott nodded.

'Show me,' Hitch insisted.

Scott pulled the Beretta from its shoulder holster and handed it to Hitch, who held the weapon for a minute before returning it to its rightful owner.

'You've got good taste, Jim,' he said, smiling, pulling his own pistol into view.

Like Scott's it was a 92S. He holstered it and motioned towards the door.

'Let's go,' he said. 'Car's waiting.'

Scott followed him out.

***

It was a small boat, less than thirty feet from stem to stem. It moved quietly up the River Thames, hidden by the darkness, only its warning lights visible on the black swirl of the water. The Sandhopper moved evenly and unhurriedly through the water.

The river was quiet. Many of the small boats which usually travelled its waters were moored for the night and The Sandhopper passed a number of them as it made its way up river. Lights from the banks reflected off the water like a black mirror. One of the crewmen of the small boat stood looking out at the city all around him, smoking a cigarette and gazing at the myriad lights.

'I can see one of them.'

Martin Bates adjusted the focus on the binoculars, trying to pull into sharper definition the man moving about on the deck.

'Where's the boat now?' John Hitch asked, his voice breaking up slightly on the two-way.

Bates picked up the radio, still holding the binoculars in one hand, following the progress of the boat.

'Just passing Hay's Wharf,' he said.

'Tell Wally to keep his eyes open and let me know when they pass him,' Hitch instructed.

'Will do,' said Bates. He put down the radio for a moment, taking one last look at the boat as it chugged slowly up river. He leant on the car and lit a cigarette, puffing at it before he picked up the radio again.

'Wally, come in, it's Martin. You awake or having a wank?' He smiled to himself.

'I'm awake, you cunt,' a deep Scots voice thundered back.

'They'll be with you in about ten or fifteen minutes, mate,' Bates told him.

'Right,' muttered Wally Connor.

From his own vantage point he moved forward, leaning on the parapet of Blackfriars Bridge, peering down into the murky blackness of the river. Waiting.

Waiting just like the other four men Hitch had positioned at various places along the Thames.

Scott looked at the clock on the dashboard of the Lancia and sighed.

'How much longer?' he said irritably, gazing through the windscreen, out across the Thames. It looked like a swollen black tongue licking its way through the city.

'Not long,' John Hitch told him, looking first at his own watch then at the dashboard clock.

'I'd just like to know why I'm here,' Scott murmured.

'I told you, Scotty, it wasn't my idea. I get paid for doing what I'm told. It's as simple as that.' He looked at his watch again. Then he pulled the Beretta from its holster and worked the slide.