Shaun Hutson - Captives

'He suspects nothing,' Nicholson said dismissively. 'I showed him the graves.'

'Even so, it might be an idea to stop work for a while. Just until the fuss has blown over.'

'What fuss? I told you, I showed him the graves.'

'But you said they'd identified Lawton, Bryce and Magee. What if he isn't satisfied with your explanation? He might come back.'

'And find what?' Nicholson leant across the desk and looked closely into Dexter's eyes. 'We've gone too far to turn back now. There's no need to delay the work, let alone stop it altogether. Unless you're beginning to have second thoughts.' He smiled scornfully. 'One failure too many, perhaps?'

'They were not failures, Nicholson. It can work, I've proved that.'

'So you say, doctor. I'm yet to be convinced.'

'It doesn't matter to you if they die, anyway, does it?'

'Not really, no.'

'I sometimes wonder why you became involved in the first place.'

'You know why.'

'Medical executions,' said Dexter quietly. 'That's what you see them as, isn't it? The ones that don't work.'

'You know my views,' Nicholson said sharply. 'This current situation is all that concerns me at the moment. Will you do it or not?'

'I need a week to observe, as I said.'

Nicholson nodded thoughtfully.

'However, the choice is perfect,' the doctor continued. He picked up the file that lay on the desk and flipped it open. Amid the plethora of papers there was a photo. He picked it up and studied the contours of the face, a slight smile on his lips.

'He'll be a good subject,' Dexter murmured. 'I'll operate as soon as I'm ready.'

He slipped the picture back into the file and closed it, looking once more at the name on the cover:

JAMES SCOTT.

SEVENTY-NINE

Detective Inspector Frank Gregson paced slowly back and forth from one side of his office to the other, his gaze occasionally shifting to the blackboard behind his desk. To the names written on it.

DS Stuart Finn took a long drag on his cigarette and nodded at the board.

'Six murderers have been sent to Whitely in the past three years,' he said. 'I checked it out, just like you asked. Four of them died in there, all in the last eighteen months.' He looked at the blackboard once again.

'Including our three men,' Gregson said, finally perching on the edge of his desk. He looked at the last name on the list.

GARY LUCAS.

'It's a hell of a coincidence,' the DI muttered. 'All died there, all buried there.'

'All except Lucas,' Finn told him.

Gregson turned to look at his companion.

'By terms of his will, Lucas asked if he could be buried near his home, instead of in prison grounds. This burial in unconsecrated ground crap hasn't been enforced since they stopped the death penalty,' Finn went on. 'It's just that none of the other three had any family to protest.'

'Nor had Lucas, had he?'

'No; but, like I said, the terms of his will specified he could be buried outside prison grounds. They planted him in a cemetery in Norwood about three weeks ago.'

Gregson stroked his chin thoughtfully.

'What did the coroner say was the cause of death?' he wanted to know.

Finn blew out another stream of smoke, it says cardiac arrest on the death certificate, but a proper autopsy was never carried out,' said the DS, 'The certificate was signed by some geezer called…' he consulted his notes, 'Doctor Robert Dexter. He's down as resident physician at Whitely. The body was prepared there too, you know. They even put him in the coffin and shipped him home instead of leaving it to a local undertaker. Thoughtful, eh?' He took another drag on his cigarette.

'Jesus Christ,' muttered Gregson, his eyes fixed on the name of Lucas.

'Lucas must have fitted in well with the other three there,' Finn observed. 'He killed four people, including an eighty-seven-year-old woman, with a claw hammer before he was caught. Apparently he kept the old girl's left hand in his wardrobe. After he killed her he tried taking her wedding ring and when he couldn't get it he hacked her whole fucking hand off.'

Gregson appeared not to hear this last piece of information. He was already reaching for his phone, jabbing an extension number.

It rang. And rang.

'Where the hell is the boss?' he hissed.

'I should think he's gone home, Frank,' Finn said, 'it is nearly midnight, after all. What do you want him for, anyway?'

Gregson slammed the phone down, 'If I want an exhumation order he'll need to go and see a magistrate. I want Lucas dug up.'

'Are you serious?' Finn murmured uncomprehend-ingly. 'You want to dig Gary Lucas up? Why, for Christ's sake? He's dead.'

'So, apparently, were Lawton, Bryce and Magee.'

'You know they're dead. You saw their graves.'

'Yeah, I did. I also saw the three bodies downstairs in pathology. The ones that were positively identified as those same three men.' Gregson pulled his jacket on.

'Frank, where the fuck are you going?' Finn demanded, standing up as his superior headed for the door.

'I'm going to find out once and for all what the hell is going on,' Gregson told him.

Finn gripped his colleague's arm but the DI shook loose.

'Get off me,' he snapped.

'This is fucking crazy,' Finn blurted.

'If you want to help me, that's great,' Gregson said quietly, his voice soft but his tone and expression full of menace. He pointed at Finn. 'If not, stay out of my way.' The vein at his temple throbbed angrily.

Finn stood there helplessly for a moment, his own breath coming in gasps as he looked into the wild eyes of his superior.

'Where the hell are you going?' he demanded.

'Norwood Cemetery.'

EIGHTY

The Ford Scorpio came to a screeching halt at the massive wrought-iron gates of the cemetery.

Gregson looked at the huge barriers and banged the wheel angrily.

'You didn't expect them to be open, did you, Frank?' Finn grunted. 'Perhaps you should have called ahead and warned them we were on a zombie hunt. They might have laid on some lights too and some fucking shovels.'

'We're going in there,' Gregson snapped, his face hidden by the gloom of the night. He hauled himself out of the car and walked towards the stone wall surrounding the necropolis. The DI looked up at it, estimating the height to be about six feet.

He could climb it easily.

Taking a few steps back he ran at it, gripped the top row of bricks and pulled himself up onto the rampart. Balanced there, he looked into the cemetery. To his right was the chapel of rest; a little to the left of that was a wooden hut he took to be the domain of the cemetery caretaker.

They would find tools in there.

'Come on,' he called to Finn.

'You're fucking mad,' the DS snarled, looking up at him.

In response Gregson merely leapt down from the wall, landing on the gravel drive of the cemetery and rolling over to cushion his fall. The pieces of stone crunched loudly-beneath him.

Finn sucked in a deep breath and ran at the wall, springing up and swinging himself over. Cursing quietly, he lowered himself down, dropping the last foot or so to the ground. He set off after Gregson, hearing his own feet crunching gravel as he hurried to catch up with his superior.

A cold breeze whipped across the open space, stirring fresh flowers on a new grave close by. One of the blooms was lifted from its pot and sent tumbling across the grass.

Trees towered over both sides of the driveway, which snaked through the vast graveyard like a mottled tongue. Branches stirred by the wind clattered together like muted applause as Finn finally caught up with his companion.

'Frank…' he began.

'We've got to get this door open,' Gregson said, ignoring his colleague. He took a step back and kicked at the doorknob. It came loose. Another similar impact and it gave way, the door flying inwards to crash against the wall. Gregson walked in, squinting in the gloom. 'Give me your lighter,' he said to Finn, who fumbled in his pocket and pressed the Zippo into his superior's palm.