Shaun Hutson - Captives

'Detective Inspector,' Gregson corrected him. The Governor smiled thinly.

He offered the policeman some tea but he declined. 'What exactly can I do for you. Detective Inspector?' Nicholson wanted to know. 'I must say, I was a little surprised by your enquiries.'

Gregson exhaled.

'Well, it's like this. I've been investigating a series of murders in London. In each case the killer imitated an MO used before and then killed himself, committed suicide. It took a while to identify the first two but we've finally managed to do that. The third one there was no. mistake with.'

'I don't see what that has to do with this prison.'

'All the killings were committed by men incarcerated here.'

Nicholson smiled.

'That's impossible. Are you trying to tell me that some of my prisoners have escaped without me noticing?' He chuckled.

'Do the names Peter Lawton, Mathew Bryce and Trevor Magee mean anything to you? Because if they don't, let me refresh your memory. They were all in here doing life sentences for murder.'

'I appreciate the refresher course, Detective Inspector, but I was familiar with those three men. I'nri also familiar with the fact that they are no longer with us. By that I don't mean they've left the prison; I mean they're dead. They died here in Whitely.'

'I'm aware of that,' Gregson said.

'Then why are we having this conversation?'

'Because the three men that I've got in the morgue back at New Scotland Yard are Peter Lawton, Mathew Bryce and Trevor Magee.'

'You realise what you're saying?' Nicholson murmured incredulously.

'I know bloody well what I'm saying,' Gregson snapped, 'and if it's any consolation it sounds as crazy to me as it probably does to you. But the fact is, those three men committed nine murders between them in London less than three weeks ago.'

'Men who looked like Lawton, Bryce and Magee perhaps?'

'No. Not their doubles. Not their fucking twin brothers, either. Those men,' rasped Gregson, exasperated. 'It's not possible.'

Gregson got to his feet.

'I know it's not possible but it's happened,' he said angrily. 'Look, we have more than enough forensic evidence to back up their identity. What I'm asking is, could there have been some kind of mistake here, at your end?'

Nicholson pressed his finger-tips together.

'What you mean is, could we, by accident, on three occasions, have released murderers back into society? Could we have let the wrong men go?' His smile faded, to be replaced by a look of anger. 'We might make the odd administrative error, Detective Inspector, but releasing the wrong men doesn't usually fall into that category.'

'Then you explain what the hell is going on,' Gregson challenged him. 'Because I feel as if I'm running around in circles looking for answers.'

The two men regarded one another silently across the desk. The silence was finally broken by Nicholson. He got to his feet.

'There's a simple way to settle this,' he said. 'Come with me.'

Together they left the office, walking down the short corridor to a set of steps. Nicholson led the way. At the bottom of the steps was another corridor, a much longer one this time. They finally reached a door which opened into the courtyard at the rear of the building. A blast of cold wind hit them. Gregson pulled up the collar of his jacket.

'What did they supposedly die of?' Gregson wanted to know.

'I don't remember exactly, but if you'd like to check their medical files before you leave you're quite welcome to,' the Governor said.

'Thanks, I think I might,' the DI said, following his host towards the church. The weather-vane on top of the small steeple was spinning madly in the wind. A couple of inmates were collecting fallen leaves and stuffing them into black bags. Another man was trimming the grass in the churchyard with a pair of shears, raking the clippings into a sack.

'This way,' said Nicholson, heading up a short path by the church.

Gregson followed. The inmates watched them.

'There,' said Nicholson, pointing at a simple wooden cross.

Gregson peered at the name on it.

MATHEW BRYCE.

'And here,' said Nicholson, pointing at another of the markers.

PETER LAWTON.

Gregson felt the wind whipping around him, felt the chill grow more intense.

There was one more.

TREVOR MAGEE.

Gregson looked at the dates on each one, noting the year and month each man had died. All had expired within the last eighteen months.

'Satisfied?' Nicholson said. 'I don't know who you've got in your morgue back in London, but as you can see they're not the three men you thought they were.'

***

Gregson jabbed the nine on the phone to get an outside line and pressed the digits he wanted.

He sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room and waited for the phone to be answered. When it finally was he recognised the voice immediately.

'Stuart, it's me,' he said.

'How's it going, Frank?' DS Finn wanted to know.

'I wish I knew,' Gregson said wearily, and repeated what he'd seen at Whitely. 'The fucking graves are there, no question, no mistakes.'

'The graves are there, fair enough, but there's no mistake about who the three geezers in cold storage here are either. What the fuck is going on?'

'I wish I knew. Listen, I need you to check something out for me. Go through some files. I want you to check on any murderers who've been convicted and sent to Whitely in the last three years, got it? I want a list on my desk by the time I get back.'

'When will that be?'

'Tomorrow. Early afternoon, if I can get a train.'

'Okay, Frank.'

'Stuart, just a minute,' Gregson said hurriedly. 'When you check those files there's something specific you should look for. Like I said, I want to know how many murderers have been sent to Whitely in the last three years. More importantly, I want to know how many of those men died there.'

'What have you got, Frank?' Finn asked, quietly.

'Maybe nothing. Just check those files. If you find anything, call me here at the hotel.' He gave him the name and the number of the hotel in Buxton. 'Otherwise I'll see you tomorrow.'

Gregson hung up and sat back on the bed, cradling a glass of whisky in his hand which he'd poured himself from the room's mini-bar.

He felt as if he needed it.

Outside it was beginning to get dark.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

Scott looked up as he heard the key turn in the lock. The heavy iron door swung open and a man stepped into the cell, the door hurriedly closing behind him. The sound of the turning lock seemed deafening.

'Scott, right?' said Mike Robinson, crossing to his own bunk. 'Jim Scott?'

He nodded.

'How do you know my name?' he wanted to know. Robinson smiled.

'The same way we know what you're in for,' he said. 'There isn't much we don't know about in here. At least when it comes to other members of the population.' His smile faded. 'Besides, it pays to know a few things about a bloke you're going to be sharing with, especially when that bloke's topped three other geezers.'

Scott looked at him angrily.

'I didn't kill them,' he said. 'I was set up.'

Robinson crossed to the small washbasin in the corner of the cell and spun the taps.

'Yeah,' he muttered humourlessly. 'You and everybody else in here. We're all innocent, Scott. We were all fitted up.' The smile returned.

'It's the truth. I didn't kill those men,' Scott insisted. 'Look, I'm one of your cell mates, not a fucking jury, and it's a bit late to start pleading innocence, isn't it?'

Robinson dried his hands on the towel. 'I don't care if you killed three or three hundred. The only thing I care about is that I've got to share a cell with you. So if you cut your toenails don't leave them lying around on the floor, don't make too much noise if you have to use the slop bucket at night and if you're a shit-stabber then I'll tell you now, my arsehole isn't for rent. Right? I don't care how much snout, cash or force you use, my ring-piece is out of fucking bounds and if you try anything I'll cut your heart out.'