Shaun Hutson - Captives

Gregson flicked it on and raised it above his head, the sickly yellow puddle of light spreading out to illuminate the inside of the hut. There was dried mud on the floor and the place smelt damp. Ahead stood a wooden workbench; to the right on the wall there were cupboards. To the left there were tools. Gregson smiled at the shovels, spades, picks and assorted other pieces of hardware.

'Try and find some lights,' he said to Finn, who shook his head and wandered towards the cupboards.

In the darkness he cracked his leg against a wheelbarrow, yelping in pain, then cursing as he rubbed his shin.

Gregson picked up a couple of spades and a pick-axe and turned to see that his companion had discovered a large torch in one of the cupboards.

'Bring that,' he snapped as Finn flicked it on. The beam was powerful and broad. 'We've got to find the grave.'

'I joined the force to uphold the law, not play at fucking Burke and Hare,' snapped Finn.

Gregson smiled thinly and motioned for his companion to lead the way.

'Take this,' he said, handing Finn a spade.

'There must be thousands of people buried in this fucking place,' snarled the DS. 'How the hell are we supposed to find one grave? We don't even know where it is.'

They set off along the driveway, feet sinking into the loose chippings.

'If Lucas was only buried three weeks ago, I know which part of the cemetery he'll be in,' Gregson reassured his companion. 'A friend of my father's died about a month ago. He was buried here, too. I came along with my old man. All the new ones are put in the same place. It's not far.'

As they walked Finn shone the torch from side to side, the light picking out graves on either side. Headstones stuck up from the earth like accusatory fingers, many moulded with age. Larger, sepulchral edifices appeared occasionally out of the night; marble reflected the beam of the torch. Some graves had crosses, others were completely unmarked. In many places the grass was overgrown. Great long tufts of it encroached onto the graves, the blades stirred by the strengthening wind.

As the path sloped upwards slightly, both men spotted a secondary track that was little more than a well-worn path carved out by the passage of many weary feet.

'Over there,' Gregson said, indicating the muddy path.

They changed direction. Finn sucked in breath.

'Do you reckon they'll still pay us our police pensions when we're locked up in a nuthouse? Because that's what's going to happen when people find out what we're doing,' he said.

'This is no joke,' hissed Gregson.

'You're fucking right it's not,' snapped Finn. 'Traipsing round a graveyard at one o'clock in the morning isn't my idea of a fun way to pass the time.'

'Give me the torch,' Gregson snapped, taking the light from his companion. He shone it over the headstones, picking out names.

'It's around here somewhere,' he said, it has to be.'

'I hope to Christ you're right,' Finn said, pulling up the collar of his jacket against the wind. A tree nearby bowed mockingly, its skeletal branches clacking together.

Gregson noted that most of the graves had fresh flowers on them. He could smell violets as he moved from one plot to another, moving the torch beam steadily over the monuments, careful not to tread on any of the graves. He noted the names, the inscriptions. The ages.

VALERIE SUTTON - BELOVED WIFE.

SLEEPING MARK KELLER - TAKEN BY GOD.

JONATHAN PIKE - THE LIGHT OF OUR LIFE - DIED MARCH 8th AGED 11 MONTHS.

'This could take all night,' said Finn. Every time he stepped on a grave he apologised to its occupant, feeling stupid but unable to stop himself.

Gregson kept the torch beam moving steadily.

LOUISE PATEMAN - OUR DARLING DAUGHTER - AT REST.

A metal rosebowl, overturned by the wind, clattered off its plinth and rolled against a headstone.

'Shit,' hissed Finn, spinning round.

COLIN MORRIS - A SPECIAL HUSBAND - SADLY MISSED.

The roses from the bowl were quickly scattered by the wind. The bowl continued to roll back and forth.

Finn reached for his cigarettes.

'Stuart.'

The sound of the voice startled him and he spun round to look at Gregson who was holding the beam on a simple plinth set into the ground. It bore only the name.

'I've found it,' said the DI.

EIGHTY-ONE

Gregson propped the torch up on a nearby headstone, ensuring that the beam pointed towards the grave of Gary Lucas. Then he shrugged off his jacket, draped it over a marble cross and gripped one of the shovels, driving the blade into the earth.

'Come on, help me,' he snapped, looking, up at Finn.

'This is fucking crazy,' the DS said, shaking his head, watching as Gregson lifted huge clods with the spade. His own breath was coming in short gasps now. He wondered if Gregson had gone insane.

'Dig, for Christ's sake,' the DI snarled. Finally, Finn began to drive his own spade into the moist earth.

'This isn't right, Frank,' he said angrily.

Gregson didn't answer, but continued digging, perspiration already beading on his forehead despite the chill wind whipping around them.

The two men hardly spoke as they burrowed deeper into the earth, leaving mounds of dirt on either side of the hole. Finn paused for a moment to catch his breath but Gregson kept up his labours, digging deeper all the time. His shirt was sticking to him now and he was panting like a cart horse but still he persevered, driving the spade into the soil and hurling dark mud away behind him.

They were getting close now, he knew it.

Finn ran a hand through his hair, feeling the slickness of sweat on his face, but one look at Gregson's expression persuaded him to continue digging.

There was a loud scraping sound of metal on wood.

They had reached the coffin.

Gregson immediately scrambed down beside it, scraping earth from the top of the casket with his hands.

'Give me the torch,' he said, snatching it from his companion and shining it on the lid.

'What now?' Finn asked, breathlessly.

Gregson reached up over the side of the grave and found the pick axe.

'We open it,' he said flatly.

Finn grabbed him by the shoulders.

'Frank, you can't do this,' he said angrily.

'Why the fuck do you think I dug him up, to admire the craftsmanship of the bloody box? I want to see that body.' He pushed his companion away. 'Hold that fucking torch over here,' he rasped, sliding the end of the pick-axe beneath the first of the coffin screws.

Finn wiped sweat from his face and pointed the torch downwards watching as his colleague exerted all the force he could muster on the other end of the pick.

As the screw came loose, part of the coffin lid broke away.

Gregson drove the pick underneath the lid, prizing upwards until the casket snapped again.

One more screw loose and he'd be able to remove the lid.

He forced the pick between the two edges of wood and pressed down.

Finn's heart was thudding madly against his ribs as he held the light steady over the ghoulish tableau.

The screw came loose with a whine of snapping wood.

Gregson pulled the lid free and tossed it aside.

Finn shone the torch into the coffin.

'Jesus Christ,' he murmured slowly, the colour draining from his cheeks.

Gregson stood beside him, panting, his eyes riveted. He shook his head very slowly.

'What the hell is it?' Finn whispered, his voice cracking, almost lost in the blast of wind that swept across them.

The DI leant forward slightly, still gripping the pick in one hand.

In the bottom of the coffin was a black dustbin bag, its top secured by a piece of thick string.

Nothing else.

No body. No rotting corpse.

Nothing.

Gregson used the pick to tear the plastic open while Finn shone his torch at the bag.