Shaun Hutson - Captives

He decided to return to his flat; he would take the chance. Besides, there were things there he needed. A change of clothes, for one. And after that?

He gripped the wheel tightly, wincing at the pain that filled his head.

Plummer.

Scott ran one index finger tentatively over his forehead.

Carol.

She wouldn't be expecting him back, either.

The bitch.

How surprised they would be to see him.

Scott almost smiled. He glanced down at the passenger seat, at the pile of shirts and jeans there.

And the carving knife that lay hidden beneath.

This time he did smile.

As he glanced ahead once more he saw the police car.

It was travelling slowly up the other side of the road towards him; there was just one man in it.

Scott gripped the wheel, a reflex action brought about by a combination of pain and panic.

Should he pull in to the side of the road until the police car had gone?

It was getting closer. He knew he must make up his mind quickly.

He drove on, his eyes fixed firmly on the road as he by-passed the vehicle. Its driver offered him only a cursory glance. Scott watched the car in his rear-view mirror, saw it turn a corner and disappear from sight. He exhaled deeply, checking his mirror again to ensure that the police car hadn't turned to follow him. Satisfied that it hadn't he drove on, drawing nearer to his flat.

He saw no police cars parked outside; no officers waiting for him, at least none in uniform. They'd be plain clothes, he thought, angry with himself. The cars would be unmarked. There was an old Capri parked outside the block of flats where he lived, but it had no occupant. Scott looked around. A group of school-children were making their way noisily across the road in front of him, one of them slapping the bonnet of the Renault as he passed. Scott ignored the children, his eyes flicking back and forth as he drove past the block, satisfied that he was safe. He parked the car behind the Capri and climbed out, walking briskly across to the main doors, the knife tucked inside his jeans, covered by the folds of his shirt.

He would have to use the knife to get into his flat as he had no keys.

Wearily he began to climb the stairs. He felt the blade cold against his flesh.

The razor-sharp blade. He thought of Carol. The knife.

Plummer.

He continued to climb.

NINETY-SEVEN

'Down there.'

The pilot tapped Gregson's shoulder and directed his attention towards the ground.

Through the cockpit windows of the helicopter the DI could see the shape of Whitely Prison standing darkly against the moorland that surrounded it.

He nodded as the pilot said something else, his voice metallic through the headset the policeman wore. The noise of the rotor blades filled the small cockpit as the twin-engined Lynx cruised smoothly towards its destination. Gregson checked his watch, noting that it had taken less than an hour to reach the prison from London. He glanced behind him to the rear seats, where Finn and two other plain clothes men sat. One of them, a tall man in his early forties called Clifford, was looking distinctly queasy. The other, Sherman, was looking out of the side window, watching the countryside rising up to meet them as the Lynx swept lower.

Finn was tapping his fingertips against his knees, waiting for the helicopter to land. He didn't like flying at the best of times and the Lynx, as far as he was concerned, offered even less protection in the air than an aircraft. He was looking forward to getting his feet back on firm ground. One glance at Clifford told him the tall man felt the same way.

'You okay?' Gregson said, raising his voice above the roar of the rotors.

Finn nodded.

'Where do you want me to drop her?' the pilot interrupted, tapping Gregson's arm once again.

The DI scanned the prison below and stroked his chin thoughtfully. From their present height the huge Victorian structure looked like a model. He could see figures moving about within the grounds, some doubtless able to see the approaching chopper and wondering about its presence.

'Land in the exercise yard,' Gregson answered, pointing. 'There.'

The pilot nodded and the Lynx went into a swift descent which caused Finn to hold his stomach. The uncomfortable feeling he always experienced upon landing, his ears popping, seemed to intensify in the small aerial vehicle. Clifford thought he was going to be sick. Sherman felt like an extra from Apocalypse Now. He smiled at his own joke.

Gregson looked down as the Lynx descended, scanning the prison, wondering if Nicholson had seen them coming, wondering what the Governor was thinking as he saw the helicopter dropping gently out of the sky. The DI almost unconsciously touched the exhumation orders inside his jacket pocket. He felt a curious kind of exhilaration as the Lynx went lower, an excitement at the thought of finally finding an answer to the riddle of the killers. If there were answers, they were here at Whitely. He was sure of it.

The helicopter wavered slightly as the pilot prepared to set down. A strong gust of wind caught it and one of the skids bumped the concrete of the exercise yard but it re-adjusted and gently touched down. The pilot immediately switched off the rotors and Gregson and his companions hurriedly unstrapped themselves, the DI pushing open the passenger door.

'Keep your heads down,' the pilot yelled as the rotors continued to carve a pattern through the air. 'What do you want me to do?'

'Wait here for us,' Gregson told him, cupping one hand to his mouth to make himself heard over the dying engines.

The pilot raised one thumb in an attitude of acknowledgement, watching as the other three men clambered out and hurried away from the helicopter.

Two warders were approaching them, bewildered by the sudden, unannounced arrival of the Lynx. Before either of them could speak Gregson had taken his ID out and was holding it out in front of him for inspection.

'I want to see Governor Nicholson,' he snapped. 'Now:

NINETY-EIGHT

What if they were waiting inside for him?

The corridor was deserted, just as the stairs had been during his tortuous climb. Maybe they were waiting in the flat itself.

Scott hesitated a few paces away, the thought turning over and over in his mind. He reached for the knife and pulled it from his belt, inserting it in the door frame close to the lock.

He had to take the chance.

Scott moved the knife gently but firmly and the lock finally slipped.

He stood close to the door, listening for any signs or sounds of movement. Satisfied that there were none, he pushed the door open and stepped inside the flat, closing the door quickly behind him.

The place smelt damp. Cupboards were open and furniture lay overturned, the way it had been the day they arrested him. Scott stood looking around for long moments, pressing one hand to his temple as a particularly vehement stab of pain lanced through his brain. He gritted his teeth, thought for a second he was going to pass out. When it cleared, he moved into the bedroom. There he pulled open his wardrobe. His clothes were still there, at least. He tried the bedside cabinet.

The Beretta was gone.

He slammed the drawer shut, realising that the police had obviously kept it. Bastards. He sat down on the edge of the bed, acutely aware not only of the pain from his head and his leg but of his weariness, of the stench he was giving off. He decided a shower would remedy both those problems and stumbled through into the bathroom, spinning the cold tap and scooping water to swallow two more aspirins. Then he turned on the shower and pulled off the shirt and jeans he'd been wearing, finally standing naked.

Scott turned to the bathroom mirror and looked at his reflection. His skin was pale, his eyes sunken through pain and lack of sleep but it was the bandage to which he addressed his attention. With infinite slowness he began to peel it off, finally dropping it onto the floor. There was a piece of gauze on his forehead, held in place by two pieces of surgical tape. Carefully, the noise of the shower filling the room now, Scott removed them, pulling the encrusted gauze pad free.