PART TWO
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste but they detest at leisure...
Lord Byron
They have the morals of alley cats and minds like sewers...
Neville Heath, convicted murderer, on women.
41
The door crashed open and slammed back against the wall with such force it seemed it would come off the hinges.
Michael Robinson blinked and sat up, staring blearily in the direction of the noise.
He rubbed his eyes and peered down from the top bunk.
The uniformed figure stood in the doorway, eyeing the occupants of the cell impassively.
' Move it, ' said the figure.
' Slop out. '
Robinson yawned and swung his feet over the side of the bunk.
' I think this is our alarm call, Rod, ' he said, stretching.
From the bunk below him Rod Porter grunted and turned over, as if to resume the peaceful sleep from which he'd just been disturbed.
' Move yourself, Porter, ' said the uniformed figure brusquely.
' Fuck you, ' murmured Porter under his breath.
Robinson jumped down from the top bunk.
' You interrupted my dream, Mr Swain, ' said Porter, hauling himself out of bed.
' I was just getting a blow job from Michelle Pfeiffer. '
' The only blow job you're likely to get is a bike pump up your arse.
Now move yourselves, both of you, ' snapped the uniformed man.
Robinson and Porter both retrieved the small plastic buckets from one corner of the cell and wandered out onto the landing.
Robinson smiled as he lifted the plastic cover from the slop bucket to reveal a lump of excrement.
He shoved it at the uniformed man's face, watching with pleasure as he recoiled from the stench.
' I think mine is a little bit underdone.
Perhaps you ought to have a word with the kitchen staff, ' he said, smiling.
In front of him, Porter grinned.
The uniformed officer didn't appreciate the joke and pushed Robinson out onto the landing where, already, a steady file of men were spilling from their cells, joining the long line on either side of the landing as they made their way to the toilets.
Whitely Prison was coming to life.
On landings above and below them the same routine was in practice.
They had followed it every morning and would continue to follow it until their sentences were up.
Man shuffled along over the cold floors, some dressed in grey prison-issue pyjamas, others bare-chested or in boxer shorts.
Each of them held a small bucket.
Most were filled with excrement.
Slopping out was as much a part of prison life as exercise, work and, for the fortunate ones, visits.
Robinson and Porter knew it well enough.
They'd been sharing a cell for the last two years.
Robinson was in for ten years for armed robbery, while his companion was half-way through a twelve-year stretch for a similar crime.
His extra two years had come about because he'd shot a security guard in the leg with a twelve-bore.
Both men were in their mid-thirties, and both had spent most of their lives in and out of institutions.
Porter had been raised in a children's home from the time he was two years old.
He'd run away repeatedly as he'd got older, never with anywhere to go but just anxious to be free of the confining walls and restrictive atmosphere.
As the years had progressed a series of petty crimes had seen him in remand homes, borstals and finally prison.
It was usually robbery.
Robinson had experienced a more stable upbringing.
He was married with a couple of kids.
Stealing had come more as a necessity than anything else.
His wife had expensive tastes and the kids always wanted new clothes or bikes or games.
Both men had come to Whitely from other prisons, Robinson from Strangeways.
Porter from Wandsworth.
A large proportion of Whitely's inmates had also come via other gaols throughout the country; prisons where they couldn't be handled adequately.
In many cases Whitely was a last resort.
Or a dumping ground, whichever way you chose to look at it.
It was like a drain where the dregs and filth exuded from all the other prisons in the land had been gathered together; the human refuse brushed aside and locked up in an institution that was a dustbin for the unwanted and unmanageable.
Located in the heart of the Derbyshire countryside, surrounded on four sides by hills, it was a monument to the backwardness of penal reform.
A massive, grey stone Victorian building, it housed over 1600 inmates, twice its allotted amount.
Remand and convicted prisoners lived side by side.
Robinson nudged the man in front of him and nodded a greeting as the man turned.
The uniformed man noticed the movement and stepped close to Robinson.
' No talking, ' he said.
Robinson shrugged and smiled innocently.
' Cunt, ' he whispered, stifling the word with a yawn.
Across the landing an identical procession was filing towards their own latrine.
Men who had emptied their slop buckets were returning to their cells.
There were the odd murmurings, the sounds echoing throughout the large building, but they were quickly quelled by warders anxious to maintain silence.
Porter peered over the landing rail, through the steel netting that was strung from one side to the other, and noticed that, on the landing below, prisoners who had finished slopping out had not in fact returned to their cells but were standing outside, their attempts at entry barred by warders.
He frowned, wondering what was going on.
His musings were interrupted as he reached the latrine.
He and Robinson emptied their slop buckets into the waste chutes provided, rinsed them with boiling water and then made their way back to their cell.
The door was closed, the entrance blocked by another warder, Raymond Douglas.
He was a red-faced man with a pitted complexion who always looked exhausted, as if he'd just completed a marathon.
' Stay there, ' he said, toying with his key chain, holding up his free hand to add weight to his instructions.
Further down the landing, other prisoners also stood outside their cells.
Irritated mutterings grew louder.
'...
What's going on?... '
'...
Why are we being kept outside?... '
' What's the deal, Mr Douglas? '
Porter asked.
' You 'll find out, ' said the warder.
' For now, just shut it. '
Porter eyed the uniformed man malevolently, then exchanged puzzled glances with his cell-mate.
' Cell search? '
Robinson murmured.
' Someone been smoking whacky baccy again? '
' I said shut it, ' Douglas snapped.
' Just curious, ' said Robinson, gazing around him.
On all the landings men now stood outside their cells, increasingly frustrated and increasingly cold.
It wasn't exactly warm inside Whitely and many of them were dressed only in shorts.
The babble of discontent grew more insistent, to the point where even the warders couldn't quell it.
' What the hell is going on? '
Porter wanted to know.
' SHUT UP. '
The voice boomed around the inside of the building, bouncing off the walls with its ferocity and power.
All heads turned in one direction, peering upwards to find its source.
' Shut up and listen, ' the voice continued, and now the inmates could see where the thunderous exhortation came from.
On the uppermost landing, flanked by warders, stood a tall, powerfully-built figure in a dark blue suit, his greying hair slicked back so severely it appeared that he was bald.
He gripped the landing rail with hands as large as ham-hocks.
He regarded the men beneath him impassively, his eyes flicking back and forth as they looked up at him.
Peter Nicholson, the Governor of Whitely Prison, began to speak.
42
You could have been forgiven for imagining, that Peter Nicholson had undergone surgery to replace his vocal chords with a megaphone.
His words boomed out, spoken with clarity and in a tone that suggested that he was keeping his words simple for the less intelligent inmates of the prison.
On either side of him the warders looked down onto the other landings, watching for any signs of unrest amongst those below.
Warders on each of the individual landings also ensured that silence prevailed as he spoke.
' As you may have heard, ' the Governor said, smoothing his hair back with one hand, ' Whitely has been in the news lately.
The media are obviously hard up for stories because they seem interested in what they refer to as our overcrowding problems here.
Also, the local MP has taken it upon himself to look personally into what goes on in this prison. '
Robinson looked at Porter and raised his eyebrows quizzically.
' To that end, ' Nicholson continued, ' a Home Office delegation will be visiting this prison tomorrow to see how it runs and to see how well you're all cared for. '
He smiled sardonically.
A murmur rose that was quickly silenced.
Nicholson paused for a moment theatrically.
' The members of this delegation will be speaking to a number of prisoners.
Asking about conditions, etcetera. '
He looked around the upturned faces.
' You may speak to them if you wish.
Help them with their questions.
You may have some questions for them.
If you have any problems or grievances, you're quite free to tell them. '
' Yeah, ' murmured Porter.
' And get our fucking heads busted by the screws when they've gone. '
Swain took a step towards him, shooting him a warning glance.
' If any of you have any problems, at any time, you know you are free to speak to the officers in charge of your landing or to me personally, ' Nicholson continued.
There was another babble of chatter, and this time it took longer to quieten.
Nicholson looked around once more.
His green eyes, like chips of emerald, caught the light and reflected it coldly.
He brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve as he waited for the silence he required.
Finally satisfied, he continued.
' I want this prison running perfectly for these visitors, ' he said.
' I want co-operation between you and the officers.
I want the cells spotless.
I want them to be impressed by what they see.
I don't like people meddling in the way I run this prison and that's what they're doing.
Meddling.
I want them to leave here, knowing that this prison is well run and that its inmates are being adequately dealt with.
I don't expect them to leave here with a catalogue of stories about what a terrible place Whitely is.
As I said, you may speak to them if you wish.
That is your prerogative.
But bear in mind that if they hear too many bad reports, they 'll disrupt the way I run this prison.
And I don't like disruptions.
I hope that's understood. '
He looked around him, then smoothed his hair back once more.
' That's all. '
Nicholson and his officers turned and moved away from the landing rail, out of sight of the other prisoners.
On all the landings the inmates were allowed back inside their cells.
' Breakfast in twenty minutes, get a move on, ' said Warder Swain, slamming the door shut behind Robinson and Porter.
' Suck this, ' rasped Porter, holding his penis in one fist.
' Fucking cunt. '
Both men started to dress, taking it in turns to wash as best they could in the small sink perched on the cell wall.
' I wonder if anyone will be stupid enough to tell this bunch of do-gooders the truth? '
Robinson mused, drying his face.
' Are you joking? '
Porter muttered, fastening his grey overall.
' Even the screws wouldn't tell them anything.
They're more frightened of Nicholson than most of the cons in here. '
Robinson nodded in agreement.
' A tour of the prison, eh? ' he said, smiling.
' I wonder what they 'll make of our humble little home. '
' Probably want to move in with us, ' Porter quipped.
He crossed to his locker and took out a comb, running it through his short black hair.
The inside of the locker was a mosaic of photos: naked women, a team picture of Liverpool FC and a couple of postcards all vied for attention.
He blew a kiss to one of the women, then closed the locker again.
Robinson was sitting on the edge of the upper bunk.
' I 'll tell you one thing, Rod, ' he said, ' and I 'll bet money on it.
There's at least one part of this nick they won't see.
Nicholson will make sure of that. '
43
The office was large, functional rather than welcoming.
Efficiency was the keyword.
It was a place of work, after all, thought Peter Nicholson, and it had been his place of work for the last sixteen years.
He'd seen many changes in the penal system as a whole and Whitely in particular during his days as Governor at the prison.
The changes since he first began working in the service had been radical, to say the least.
He'd begun back in the fifties as a prison officer.
He'd served his early years in Wandsworth.
In fact, he'd been one of two warders who had escorted Derek Bentley from the condemned cell to the hangman on January 281953.
Bentley had been sentenced to hang because his accomplice, Christopher Craig, despite having fired the shot that killed a policeman, had been too young for the rope.
After Wandsworth Nicholson had moved around from prison to prison, serving his time as surely as any of the inmates in those institutions.
The difference was that he could go home at the end of every shift.
He had an increasingly long key chain to show for his years of service.
His enthusiasm for his work and his intelligence had led to him being appointed Assistant Governor at Wormwood Scrubs.
From there it had been only a matter of time until he was given his own prison.
Whitely was all he knew and had known for the last sixteen years.
The penal system he worked in was not the only thing that had changed during Nicholson's time.
His own attitude had hardened, too.
He'd originally joined the service after his mother had been attacked and beaten almost to death in 1950.
He felt that he was acting, by proxy, for her and all victims of crime like her in his role as gaoler.
And that was exactly how he viewed his job.
He didn't see his task as correcting the ways of men who had strayed into crime and needed help; he and his warders existed to protect society from the kind of human garbage locked within the walls of Whitely.
He stood up, glancing across at the photograph of his wife on the desk.
The image smiled back at him as he straightened the frame.
He moved over to the window of his office and looked out.
He could see into the empty exercise yard.
Beyond it, protected by a high stone wall, was a small chapel in the grounds of which were a number of graves, each one marked by a simple marble marker; some were actually decorated by headstones or crosses.
They bore the names of prisoners who had died at Whitely.
Men who, with no family on the outside, had nowhere else to rest.
Even in death they were confined within the walls of the prison.
A couple of inmates were picking up leaves from around the graves, sweeping them into a large black sack.
The skeletal trees that grew close to the chapel rattled their branches in the wind, which whipped across the open ground.
The closest town of any size to the prison was over twelve miles away, across barren land now unfit even for farming.
The remains of an open-caste mine, shut down over a decade earlier, lay to the west.
A single road, holed and pockmarked, connected the prison's main gates to a small tarmac road which wound through the hills and moors like a dry tongue in search of water.
The wind rattled the window in its frame but Nicholson remained where he was, keeping vigil, gazing out over his empire.
The buzzer on his intercom interrupted his thoughts.
He turned and flipped a switch.
' The warders you asked to see are here, Mr Nicholson, ' his secretary told him.
' Send them in, ' he instructed her.
A moment later the door opened and five men in uniforms trooped in.
Nicholson motioned to them to take a seat.
He leant on his desk top, waiting until the last of them was seated, then stood upright again, pulling himself up to his full six feet.
He looked an imposing figure.
' You know what this is about, ' he said curtly.
' I want to be sure that everything runs smoothly when this blasted delegation gets here tomorrow.
Any hint of trouble, I want it stamped on. '
He looked at each man in turn.
' Will you be showing them round yourself, sir? ' asked John Niles.
Nicholson nodded.
' How many are there? '
Raymond Douglas wanted to know.
' Four.
One woman. '
' That should please the men, ' said Niles, smiling.
The other officers chuckled but Nicholson didn't see the joke.
' If any of those bastards finds out that one of them is going to be a woman, there could be trouble, ' Nicholson said flatly.
' Take care of it. '
He smoothed his hair back with one hand.
' I want them in and out of here as quickly as possible.
I don't like the idea of people investigating my prison. '
' Why are they coming to Whitely, anyway? '
Paul Swain enquired.
' We're not the only prison in the country that's overcrowded. '
' That's perfectly correct.
Unfortunately, however, we are the only prison where a remand prisoner was murdered by a lifer recently. '
He held up his hands in a dismissive gesture.
' I hope they're not too disappointed by what they see, ' said Gareth Warton.
Nicholson looked at him unblinkingly.
' Meaning what? ' he said irritably.
' You have to agree, sir, conditions are below standard. '
' Standard for what?
This is a prison, in case you'd forgotten.
The men here are here because they broke the law.
Most of those in Whitely are here because they're too unruly or dangerous even for other jails to cope with. '
He fixed Warton in his gaze.
' We, Mr Warton, have the scum of the earth under this roof. '
' They still deserve better conditions, ' Warton persisted.
' They deserve nothing, ' Nicholson hissed.
' They're here to be punished.
We're here to ensure that punishment is carried out. '
' Isn't it our job to help them too, sir? '
Warton said.
' Yours, perhaps, if that's how you feel.
I don't see it as my job to help them.
It's my job to help the people on the outside and I do that by making sure the scum in here stay in here. '
He fixed Warton in the unrelenting stare of his cold green eyes.
' Do you know what we are, Mr Warton?
We're zoo keepers, paid to keep animals behind bars. '
Warton coloured and lowered his gaze.
Nicholson sucked in an angry breath and turned back to look out of his office window.
' When the delegation arrives I want them brought here, ' he said.
' I 'll show them round the prison, round the recreation rooms and cells.
If they want to speak to any of the prisoners they can.
But I want at least two men present at all times. '
' Will you be taking them to the maximum security wing, sir? '
Swain asked.
' Yes, and the solitary cells, ' the warden told them.
' What about the hospital wing? ' asked Niles.
' No, ' snapped Nicholson, turning to face the officer.
' The infirmary, perhaps, but there's no need to show them anything else. '
He looked up and down the line of faces.
' Are there any questions? '
There weren't.
Nicholson dismissed the warders, returning to the window for a moment as if searching for something out in the windswept yard.
From where he stood he couldn't see the hospital wing.
The thought suddenly spurred him into action.
He turned back to his desk, picked up the phone and jabbed an extension number.
As he waited for it to be answered he drummed lightly on the desk top.
The phone was finally answered.
' We have to talk, ' said Nicholson.
' Come over to my office.
It's important. '
44
Ray Plummer filled the Waterford crystal tumbler with soda and ice and handed it to John Hitch, and then repeated the procedure, passing the other brandy and soda to Terry Morton.
Morton thanked him, interrupted in his appraisal of a pair of Armani statues.
' And this stuff is worth money, is it, Ray? '
Morton said.
motioning towards the figurines.
' Of course it's worth money, you prat.
Why do you think I bought it? '
Plummer said.
' Fuck me, I 'm surrounded by Philistines. '
He took a sip of his own drink and sat down in the leather chair closest to the fireplace, looking into the authentic fake gas flames as he sipped his drink.
He touched his hair self-consciously, worried that the high wind outside might have disturbed it.
Morton remained on his feet, swaying backwards and forwards from the balls to the heels of his shoes.
The delicate tumbler was out of place in his heavy hand; he looked as if he would have been more comfortable carrying a bottle of beer.
Or a cosh.
' Sit down, Terry, you make the place look untidy, ' Plummer told him, smiling at Hitch, who grinned back as his companion sat down hurriedly.
Both Hitch and Morton had worked for Plummer for more than ten years and he trusted them as much as anyone in his organisation.
Hence their privileged presence in his penthouse flat.
They were two of only a handful of his employees allowed to enter this most private of havens.
Hitch was a couple of years younger than his boss but his long blond hair and perpetual sun tan (the product of a solarium) made him look closer to thirty than thirty-six.
Morton was the opposite, dark-haired, squat, almost brutish in appearance.
He'd been a successful amateur boxer before he joined Plummer's organisation.
The flat nose was a testament to his habit of fighting with his guard down.
Hitch maintained he could stop buses with his head (and frequently did).
' So, tell me what you found out about Connelly, ' said Plummer.
' Is it right he's moving into drugs? '
' As far as we could find out, he's got no plans to expand in that area, Ray, ' Hitch said, sipping his drink.
' He's making bundles out of the money business, isn't he? '
Morton added.
' Why should he try that other shit? '
' Because that other shit is worth a damned sight more, ' Plummer said scornfully.
' Well, we spoke to at least half a dozen members of his firm and none of them knows anything about a shipment of cocaine, ' Hitch announced.
' That call must have been someone winding you up. '
' But why? '
Plummer wanted to know.
Hitch could only shrug.
' The bit about the warehouse was right, ' Plummer continued.
' Connelly's just bought himself a warehouse down by the docks. '
' Maybe his boats unload there, the ones that bring his mags in, ' Hitch offered.
Plummer remained unconvinced.
' You spoke to members of his firm, ' he said.
' They're hardly likely to tell you what the cunt's planning.
are they?
Especially if he's planning to take over London with the money he makes from selling that fucking cocaine. '
Plummer got to his feet and walked across to the fireplace, staring into the flames.
' There's no reason why he should want to try and ' take over ', ' Hitch said.
' It doesn't make sense, Ray.
There's been peace for over three years now.
Connelly's not going to fuck it up by starting a drugs war, is he? '
' He might, ' Morton offered.
' Oh, shut it, Terry, for fuck's sake, ' Hitch said wearily.
' So what are you saying? '
Plummer demanded.
' That the call was bollocks?
A wind-up?
If it was, I'd like to get my hands on the bastard that made it. '
' Forget about it, ' Hitch advised, sipping his drink.
The phone rang.
Plummer crossed to it and picked up the receiver.
' Yeah, ' he said.
' Ray Plummer. '
' Yeah, who's this? '
' We spoke a few days ago, ' said the voice.
' Well, I spoke, you listened. '
Plummer, the receiver still pressed to his ear, turned to look at Hitch.
' You're calling about the cocaine shipment, ' he said.
Hitch was on his feet in seconds.
' Well done, ' said the voice.
Plummer put his hand over the mouthpiece and jabbed a finger towards the door to his right.
' The phone in the bedroom, ' he hissed quietly.
Hitch understood and bolted for the door, picking the receiver up with infinite care so that he too could hear the voice on the other end of the line.
' Are you still interested in the shipment? ' the caller wanted to know.
' Maybe, ' Plummer said warily.
' What kind of fucking answer is that? '
' I 'm interested if it actually exists, ' he said.
' It exists all right.
Ralph Connelly is going to be spending the money he earns from it pretty soon.
Unless you decided you wanted it. '
' What do you get out of this? '
Plummer wanted to know.
' That's my business.
Now, if you're still interested, be here at this time tomorrow.
I 'll call then. '
The caller put down the phone.
' Fuck, ' roared Plummer.
Hitch emerged from the bedroom.
' Recognise the voice? '
Plummer wanted to know.
The younger man shook his head.
' If I was you, Ray, ' he said.
' I'd wait for that call. '
45
' They're here, Mr Nicholson. '
The Governor of Whitely heard his secretary's voice over the intercom and glanced up at his wall clock.
The delegation was punctual, if nothing else.
It was exactly 10.00 a.m.
' Show them in, please, ' he said, adjusting his tie and rising to his feet as the door was opened.
The first of the four visitors entered and Nicholson recognised him immediately as Bernard Clinton, the MP.
He was followed by his companions.
The Governor's secretary left them alone in the room, promising to return in a moment with tea and coffee.
Nicholson emerged from behind his desk slowly, almost reluctantly.
He extended a hand and shook that offered by Clinton, who introduced himself then presented his colleagues.
' This is Mr Reginald Fairham, ' Clinton said, motioning towards a mousy-looking man in an ill-fitting suit.
He was tall and pale and when Nicholson shook his hand he found it was icy cold.
' Mr Fairham is the Chairman of the National Committee for Prison Reform, ' Clinton explained.
Nicholson said how glad he was to meet him.
A second man, chubby and losing his hair, was presented by Clinton as Paul Merrick.
' Mr Merrick serves in my office in Parliament.
He's been active with me in this issue for the last few years, ' the MP announced.
Nicholson looked squarely into the chubby man's eyes, scarcely able to disguise the contempt he felt for such a soft, weak handshake.
Merrick needed to lose a couple of stone.
His hands felt smooth, like those of a woman or someone who's never done a hard day's work in their life.
Nicholson gripped Merrick's hand hard and squeezed with unnecessary force, watching the flicker of pain cross the man's face.
The fourth member of the group was a woman, in her mid-thirties, Nicholson guessed.
She was smartly dressed in a grey two-piece suit and posed elegantly on a pair of high heels.
Her face was rather pinched, tapering to a pointed chin that gave her features a look of severity not mirrored in her voice.
' Good morning, Mr Nicholson, ' she said as she shook hands.
' Miss Anne Hopper is a leading member of the Council for Civil Liberties, ' Clinton said, smiling obsequiously.
Introductions over, Nicholson motioned for his guests to sit down.
' We appreciate the chance to come to Whitely, Mr Nicholson, ' Clinton said.
' Thank you for your cooperation. '
' Why did you choose Whitely? ' the Governor asked.
' It is one of the worst examples of overcrowding in any prison in Britain, ' Fairham said.
' And it does have one of the worst disciplinary records, too. '
He clasped his hands on his knees.
' My organisation has been monitoring it for some time now. '
' Monitoring? ' said Nicholson.
' In what way? '
He spoke slowly, his gaze never leaving Fairham, who found he could only hold that gaze for a couple of seconds at a time.
' As I said, it has a very bad disciplinary record, ' he offered.
' When you have over sixteen hundred violent and dangerous men in one place twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, then the occasional problem does arise, ' Nicholson said, leaning back in his seat and pressing his fingertips together.
' But the disciplinary record here is worse than at any other prison in the country.
How can you explain that? '
Fairham persisted.
' Because the class of prisoner is lower, ' the Governor said scornfully.
' Perhaps your monitoring system didn't tell you that. '
' I think Mr Fairham means that we all share a concern over the incident that happened here not so long ago, ' Clinton said.
' The death of the remand prisoner, ' Fairham interjected, as if reminding Nicholson of something he might have forgotten.
' It was unfortunate, I agree, ' the Governor said.
' It wouldn't have happened if the prison had been run more efficiently, ' Fairham snapped.
' This prison is run more efficiently than most, ' Nicholson rumbled, his eyes blazing.
' My staff are more highly trained than the majority of officers at other prisons in this country.
But no matter how well-trained or well-organised warders are, they can't always anticipate the actions of these... men you represent.
That killing would have happened in any gaol, not only Whitely.
My men are trained to control prisoners, not to read their minds. '
Fairham swallowed hard and began drumming his fingers distractedly on his knees.
' I don't think anyone is casting aspersions on you or your officers, Mr Nicholson, ' Clinton offered.
' What happened was unfortunate, we're all agreed on that. '
' It was also inevitable, ' Nicholson said sharply.
' The men in here are unpredictable, violent and dangerous.
To some, killing is a way of life, whether you want to face that fact or not.
Mr Fairham obviously chooses to ignore it. '
' Do you feel that the killing would not have taken place had overcrowding been less intense? ' asked Merrick, pulling a pair of spectacles from his top pocket.
He began cleaning then with a handkerchief which, Nicholson noticed, bore his initials.
' The killing would have happened whatever the population of the prison.
As I said to you, for some of the men in here it's all they understand. '
Nicholson looked at Fairham.
' Most criminals are of low intelligence, as you're probably aware.
The difference between right and wrong seems to escape them.
Presumably you are aware of the dead man's background? '
' He'd been remanded to appear in court for a driving offence, ' Fairham said.
' A driving offence which included being drunk in charge of a vehicle, ' Nicholson said.
' A vehicle he lost control of, which ran into a bus queue, killing a six-year-old girl in the process.
A little more serious than an expired tax disc, I think you 'll agree. '
Fairham didn't speak.
' You sound as if you feel his killing was a kind of justice in itself, ' said Anne Hopper.
' They say God pays back in other ways, Miss Hopper, ' Nicholson said flatly.
A knock on the door broke the heavy silence and a moment later Nicholson's secretary entered with a tray of tea and coffee, which she distributed before leaving once more.
' What attempts are there at segregation between remand prisoners and convicted men here? '
Clinton finally asked.
Nicholson sipped his tea thoughtfully.
' Very little, ' he said flatly.
' We simply don't have the facilities to cope with the number of remand prisoners sent here. '
' Does that bother you, Mr Nicholson? '
Fairham wanted to know.
' They're all criminals, ' the Governor said.
' No, they're not, ' Fairham protested, putting down his cup.
' The men on remand are awaiting trial.
Some may be acquitted.
Yet you insist on placing them with men who have already been convicted of far worse crimes. '
' I don't insist on it, ' snapped Nicholson.
' I have no choice.
What would be your answer to overcrowding? ' he said, challengingly.
' Build more prisons, ' Fairham answered.
' If you empty a rubbish bin onto the ground, it doesn't mean the rubbish will disappear, ' Nicholson said, smiling.
' All you do is re-distribute the rubbish over a wider area. '
' And what is that supposed to mean? '
Fairham snorted indignantly.
' If you build more prisons you're doing the same thing, ' the Governor said.
' You're not removing the problem.
you're just re-distributing the rubbish. '
' I 'm not sure I like your analogy, ' Fairham said.
' We're speaking about men, not garbage. '
' You have your own view, ' Nicholson said icily.
' Is that how you view the men in Whitely, Mr Nicholson?
As garbage? '
Anne Hopper wanted to know.
She held his gaze as he looked at her.
' As I said, we all have our own views.
Perhaps I 'm the wrong one to ask about that. '
' I would have thought you were exactly the one to ask, ' Fairham interrupted vehemently.
' You are, after all, in charge of over a thousand men.
You are responsible for their welfare. '
' Perhaps you'd be better off asking the families of their victims how they feel, ' hissed Nicholson, turning his full fury on Fairham.
' There's a man in here who kidnapped and murdered two babies.
One of them was less than six months old.
He beat them so badly there was hardly a bone left unbroken in either of their bodies.
Why don't you speak to the mothers of those babies?
Or perhaps Miss Hopper should speak to the women who've been raped by some of the men in here.
Or to the husbands of those women.
Speak to them. '
He looked at the woman.
' Do you have any children? '
She shook her head.
' No, ' he echoed.
' Then perhaps the prisoners in here who have sexually abused children won't seem quite so odious to you. '
Clinton held up a hand to silence the Governor.
' All right, Mr Nicholson, ' he said, smiling ingratiatingly.
' I think we understand your point. '
' Don't patronise me, ' he snarled.
' This is my prison.
Run my way.
I understand the mentality of the men in here.
I see them every day and familiarity doesn't breed contempt so much as disgust in me.
When you've lived around men like that for as long as I have, when you've seen at first hand what they're capable of, then you can come here and tell me how to handle my affairs.
But for now this is the way things will continue. '
' Mr Nicholson, we didn't come here for a battle, ' said Clinton.
' And I 'm sure no one doubts your knowledge and ability in this job.
We came to see how the prison is run.
Perhaps now might be a good time to do that. '
He got to his feet and looked first at his companions and then at Nicholson, who nodded, a slight smile creasing his lips.
' If Mr Fairham will allow me to say one more thing, ' he offered, the tone of his voice even, ' we also find overcrowding a problem here but the answer isn't to build more gaols.
Before you leave here today, I 'll show you how overcrowding can be dealt with once and for all.
Not just at Whitely, but at every prison in the country. '
46
The rumbling of conversation gradually died down as DI Frank Gregson got to his feet.
' All right, keep it down, ' he said, raising his voice, looking out at the twenty or so uniformed and plain clothes men seated in the room.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke.
Beside him, his colleague DS Finn was adding to the pollution, blowing out long streams from his Marlboro.
The babble gradually subsided into near-silence.
Gregson walked across to a blackboard that had a map of the West End stuck to it.
There were several red-tipped pins protruding from it and an area of Soho had been ringed in red marker pen.
To the left of the map pictures of Paula Wilson, plus the remains of the two dead murderers, were tacked.
On the other side of the map there were several pictures which, from a distance, looked like ink blots.
They were in fact the blow-ups of the print taken from Paula Wilson's thigh.
' Nine deaths, including two suicides, ' Gregson began.
' All within the space of a week.
The murders, as far as we can tell, are motiveless; the killers are now dead, burned to a crisp both of them.
By their own choice.
Nine bodies and no leads.
That is the state of play at the moment. '
He prodded a picture of Paula Wilson.
' You all know about this woman, how she was killed and where.
What we don't know is why and by who.
Now Dean Street, where he killed her, isn't exactly a quiet area; someone somewhere must have seen or heard something.
And, seeing as no one has come forward with any information about this killing, I supposed we're meant to think that no one saw anything. '
He smiled humourlessly.
' That's a load of bollocks. '
The smile faded rapidly.
' If they won't come to us then we 'll have to go to them.
I want you to talk to people. '
He looked slowly around the other faces in the room.
' I want pubs, clubs, clip-joints, restaurants and anything else you can think of, checked out.
Talk to the staff.
Two men have committed suicide within a one-mile radius of each other within a week.
We've had a fucking chase through Soho and now a woman's been murdered.
Somebody has seen something.
Somebody knows something.
I want that somebody found and I want them talking. '
' Who exactly are we looking for? ' asked a plain clothes man in the front row.
' A suspicious character? '
A ripple of laughter ran around the room.
' In fucking Soho? ' grunted Gregson.
' You might as well pull in every bastard who works there. '
More laughter.
' Just talk to them, find out what they've seen and heard over the last couple of weeks, ' the DI said.
' Do you think there's a link between the two killers? ' a tall ginger-haired officer asked from near the back of the room.
' It's possible, ' the DI said quietly, his gaze still roving around the other men in the room.
' We know it isn't a gang-related thing.
Not unless London's been invaded by a bunch of fucking fire-eaters who haven't quite mastered the trick yet. '
Another ripple of laughter greeted this remark.
' Maybe it's the Irish Fire Brigade, ' a voice added and the men laughed even louder.
' All right, all right, enough of the joviality, ' said Gregson.
He turned towards the map and jabbed at the red-ringed area.
' This area is to be gone over with a fine tooth-comb.
You 'll each be designated one particular area.
We don't want to be tripping over each other.
As it is, there 'll be more policemen than punters on that patch. '
He looked round the room.
' You 'll report back to me on a daily basis.
I don't care if you think you've got nothing, I want to hear what you know, what you found out. '
' Have either of the dead men been identified yet? ' another man asked, puffing on his cigarette.
Gregson shook his head.
' We got a print off the second one from Paula Wilson's body, though. '
He pointed to the photo of the print.
' It would seem to be just a matter of time before the man's identified. '
' You seem very sure, Frank, ' Finn observed.
' Humour me, eh? '
Gregson said wearily.
Should he mention the possible copy-cat overtones of the killings?
He decided not to.
' Right, ' he continued.
' Let's go.
If you move through into the next room you 'll find the area you're to work.
And, like I said, I want to know everything you hear, what anyone's got to say, from the pimps to the tarts through to the doormen at the clip-joints and the managers of restaurants.
Got it? '
The men got to their feet and began filing through the door on Gregson's left, muttering to themselves and each other as they went.
' What are you expecting us to find, Frank? '
Finn wanted to know.
' Some answers? ' he mused, none too convincingly.
' The way you talk, Frank, I 'm beginning to wonder if you know something I don't, ' Finn said.
Gregson didn't answer.
47
' What are the nets for? '
Anne Hopper paused beside the rail of landing three and looked over, running her gaze over the wire mesh strung from one catwalk to the other.
' To prevent suicides, ' Nicholson explained, standing beside her.
' Are there many attempts at suicide, Mr Nicholson? '
Paul Merrick asked.
' No more than usual in a prison this size, ' the Governor answered without looking at the other man.
' And how many would be usual? '
Reginald Fairham wanted to know.
' There are three or four attempted suicides every week, ' Nicholson said, his tone emotionless.
' And how many are successful? '
Merrick wanted to know.
' Two or three.
It's a good ratio for a gaol with a population this size. '
Nicholson began walking again, satisfied that his visitors were following him.
Behind them Warders Niles and Swain walked slowly and purposefully, occasionally stopping to peer through the observation slots in the cell doors.
The small procession moved on towards a set of metal stairs that led them down to the second landing.
Their footsteps echoed on the metal catwalks.
' The nets aren't that successful, then? '
Fairham said.
' If you have three suicides a week. '
Nicholson caught the note of sarcasm in the other man's voice but he did not turn, did not look at the visitor.
' It wouldn't matter if we welded steel sheets across the landings, ' he said.
' They'd still try and kill themselves.
There are plenty of other ways than throwing yourself from a walkway. '
The tone of his voice hardened slightly.
' You might be interested to know, Mr Fairham, that the last prisoner who committed suicide by jumping from a landing also took a prison officer with him. '
Fairham didn't answer.
They continued along the walkway, the members of the delegation peering towards the cells or over the rails every so often.
' How many hours a day are the men locked in? '
Clinton asked.
' Twenty-two, sometimes twenty-three.
It depends on the circumstances, ' Nicholson said.
' One hour outside their cells every day, ' snapped Fairham.
' That's hardly sufficient, is it? '
' I said it depended on the circumstances, ' Nicholson repeated irritably.
' The higher risk prisoners are locked up for longer.
Some of the other men are allowed to work outside in the grounds of the prison, as you wilt see.
Others perform duties in the kitchens, the infirmary or the laundry rooms.
Every man is allowed a certain amount of time in the recreation room, too. '
' How many are there in each cell? '
Clinton wanted to know.
' Usually three, ' Nicholson said.
' Would it be possible to have a look inside one? ' asked Anne Hopper.
Nicholson stopped his slow strides and turned to look at her.
' If you wish, ' he said and nodded to Swain to unlock the nearest cell.
The warder peered through the observation slot then selected a key from the long chain that dangled from his belt.
He opened the door and walked in.
' On your feet, ' he snapped, glancing at the two occupants.
They were both lying on their bunks, one reading, one scribbling a letter on a notepad.
Mike Robinson looked down from the top bunk and saw Swain standing there.
' Mr Swain, what a pleasure, ' he said.
' What can we do for you? '
' You can shut your mouth and get on your bloody feet, ' snapped Swain.
' Leave them, warder, ' said Anne Hopper, moving past him into the cell.
Both men eyed her approvingly as she entered.
' Sorry to disturb you, ' she said, smiling.
' No bother, darling, ' Robinson told her, grinning.
He swung his legs around so that he was perched on the edge of the bunk.
He put his pencil and pad aside.
Rod Porter peered at her over the top of his book, glancing at the other visitors.
' Less of your lip, Robinson, ' hissed Swain.
' Show a bit of respect. '
Robinson caught sight of Nicholson standing on the landing and his smile faded rapidly.
He nodded a greeting to the other three visitors, who crowded into the cell as if they were playing some bizarre game of sardines.
There was a table and two wooden chairs at the far end by the slop buckets.
Clinton sat down beside the slop bucket and smiled at the two men.
Robinson smiled back.
Porter merely regarded the man indifferently, his gaze straying back to the woman.
' These are the visitors you were told about yesterday, ' Nicholson informed the two men.
' You said there were usually three to a cell, ' Clinton observed.
' That's right, ' Nicholson repeated.
' There were three of us in here, ' said Porter slowly, his gaze flicking from one visitor to the other, but always returning to Anne Hopper.
' Our cell-mate had an accident. '
' Shut it, Porter, ' Swain said under his breath.
' No, ' said Fairham, raising a hand.
' Let him speak. '
He looked at the prisoner.
' What kind of accident? '
' He forgot to test the temperature of his bath water, ' Porter said cryptically.
Robinson laughed, looked at Nicholson and then fell silent again.
' I 'm not with you, ' said Fairham.
' Neither is he, any more, ' Porter said.
' What was this man's name? '
Fairham wanted to know.
' Marsden, ' Nicholson said.
' He was in here for sexual crimes against children. '
' He was a fucking ponce, ' Porter said venomously.
' Watch your language, ' snarled Swain.
' He was.
We all knew it, the screws knew it too.
That's why they didn't interfere when he... hurt himself. '
The vaguest hint of a smile creased Porter's lips.
' You called him a ponce, ' Clinton said.
' What is that? '
Robinson chuckled again.
' You must have got a few in the Houses of Parliament, ' he said, smiling.
Porter looked directly at the MP.
' A ponce.
A pimp.
He lived off little kids, ' the prisoner said contemptuously.
' Made them sell themselves.
Girls and boys.
He had kids as young as twelve in his stable when they lifted him.
A ponce. '
He emphasised the word with disgust.
' I still don't understand what you mean about him having an accident, ' Fairham said.
' I told you, ' Porter said.
' He didn't test his bath water.
He got a bit hot. '
' Where is this man now? '
Fairham wanted to know.
' He was taken to the hospital wing, then removed to Buxton General Hospital, ' Nicholson said.
' He had been scalded.
We found him at least two of my officers did, in a bath full of boiling water in the shower rooms.
When they got to him ninety-eight per cent of his body had been burned.
There was nothing we could do for him here, so we had him transferred. '
' How did he get in that state? '
Fairham asked, perplexed, his gaze shifting back and forth from Nicholson to Porter.
' He slipped on the soap, ' Porter said.
Robinson laughed.
' He always was careless, ' the other man added.
The realisation finally seemed to hit Fairham.
The colour drained from his cheeks.
' You mean someone tried to kill him? ' he said, his voice low.
' No, ' Porter told him, flatly.
' He just had an accident. '
He raised his book and continued reading.
The visitors turned and filed out of the room, realising that the conversation had come to an end.
Swain threw the two convicts an angry glance before slamming the door and locking it.
On the landing Nicholson was leaning on the rail.
' A man is nearly murdered in here and your officers knew about it? ' snapped Fairham.
Nicholson rounded on him, his eyes blazing.
' My men knew nothing about what was going on, ' he hissed.
' But that man said... '
' Are you going to take the word of a prisoner over mine? ' snarled Nicholson.
' My men knew nothing about it. '
' But you don't deny that it could have been deliberate? '
Anne Hopper added.
' Miss Hopper, the man who was injured ran a child prostitution ring, ' Nicholson said, his tone a little calmer now.
' He set the children targets every day.
If they didn't bring back the amount of money he'd told them to, he beat them with a baseball bat. '
The Governor paused, for effect.
' A baseball bat studded with carpet tacks. '
' Oh God, ' murmured Merrick.
' God had very little to do with it, Mr Merrick, ' Nicholson added.
He looked at the visitors.
' What you must understand is that even convicts have a twisted code of ethics that they live by.
They have their own rules and their own hierarchy.
The gang members, the hit men in here are at the top of their tree.
Child molesters are the lowest of the low, even to other criminals. '
' Why? '
Anne Hopper asked.
Nicholson smiled thinly.
' Even scum have to have someone to look down on. '
48
The figures moved furtively in the darkness, glad of the protection of night.
As they worked the sound of water slapping against the canal walls was a ceaseless accompaniment to their labours.
The wind whipped down the narrow side-streets and alleys, whistling in the wide estuaries.
The breezes seemed to skim off the water like stones.
The surface was constantly moving, as if some unseen force were continually hurling large rocks into the water at the quayside.
The small boat moored there rocked with each wave.
The men on board looked up towards their companions on the quayside, muttering to them to be quicker.
A pile of wooden boxes as tall as a man stood on the quay.
Piles just like it had already been loaded onto the boat, carefully stowed in its hold, covered by heavy sheeting and secured.
The last of the boxes were being transferred from the back of the truck now, carried by men who sweated under the effort despite the chill wind that had come with the onset of the night.
Further up the quay, larger boats were anchored.
Most of the crews or owners had gone ashore.
Only the odd light burned, a warning to any other craft travelling the canals on the coal-black night.
The churning water looked as impenetrably gloomy as the night, as if it were a liquid extension of the umbra.
Pieces of rotting wood drifted past on the flow.
The odd tree branch, too.
Even a torn jacket.
When a car passed by the men gave it a cursory glance.
The lorry was unloaded.
The last two boxes were lifted on to the small boat, the men who strained under their weight cursing as they completed their task.
One of them paused for a moment, inspecting the lid of the last box.
It was loose.
Several of the nails had come free.
The man drew it to the attention of a companion and, together, they lifted the strut of wood clear.
He reached inside, pushing his hand through the layers of packing and into something dark and pungent.
Coffee beans.
The aroma was strong in the chill night air but he dug deeper, finally allowing his hand to close on what he really sought.
He pulled the small plastic box free and laid it on top of the crate, fumbling in his jacket pocket for something.
The plastic box was about seven inches long and five across.
He opened it and looked at the video tape cassette inside.
In his pocket he found a screwdriver and inspected the narrow end as if he were a surgeon about to perform a delicate operation.
Then, working swiftly, he undid the six screws that held the cassette together and gently eased the back off.
Nestling between the two spools was a tiny plastic packet, smaller than a thumbnail.
He inspected the plastic bag, satisfied that its contents had not been touched.
The cocaine looked like talcum powder, luminescent in the darkness.
The man quickly replaced the back of the cassette, screwed it in place and shoved it back into its box.
This he returned to its position beneath the layer of coffee grounds.
The grounds acted as a kind of olfactory barrier should the boat be searched and sniffer dogs be brought on.
They couldn't detect the smell of cocaine through the more pungent odour of coffee.
The crate was re-sealed and loaded.
The boat was ready to leave now and two members of its small crew began casting off, one of them pushing the boat away from the quayside with a long boat-hook.
The current gradually took hold.
The Captain decided not to switch on his engines until they were further away; he was content to let the vessel be carried by the tide.
The men watching from the quayside waited only a moment.
Their duty was done now, their responsibility discharged.
The shipment was someone else's concern.
Not theirs.
They, at least, had ensured that the cocaine shipment was safely on its way.
The first leg of the operation was underway.
49
The cleaver swung down with incredible power and accuracy, severing the leg with one clean cut.
It sheared through bone and muscle alike, the strident snapping of the femur reverberating inside the room.
Anne Hopper winced as she looked at the remains of the bullock lying on the large wooden worktop in the prison kitchen.
As she watched, the tall thin man in the butcher's apron raised the cleaver once again and lopped off another part of the leg.
There were other men in the chill room, all dressed in white overalls.
Some of them were spattered with blood from the carcasses that hung on a row of meat-hooks nearby.
' The man with the cleaver, ' said Reginald Fairham quietly, cupping his hand conspiratorially around his mouth.
' He isn't a prisoner, is he? '
Nicholson turned and looked at the other man contemptuously.
' You maintain that the prisoners here are worthy of trust, don't you, Mr Fairham? '
Nicholson said.
' Some of them have to work in the kitchens. '
Fairham swallowed hard as he saw another portion of the carcass cut away by a powerful blow.
' As a matter of fact the man with the cleaver is one of the warders here.
He was a master butcher before he joined the service, ' Nicholson explained.
Fairham visibly relaxed.
The procession moved through the kitchen, through clouds of steam from several large metal vats of food.
Clinton inspected the contents of one of the vats, smiling amiably at the man who was stirring the mass of baked beans.
The man looked at Clinton indifferently and peered down into the vat.
The MP moved on, rejoining his colleagues.
The procession moved through the prison at a leisurely pace, Nicholson answering the visitors' questions with the minimum of elaboration, constantly struggling to hide his contempt for some of the more idiotic queries they presented him with.
What did he think the effects of overcrowding were?
How many men took advantage of the educational courses?
How were prisoner and warder relationships?
Nicholson remained slightly ahead of his group so that they could never quite see the expression of disdain of his face.
He led them along corridors and walkways until they came to a double set of metal-barred gates.
The warder on the other side, at a signal from the Governor, pressed a button and the doors slid open with a faint electronic burr.
Nicholson led them through to another solid steel gate.
This one was unlocked by a warder with a key.
As he pushed it open a powerful gust of wind swept in from outside.
Led by the Governor, they stepped out into the exercise yard.
It stretched around them in all four directions, empty, enclosed by high wire mesh fences.
' How much exercise do the prisoners get? '
Clinton wanted to know.
' An hour a day, ' Nicholson said, leading them across the yard.
' It isn't long enough, ' Fairham observed, looking round the empty expanse of concrete.
Anne Hopper noticed the chapel.
She pointed towards the graveyard beside it and the markers on the handful of graves.
Nicholson explained what they were.
How the men buried there had no families, no other place to lie.
' It's a wonder there aren't more of them, ' Fairham said.
' It's a pity there aren't more of them, ' Nicholson rasped under his breath.
' Mr Nicholson, ' Paul Merrick said, brushing loose strands of wispy hair from his face, ' you said you were going to show us some kind of answer to the problems of overcrowding.
May I ask when? '
Nicholson glared at him.
' Now, Mr Merrick, ' he said, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw throbbing angrily.
The hospital block was ahead of them.
Nicholson looked up at the grey stone building.
It was as dull as the overcast sky.
The gaunt edifice appeared to have dropped from the heavens, a lump of the bleak sky fallen to earth inside the prison grounds.
' What's that? ' asked Fairham, pointing at a rusted grille set in the concrete close by the wall of the hospital wing.
The grille was about a foot square.
' It's one of the vents over the sewer shaft, ' Nicholson explained.
' Hardly hygienic, is it? '
Fairham noted.
' So close to the hospital. '
' This prison, as you know, is very old, ' the Governor explained.
' The whole place is dotted with vents like that.
A network of sewer tunnels runs under the prison.
It isn't used now and most of it is blocked off.
There's no danger to health from the outlets. '
As they neared the entrance to the wing, Nicholson slowed his pace imperceptibly.
He looked up one last time at the grey edifice, licking dry lips.
Those inside had been given their instructions.
He just hoped to God they had followed them.
50
It was smaller than a man's thumb nail and Nicholson held it between the thumb and finger of his right hand with surprising delicacy.
The microchip was square and the entire complex structure was encased in smooth plastic.
Nicholson laid it on a piece of black velvet that lay on the work top, allowing his visitors to get a better look at the tiny object.
' Is this some kind of joke? '
Fairham asked.
' Why should it be? ' the Governor asked irritably.
' You promised to show us a way of relieving overcrowding.
Is this meant to be it? '
' The idea was first perfected in America.
A number of states are already using it, ' Nicholson declared.
' But that didn't work, ' said Fairham.
' Ours is a different system.
The microchip is inserted into the gastrocnemius muscle of the prisoner's leg. '
He looked at Fairham with scorn.
' The calf muscle, to keep it simple. '
He held the other's gaze for a moment then continued.
' The operation takes less than fifteen minutes.
It's carried out under local anaesthetic, there is no pain to the prisoner.
No side effects. '
' What does it do? '
Clinton asked, his eyes fixed on the tiny square.
' Once inside the prisoner's leg it gives off something called a Synch-pulse, ' Nicholson said.
' A tiny electrical charge which in turn produces a signal that can be picked up by monitoring equipment here at the prison.
It's like a tracking device. '
' What range has it got? '
Merrick asked.
' Fifteen miles at the moment, ' the Governor told him.
' The modifications that are being made to it will probably increase that range by anything up to thirty miles. '
' And what is the object exactly, Mr Nicholson? '
Anne Hopper enquired, looking at the Governor.
' An end to overcrowding, Miss Hopper, ' he said.
' The thing you all seem so concerned about. '
' How the hell can that, ' Fairham jabbed a finger towards the microchip, ' help with overcrowding? '
' The device is placed in the leg of certain remand prisoners, ' Nicholson explained.
' They can then be released from Whitely and monitored on our electronic equipment here.
We know where they are twenty-four hours a day. '
' And what if they move outside the range of the tracking device? '
Clinton murmured, his eyes still fixed on the device.
' We don't allow that to happen, ' Nicholson said.
' The prisoners are picked for the operation according to the severity of their crime.
Everything is explained to them, including the fact that if they do travel beyond the range of the device they 'll be re-arrested and prosecuted for attempted escape.
They usually co-operate.
It's in their own interests to do so.
Many of them prefer this to being stuck inside for twenty-three hours a day.
Some are even working while they're on the outside waiting for their trials. '
' Do I detect a note of compassion in your attitude, Mr Nicholson? ' said Fairham, contemptuously.
' You actually sound as if you care about what happens to the men who undergo this operation. '
' It gets them out of my hair, Mr Fairham, ' the Governor said.
' It means that my officers have fewer prisoners to deal with. '
' How many men has this been tried on so far? '
Clinton enquired.
' Ten, ' Nicholson said.
' And all of them have been successful. '
' And what is your definition of success, Mr Nicholson? '
Anne Hopper wanted to know.
He looked at her impassively.
' Not one of them tried to escape, ' he said.
' They all reported to the police station they'd been assigned to and they all went on to stand trial. '
' When is the device removed? '
Clinton asked.
' As soon as the trial is over. '
Clinton stood back and nodded, looking at the microchip then at Nicholson.
' Well, I must say I 'm impressed, Mr Nicholson, ' said the MP.
' Me too, ' Merrick echoed.
' It seems a great step forward. '
Fairham merely prodded the device with one index finger.
' Who does the operations? ' he wanted to know.
' There are a number of doctors involved, ' Nicholson told him.
' None resident at the prison. '
' That's a pity, ' Anne Hopper intoned.
' It would have been interesting to meet them. '
' The work is still in its infancy, Miss Hopper.
They're not too anxious to be put in the limelight just yet, ' Nicholson told her.
' Why?
In case something goes wrong? '
Fairham said, challengingly.
' As I said, the work is still relatively new.
Until it's completely perfected we'd rather keep it quiet, ' the Governor said, glaring once again at the other man.
' I can understand that, ' Clinton said, smiling.
' It seems to be successful though, Mr Nicholson.
Full marks to you.
We 'll be reporting this as very satisfactory progress when we return to Whitehall. '
' Satisfactory? '
Fairham snapped.
' This man is using remand prisoners as human guinea pigs and you call that satisfactory? '
' I think you're being a little over-dramatic, Mr Fairham, ' Clinton said, smiling patronisingly.
' It is preferable to the alternative of being locked up twenty-three hours out of twenty-four, ' Merrick echoed.
Nicholson smiled triumphantly at Fairham.
' What is your view, Miss Hopper? ' the Governor wanted to know.
The woman shrugged slightly.
' I suppose I would have to agree with Mr Clinton and Mr Merrick, ' she said.
' As long as the patients are volunteers and the risks are explained to them before the operation, I can see no objection myself. '
' You appear to be out-voted again, Mr Fairham, ' Nicholson said, smiling.
' I'd like to know a little more about the actual mechanics of the project, ' Clinton said.
' How the tracking devices are built, what the operation entails, how the prisoners are monitored.
That kind of thing.
I will have to make a report to the House, you understand? '
Nicholson nodded, his ingratiating smile spreading.
' Certainly.
If you'd like to come back to my office we can discuss it there, ' he said, looking at Fairham.
The other man was flushed with anger.
The Governor turned to lead the small procession out.
' We've only seen a small part of the hospital wing, ' Fairham observed.
' I'd like to inspect the facilities here before we leave. '
Nicholson retained his air of calm.
' Of course, ' he said, leading them towards a door at one end of the room.
It opened out into the infirmary: There were half a dozen prisoners in the beds; other men in white overalls moved among them, performing their duties.
One was mopping the floor, another dispensing pills.
A third man was pushing a trolley, collecting dirty laundry.
Patients and workers alike gave the Governor and his visitors only cursory glances.
More lingering looks were reserved for Anne Hopper.
A warder stood at one end of the infirmary, standing by a thick metal door.
Nicholson looked towards him, hoping that none of the visitors noticed the look of apprehension on his face.
He stood back as the visitors moved among the men, speaking to them where possible, usually meeting with only perfunctory grunts in answer to their questions.
The Governor caught the eye of the warder at the far end of the infirmary and the man nodded almost imperceptibly.
A silent answer to an unasked question.
The Governor licked his lips, aware that they were once more dry.
Come on, hurry up and get out of here.
One by one the visitors returned to join him.
They're not going to ask.
Fairham looked to the far end of the infirmary.
' What's through there? ' he asked, pointing at the door.
' The morgue, ' Nicholson said quickly.
' It's where we keep any prisoners who die until they've been identified, or until arrangements can be made for their burial. '
Fairham nodded slowly.
Come on, come on.
' I think we've seen enough now, Mr Nicholson, ' Clinton said.
Fairham was still gazing at the door.
The Governor licked his lips again.
' We 'll go back to my office, then, ' he said.
At last Fairham tore his gaze away and filed out in front of Nicholson.
The Governor glanced back at the solitary warder and nodded.
As he walked out he let out a sigh of relief.
He would return here as soon as the delegation was gone.
For now, at least, it was still safe.
51
Coffee dripped from the bottom of the cup as DI Frank Gregson lifted it to his mouth and took a sip.
It was strong.
He pulled the lid from one of the other milk cartons and poured in the contents, stirring until the dark colour lightened.
Opposite him DS Stuart Finn was smoking a Marlboro, blowing out streams of smoke, alternately gazing into the depths of his tea cup and glancing out of the window.
The neon lights outside were barely visible through the sheen of condensation coating the inside of the cafe window.
The film of steam combined with the patina of dirt on the glass made them almost opaque.
Inside the cafe there were half a dozen other people.
At a table in the corner three young girls sat, smoking and chatting quietly, occasionally glancing across at the two policemen.
Two men sat at a table near the counter, one of them pushing huge forkfuls of food into his mouth, the other sipping at a cup of tea.
Another man sat alone at the table next to them, peering at a magazine.
Finn noted that he was tracing a column of names and addresses with the tip of his pen, occasionally ringing one with the biro.
The place smelled of fried food and damp.
Finn stubbed out a cigarette in an already overflowing ash-tray and immediately lit another.
He noticed that he was almost out of them and fumbled in his jacket pocket for some change to feed into the cigarette machine.
On the radio in the background, a voice announced that it was nine-thirty.
' It's weird, isn't it? ' said Finn.
' How all these places start to look alike after a while. '
Gregson shrugged.
' The cafes, the bars, the clip-joints, ' Finn continued.
' In the bookshops, too, there's something familiar about them, every one of them.
Even the same punters, it seems. '
He chuckled.
' I was flicking through a couple of magazines at that last place. '
He smiled.
' More cunts than a meeting of the Arsenal supporters' club. '
The DS shook his head, still grinning.
Gregson didn't return the smile.
He merely sipped at his strong coffee and ran a hand through his hair.
' Yeah, the places look familiar and the answers are starting to sound familiar, too, ' he said wearily.
' No, never seen him.
Never heard anything.
Didn't see anything. '
' I wonder if any of the other blokes are having better luck. '
' Are you serious?
This whole fucking area is sewn up tighter than a nun's crotch, ' Gregson grunted.
' Then why are we here? '
' Because it's our job. '
Finn sucked gently on his cigarette and looked across the table at Gregson, who was peering through the window into the street beyond.
' You knew it was going to be like this, Frank, ' he said.
' You knew that no one around here was going to help us.
Why call a search in the first place? '
' Procedure, ' Gregson told him.
' Bullshit, ' Finn said, smiling thinly.
' What do you know? '
' I know that we should be asking questions instead of sitting on our arses drinking cups of tea, ' the DI told him, pushing his half-empty cup away.
' Come on, tell me the truth, ' Finn persisted.
' You owe me that.
We've been working together long enough.
If I had a hunch or an idea about these killings I'd tell you. '
Gregson smiled thinly.
' The idea I had was crazy, ' he said slowly.
' Illogical.
Impossible, even.
I checked it out.
You remember I said to you that the only thing any witnesses could agree on about the first bloke who killed himself was his staring eyes? '
Finn nodded.
' I checked the files, because that rung a bell somewhere.
We arrested a bloke called Peter Lawton for a series of armed robberies.
Remember me telling you? '
' Yes, I do, ' said the DS' He's banged up, though, isn't he? '
' In Whitely Prison in Derbyshire.
Yeah.
He has been for the last six years. '
Finn looked vague.
' The second killer, the one who murdered the girl, I checked out his MO because that sounded familiar, too. '
' And? '
' It matched with the MO of a guy called Mathew Bryce who was also arrested over eighteen months ago.
He's doing time in Whitely as well.
What conclusions can you draw from that? '
Finn shrugged.
' That someone copied them, ' he said.
' Or that they both escaped and duplicated the crimes they were originally arrested for. '
Gregson smiled when he saw the look on Finn's face.
' See why I didn't mention it before?
It's fucking crazy.
We know they didn't escape because we would have heard, the whole country would have heard.
They're still inside Whitely. '
The phrase on both the files he'd read re-surfaced in his mind.
Term being served.
' But if someone imitated the crimes committed by Lawton and Bryce, what's to stop somebody else imitating murders committed by any killer locked up in any jail in the country? '
' That still doesn't explain why they torched themselves, ' Finn observed.
Gregson shrugged.
' On that point, ' he said, ' your guess is as good as mine. '
The DI got to his feet and headed for the door.
The other occupants of the cafe watched him go.
Finn left some money for the tea and coffee on the table, then fed change into the cigarette machine and pulled a packet out.
He joined his superior at the door, pulling up the collar of his jacket as they stepped out into the street.
' Where to next? ' he said, cupping his hand around the Marlboro he was trying to light.
' Over there, ' said Gregson, nodding in the direction of the neon-shrouded building opposite.
The lights formed the word ' Loveshow '.
52
' Scotty.
Police.
Zena Murray emphasised the last word with distaste, stepping back to allow the two plain clothes men into Jim Scott's office.
Gregson was the first in and he looked across at Scott indifferently as Finn entered, smiling thinly by way of a greeting.
' What can I do for you? '
Scott wanted to know.
' The licence is in order, we haven't had any trouble on the premises and, as far as I know, my boss is bunging the back-handers in the right places.
So, what can I help you with? '
' A comedian, eh? ' said Gregson, flatly.
' Everyone's a fucking comic when the law arrive, aren't they? '
The two men locked stares for a moment.
' You're Jim Scott, right?
Manager of this... place? '
Scott nodded.
' Ray Plummer owns it, doesn't he? '
Finn added, looking around the office.
' Actually it's a tax dodge for the Prime Minister, ' Scott said smugly.
' What does it matter? '
' Look, Scott, we don't want to be here any more than you want us to be here, ' Gregson told him.
' If I wanted to wade around in shit I'd go for a walk down a sewer.
We just want to ask you a few questions and get out.
We've already spoken to your staff.
The quicker you answer our questions the quicker we 'll be out of your hair. '
Scott glanced at each of the policemen in turn, then motioned to the chairs close to his desk.
' Have a seat, ' he offered.
' No thanks, ' said Gregson, wrinkling his nose.
' It's no problem, I can get it disinfected afterwards, ' Scott told him.
Gregson met the other man's gaze and pulled a small photograph from the inside pocket of his jacket.
He dropped it on to the desk in front of Scott who picked it up, studying the outlines of Paula Wilson's face.
' That girl was killed a couple of streets away from here the night before last.
Have you seen her around here before? ' the DI wanted to know.
' We don't get many girls coming in here as spectators, ' Scott said.
tossing the photo back across the desk.
' She might have come in with a boyfriend.
This is supposed to be a show for couples to watch too, isn't it? '
Gregson observed.
' Never seen her.
I 'm usually in here.
I don't go out front much. '
' This is the nerve centre, is it? '
Gregson said, smiling, scornfully.
' Where all the big decisions are taken? '
' I told you, I don't know the girl.
I can't help you.
Why don't you piss off?
And don't forget to shut the door on your way out. '
Scott sat down at his desk and turned his attention to the ledger he had before him.
' How many staff have you got here? '
Finn asked.
' It varies.
Between six and eight, ' Scott told him.
' And you're in charge of all of them? '
Gregson said with mock respect.
' What it must be to have responsibility, eh? '
Scott glared at the DI.
' I don't remember you showing me any fucking ID. '
he snapped.
Both men flipped open the thin leather wallets they carried.
Scott gazed at the photos, then at their faces.
' Satisfied? ' said Gregson.
Scott nodded.
' Yours is a better likeness, ' he said to the DI, a smile flickering on his lips.
' You look a miserable cunt in the picture, too. '
Gregson held his stare for a moment, a smile forming at the corners of his own mouth.
' I 'm surprised I don't know you, ' he said quietly.
' Geezers like you usually have form, or has Plummer been recruiting up-market? '
Scott merely glared at the DI.
The heavy atmosphere was finally interrupted by Finn, heading towards the door.
' Come on, Frank, ' he said wearily.
' Let's get out of here.
He doesn't know anything and we've got other places to check. '
The DS actually had his hand on the door handle when it was turned.
He stepped back a pace, smiling broadly as he saw the young woman who stood before him, looking slightly surprised.
She returned his smile as she stepped inside the office, glancing across at Scott's desk.
Gregson eyed her disinterestedly.
' They're coppers, Carol, ' Scott told her.
' Here to ask some questions, ' he sneered.
' Another member of your staff? '
Finn enquired.
He showed Carol his ID as he spoke.
She looked at him again but this time there was no smile on her face.
' Questions about what? ' she wanted to know.
Never taking his eyes from her, Gregson slipped out the photo of Paula Wilson and quickly explained the reason for his and Finn's presence, enquiring whether or not the face in the monochrome picture rang any bells.
It didn't.
' Happy now? '
Scott asked, noticing that Gregson was still gazing at Carol.
Stop staring, you bastard.
' Well, well, ' said the DI, smiling thinly.
' Long time no see, eh, Carol? '
Scott glared at the policeman then at Carol.
What the fuck is this?
' How long's it been now? '
Gregson continued.
' Two years? '
She looked at him through narrowed eyes.
' How the hell do you know him? '
Scott wanted to know, unable to contain his anger.
' We met on a professional basis, ' said Gregson, his smile broadening.
' I arrested her for soliciting. '
He allowed his gaze to travel slowly up and down her shapely body.
' No wonder you were doing such good business, ' he said.
' You still look good. '
Scott clenched his fists until his nails dug into the palms of his hands.
Carol didn't answer.
Like some naughty child who's been caught playing a prank she just kept her head low, staring at the floor.
' Maybe I 'll see you again, ' the DI said as he and Finn reached the door.
' Just get out, ' hissed Scott.
They closed the door and were gone.
Scott brought his hand crashing down on the desk top, his face pale with rage, the vein at his temple throbbing.
' Did you recognise him when you walked in? ' he demanded.
' Jim, that was in the past, ' she said.
' Besides, it's nothing to do with you.
It was my problem. '
' How did he catch you?
Had you fucked him before he lifted you? '
There was a stinging vehemence in Scott's words.
Carol looked angrily at him, turned and headed for the door.
Scott shot out a hand and grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her round.
' Had he? ' he roared.
She struck him hard across the left cheek with the flat of her hand.
' Get off me, ' she shouted.
Scott moved a pace towards her, his face stinging from the blow, his eyes bulging wide.
' You don't own me, Jim, ' she hissed, her voice faltering slightly as she saw the look of pure rage etched across his features.
She opened the office door.
' You don't own me. '
She slammed it behind her and walked away hurriedly, her heart beating madly against her ribs.
Inside the office Scott touched the cheek she had slapped, his breath still coming in gasps.
' Bitch, ' he hissed, turning back to his desk.
He found the bottle of Southern Comfort and poured himself a large measure.
His breathing gradually slowed as he propped himself against one edge of the desk, drinking.
Again he touched his cheek, but this time he felt no anger, merely a deep sorrow.
One thought surfaced in his mind.
Would she forgive him?
Outside in the street Finn lit up another cigarette and looked at his watch.
' Where to next? ' he said, pulling up the collar of his jacket.
Gregson didn't answer; he was staring at the doorway of ' Loveshow '.
' Frank.
I said, where next? ' the DS repeated, blowing out a stream of smoke and looking at his companion.
' Hello, is there anyone in there? '
Gregson looked impassively at his colleague.
' Something on your mind? '
Finn asked.
' You could say that, ' Gregson told him vaguely.
He started walking and Finn followed.
' You're fucking weird sometimes, Frank, you know that? ' he said.
' Who was that tart, anyway? '
' I said, I arrested her a couple of years ago, ' Gregson muttered.
' You were right, she's good-looking.
I 'm not surprised you remember her. '
The DS chuckled.
Gregson merely continued walking.
He remembered her all right.
53
Ray Plummer looked at his watch, checking the time against the clock on the marble mantelpiece.
11.24 p.m.
He crossed to his drinks cabinet and poured himself another large measure of whisky, glancing at the phone every few seconds as if willing it to ring.
Perhaps it was a wind-up, he thought.
There would be no phone call from the mysterious informant.
The whole fucking scheme was somebody pissing him about.
Wasn't it?
He downed what was left in his glass and thought about pouring himself another.
He looked at the phone again.
What if the caller rang and couldn't be bothered to hold on?
Someone pissing about.
It was a hell of an elaborate plan just for a wind-up.
Could it be true about the twenty million?
He crossed to the drinks cabinet once more and tipped the bottle.
The phone rang.
Plummer spun round, almost dropping the bottle and his glass.
Whisky slopped onto his hand as he hurried to pick up the receiver.
' Hello, ' he said.
Cool it.
Don't let the bastard think you're too interested.
' Ray? ' said the voice.
First name terms, now, eh?
' Yes.
What have you got for me? '
' Ray, are you okay? '
Plummer frowned.
There was something wrong here.
' Who is this? ' he said, some of the tension leaving his voice.
' It's Jim Scott.
What's wrong? '
Plummer exhaled deeply and gripped the receiver tightly in his hand.
' What the fuck do you want? ' he snapped.
' We've had the law round here tonight, ' Scott told him.
' That girl who was killed the other night, they've been checking the area. '
' Some girl was killed, was she? '
Plummer muttered irritably.
' Jim, I couldn't give a toss if the Queen Mum has been gang banged. '
The anger returned to his voice.
' I 'm waiting for a very important call.
Get off the line, will you? '
' I just thought you should know, ' Scott said.
' They spoke to all the staff here.
I know everything is covered with the running of the club, but I didn't think you'd be too happy about the Old Bill sticking its nose in. '
' I couldn't care less, get off the fucking line, ' shouted Plummer and slammed the receiver down.
He stepped away from the phone, angry with Scott for disturbing him but also angry with himself for being so jumpy.
He'd been in the penthouse flat since about nine that evening, trying to watch TV, trying to listen to music but with no success.
All he could think about was the impending phone call.
If it came.
John Hitch had seemed convinced that it would and Plummer trusted the instincts of his colleague almost as he trusted his own.
And yet.
11.36.
Fuck it.
No one was calling, he thought.
He's six minutes late.
That's all.
Six lousy minutes.
He turned his back on the phone.
The strident ringing startled him again, but this time he turned slowly, gazing at the phone.
Plummer finally plucked up the receiver.
' Where the fuck were you? ' the voice rasped.
' I said I'd ring at half past.
Your phone was engaged. '
' What am I supposed to do, apologise? '
Plummer snapped.
' Say what you've got to say. '
' It's on. '
' What's on? '
' The shipment is on its way, you stupid cunt.
What do you think I mean? ' the voice hissed.
Plummer gripped the receiver tightly.
' Listen... '
The caller cut him short.
' No, you listen.
Perhaps you have a pen and paper with you, or will you be able to remember what I 'm going to tell you? '
' Get on with it. '
' The shipment of cocaine will arrive two days from now.
It's going to be on board a small boat called The Sandhopper.
The coke will be in among a load of porn mags and videos, right? '
' Where is it being unloaded? '
Plummer wanted to know.
' Chelsea Bridge. '
' What about that warehouse in Tilbury that Connelly bought?
You said it was going to be there. '
' I never said that.
I told you Connelly had bought a warehouse.
I never said for sure that's where the stuff would arrive. '
' Chelsea Bridge, ' Plummer murmured, more to himself than the caller.
' Yeah.
The drop is scheduled for two in the morning.
There 'll be a lorry waiting to pick the stuff up.
It 'll look like a refrigerated lorry carrying beer. '
' How many of Connelly's men are involved? '
Plummer wanted to know.
' I 'm not sure. '
' How the fuck are they going to get the stuff up the Thames without the river police tumbling them? '
' What am I, an information service?
That's your problem.
That's all I've got to say now.
I won't call again.
Things are starting to get dangerous now. '
He hung up.
Plummer replaced the receiver slowly, massaging his chin thoughtfully with his other hand.
He was about to phone John Hitch when there was a knock on the door.
Plummer swallowed hard and froze for long seconds.
The knock came again, harder, more insistent.
He moved stealthily to the bedroom, to the wardrobe close to his bed.
There was a small safe in the bottom which he hurriedly opened.
Plummer pulled the Delta Elite 10mm automatic from inside the safe and slid one magazine into the butt.
He worked the slide as quietly as he could, chambering a round, then he moved back out into the sitting room towards the door.
The knock came again.
' Yeah, all right, I 'm coming, ' he called, unlocking the door with infinite slowness.
He left the chain on, the words of the caller flashing into his mind:
Things are starting to get dangerous.
Precisely how dangerous, Plummer was about to find out.
He turned the door handle slowly, the automatic gripped in his fist, held high so that he could swing it down into a firing position if necessary.
He opened the door, allowing it to reach only the length of the chain.
The Delta Elite was ready as he peered through the gap.
His voice was coloured with surprise as he gazed at the newcomer.
' What are you doing here? '
54
Plummer slid the chain free, allowing the door to open wider.
Carol Jackson stepped inside.
' What's wrong? '
Plummer wanted to know, closing the door behind her and slipping the bolts once more.
He saw her expression of surprise as she noticed the automatic gripped in his hand.
Plummer lowered the weapon, easing the hammer forward and slipping on the safety catch.
He laid the pistol down and crossed to the drinks cabinet, pouring glasses of whisky for himself and for Carol.
He thought how tired she looked.
She took the glass from him and drank.
' Why the gun? ' she wanted to know.
' It doesn't matter, ' he said.
' Just tell me why you're here. '
' Do I need a reason? ' she asked, slipping off her coat and sitting down.
She perched on the edge of the sofa, gazing into the mock flames from the gas fire.
Plummer ran a hand over his hair then stood beside her, touching her cheek with the back of his hand.
It was an aberrant gesture but she reached up and touched his hand all the same.
' The law were in tonight, then? ' he said.
' How do you know? ' she asked.
' Scott told me. '
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with surprise and something more.
Fear?
' Scott's been here? '
Plummer explained about the phone call.
' He's going to kill us, Ray, ' she said flatly.
It was Plummer's turn to look surprised.
' What the fuck are you talking about? ' he gaped.
' I was with him the other night and some of the things he was saying, I know that if he found out about us... '
She allowed the sentence to trail off.
' I thought you weren't seeing him any more. '
' I was going to finish it, but it's not that easy, Ray. '
She recounted the conversation she'd had with Scott, telling Plummer about the gun.
' He'd do it, I know he would. '
' You're overreacting, ' Plummer told her.
' I 'm scared of him, ' she blurted.
' And I think you should be, too. '
Plummer took a sip of his drink and wandered across to the window, peering out into the night.
' Mind you, he always was a bit unpredictable, ' he murmured.
' You didn't tell him you were seeing me, did you? '
' I 'm not stupid, Ray, ' she said.
Plummer smiled thinly and rolled the glass between his hands.
' So what do you want me to do about it? ' he asked.
' If we stopped seeing each other that would solve the problem, wouldn't it? '
' It's Scott I want to stop seeing, not you, ' she told him.
It's your money I want.
' So stop seeing him. '
' I told you, it's not that easy, ' she said irritably.
' He won't take no for an answer, I know he won't. '
' Why the fuck did you get involved with him in the first place? '
Plummer wanted to know.
' You knew what he was like, didn't you? '
' I knew he thought a lot of me.
I didn't think he was so obsessed. '
Plummer laughed.
' That's a bit strong, isn't it? ' he chuckled.
' You don't know him, Ray, ' she said.
' What I've told you is true.
He's dangerous. '
Plummer peered into the bottom of his glass, as if seeking inspiration there.
' If he's dead he's no threat, ' Plummer said, looking at her with cold eyes.
Carol looked puzzled.
' Do you want him taken care of?
Put to sleep? '
Plummer enquired.
' Killed? '
He shrugged.
' Jesus Christ, is that your only answer, Ray?
Have him killed?
That isn't what I want. '
' It sounds like you think more of him than you're letting on.
You either want him out of your life or you don't. '
' I don't want him killed. '
' Still feel something for him? '
Plummer enquired.
' Or won't your conscience allow it? '
He smiled thinly.
' What do you want to do for the rest of your life, Carol?
Hang around with a nobody like Scott, knowing you never dare leave him in case the mad fucker tries to kill you?
From the sound of it he'd blow you away without a second thought.
And he's supposed to love you. '
Carol could feel the tears welling up in her eyes.
She wiped them away with the back of one trembling hand.
' What do you want? '
Plummer continued.
' I want to get away, ' she said, her voice cracking.
' From Scott, from that fucking club, from that whole lifestyle. '
' And how do you expect to do that? ' he said flatly.
' It's all you know.
It's all you have known. '
' What about you and me? ' she said tearfully.
' Isn't there anything between us? '
Plummer smiled a predatory smile and crossed to the sofa, seating himself beside her.
He put down his drink then took her in his arms, holding her tight.
He could feel her tears staining his shirt.
' It's okay, sweetheart, ' he said quietly.
' We 'll take care of it.
I said I'd look after you, didn't I? '
She snaked her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
Her body was racked by sobs, muffled as she pressed her head against his chest.
' Don't worry about Scott, ' he said, glancing across at the Delta Elite lying on the table.
' I 'll take care of everything. '
Before he comes after me.
' I don't want him hurt, Ray.
Please, ' she insisted, her cheeks tear-stained.
' Don't let him think there's anything wrong, ' Plummer told her.
' Carry on seeing him for the time being.
Until the time's right. '
He looked into her face.
' All right? '
She nodded slowly.
' I don't want him hurt, ' she repeated.
Plummer smiled.
' Trust me, ' he whispered, pulling her close.
His eyes settled on the automatic once again.
The night sky was full of rain clouds, swollen and ready to spill their load on the city below.
Clouds which made the blackness all the more impenetrable.
A tenebrous gloom which had prevented Plummer from seeing anything except the lights from other buildings nearby and his own reflection in the window of the flat.
Even if he had been aware of the presence, the darkness would have prevented him seeing the man who watched his flat.
55
There were rumours of snow on the way and, as Governor Peter Nicholson made his way across the exercise yard of Whitely Prison, he could believe them.
The wind was cutting across the open space at great speed, so cold it seemed to penetrate his bones.
As he turned a corner it was like being hit in the face by a handful of razor blades.
If it snowed, as was threatened, there was every possibility that Whitely would be cut off.
It had happened twice before in his time as Governor.
Once, in the winter of 1983, the snow had drifted up to ten feet around the prison walls; teams of prisoners working virtually round the clock had been unable to keep open the single road that linked Whitely with the outside world.
No food had got through and the men had been put on half-rations.
There had been rumblings about a riot, but Nicholson had received the warnings with little fear.
His men were well equipped to deal with any such eventualities.
There were small stock-piles of tear gas in the prison to be used in the event of riots or large scale disturbances and Nicholson would have had no compunction about using them.
It transpired that the snow went as quickly as it had come, the road was opened and supplies began getting through regularly again.
Possible chaos had been averted.
Two years ago the same thing had happened, but for a shorter time.
If anything, though, the more recent incident had proved more damaging.
Prisoners, unable to exercise outside in sub-zero temperatures, had been allowed longer in the recreation rooms.
Inevitably, men pushed together for long periods of time became edgy and, by the time the prison was freed from the grip of the snow, three men had been knifed (one of whom had lost a kidney) and another had been beaten severely with a pool cue.
Nicholson wondered, if the snow came, what he could expect this time.
He glanced to his left and saw the prison chapel, the weather-vane spinning madly in the powerful breeze.
The skeletal trees in the graveyard rattled their branches in the wind, bowing almost to touch the ground as the breeze battered them.
Ahead of him was the hospital wing, the familiar grey of the stonework matching the colour of the sky.
Nicholson entered, feeling the warmth immediately.
He paused by one of the radiators to warm his hands before approaching the doors that led into the infirmary.
Inside, the wind rattled windows in their frames.
One or two heads turned to look at him as he strode through, glancing at the occupants of the place.
A man who'd been scalded in the kitchens by cooking oil.
Another, who'd been injured in a brawl during exercise, sported fifty-eight stitches from the point of his chin to the corner of his left eye.
When he left the infirmary he was due to spend two weeks in solitary.
His assailant was already there.
Another man had his leg in plaster, recovering from a broken ankle.
He regarded Nicholson coldly as the Governor passed by.
A man in white overalls was busy collecting dirty bed sheets and towels, pushing the excrement- and bloodstained linen into a trolley he was pushing up and down the ward.
He stepped to one side as Nicholson approached him but made sure that he left a sheet soaked with urine dangling from the trolley, hoping that Nicholson would brush against it.
He didn't.
Ahead of him, the guard at the locked door stood up as Nicholson nodded.
The warder found the key he sought, unlocked the door and allowed Nicholson through.
The ward beyond was empty but for ten beds, only one of which was occupied.
There were no windows in the walls, the only light being provided by the banks of fluorescents set high in the ceiling.
Walls and floors were of the same uniform grey.
The one bed that was occupied was at the far end of the ward.
As Nicholson headed towards it his shoes beat out a tattoo on the polished floor.
There was a man standing over the patient looking down at the face completely encased in bandages.
The man held a clipboard he was scribbling on.
He was tall, his hair grey, his features wrinkled.
His cheeks were sunken and the onset of years had given him heavy jowls.
He turned to face Nicholson as the Governor drew closer.
Nicholson thought that he looked vaguely pleased to see him; a small smile hovered on his dry lips.
' Can you spare me some time? ' said Nicholson.
Doctor Robert Dexter nodded.
56
The years had not been kind to Robert Dexter.
The lines in his face had deepened into clearly defined wrinkles.
The flesh of his forehead looked like pastry after someone has drawn a fork across it.
He sighed and looked at Nicholson.
' Any progress? ' the Governor said, nodding towards the man in the bed.
' I was just about to look, ' Dexter said, his voice low and guttural.
With that he reached into the pocket of his white overall and took out a small pair of scissors.
He cut the bandages close to the man's chin and began slowly unravelling them, pausing every now and then to lift the man's head.
All that was visible was a small gap for his nose; the rest of his head was completely encased in gauze.
Dexter continued with his task.
' If that delegation had got inside here the other day, you and I would be locked up in here, ' said Nicholson.
' Does that bother you? '
Dexter said.
' It's a change we were both prepared to take.
We both knew the risks, ' Nicholson said.
' What did they think of the electronic tagging idea? '
Dexter wanted to know, still unwinding bandages.
' They liked it.
Needless to say, I didn't mention our other little venture. '
' You won't be able to keep it secret forever, ' Dexter exclaimed.
' Besides, secrecy wasn't my aim.
Once the technique has been perfected there 'll be no need to hide the truth. '
' And how do you propose to announce your findings, Dexter?
By showing the world an example of your work? '
He nodded in the direction of the man in the bed.
The first layer of bandages was off.
Dexter began on the next one.
' When it works, it 'll be nothing to be ashamed of It's what I've been working towards for most of my professional life, ' the doctor said defensively.
' The world might applaud your achievement but I doubt if it will condone your methods, ' Nicholson said, taking his eyes from the bandaged man to look momentarily at Dexter.
' Brain operations on convicted murderers. '
He smiled.
' It 'll be interesting to see how the Home Office reacts to that. '
' It was you who allowed me to work here; why do you ridicule me? '
Nicholson held up his hands.
' No offence meant. '
He smiled again.
' I 'm happy for you to do your work here. '
' It doesn't seem to bother you that it hasn't been altogether successful so far. '
Nicholson shrugged.
' I sometimes wonder if you realise what this work actually means, Nicholson.
And end to man's violent tendencies...
An end by the insertion of a device constructed and perfected by me. '
' Don't lecture me, Dexter. '
' If this work is successful it could mean an end to places like Whitely.
An end to violence. '
' You're starting to sound like a refugee from a bad horror film.
The role of mad scientist doesn't suit you. '
' What the hell is mad about wanting to stop violence? '
' Because it's a wasted dream, ' hissed Nicholson.
' If you believe you can stop violence by your surgery, you're crazy.
You've seen some of the men in here; you know what they're capable of.
How can you hope to stop that with technology?
I find the twisted nobility of your scheme rather amusing, all the same. '
he added sardonically.
' You don't care whether it works or not, do you? '
Dexter said.
' You never have.
If the men die as a result of the surgery you don't care. '
' They're murderers.
If we still had the death penalty they'd be hanged, anyway.
You've become the executioner, Dexter.
All you're doing is carrying out a sentence that the courts no longer have the power to impose.
That's what I agree with.
Not the ethics behind your work. '
' And what about the ones who've survived?
It was you who allowed me to release them.
If they'd been traced back to here, it would have been your responsibility. '
' We've been fortunate, so far, ' the Governor said, looking down at the man lying in the bed.
Dexter was pulling the last layer of bandages away, using the scissors to snip off any loose pieces, exposing the face beneath.
Only the bandages around his scalp remained.
Slowly Dexter began to loosen those, too.
' What makes you think you can succeed now, when you couldn't all those years before? '
Nicholson wanted to know.
' You were using surgery on your patients in the asylum. '
' When I was working in Bishopsgate I was using a different method, ' Dexter explained.
' My colleague and I thought we could stop patients' psychotic tendencies by removing the parts of the brain responsible for triggering violence.
I now know that was wrong. '
He pulled more bandages away.
' Inserting the device inside the brain, actually placing it in the lateral ventricle ensures that the chemical is evenly spread around the brain. '
He pulled the last piece of bandage away, revealing the bald dome of his subject.
There was a thin cut running around the skull, stitched in several places but held, in others, by several aluminium clips fixed to the skull like large staples holding the cranium shut.
' Good morning, Doctor Frankenstein, ' said Nicholson, smiling.
Dexter didn't appreciate the joke.
He took a scalpel from the pocket of his jacket and slipped the plastic sheath off its sharp blade.
Then with infinite care, he loosened two of the clips, sliding the tip of the scalpel into the incision in the scalp.
As he applied pressure to the blade, a portion of the skull about the size of a ten pence piece came free.
Beneath, the greyish-white brain was clearly visible, criss-crossed by countless tiny blood vessels.
The brain was throbbing rhythmically, looking as if it was trying to well up out of the hole in the scalp.
In the centre of the pulsing greyness was a gleaming object only millimetres square.
' When hormone levels in the blood rise, due to anger or aggression, the device releases an artificial chemical which neutralizes other bodily fluids like adrenalin, ' Dexter explained.
' It's like a warning system.
As soon as the patient feels anger, the device releases the chemical, calming him down again. '
' Why is it placed there? '
Nicholson wanted to know.
' I thought the mid-brain controlled sight and hearing. '
' It does, but no area of the brain has yet been identified as controlling reactions like reason.
Violent men don't usually stop to reason first.
The device is located centrally because the chemical can be distributed more quickly through the brain that way.
It also makes the operation easier. '
He kept his eyes on the pulsing grey matter.
' You said you used to cut away portions of the brain, ' Nicholson said.
' That was useless, ' Dexter said.
' I might as well have lobotomised the patients.
It stopped them reacting violently because it stopped them reacting at all. '
Nicholson raised his eyebrows.
' I don't want to create mindless idiots, that's not my goal.
It doesn't benefit them or me. '
Nicholson was unimpressed.
He stepped away from the bed.
' Is he going to die? ' he asked, nodding towards the patient, the brain still throbbing gently through the hole in the skull.
' Does it bother you? '
' Not really.
No. '
' He's got as much chance as the others had. '
' If it works, Dexter, if he survives, this time we have to be sure before we go any further.
We can't afford any more mistakes.
Either of us. '
57
Pick it up.
Come on, for Christ's sake.
Answer the bloody phone.
Jim Scott drummed his fingers on the table and held the receiver to his ear, irritated by the insistent ringing tone that throbbed inside his head.
He pressed down on the cradle, waited a moment then dialled again.
He listened to the hisses and pops of static as the number connected and the phone rang again.
' Come on, ' he murmured under his breath, glancing at his watch, wondering where the hell Carol had got to at nine-forty in the morning.
Perhaps she'd gone out to get some shopping, he thought.
Perhaps she was in the bath.
Perhaps...
Perhaps she knew it was him and she deliberately wasn't answering.
How could she know?
He rebuked himself for his stupidity.
Anger that she wasn't answering now combined with concern and something approaching desperation in his mind.
If only she would pick up the receiver.
He needed to hear her voice, needed to speak and to hear her speak.
Most of all he needed to apologise.
In his clumsy, fumbling way he needed to say sorry for what had happened at the club the night before.
He shouldn't have grabbed her, shouldn't have shouted at her.
She was right, he had no hold over her.
He didn't own her.
Pick up the fucking phone.
She had left the previous night without speaking to him, without giving him the chance to say how sorry he was.
He'd sat up for most of the night brooding about it, wondering what her reaction to him would be, finally deciding that he couldn't wait until the evening to find out.
He put down the phone, sat staring at it for a moment and then dialled once more.
The ringing tone greeted him.
' Shit, ' hissed Scott and slammed it down.
He got to his feet and pulled on his jacket, heading for the front door.
He would speak to her, no matter what.
The journey took him the better part of an hour, due to delays on the Tube, but now, as he walked from the station, he felt a curious mixture of elation and anxiety.
He was going to see Carol.
Not just speak to her, but see her.
He could tell her face to face how sorry he was for the incident of the previous night.
As he walked he wondered if he should have bought her flowers.
No.
It was enough that he should have taken the trouble to visit her and offer his apologies.
What if she wasn't home?
He would wait for her.
If she was out he'd sit on her front step and wait until she returned, or he'd walk around and try again later.
He would not leave until he'd seen her.
He rounded a corner, passing three children kicking a football back and forth across the road.
The ball bounced near Scott and he trapped it with his left foot, then swivelled and hooked it to one of the young boys with his right, smiling to himself.
The boy, no more than ten, looked at Scott and frowned.
' Flash cunt, ' he called as the man walked on.
The kids continued their game.
Scott finally reached the house he sought.
He knew that Carol occupied the basement flat.
A short flight of stone steps led down to the entrance.
Scott paused for a moment, looking up at the house.
The paintwork on some of its window frames was blistered and peeling like scabrous skin.
A pane of glass in one of the ground floor flats had been broken, replaced hastily with just a sheet of newspaper held in place by masking tape.
There were tiles missing from the roof.
Scott wandered down the short set of steps to Carol's door, noticing that there was a pint of milk on the step.
He banged twice and waited.
No answer.
Perhaps she was still in bed.
He banged again.
This time, when he received no answer, he moved across to the window and, cupping one hand over his eyes, endeavoured to see inside the flat.
Net curtains prevented his attempted intrusion.
He could see nothing.
' Can I help you? '
The voice startled him and he spun round, looking up to see a young woman standing there.
She was in her early thirties, dressed in a worn leather jacket and faded jeans.
She was carrying a bag of shopping that she kept moving from one hand to the other.
' I live upstairs, ' she told him.
' I 'm looking for Carol Jackson, ' he said, noticing that the woman was running appraising eyes over him.
' I 'm a friend of hers.
I've been ringing all morning but I couldn't get any answer. '
The woman nodded.
' I should have taken her milk in, ' she said.
' I usually do if she doesn't come home. '
Scott frowned.
' She's not here, then? ' he exclaimed.
' She didn't come home last night, ' the woman told him.
Scott gritted his teeth.
' Where is she? ' he demanded.
The woman shrugged.
' I take her milk in, I don't ask her for reports, ' she said as Scott started up the steps.
He brushed past her.
' Can I give her a message? ' the woman asked.
' I 'll probably see her later. '
Scott was already stalking off up the road.
' I 'll see her later, ' he called over his shoulder.
The woman shrugged and made her way into the house.
When he reached the end of the street, Scott turned and looked back towards the house.
Where the hell is she?
Could something have happened to her on the way home last night?
Perhaps she never got home.
The ball the three youngsters were kicking about landed near Scott once more.
If she didn't go home, where the fuck did she go?
' Oi, our ball, ' shouted one of the kids.
Scott looked at the lad, then at the ball close to his feet.
He lashed out at it and sent it flying down the road, away from the trio of kids.
' You bastard, ' one of them shouted as he raced after it.
Scott ignored his insult and continued walking, his face set in hard lines.
Where the hell was she?
58
The shutters were still closed, the door firmly locked.
It would be another two hours before Les Gourmets opened for business.
Inside the restaurant the tables were bare but for cloths, all immaculately clean.
The staff wouldn't arrive to set them for a while yet.
Out in the kitchen preparations were already taking place in readiness for the lunch-time trade.
The restaurant always did well at lunch-times, situated as it was in Shepherd Market.
It was one of five such establishments owned by Ray Plummer.
Now he sat at one of the tables, cradling a glass of white wine in one hand.
With the other he gently stroked his hair.
There were five other men with him.
They too had drinks.
Plummer put down his glass and reached into his inside pocket for the monogrammed cigarette case.
He took one and lit it, looking round at his companions.
' Same voice as the other night, Ray? ' said John Hitch, flicking his long blond hair over his shoulders.
Plummer nodded.
' And I still couldn't pin the bastard down, ' he complained.
' He says the shipment's coming in by boat? '
Terry Morton said.
' The Sandhopper, it's called, ' Plummer told him.
He repeated the other details about the shipment of cocaine, as relayed to him by the mysterious informant the previous night.
He sat back when he'd finished and sipped his wine.
' Could it be a set up? '
Joe Perry wanted to know.
Perry was a thick-set, bull-necked man who looked as if he'd been eased into his suit with a shoe-horn.
The material stretched so tightly across his shoulder blades it threatened to rip.
His face was smooth, almost feminine; it looked as if it had never felt the touch of a razor.
Plummer shrugged.
' It could be, ' he said.
' It could also be bollocks, couldn't it? '
Morton interjected.
' I mean, there might not even be a shipment of coke. '
' Then why bother phoning? ' asked Adrian McCann, rubbing a hand over his close-cropped hair.
Over his ears it was completely shaved.
' It's a bit fucking elaborate, isn't it? '
' That's what I said, ' Plummer agreed.
He turned to Hitch.
' You heard the geezer the other night, John; he didn't sound like he was joking, did he? '
Hitch shook his head.
' I agree with Joe, ' he added.
' It could be a set-up. '
' But by who? '
Plummer wanted to know, a note of exasperation in his voice.
' We know it's not another organisation in London, especially not Ralph Connelly's firm. '
' Could it be somebody working for Connelly with an axe to grind? ' asked Martin Bates, running his finger around the rim of his glass.
Bates was in his early twenties, one of Plummer's youngest employees.
Plummer shrugged.
' Who knows?
The point is, do we go with it or not?
Do we assume there is a shipment?
And, if there is, do we knock it over? '
' Are you asking for votes, boss? '
Hitch said, laughing.
The other men laughed too.
Plummer didn't see the joke and glanced irritably at Hitch, waiting until they calmed down.
' Right, let's assume there is a shipment of coke, ' he continued.
' Let's say that phone call was kosher.
The day after next the shipment is meant to be arriving, if the information's right.
If it is right then the coke is hidden among a load of coffee beans.
Now the question is, if this is a set-up, we're going to get hit when we try to take the lorry they're transferring the shit to.
How do we get round that? '
' Take out the lorry first? ' offered Joe Perry.
' No, ' Hitch said, smiling.
' We hit it before they even take it off the boat. '
Even Plummer smiled.
' Hijack the fucking boat, ' Hitch continued.
' Unload it somewhere else down the river.
We have our own lorry waiting.
Unload it, pack it away and piss off. '
Plummer slapped him on the shoulder.
' That's what we 'll do, ' he said.
' Take the shipment while it's still on the river. '
' Like pirates, ' chuckled Morton.
The other men laughed.
' Ray, there are some other things to consider, ' offered McCann.
' Once we've hit Connelly's shipment, he ain't going to be too happy. '
' I wouldn't be if I'd just lost twenty million, ' Plummer said humourlessly.
' What are you getting at?
You reckon he might come looking for bother? '
' Wouldn't you? '
McCann said.
' He's right, Ray, ' Hitch interjected.
' A fucking gang war is the last thing we want. '
' What am I, stupid? '
Plummer said.
' There's no need for Connelly to know who turned him over.
If it's done properly, and I 'm not talking about fucking balaclavas and funny accents, there's no reason why he should know who hit him. '
He looked at Hitch.
' I 'm leaving that side of it to you, John.
Like I said, you got about thirty-six hours. '
Hitch nodded.
' If the worst comes to the worst and he does find out, what then? '
Perry wanted to know.
' A gang war would be as damaging to Connelly as it would to us.
He won't want it, ' Plummer said with assurance.
' But if he does, he can't win.
We're stronger and, for twenty million, I 'm bloody sure we're going to be better equipped.
Connelly will realise that.
He's not stupid. '
' So we go with it, then? '
Hitch echoed.
Plummer nodded.
He reached across and touched Hitch's arm.
' John, I want Jim Scott to drive one of the cars, ' he said quietly.
Hitch looked puzzled.
' Scott?
He runs one of your clubs, doesn't he?
I wouldn't have thought he was the right bloke for this kind of operation, ' Hitch said.
' I want him involved, ' Plummer said, his eyes never leaving Hitch.
' He knows how to handle himself.
He 'll be all right. '
' I 'm sure he will.
I just don't know why you want him in on it. '
' I've got my reasons, ' Plummer said.
Hitch shrugged.
' I 'm sure you have, ' he said.
' Okay, I 'll tell him.
If you want him in, that's fair enough, Ray.
You're the boss. '
Plummer smiled.
' Yeah, I am. '
59
They were watching him.
He was certain of it now.
As the tube pulled into Westminster station Trevor Magee looked directly across the compartment and saw his own reflection in the glass.
He tried not to look either left or right.
As the doors slid open he glanced at the middle-aged couple who got out but then stared straight ahead again.
The doors remained open for a moment but no other passengers got on.
Magee realised that he was alone apart from the other two.
And he knew they were watching him.
The two youths, both in their early twenties, one black, one white, had boarded the train at Gloucester Road station.
At first they had sat directly opposite him, but as the train travelled through the subterranean tunnel one of them had moved three seats to his left.
The other had moved to the right.
Both sat on the opposite row of seats and Magee moved uncomfortably under their gaze.
He looked up briefly and saw that the black youth was watching him.
He was tall, taller than Magee's six feet, dressed in faded jeans and baseball boots which made his feet look enormous.
He had one hand in the pocket of a baggy jacket.
The other he was tapping on his right thigh, slapping out a rhythm, perhaps the accompaniment to the tuneless refrain he was humming.
His white companion was also staring at Magee.
He too wore baggy jeans and baseball boots, and across his T-shirt the words' Ski-Club ' could be clearly seen.
His face was pitted and he needed a shave.
Magee was painfully aware that he was alone in the compartment with the youths.
He glanced at the map of the Underground on the panel opposite and saw that they were approaching Embankment Station.
He decided to get off.
Would they follow him?
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the white youth had draped one leg over a plastic seat arm and was reclining, his gaze never leaving Magee.
He began to consider the worst possible scenario.
If they both came at him at once, from opposite sides, how would he deal with them?
He tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous.
He was, after all, thirty-six years old, six feet tall and well-built.
Should they try anything he should be more than capable of dealing with them.
But the doubts persisted.
The black youth got to his feet, standing still for a moment, swaying with the motion of the train, gripping one of the rails overhead for support.
Then he began walking towards Magee.
The train was slowing slightly; they must be close to the station.
The youth sat down opposite.
Magee clenched both fists in the pockets of his long leather overcoat.
The knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsed.
He was ready.
The train eased into the station and he got to his feet, heading for the door, pressing the ' D O O R O P E N ' button even before it was illuminated.
The orange light flared and he jabbed at it.
The door slid open and he stepped out onto the platform, walking quickly towards the exit.
Once there he paused and glanced behind him.
There was no one following.
He smiled and hurried to the escalator, scuttling up the moving stairway towards street level, finally emerging into the ticket hall; As he passed through he cast one last glance behind him to assure himself he was free of pursuers.
Satisfied that he was, he walked out into Villiers Street, into the arms of the night.
A chill wind had come with the onset of darkness and Magee pulled up the collar of his coat as protection against the breeze.
Both hands dug firmly in his pockets, he walked along the narrow thoroughfare, the lights of the Strand up ahead of him.
A young woman passed close and smiled.
Magee returned the gesture, nodding a passing greeting, turning to look at her, appreciating the shapely legs visible below her short skirt.
She had not been the first woman to offer him a smile during the past few hour.
Magee was a good-looking man, his shoulder-length black hair and chiselled features making him look at least five years younger than his actual age.
He had helped one woman with a pushchair and screaming infant on to a bus earlier, and she had gripped his hand tightly in hers as she had said thank you.
He had merely smiled and waved to her as the bus pulled away.
You either had it or you didn't, thought Trevor Magee, smiling broadly to himself.
He passed a pub on his right called The Griffin, the sound of loud music swelling from inside.
For a moment he thought about going in and fumbled in one of his pockets for some change, but he decided against it.
He walked on, climbing the flight of stone steps that brought him up into the Strand itself.
To his right there was a McDonalds; behind him the lights of the Charing Cross Hotel glowed in the darkness.
To his left was Trafalgar Square.
Magee's smile broadened.
He looked around him, aware of the traffic speeding up and down, of the people who walked past him on the pavement, of people coming out of McDonalds laden with fast food.
There was a dustbin outside and an elderly man dressed in a filthy jacket and torn trousers was shuffling towards it.
There was a dark stain around the crotch of the trousers; Magee wrinkled his nose at the stench the old man was giving off.
He watched as the tramp sorted through the rubbish, finally pulling out a soft-drinks container.
He took off the lid and sniffed the contents, satisfied the liquid was drinkable.
He swallowed it down as if parched.
Magee's smile faded to a look of disgust.
The tramp tossed the empty cup away and shuffled off in the other direction.
Magee watched him go, pushing his way past pedestrians, finally disappearing down a side street.
The younger man swallowed hard, then turned and walked briskly in the direction of Trafalgar Square.
He had things to do.
60
She rubbed a thin layer of Vaseline over her lips and smiled, satisfied with the extra lubrication.
Zena Murray had seen on television that beauty queens used the trick so she figured it would work for her.
After all, she had to do a lot of smiling in her business, too.
Contestants in a beauty contest had only judges to impress with their looks and stance.
Zena had many other, more trenchant critics to impress.
The punters were always demanding.
Jim Scott watched as she finished applying the vaseline, pacing the dressing room as she stood naked before him, slipping on a G-string and a suspender belt.
' And you haven't seen or heard from Carol since last night? ' he said agitatedly.
' Scotty, we work together, that's it, ' Zena told him, rolling one stocking up her leg.
' She didn't stay with you? '
' There's hardly room in my place for me, let alone bloody guests, ' Zena told him.
Scott sighed.
' She's okay, I bet you, ' Zena said, trying to sound reassuring.
She looked at Scott, something close to pity in her voice.
' Look, Scotty, you shouldn't worry about her so much.
She's got her own life to lead, you know. '
And you won't be part of it for much longer.
' You'd be better off looking for someone else, ' she smiled, her attempts at light banter failing miserably.
' I 'm unattached, you know. '
' I don't want anyone else, Zena, ' he told her.
She shrugged.
' Just trying to help, ' she said.
Help, or soften the blow.?
Scott opened the door.
' When she comes in, tell her I want to see her, will you? ' he said, then he was gone.
Zena pulled on another stocking and heard his footsteps echoing away up the corridor.
Scott returned to his office and sat at his desk, glancing at the phone, wondering if he should try calling Carol's flat again.
He resisted the temptation, leaning back in his seat, running a hand across his forehead.
A confusion of emotions tumbled through his mind: anger, concern, fear.
He couldn't seem to settle on one that suited him.
It was not knowing where she was that was so unsettling.
Or who she was with?
He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
She wouldn't do that to him.
Would she?
He got to his feet and crossed to the window of the office.
Below the streets were alive with people, all of them bathed in the neon glow that seemed to fill the very air itself with multi-coloured energy.
Who was she with?
Scott gritted his teeth.
There couldn't be anyone else.
He would know.
There would be signs he'd have spotted.
He sucked in a deep breath.
No.
There was a rational explanation for all this and, when Carol arrived, he'd discover what it was.
If she arrived.
He returned to his desk and sat down.
Even as he did there was a knock on the door and he was on his feet again instantly.
The door opened.
John Hitch walked in, smiling at Scott, who merely exhaled wearily.
' Hello, Jim, I 'm glad to see you too, ' Hitch said, still smiling.
' Sorry, John, ' Scott said.
' I was expecting someone else. '
The two men shook hands and Scott offered the other man a seat which he accepted and a drink which he declined.
' Is Ray with you? '
Scott wanted to know.
Hitch shook his head.
' I 'm allowed out on my own tonight, Jimmy boy, ' Hitch grinned.
' This isn't a social call, is it, mate? '
Scott said.
' No.
Ray sent me.
I've got a job for you. '
Scott looked puzzled.
' Tomorrow night, ' Hitch continued.
' We're going to hit a shipment of coke that Ralph Connelly's bringing in. '
He laced his fingers on the desk top.
' You're supposed to drive one of the getaway cars. '
' Are you fucking serious? '
Scott exclaimed.
' That's not my line of work. '
' I know that.
I was as surprised as you, but Ray Plummer wants you in on it. '
He sat back in his seat.
' I 'm just a messenger, Jim.
I do as I 'm told, and he told me to include you in this job. '
' Why? '
Hitch shrugged.
' Fuck knows.
Like I said, I 'm just doing what I was told. '
Scott ran a hand through his hair, bewilderment on his face.
' You 'll be picked up from here tomorrow night at -twelve, ' Hitch told him.
' You 'll be briefed on what you've got to do.
I don't know what else I can say. '
He looked almost apologetic.
' I don't like this, John, ' Scott told him.
' Maybe not, mate, but you've got no choice. '
Hitch got to his feet and crossed to the door.
' You got a shooter? ' he asked.
' Beretta 92S.
Why? '
Hitch nodded.
' Bring it. '
61
The beating of dozens of wings sounded like disembodied applause, receding gradually into the darkness.
Trevor Magee stopped and looked up as the pigeons took off, anxious to avoid him as he made his way across Trafalgar Square.
To his right was a hot-dog stand with a number of people gathered around it.
From where he stood the pungent smell of frying onion was easily detectable.
To his left one of the massive bronze lions that guarded the square had become a meeting place for some teenagers grouped around a ghetto blaster.
Music was roaring from it.
Magee didn't recognise the tune.
Ahead were the fountains and Nelson's Column, jabbing upwards towards the overcast heavens as if threatening to tear the low cloud and release the torrents of rain that seemed to be swelling in them.
Magee walked on, across the square, hands still dug firmly into his pockets.
Every so often he would glance over his shoulder.
As far as he could tell no one was following him.
His pace remained steady as he walked past the low wall surrounding the fountain.
A man was standing precariously on the wall urinating into the water.
Magee stopped to watch him, his face impassive.
' What the fucking hell are you looking at? ' the man slurred, almost falling into the water.
Magee stood his ground a moment longer, then headed towards the stone steps.
He took them two at a time, pausing at the top to look back across the square.
He scanned the dark figures moving about in the blackness, saw the odd flash-bulb explode as tourists took pictures of one of the capital's most famous landmarks.
Then he crossed the street in front of the National Gallery, glancing up at the massive edifice of the building in the process.
There was a man outside, close to one set of steps, selling hot chestnuts, the smell of burning coals and roasting nuts filling Magee's nostrils.
The sights of London at night were something to behold but how many people, he wondered, ever noticed the variety of smells?
He continued walking, past a queue of people filing aboard a sight-seeing bus, jostling for the best positions as they reached the open upper deck.
Finally he turned into St Martin's Place.
Across the street, on the steps of St Martin-in-the-Fields church, there was movement.
Magee could make out two figures crouched on the steps near the top, quite close to the door of the church.
They were passing a bottle back and forth between them.
As he looked more closely he saw what appeared to be a bundle of rags behind them.
On closer inspection the bundle of rags rose and revealed itself to be a woman, filthy dirty, her skin so grimy she was almost invisible in the gloom.
As Magee watched she tottered down the steps and wandered off down Duncannon Street in the direction of the Strand.
He stood watching her, his face set, the muscles in his jaw pulsing angrily.
After what seemed an eternity he moved on, casting a cursory glance across at the two men sitting on the steps outside the church.
As he reached Irving Street he paused again, looking behind him.
Still no sign.
Magee quickened his pace, walking up the centre of the wide road, passing restaurants on either side.
The people inside them reminded him of goldfish, seated in the windows, bereft of any privacy from prying eyes as they ate.
He emerged into Leicester Square slowing his pace again, glancing once over his shoulder before moving off to his right, past a line of people waiting to enter the Odeon.
Two buskers were playing banjos, walking up and down the line, while a dwarf scampered in and out of the waiting cinema-goers with an outstretched hand, cajoling money from the queue.
He was holding a flat cap full of coins.
As each woman dropped money into the cap he would kiss her hand before skipping on to the next.
He even looked up at Magee, who merely ignored the little man and walked on, hands still dug deep into his pockets.
A drain had overflowed at the end of the road and water was running down the tarmac.
Magee paid it little heed as he continued his nocturnal stroll, looking around him constantly, occasionally slowing down to look over his shoulder or perhaps changing direction quickly, ducking into a group of people.
Just in case.
He could hear shouting up ahead; and there was a large gathering of people around a man who was obviously standing on a box of some kind.
Magee pushed his way carefully through the crowd until he reached the front.
The man was dressed in a combat jacket and jeans, and behind him stood two more men, their hair cropped short, dressed in a similar fashion but holding two flags, a Union Jack and a red flag with a cross on it.
Another was handing out leaflets with ' THE JESUS ARMY ' emblazoned on them.
Magee took one, glanced at it and stuffed it into his pocket.
The man on the box was shouting about death and re-birth, Heaven and Hell.
Magee smiled.
He walked on, heading round the square towards the cinema.
To his right he saw another of them.
Man.
Woman.
At first he couldn't be sure.
As he drew closer he saw that it was a man huddled beneath a thick overcoat, sitting on the pavement watching the crowds go by.
In front of him he had a piece of cardboard on which was scrawled: HOMELESS AND HUNGRY.
Magee looked at the cardboard and then at the man who, he guessed.
was younger than himself.
Two girls passed by and tossed coins into his small plastic cup.
The man nodded his thanks and watched the girls walk away.
Both of them wore short skirts.
He smiled approvingly.
Magee glared at him, his hands still deep in his pockets.
He hardly felt the hand on his shoulder.
He spun round, his heart thumping against his ribs.
He had been careless.
' You got a light, please, mate? '
A man stood there with the cigarette held between his lips.
When he repeated himself, the words seemed to sink in.
Magee nodded and fumbled in his coat pocket for some matches he knew were there.
He struck one and cupped his hand around the flame.
' Cheers, ' said the man and disappeared back into the throng.
Magee nodded in silent acknowledgement and slipped the matches back into his pocket.
As he withdrew his hand he felt the coldness of the knife and corkscrew against his flesh.
He patted them through the material of his overcoat and walked on.
62
The light on the telephone was flashing.
Someone was trying to reach him.
Steve Houghton ignored the red bulb.
He finally pushed the phone aside so that he couldn't see the distracting light.
That task completed, he returned his attention to the work in front of him.
On his desk there were six files.
One of his assistants had worked slowly and laboriously through the records and come up with half-a-dozen prints which looked at least similar to the ones taken from Paula Wilson.
Now Houghton reached for the first file and took out the piece of card that bore the fingerprints of a possible match.
He looked at the name on the file.
George Purnell.
Murderer.
He'd strangled two children with his bare hands, then called the police to give himself up.
Houghton traced every curve and twist of the prints, comparing them beneath his microscope when he felt it necessary.
He shook his head.
No match.
Not close enough.
He reached for the second file.
William Fisher.
Killer of three elderly women he had robbed.
Again Houghton began the comparisons.
He paused for a moment, increasing the magnification on the microscope.
A number of loops seemed similar.
The radial loops were definitely alike.
He sat back from the microscope for a moment, then looked again.
Were his eyes playing tricks on him?
Perhaps he was tired.
They seemed totally different now.
Houghton convinced himself he was searching so avidly for the match that he was almost willing himself to find it.
He discarded Fisher's file and reached for another.
Mathew Bryce.
Murderer of a number of young women in a particularly brutal manner.
He slipped Bryce's prints beneath the microscope.
He peered through the lens, frowning slightly.
Maybe...
He crossed to the VDU on his other desk and punched in a series of numbers, checking the number on Bryce's file.
He pressed in the number, then Bryce's name, his face bathed in a green glow as first figures then images began to appear on the screen.
From the two and a half million prints on file those of Mathew Bryce appeared on the screen.
First those of the right thumb.
Houghton pressed a button and the index finger patterns appeared.
He paused and looked through the microscope again, this time at the print taken from Paula Wilson.
Then back at the green image on the screen.
' Jesus, ' he murmured, looking at the loops and composites on the VDU screen.
There was a hook on the crime print.
Matched by one on the suspect print.
A fork on the crime print, glowing on the screen.
Houghton checked against the one beneath the microscope.
Match.
He knew that he was searching for sixteen points of comparison before he could be sure of positive identification.
The clock on the wall ticked noisily in the silence as he continued his task.
The red light on the phone console stopped flashing as whoever sought his attention tired of waiting.
Thirty minutes had passed from his initial inspection to the point where he now marked down another match.
He had fourteen marks of comparison.
It was enough to convince him.
Now it was his turn to reach for the phone.
He tried Gregson's office.
Nothing.
Then his home.
His wife said he wasn't back yet.
Houghton asked her to instruct Gregson to call him as soon as he could.
Then he put down the phone and glanced once more at the fingerprints beneath the microscope.
63
It was the smell that alerted him.
Trevor Magee had passed the small entryway to Long's Court when he noticed it.
The rank odour of sweat and urine made him wince.
Long's Court was silent, a curious contrast to the noisy hustle and bustle of the square just yards away.
The smell, coming from the rear of a building, might easily have been the unpleasant odour given off by a dustbin in need of emptying.
There were bins in the small yard behind the building, even a large wheeled skip which bore the name BIFFA.
But it was, in fact, a bundle of dark clothing that looked as if it had been hurled against the far wall of the darkened yard.
A bundle which, as he drew closer, he realised was a person.
From more than a few feet it was impossible to tell even the sex of the figure.
Magee moved closer, inside the high stone walls of the yard, walls that effectively cut it off from anyone who might be passing.
He moved into the impenetrable gloom of the yard, one hand slipping inside his left hand pocket.
He was standing over the reeking individual now, peering close to get a look at the face.
It was a man.
He was yet to reach his thirtieth birthday, Magee thought, but ravaged beyond his years.
How long he'd been sleeping rough no one could tell.
Magee looked closely at him, trying to focus on the face in the darkness, to pick out his features beneath the grime that covered his face like a second, darker skin.
The smell was almost unbearable; Magee could feel it clogging his nostrils.
He reached into his pocket and slowly pulled the knife free.
It was about eight inches long, double edged and as sharp as a razor.
Magee leant forward and touched the man's shoulder, simultaneously pushing the knife gently up beneath his chin so that the point was just touching flesh.
There was no movement.
' Wake up, ' Magee whispered, as if trying to rouse a lover from slumber.
His voice was gentle, cajoling.
' Come on, wake up. '
He shook the man more firmly, the knife still poised.
Magee could feel the beginnings of an erection pushing against his trousers.
His breath was starting to come in low gasps.
' Wake up. '
The man opened his eyes and blinked myopically, trying to focus.
He was suddenly aware of the coldness beneath his chin and his eyes widened in shocked realisation.
Magee smiled.
He drove the blade upwards with one powerful thrust, feeling it puncture skin, rip through muscle and crash into teeth.
Gums were cut open and the knife scythed through the man's tongue, momentarily pinning it to the roof of his mouth before severing it.
As the man opened his mouth to scream, part of his tongue fell into his lap.
Blood gushed from the open orifice.
Magee smiled broadly.
He struck again, this time bringing the knife down into the top of the man's head, using all his strength to force it through bone that splintered and cracked with a strident shriek.
As Magee tugged it free a large lump of bone came away on the end of the knife.
For fleeting seconds, a sticky mass of brain matter welled up through the hole.
The tramp had fallen forward onto his face, his body twitching madly, blood spreading out around his head.
Magee ignored the crimson puddles and knelt beside the dying man again, this time rolling him over onto his back.
He felt inside his own coat pocket and pulled out the corkscrew.
The tramp's eyes were closed but Magee used his thumb and forefinger to push back the lids.
He drove the corkscrew forward, burying it in the man's right eye, shoving down hard on it, twisting it in the socket, ignoring the spouting vitreous liquid that erupted from the riven orb.
He felt the point scrape bone and pulled back hard.
Most of the eye came away, torn from the socket.
But the corkscrew had burst it like a corpulent balloon and its fluid ran down the tramp's face, clear liquid mingling with blood.
Enough of the eye came free to please Magee, though, and he watched as it dangled on the optic nerve.
He rammed the corkscrew into the left eye and pulled again.
This time the curled metal merely came away with jellied lumps of vitreous humour sticking to it.
He tried again, uncaring that the tramp was motionless by now, the stench of excrement already beginning to permeate the air.
The corkscrew tore the flesh at the side of the man's nose before skewing into his eye again, gouging the torn sphere badly and tearing the lower eyelid.
Magee shoved two fingers into the socket, scooping the eye out until it fell onto the concrete.
He looked at it for a second then got to his feet and stamped on the eye, hearing it pop beneath his foot.
He slipped the knife and the corkscrew back into his pocket and walked away, turning out of the yard and into St Martin's Street again.
He walked unhurriedly to the bottom of it and peered down Orange Street.
A taxi was approaching, its yellow light on.
Magee raised an arm to stop it, walking round to the driver's side.
The driver looked at him aghast.
' What the fuck happened to you? ' he wanted to know.
' I want your cab, ' said Magee, tugging at the door.
' Fuck off, I 'll... '
The driver got no further.
Magee pulled the knife from his pocket and, with a blow combining demonic strength with effortless expertise, slashed open the taxi driver's throat.
Gouts of blood erupted from the wound and hit the windscreen with a loud splash.
The cabby made a squealing noise and clutched at the ragged edges of the wound as if trying to hold it together, to prevent the blood pouring through his hands.
Magee tore open the driver's door, grabbing the man by the shoulder, hauling him from the cab.
He fell heavily onto the road, his eyes bulging wide with fear as he felt his life-blood draining away.
As he tried to breathe the chill night air filled the gaping hole in his neck.
His body began to spasm.
Magee leapt into the driver's seat and pressed down on the accelerator, heading away from the scene of carnage, his own brow furrowed.
He glanced into the rear-view mirror to see if anyone was following.
All he saw was the body of the taxi driver lying in the road, blood spreading out rapidly around him.
There was blood all over the windows, too, and Magee had to wipe it away with the sleeve of his coat in order to see through the windscreen.
The car was like a mobile abattoir.
He put his foot on the accelerator and the taxi shot forward.
He found himself struggling with the wheel, fighting to keep the vehicle under control.
As he swung it into Charing Cross Road he nearly collided with another car.
The driver sounded his horn furiously as the taxi sped on.
Magee paid it little heed.
Up ahead the traffic lights were on red but he didn't slow up.
The taxi went hurtling across the junction with Cranbourn Street doing sixty.
Hunched over the wheel, Magee smiled.
He was relieved that no one was following him.
He didn't want anyone trying to stop him.
Not yet.
64
Detective Inspector Frank Gregson tapped agitatedly on the steering wheel as he looked up at the red light, waiting for it to change.
He revved his engine.
Come on.
Come on.
He sped away with them still on amber, narrowly avoiding a car coming the other way.
The driver banged on his horn but Gregson drove on at speed, unconcerned by the accident he'd almost caused.
He'd spoken to Houghton less than ten minutes ago.
The DI had returned home and been greeted by Julie telling him that the Records Officer had called.
Gregson had asked what it was about.
Julie had only been able to tell him that it was urgent.
Gregson had called immediately and Houghton had explained about the fingerprints and how he was sure he now had positive identification of at least one of the bodies.
Gregson had hardly allowed him to finish speaking before telling him he'd be there as soon as he could.
Julie had asked him what was going on but he'd rushed out without telling her, mumbling only that it was important and that he didn't know when he'd be back.
Now he pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator and eased the Ford Scorpio past a car, cutting in ahead of the driver.
Gregson glanced at the clock on the dashboard and estimated that he could be at New Scotland Yard in less than thirty minutes, traffic permitting.
Thirty minutes.
It seemed like a fucking lifetime.
However, mingling with that frustration was a small feeling of triumph.
He'd been right about Bryce.
The copy-cat MO theory he'd come up with had born fruit.
It should prove so for the first killer as well.
He almost smiled to himself.
He had been proved right, but how could it be?
The men he had suspected were in prison serving life sentences.
No escapes had been reported.
What the fuck was going on?
' Lima 15, come in. '
The metallic voice that rattled out of his radio made him jump.
' Lima 15, do you read me?
If you're there, pick it up, Frank. '
He recognised DI Finn's voice.
' Frank, for fuck's sake... '
Gregson snatched up the handset.
' Lima 15, I hear you, ' he said.
' This better be good. '
' Where are you? '
Finn wanted to know.
' On my way to see Houghton, he's identified one of the dead killers. '
' Jesus, ' muttered Finn.
There was a moment's silence, then the DI spoke again.
' Frank, you'd better tell Barclay to have one of his slabs ready. '
' Why? '
' We've got another one, ' Finn told him flatly.
' A murder suicide.
Just like the other two.
The guy tried to torch himself. '
' What happened? '
Gregson demanded, hardly slowing down as he drove.
Finn told him about the murders of the tramp and the taxi driver.
' He stole the cab, drove it up Charing Cross Road then aimed the fucking thing at the fountains outside Centre Point.
The car blew up as soon as it hit the wall. '
' Shit, ' hissed Gregson.
' What about the driver? '
' Well, like I said, he was obviously trying to kill himself.
The thing is, when the car hit the wall, he went through the windscreen.
He was thrown clear.
They fished him out of the water.
He's badly cut up from the broken glass but he's more or less in one piece. '
' Any ID on him? '
Gregson wanted to know.
' Nothing.
Not even a name tag in his fucking underwear.
Just like the other two.
The only difference is, this geezer doesn't look like burnt toast. '
' No ID at all? '
Gregson repeated.
' Could he have dropped it in the car?
You said he was thrown clear.
He might have been carrying something, it might be lying around... '
Finn cut him short.
' The boys here have been over the area with a fine toothcomb, Frank.
I 'm telling you.
There was no fucking ID.
All he had on him was a couple of quid in small change. '
' Where are you now? '
Gregson wanted to know.
' I 'm still at the scene.
We've closed the road off while the boys go over the area.
The fire brigade have put out the blaze, thank Christ. '
' Meet me at the Yard in thirty minutes.
Stuart, I want a full report on what happened, right? '
' Thirty minutes? '
' Yeah. '
' I 'll see you there, over and out. '
The two-way went dead and Gregson replaced it, pressing his foot harder on the accelerator, coaxing more speed from the Scorpio.
Another twenty minutes, he thought, then perhaps at last they might have some answers.
65
Why?
The word kept rolling around in his mind like a marble.
Why?
Jim Scott looked at his reflection in the mirror, studying his features.
Why did they need him for this job?
He sighed.
Plummer had insisted that he be involved.
Why?
Why?
Fucking why?
He slammed his hand down on the top of the dressing table, causing some of the bottles to topple over.
An aftershave bottle spilled its contents and Scott inhaled the aroma momentarily before stepping back.
He crossed to his bed and sat down.
Outside the wind was blowing strongly again, wailing around the block of flats.
He heard footsteps passing his door as someone made their way home.
There was a thumping noise coming from above that was a record player.
He got to his feet, staring up at the ceiling, wondering whether or not he should shout to the owner to turn the volume down.
Better still, go up there and tell him.
Scott finally decided to do neither.
He wandered out into the kitchen and took a pint of milk from the fridge, supping straight from the bottle.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked back into the bedroom.
Why?
Why did they want him on this particular job?
Why couldn't he get in touch with Carol?
Why hadn't she been in to work?
Why hadn't she called him?
Fucking why?
He slammed the milk bottle down on top of the bedside cabinet, pulling the drawer open.
He reached in and took out the Beretta, cradling it in his hand, working the slide.
He held the piece up and sighted it, squeezing the trigger, allowing the hammer to fall on an empty chamber.
Finally he lowered the weapon and dropped it onto the bed beside him, then fumbled in the drawer again for the box of ammunition.
He began feeding 9mm shells into the magazine.
She could hear him moving about in the sitting room.
Carol Jackson rolled onto her back and gazed at the ceiling, aware of the movement from the adjacent room and also of the perspiration that sheathed her body.
She ran a finger through the glistening moisture, allowing her hand to trail lower, through her pubic hairs.
She felt the wetness of Plummer's semen as it trickled from her.
Carol sighed and reached for a tissue from the bedside table.
Plummer called through and asked if she wanted a drink.
She called back that she didn't.
For some reason her thoughts turned to Scott.
He must be wondering where she was by now.
She hadn't been to work for two nights.
Carol could imagine his state of mind.
Had he finally realised there was someone else?
If so, what was going through his mind?
She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.
If only she'd had the courage to tell him she wanted to end their relationship when the cracks had first started to appear.
He would have been disappointed.
Upset.
Perhaps even angry.
But now she feared what he might do.
Would he really try to kill her?
She wished she could convince herself that what he'd said had merely been an idle threat.
But she knew him too well.
There was no avoiding the issue any more.
Either he would find out she was seeing Plummer or she would have to tell him.
It was only a matter of time before the truth emerged.
And then?
She exhaled deeply.
Plummer would look after her, wouldn't he?
After all, he was her lover.
Carol almost smiled.
Lover.
The word implied some kind of emotional bond and that, she knew, they didn't have.
But he thought a lot of her; he seemed to want her around.
If she could move in with him.
The prospect of escaping her job and her flat suddenly seemed to lift her spirits and the threat of Scott was momentarily shrouded.
Move in.
He'd never mentioned it to her and she had not even thought about it until now, but therein lay her escape.
Both from Scott and from her lifestyle.
Carol sat up, resting her back against the padded headboard.
She wasn't escaping.
She was running, running from herself as much as her surroundings.
She wanted to move in with Plummer, though.
Even loveless comfort was preferable to what she had.
She called to Plummer to come back to bed but he didn't answer.
Twenty million pounds.
He concentrated on the figure, held it in his mind, savouring it as a wine expert savours a fine vintage.
Twenty million fucking pounds.
Hitch had arranged details of the job and Plummer felt safe enough with him dealing with it.
He hated having to trust anyone, but Hitch was one of the few he did.
Plummer poured himself another drink, pulled his monogrammed housecoat more tightly around him and paced the sitting room slowly, glancing around at the expensive furnishings and ornaments which filled the flat.
Carol called him again and he called back that he wouldn't be long.
He told her to go to sleep.
Pain in the arse.
He smiled and sipped his drink, glancing across at the phone as he refilled his glass.
There had been no more calls since the informant had rung with the news of the cocaine shipment.
Plummer licked his lips and frowned.
Who the hell was the informant?
He'd wondered countless times, ever since that first call it had played on his mind.
Set-up?
Wind-up?
They'd soon know.
If it was a member of Connelly's gang it made no sense, yet who else would know about the shipment?
It made no fucking sense at all, but Plummer had his reasons for believing the information.
Twenty million reasons.
Carol called to him again.
He smiled and headed for the bedroom.
66
' You were right about the killers being linked, ' said Phillip Barclay.
Gregson smiled to himself.
' But not just in the way you said, ' Barclay continued.
' The MO's they used may have been copies of earlier killings, even this latest one.
And the fact that they all burned themselves, or tried to.
But there's something else, something more conclusive to link them, but it's more puzzling, too.
That device  whatever the hell it is  that I found in Magee was made of the same material I found melted in the other bodies. '
' And I checked his fingerprints against the files on screen at Hendon, ' said Steve Houghton.
' There's no doubt about it, the man is Trevor Magee. '
' And number one? ' asked Finn.
' Going almost solely on your files and his MO, I'd have to say it was Peter Lawton, ' the Records Officer told him.
Finn looked at his colleague, then at Houghton.
' Which we know is impossible, right? ' he said, almost laughing.
' Lawton and Bryce are banged up. '
' So is Magee, ' Gregson told him, flipping open the file.
' According to this. '
He jabbed the file with his index finger.
Houghton crossed to the wall behind him and flicked a switch.
Panels lit up and he reached for a number of X-ray plates which he attached to the luminescent plastic.
They were skull X-rays.
' Now look.
These are of Magee, ' he said.
' Taken when they brought his body in. '
Barclay pulled a pen from his pocket and prodded part of the first plate.
It showed a dark mass close to the front of the skull.
On other angles it was also present.
' See it? ' he said.
' What is it? '
Gregson wanted to know.
' Wait, ' Barclay told him.
Houghton reached for another set of plate.
The shape was far less well defined.
' These are X-rays of Mathew Bryce's skull, ' said Barclay, ' at least what was left of it.
Unfortunately he'd been burned, but not badly enough for the bone structure to be altered as it was in Lawton's case. '
He jabbed his pen at a dark area on Bryce's X-rays too.
' Come on, Phil, what the fuck is it? '
Finn muttered, reaching for his cigarettes but deciding not to light one when he saw the look of disapproval on the pathologist's face.
' Both men were suffering from brain tumours, ' Barclay said.
' How can you be sure? '
Gregson demanded.
Barclay sighed.
' It's on the plates, you can see it, ' he said, motioning to the X-rays again.
' And, if you'd care to look at Magee, I haven't replaced the cranial cap yet and you 'll see the tumour.
Come down to the morgue and I 'll show you. '
' I 'll take your word for it, ' Finn said.
' What you're saying is, these three fucking murderers we've got in cold storage have all committed crimes identical to ones committed by Peter Lawton, Mathew Bryce and Trevor Magee, right?
Three blokes we know, for sure, are locked up, doing time in Whitely nick, yeah?
Now, you're trying to tell me that this is the real Trevor Magee lying downstairs?
That the real Peter Lawton killed six people and then killed himself on a motorbike less than two weeks ago?
That the real Mathew Bryce cut up a girl, then torched himself?
And tonight the real Trevor Magee murdered a tramp and a cabbie and then smashed his car into the Centre Point fountains?
You're telling me that blokes we arrested, blokes we stood in court and saw sentenced, blokes we saw driven away in fucking armoured vans, have committed the exact same crimes that they were put away for?
That's what you're telling me? '
Houghton looked almost helplessly at Gregson.
' It's bollocks, ' said Finn angrily.
' Absolute bollocks. '
He looked at Gregson.
' You said yourself it was impossible.
If one of them had escaped from Whitely we'd have known about it, but three of the cunts?
Do me a favour. '
This time he did reach for a cigarette and light it up.
Silence.
' Somebody say something, for Christ's sake, ' snarled Finn in annoyance.
' Somebody tell me again what all this shit is supposed to mean. '
' Could there be a mistake with the identification? '
Gregson said.
' It's possible with Bryce, ' Houghton admitted.
' I found fourteen matching characteristics in the ridge patterns of his fingerprints.
There should have been sixteen, but I think my figure is conclusive enough.
But even if I was wrong about Bryce, it's impossible I could be wrong about Magee.
His prints match those on file.
His dental records match.
His blood type.
Everything.
Unless he's got a twin identical in every way, then that man is the same one you arrested. '
Finn shook his head.
' I don't fucking believe this, ' he said, an incredulous smile on his face.
' It's not possible. '
' Then what's your explanation? '
Houghton challenged him.
' You're telling me that you believe three convicted killers just walked out of Whitely prison without anyone noticing and now they've come back here to duplicate their original crimes?
Do you believe that?
Really? '
' I believe what I see here, Stuart, and this man is Trevor Magee, ' Houghton said quietly.
' If it helps I 'm as sceptical as you, but the evidence is here. '
' Evidence for what? '
Finn snarled.
' That we're all going fucking crazy?
They're inside. '
He shouted the last two words.
Gregson crossed to the phone and jabbed the button.
He asked the switchboard operator to connect him with Whitely Prison and waited.
Finn turned to his colleague.
' Frank, for Christ's sake... ' he began, but Gregson held up a hand to silence him.
' Hello, ' he said finally into the phone.
' My name is Detective Inspector Gregson.
I 'm calling...
Yes, Gregson.
' He spelt it out.
' I 'm calling from New Scotland Yard.
I'd like to speak with the Governor please.
It's very important. '
He sucked in an angry breath.
' Yes, Gregson. '
He spelled it out again.
Then he waited.
The other men watched as he tapped gently on the desk top.
' 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. '
67
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 stern.
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.
It jammed.
' Shit, ' muttered Hitch.
Scott seemed unconcerned by his companion's problem and looked to his right.
The four giant chimneys of Battersea Power Station thrust upward into the night sky like the upended legs of a gigantic coffee table.
Below them was a pier, accessible by a set of stone steps.
The steps were green with mould where the rising tide lapped against them.
At the end of the pier another small boat was moored.
Scott couldn't see the name painted along one side of it but he'd already been told it was called The Abbott.
Not that he really cared.
Hitch was still struggling with the Beretta.
' Bloody slide's stuck, ' he grunted, pulling back hard on it.
' Why do you need a gun, anyway? '
Scott wanted to know.
' You intending to use it? '
' Just call it insurance, ' Hitch said, still tugging at the pistol.
' Fuck it, ' he snapped finally.
' Give me yours. '
He held out one gloved hand.
Scott hesitated.
' Give me yours, ' Hitch repeated.
' Come on, you're going to be up here in the car.
If things get too complicated, just drive off. '
He sat there with his hand still open.
' Let me have your gun, Jim. '
Scott reached slowly inside his jacket then pulled the Beretta free and handed it to Hitch, who gripped the automatic in his fist and checked that the magazine was full, slipping it from the butt.
Satisfied that it was, he slammed it back into place and holstered the weapon, sticking his own pistol in the belt of his trousers.
On the dashboard in front of him the radio crackled and he picked it up.
' John, can you hear me? ' a voice enquired.
' Yeah, Rob, go ahead, ' Hitch replied.
' The Sandhopper just passed under the Vauxhall Bridge.
Should be with you any time now. '
' Cheers, ' said Hitch and snapped off the radio.
He pushed open the passenger side door and clambered out, turning to look back at Scott.
' This shouldn't take long, ' he said, smiling, the wind ruffling his long blond hair.
' Just sit tight. '
Scott nodded, watching as Hitch scuttled across the road and disappeared out of sight as he began to descend the embankment steps towards the pier.
Scott switched on the radio, heard pop music, twiddled the frequency dial past classical and reggae and finally found a discussion programme.
He listened for a moment then switched off again, content with the silence inside the Lancia.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and waited.
He couldn't sleep.
He knew he wouldn't be able to and now, as he swung himself out of bed, Ray Plummer wondered why he hadn't just sat in front of the television until the time came.
He pulled on his dressing gown and padded through into the sitting room.
' What's wrong, Ray? '
Carol asked, rolling over.
He ignored her enquiry so she hauled herself out, slipped on a long T-shirt and followed him into the other room.
She found him standing in front of the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the clock.
' Are you all right? ' she wanted to know.
' You've hardly spoken since we got back. '
' I've got something on my mind, ' he said sharply, sipping at the drink he cradled in his hand.
' Anything I can help with? '
' No, it's all right, ' he said.
' Thanks for asking, though.
It's just a little bit of business that's got to be done. '
She knew better than to ask what kind of business.
Plummer turned to face her, running appraising eyes over her long slender legs, her nipples taut against the thin material of the T-shirt.
' Get yourself a drink, ' he said, nodding towards the cabinet.
As she did he glanced at his watch once more.
Nearly time.
Carol crossed to him and slipped one hand inside his dressing gown, stroking his stomach.
' Are you sure I can't help? ' she said, smiling a practised smile.
Plummer allowed her to rake her fingernails across his stomach, feeling her probing lower, encircling his penis with her hand.
Then he took a step back, a slight smile on his face.
' No, ' he said flatly.
' You can't help.
Not yet. '
Again he looked at his watch.
68
The engine of The Abbott sounded deafening in the silence, the loud spluttering replaced rapidly by a rumble as the boat moved away from the pier.
John Hitch wandered towards the cabin, where Terry Morton was steering the boat, peering out over the river.
' How come you know how to drive these fucking things? '
Hitch asked, looking for the first sign of their quarry.
' You don't drive a boat, you ignorant cunt, ' chuckled Morton.
' You pilot it. '
' Whatever, ' Hitch shrugged.
' My old man worked the river all his life, doing deliveries, pick-ups.
They used to use it like a canal; anything that couldn't be moved easily by land, they'd stick it on a boat.
My old man worked the length of it.
He had a pleasure boat for about ten years before he died, used to run fucking tourists down to Hampton Court, that sort of stuff. '
Morton moved the wheel slightly, bringing the boat around.
' He made a ton of money ripping them off.
I used to go along with him a lot of the time. '
' John, check it out, mate, ' called Adrian McCann from the small foredeck.
' Coming up on our right. '
Both Hitch and Morton looked and saw the warning lights of a small boat approaching.
As yet it was a little over two hundred yards away.
Hitch reached for the binoculars and peered through them.
He read the name on the side of the boat.
' The Sandhopper ', he said, smiling.
' Bingo. '
Morton guided the boat towards the centre of the river, then towards the oncoming Sandhopper.
Still peering through the binoculars he could see movement on the other boat: two men looking ahead, one of them pointing towards The Abbott.
' They 'll signal us to turn aside, ' Morton observed.
' How do you know? '
Hitch asked.
' Rules of the river, ' Morton told him.
' What do you want me to do? '
' Bring us up alongside them, ' said Hitch, and glanced across at his companion.
' You set? '
Morton nodded and inclined his head in the direction of an Ithaca Model 37 shotgun on the bench beside him.
Red warning lights were flashing the bridge of The Sandhopper as the two boats drew closer, Morton now angling The Abbott so that it was heading directly towards the other craft.
Hitch reached inside his jacket and touched the butt of the Beretta he'd taken from Scott.
The two boats were less than one hundred yards away from each other now.
Morton slowed the speed a little, preparing to bring the boat to a halt when he needed to.
Eighty yards.
Adrian McCann stood by the prow of the boat, one thumb hooked into the pocket of his jeans, his other hand gripping the butt of a Uzi sub-machine gun.
Sixty yards.
Hitch could hear shouting from the other boat, though most of the words were indistinct.
He saw one man motioning animatedly with his arms, as if to deflect the other boat from its route.
Forty yards.
' Steady now, ' Hitch said and Morton slowed up a little more.
Twenty yards.
They seemed to be the only two vessels moving on the dark water; The Abbott was almost invisible in the gloom.
The red warning lights of The Sandhopper glowed like boiling blood in the blackness.
Ten yards.
Hitch could hear the men shouting now, see them gesticulating madly towards The Abbott in an effort to divert it from what appeared to be a collision course.
Morton cut the motor.
The boat floated the last few yards until it actually bumped the side of The Sandhopper.
One of the crew immediately crossed to the side of the smaller boat and pointed a finger angrily at Hitch.
' What the fucking hell are you playing at? ' he bellowed.
' You could have sunk us.
You haven't even got your lights on... '
The sentence trailed off as Hitch pulled the Beretta free and aimed it at the crewman.
' Cut your engines, ' shouted Morton, swinging the Ithaca up into view, working the pump action, chambering a round.
McCann stepped forward too, the Uzi held in both hands the stubby barrel pointed at the deck of The Sandhopper.
' All of you get out where I can see you, ' shouted Hitch.
' What the fuck is this? ' the first crewman said.
' Are you the law? '
' No, ' said one of his companions, looking at the Uzi.
' They ain't the law. '
He lifted his hands into the air in a gesture of surrender.
' All of you, ' Hitch shouted, watching as the third man joined his companions on the foredeck.
He was the youngest of the trio, in his early twenties, with short black hair.
His companions were both in their forties, one of them greying at the temples, a squat, powerfully built man; the other was a tall gangling individual with deep set eyes which remained fixed on Hitch the whole time.
' Who the fuck are you? ' the second man asked as Hitch stepped aboard The Sandhopper.
Hitch ignored the question.
' Get the hold open, ' he said sharply, pushing the barrel of the pistol towards the tall man's face.
' Do it, ' he rasped when the man hesitated.
The younger of the trio looked at McCann and Morton and decided he would be better advised not to try and reach the.38 he had jammed into his belt.
The tall man opened the hold and Hitch peered down into it, glancing at dozens of crates all of roughly the same size.
' Bring one out, ' he said, watching as the tall man struggled with it, finally dropping it on to the deck.
' Open it, ' Hitch told him.
' You're making a mistake, ' said the second man.
' You're the one making a fucking mistake, ' Morton snapped, raising the Ithaca and pointing it at his head.
' If you open your mouth once more I 'll blow your fucking head off.
Got it? '
There was a creak of splintering wood as the tall man prized off the lid of the crate.
Hitch told him to back off, then moved across.
Beneath a layer of foam rubber there was a dark brown carpet of coffee beans.
He dug his hand through the aromatic blanket and his fingers closed round an unmistakeable shape.
He pulled the video-cassette free and gripped it in his free hand, the pistol still trained on the tall
Hitch slammed the cassette hard against the crate.
Once.
Twice.
It cracked, then split open.
Yards of video tape spilled onto the deck, along with pieces of broken plastic.
And a small plastic bag full of white powder.
He tore it open, moistened the end of one gloved finger then dipped it in the substance and touched it to his tongue.
It felt cold as the powder reached his tastebuds.
He smiled thinly and motioned the tall man back.
Morton looked across expectantly.
' We've got it, ' said Hitch, smiling.
' Now let's get it loaded and get out of here. '
69
He was beginning to get cramp in his right leg.
Jim Scott massaged his calf for a moment, then pushed open the driver's side door of the Lancia and clambered out.
The chill night air hit him like a fist.
He recoiled, but the iciness in the breeze freshened his skin and helped to dispel the lethargy he had been feeling sitting in the car.
He walked around the vehicle a couple of times, stretching his legs, stopping by the bonnet to squat down on his knees.
As he straightened up he heard the joints pop and winced.
The river was silent.
From where he stood.
Scott could see nothing but the curling black tongue of water cutting through the centre of the city.
He crossed the road, pausing on the kerb and looking back towards the Lancia.
The two-way radio Hitch had been using was still on the passenger seat.
Perhaps Scott should take it with him in case someone tried to make contact.
Fuck it.
They knew where he was if they wanted him.
He strode across the road and headed towards the quayside, leaning against the black metal fencing that ran along the embankment.
He gazed down river but could see nothing.
Behind him a car passed and he turned to look at the occupants.
It was a young couple, who both looked at him for a second before driving on.
The girl was blonde.
A little like Carol?
He rested one foot on the fence and leant forward, hawking loudly, sending a projectile of sputum into the river below.
Where the fuck was she?
Why hadn't she called him?
All he wanted to know was if she was all right.
Just a phone call would satisfy him.
Would it hell.
He needed to see her, speak to her, touch her.
He felt anger and concern in equal measures.
It was the uncertainty that was so infuriating, not knowing where she was.
His whole life had become a series of unanswered questions in the past few days.
First Carol and now this.
This?
This fucking job?
He asked himself again why they needed him here.
He still could not begin to imagine why, as Hitch had told him, Ray Plummer had specifically asked for him to be included.
He kicked irritably at the metal fence and then turned and headed back towards the car, hands dug deep into the pockets of his jacket.
Behind him, the river flowed by.
It took just over forty-five minutes to unload the crates (sixteen in all) from The Sandhopper to The Abbott.
Hitch, Morton and McCann stood over the other three men while they transferred the precious cargo, guns trained on them at all times.
' And there's twenty million quid's worth in there? '
Morton said quietly, watching as the tall man lowered the last crate into the hold.
' Twenty million quid's worth of coke, ' Hitch said.
' That's all of it, ' said the tall man, wiping perspiration from his forehead.
Beside him, the youngest of the three was trying to pull a splinter from his palm.
Hitch motioned them back onto The Sandhopper.
' Thanks for your help, fellas, ' he said, smiling.
Then, looking across at Morton, ' Start the engine.
Terry, we've finished. '
' You're making a fucking big mistake, ' said the second man, his teeth clenched in anger.
' When Connelly finds out about this... '
The sentence was interrupted abruptly as Hitch fired.
The first bullet hit the man in the chest, staving in the sternum, cracking two ribs and ripping through a lung.
Gobbets of pinkish-grey matter exploded from the exit wound below the right shoulder blade.
The man pitched backwards, blood spouting from the wound.
' What the fuck... ' shouted McCann as he saw Hitch turn on the other two men.
The younger of the two ran for the side of the boat, perhaps in an attempt to dive over the side.
A last desperate attempt to escape into the murky waters.
The first bullet hit him in the back, severing his spine.
He crumpled to the deck, his sphincter muscle giving out.
The soft sound of voiding filled the air as he rolled over in agony like a fish out of water.
The tall man fared no better.
Hitch shot him in the face, watching as he toppled backwards, most of his bottom jaw blown off by the close-range blast.
Hitch moved swiftly from one body to the other, firing another shot into the head of each man.
Into the nape of the neck of the youngest, who was lying on his stomach with part of his spine exposed, the flesh and muscle ripped away by the 9mm bullet.
Hitch jumped back aboard The Abbott and slapped Morton on the shoulder.
' Get us away from here, ' he said sharply, and the other man guided the smaller boat away, allowing it to pick up speed.
' What the hell did you kill them for? ' shouted McCann.
' They saw our faces. '
Hitch said flatly.
' They knew we were with Plummer. '
' That's bullshit, ' snapped McCann.
' If word of this had got back to Connelly there'd be gang war, ' Hitch told him.
' We couldn't have left them alive. '
' Bollocks, ' McCann roared.
' You didn't have to kill them. '
Hitch grabbed him by the lapels, pulling him close.
' And what the fuck would you have done with them, hot shot?
Invited them out for a drink? '
Hitch snarled.
He pushed his companion away.
' We leave the boat to float there now.
By the time somebody finds them there 'll be nothing to link us to the killings. '
McCann sighed and banged his fist against the side of the boat.
' Shit, ' he murmured.
' Fucking shit. '
He let out a long breath then turned to look at Hitch.
' I suppose you're right. '
Hitch nodded.
Morton was already guiding the boat in towards the quay.
Hitch moved closer to the prow.
' What now? '
McCann wanted to know.
' I 'm getting off here.
I've got to let Plummer know it went okay.
You carry on down to Putney Bridge, get this lot unloaded.
You know what to do with the boat. '
He looked at McCann then at Morton.
' Sink it. '
Morton nodded.
Hitch was about six feet from the edge of the pier when he jumped, landing with surprising agility.
He brushed dust from his sleeve and headed towards the flight of stone steps that led up to the embankment.
The boat was already chugging away towards Putney.
Hitch smiled and crossed the road to the Lancia, pulling open the door and sliding into the passenger seat.
' Let's go, ' he said.
' I heard some shooting, ' Scott told him, starting the engine.
' What was it? '
' Nothing for you to worry about, Scotty, ' Hitch told him.
' Just get me to a phone, will you? '
Scott started the engine and drove off.
Hitch fumbled inside his jacket and pulled the Beretta free.
He passed it to Scott.
' Take it, ' he said sharply.
The driver did as he was instructed, slipping it back inside the holster, feeling the slight warmth in the metal.
' Tell me what happened, ' he demanded.
' This fucking gun has been fired. '
' I had to frighten one of them, ' Hitch lied.
' Fired above his head. '
Scott looked across at his companion.
' You better be telling me the truth, ' he said threateningly, ' or I 'll use the fucking thing on you. '
Hitch looked at him and saw the anger in Scott's eyes.
He had no doubt at all that Scott meant what he said.
He persisted with the lie, nevertheless.
' I had to frighten them, Scotty, I told you, ' he said quietly.
' I heard six fucking shots, ' Scott said.
' Why so many? '
' Just drive, ' Hitch said.
Scott pulled the car over to the kerb, his right hand slipping inside his jacket.
He pulled the pistol free and shoved it against Hitch's cheek.
' How many shots did you fire? ' he snarled.
' Tell me or I 'll blow your fucking head off. '
He thumbed back the hammer.
' Six, ' Hitch said.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled his own pistol free.
' Here, take the mag out of my gun, replace it with the one from yours. '
Scott seemed satisfied by this and slipped the magazine free from his own pistol, jamming in the full one he'd taken from Hitch's Beretta.
The two men glared at each other for a moment.
' That temper of yours is going to get you into trouble one day, Scotty, ' Hitch told him.
' You ever pull that on me again and I 'll fucking kill you. '
' You 'll have to be quicker than you were a minute ago, then, ' Scott hissed and pulled the car away from the kerb.
' Just get me to a phone, ' Hitch said irritably.
Scott drove on.
' There. '
Hitch pointed to the pay phone on the corner of the street and Scott brought the Lancia to a halt, watching as his companion walked across to the phone, picked it up and dialled, feeding more money in.
' Ray, it's me, ' said Hitch.
' It's done.
Yeah, everything.
Well, nearly everything. '
He smiled.
' Scott's going to drop me off.
No, didn't need him. '
He listened for a moment, glancing round at his companion in the car.
' Right.
I 'll call you tomorrow. '
He replaced the receiver, scooped his change out of the slot and walked back towards the car, clambering into the passenger side.
Scott drove on.
Ten minutes later he dropped Hitch off close by Clapham Junction Station then drove away, heading home.
The traffic was light at such an hour.
He might make it back by four in the morning, once he'd dumped the car.
Hitch watched the tail lights of the Lancia disappear and headed for the public telephones nearby.
He fed more money into the machine, smiling as he dialled.
70
He fumbled with the key, trying to push it into the lock, cursing when it wouldn't turn.
Finally the door opened and Scott stepped inside.
He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, catching his breath.
He'd dumped the car a mile away and walked back to his flat, passing less than half a dozen other people along the way.
He'd gone over the car with a cloth, wiping fingerprints from the steering wheel and the door handles, then he'd tossed that into the Lancia.
locked it and hurled the keys away.
Scott stood motionless for long moments, sucking in deep lungfuls of air.
His body ached mainly through lack of sleep, he told himself, reluctant to admit he was so unfit that a mile walk had drained him of energy.
Finally he wandered through into the kitchen, pulled off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.
He hastily unfastened the shoulder holster, too, and laid it on the table, then crossed to the fridge, found a can of 7-Up and drank deeply.
He carried the can with him into the bathroom where he stripped off his clothes and turned on the shower.
He sat on the toilet, watching the spray, waiting for the water to warm up, sipping his drink.
His head was pounding.
It had been ever since he'd dropped Hitch off.
Scott reached up and massaged his own shoulders as best he could.
He needed someone to do this for him.
Someone to soothe away the ache.
Like Carol?
For once he pushed the vision of her to the back of his mind, his thoughts focusing instead on the events of that night.
Most particularly on the six shots that Hitch had fired.
Six shots just to frighten the crew of The Sandhopper?
Scott shook his head.
He got to his feet and thrust a hand into the spray, satisfied that it was warm enough.
He stepped under it, enjoying the feel of the water on his skin, his eyes closed, still confused about what was going on.
About Carol.
About what had happened that night.
Christ, things were becoming a mess and he could see no way of sorting them out.
He had to speak to her.
Even if it meant sitting on her doorstep until she either came out of her flat or came home from wherever she was.
For all he knew she could be dead.
He opened his eyes, rubbing his face with both hands, increasing the speed of the jets so that the water stung his skin when it struck him.
He didn't even hear the knocking on the door.
The rushing of water from the shower masked every other sound.
The knocking came again, more insistently this time.
Scott ran both hands through his hair, smoothing it back tight against his scalp.
The banging on the door had become more frenzied.
He reached for the soap and began to wash.
There was a thunderous crash as the door was smashed in.
It flew back on its hinges and crashed against the wall with an almighty bang.
Scott heard it at last and looked around, fumbling for the taps, trying to turn off the shower.
There was movement in his sitting room, in his kitchen.
He heard voices.
Then, through a gap in the shower curtain, he saw a dark shape.
What the hell was happening?
The dark shape was coming closer.
Scott steadied himself, waiting until the shape was only a couple of feet from him, then leapt forward, crashing into the intruder.
Both men went hurtling backwards, Scott slamming the newcomer's head against the bathroom cabinet.
The mirror shattered and pieces of glass cut into the intruder's neck.
Scott grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him to his feet.
But now there were others coming into the room.
He saw the uniforms.
The two policemen in the doorway stared in at him, one of them taking a step closer, anxious to rescue their plain clothes colleague from Scott's attack.
The man was dazed but managed to shake loose of Scott's grip.
He felt the back of his neck and brought his hand around covered in blood.
' Put some fucking clothes on, Scott, ' he said angrily.
' You're under arrest. '
' You've got no right to come bursting in here like this, ' Scott snarled.
' What's the fucking charge, anyway? '
The plain clothes man looked at him, his eyes narrowed.
' Murder. '
71
' I 'm here to help you.
But I can't do that unless you help yourself. '
Brian Hall leant on the edge of the table and looked down at Scott.
Hall was about thirty-five, dressed immaculately in a charcoal-grey Armani suit.
He was clean-shaven and his hair combed perfectly.
The contrast between the lawyer and Scott was stark.
Scott was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt which needed washing.
He sported a thick growth of stubble and his eyes were sunken, with dark rings beneath them.
He'd managed to grab a couple of hours' sleep in the cell since they'd brought him in, but it was scarcely enough to refresh him.
He looked as bad as he felt.
Now he cupped both hands around the plastic beaker full of luke-warm coffee and lowered his head, staring into the depths of the brown liquid as if seeking inspiration there.
Hall had arrived at Dalston police station about twenty minutes ago and announced that he was acting for Scott.
He'd been shown to the interview room where Scott sat with a uniformed officer close by the door.
The room smelt of stale sweat and strong coffee.
All it contained were the table and two wooden chairs, one of which Hall now gripped the back of, looking first at the policeman then at Scott.
' Talk to me, Jim, ' he said.
' That's what I 'm here for.
I 'm here to help you but I can't do that unless you talk to me.
Tell me what happened. '
There was a hint of exasperation in his voice.
Scott looked up at him and motioned towards the policeman.
' Could I have a few minutes alone with my client, please? '
Hall said.
The policeman nodded, got to his feet and walked out, closing the door behind him.
' Now will you talk to me? '
Hall said.
' How did Plummer know I was here? '
Scott wanted to know.
' I don't really see what that's got to do with it... '
' How? ' snarled Scott.
' Word gets round, Jim.
Once he heard you'd been arrested it was just a matter of finding out which police station you were being held at, ' Hall said.
' He called me, asked me to help you. '
Scott was unimpressed.
He lowered his head again, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing angrily.
Plummer knew where he was.
' And are you supposed to get me out of here? ' he asked, sardonically.
' I can't do that, ' Hall said, flatly.
' You know that.
They won't even post bail with the evidence against you. '
' I didn't kill those blokes, ' Scott told him.
' I 'm sure you didn't but... '
Scott interrupted him, angrily.
' I didn't fucking kill them, ' he snarled.
' That's as maybe, but unfortunately the evidence points to the fact that you did. '
Hall exhaled deeply.
' The three men were shot with your gun.
Your fingerprints were found on the spent shell cases they found on The Sandhopper's deck.
On top of that you've got no alibi for the time of the murders. '
Hall walked slowly up and down.
' They've got enough evidence to throw away the key, Jim.
My only advice to you is to plead guilty. '
Scott smiled humourlessly.
' Well, thanks for that brilliant piece of help, ' he sneered.
' Did Plummer send you here just to tell me that? '
' I don't know what else to say to you.
The evidence against you is overwhelming. '
' I didn't kill them. '
' Then who did? '
' John Hitch, ' Scott said flatly.
' Hitch killed them with my gun on Plummer's orders.
I've been fitted up. '
' That's ridiculous, ' Hall said.
' If Plummer was trying to frame you, why send me here to help you? '
' All part of the fucking act.
He's done me up like a kipper and I fucking fell for it.
That's what annoys me as much as anything.
I walked straight into it. '
He clenched his fists.
' You say Hitch killed them.
You may believe that... '
' I know it, ' Scott snarled.
' All right, ' Hall said, raising his own voice.
' You know it.
You know it, but on the evidence against you there isn't a jury in the world that's going to believe you. '
He lowered his voice slightly.
' You 'll go down for life. '
72
She could hear their voices from the sitting room.
As Carol Jackson moved about in the kitchen she could hear the steady burble of conversation, punctuated every so often by a laugh.
She cracked eggs into a frying pan and stood over them while they cooked, wincing as hot fat spat at her from the pan.
It missed her skin and stained Plummer's monogrammed dressing gown.
Beneath it, Carol was naked.
She had hauled herself out of bed about twenty minutes ago when she'd heard the doorbell.
Plummer had told her to make breakfast while he spoke to John Hitch.
The blond man had nodded a greeting to her, and Carol had been aware of his appraising gaze.
She retreated to the kitchen to cook breakfast but the odd sentence floated to her through the smells of frying bacon and toasting bread.
Words and sentences, some of which she found unsettling.
' Scott was arrested... '
' Three killed... '
' The boat was sunk... '
Scott was arrested.
She had almost dropped the frying pan when she'd heard that.
She wanted to rush into the sitting room and ask why, ask where he'd been taken, but she knew she could not do that.
And she wondered why she felt such a sense of despair.
Or was it loss?
Was it despair for Scott or for herself?
You wanted him out of your life; well, now he 'll be gone for good.
But that wasn't how she wanted it.
She didn't want him hurt.
He won't be hurt, just locked up.
Locked away for the rest of his life.
Carol ran a hand through her tousled hair and sighed.
Out of sight, out of mind.
She heard Hitch mention where he'd been taken.
The fat spat at her again and she jumped back in surprise and pain as, this time, it burned her hand.
She ran it beneath the cold tap for a moment then dried it and returned to the pan, lowering the heat, scooping the eggs out and onto a plate.
She called to Plummer that his breakfast was ready and a moment later he ambled in, followed by Hitch.
Both men sat down and Plummer began eating immediately.
Hitch accepted the cup of tea Carol offered him, looking at her as she turned her back on him.
He gazed at her shapely legs, exposed as far as her thighs.
Carol gave him his tea then sat down at the table next to Plummer, who carried on eating.
' When will it be unloaded? ' he wanted to know.
' By the end of the day it 'll be hidden.
Safe.
Then all we have to do is sit on it until the time's right, ' Hitch told him.
He glanced across at Carol.
She self-consciously pulled her dressing-gown more tightly across her breasts.
' And there's no way Connelly can trace the job back to us? '
Plummer said, shoving a piece of bacon into his mouth.
' Not without witnesses, ' Hitch said, smiling thinly.
Plummer smiled and shook his head.
' Twenty million fucking quid, ' he chuckled.
Carol looked at him.
She couldn't even begin to imagine that amount of money.
The figures were enough to make her head spin.
And Scott?
She wanted to ask.
Instead she glanced across at Hitch and found his gaze on her again.
' Nice cup of tea, ' he said, smiling.
Carol smiled thinly in response and picked at the piece of toast on her plate.
The phone rang.
Plummer got to his feet immediately and walked through into the sitting room to answer it.
' Is that how you keep your figure? '
Hitch asked, lowering his voice slightly.
' By not eating much? '
He was gazing at her breasts again.
She shrugged.
' What do you mean? '
' You've got a good figure, ' he told her, glancing quickly towards the door to make sure Plummer hadn't returned.
' More tea? '
Carol asked in an effort to change the subject.
He shook his head, leaning back slightly, watching as she drew one shapely leg up beneath her on the chair.
From the sitting room he could still hear Plummer speaking.
' You used to go out with Jim Scott, didn't you? '
Hitch asked.
She nodded slowly.
' I 'll bet he 'll miss you inside, ' said Hitch.
' Only his right hand for company when he used to have you to get his rocks off. '
Hitch smiled again.
' Are you moving in with Ray, then? '
' It's not really your business, is it? ' she said, glaring at him.
He shrugged.
' I just wondered what was going to happen to your little flat if you did move out, ' he said, his gaze never leaving her.
' Dollis Hill, isn't it? '
' How do you know? ' she demanded.
' My business to know, ' he told her.
' You're mixed up with Ray, Ray's my boss, I have to look out for him.
I just did some checking, that's all. '
He took a swig from his mug, pushing the empty receptacle towards her.
' I think I will have that cup of tea. '
She took the mug and moved across to the worktop, aware of Hitch watching her every move.
' You must have done a thing or two working in that club, ' Hitch said, still looking at her.
' I've seen some of the acts. '
She pushed the mug towards him and sat down again, trying to avoid his gaze.
He glanced towards the door, still able to hear Plummer on the phone.
' Did you used to get off on what you were doing? ' he enquired.
' I mean, especially with other girls? '
He smiled.
Carol looked directly at him.
' If all the blokes I knew were like you then I'd be better off with another girl, wouldn't I? ' she said scornfully.
Hitch held her gaze until he heard Plummer heading back towards the kitchen.
He sat down and prodded his breakfast.
Hitch finished his tea and got to his feet.
' I'd better go, ' he said.
' I 'll pick you up in an hour, Ray.
I've got a couple of things to do. '
' All right, John, ' Plummer said.
' Carol, see John out, will you? '
Hitch smiled thinly.
' It's okay, I can manage, ' he said, looking again at Carol's breasts.
' See you later, Ray. '
He held her stare this time.
' See you around, Carol. '
His smile broadened and he walked out.
She heard the door close behind him.
' Are you going to work tonight? '
Plummer asked.
' I wasn't planning to, ' she said, still uneasy about Hitch.
' I thought we could stay in and... '
' I've got business to take care of tonight, ' he said.
Carol regarded him impassively.
' I 'm going to have a bath before Hitch picks me up, ' he told her.
He waved an expansive hand around the kitchen.
' Tidy this place up a bit, will you? '
Then he was gone.
73
He'd been dozing in his sitting room when the noise from upstairs woke him.
Doctor Robert Dexter sat forward quickly, sucking in a deep breath as he regained his senses.
He looked around the large sitting room, catching sight of the clock on the mantelpiece.
The hands had crawled around to 1.26 a.m.
Again the noise from upstairs.
Footsteps.
Dexter got to his feet, glancing up at the ceiling.
He swallowed hard and headed for the door that opened out into the hall.
Outside the wind was blowing strongly.
The house stood on top of a low hill, joined to the main road by a narrow driveway flanked on both sides by dwarf conifers.
As he moved into the darkened hallway he could see those conifers bowing deferentially to the strong breeze.
Dexter stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up into the gloom at their head.
He reached across to the bank of switches at his right hand and flicked a couple.
The darkness at the top of the stairs was dispelled swiftly by bright lights.
He put one foot on the bottom step and prepared to ascend.
The crack came from behind him.
A sharp slap of wood on glass.
He spun round to see that a skeletal branch from one of the bushes beneath the hall window had been blown against the pane.
Dexter felt his heart beating a little faster as he began to climb the stairs.
From above him the sounds of movement had all but ceased; only the creak of a solitary floorboard broke the silence now.
As he reached the landing he paused, looking around at the five closed doors that faced him.
He knew which one the sounds were coming from.
Dexter sighed and made his way across to the third door, halting outside it.
He found that he was shaking.
After all these years he was still afraid.
Afraid of the occupant of that room, afraid of what he might find, yet, simultaneously, knowing exactly what he would find.
The same sight would confront him that had confronted him for the past fifteen years.
He stood by the door, listening for movement, and again heard the slow footsteps, pacing back and forth over the carpet.
The creak of the one loose board.
Dexter closed his eyes for a moment.
Perhaps it would just be best to walk away this time.
Go to bed.
Go back downstairs.
He heard breathing on the other side, close to the door.
As ever, he was aware that the occupant was listening for him, was perhaps aware even now of his presence there.
The time to turn back had passed.
He knew he must enter.
Dexter unlocked the door, turned the knob and walked into the room.
His heart was thudding hard against his ribs and he felt the first droplet of perspiration pop onto his forehead.
The occupant of the room was sitting in one corner.
Dexter closed the door behind him.
PART THREE
' Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord '
Romans 12:19
' In this last and final hour, You can't hide.
There's nowhere now that you can run... '
Black Sabbath.
74
The door crashed shut, the loud clash of metal on metal reverberating inside the cell.
James Scott stood in the centre of the small room for a moment, looking round, then sat down on the edge of the bottom bunk.
He felt numb, as if his entire body had been pumped full of novocaine.
There was a lead weight where his heart should have been.
He felt as if every last drop of feeling had been sucked out of him.
The past two days had passed quickly, so quickly in fact that the events of those four days were somewhat hazy.
And yet still he retained memories of that time.
Like splinters in his mind.
The journey to the court.
The police had brought a suit he'd requested from his flat and he'd changed into that, shaved and smartened himself up.
The trial.
He had decided, as advised, to plead guilty and proceedings had moved with dizzying speed.
The gun had been produced as evidence.
Pictures of the dead men had been circulated around the jury.
Scott could remember one of the jurors in particular.
She had been in her mid-forties, a smart, efficient-looking woman who had hardly taken her eyes off him throughout the trial.
And he had seen hatred in those eyes.
When sentence had been passed he glanced at her and was sure he could see the trace of a smile on her lips.
Scott had heard little of the Judge's summing up or, indeed, of his comments after the life sentence had been passed.
Just the odd word here and there, like ' horrendous', ' brutal ', ' cold-blooded ' or ' dangerous', had filtered through the screen that seemed to have erected itself around him.
He felt as if he'd been inside a cell ever since his arrest, imprisoned within his own mind.
He had spent much of the trial gazing around the court room particularly into the public gallery, but not once did he see Carol.
Bitch.
God, how he needed her now.
If only he could have spoken to her one last time before he'd been taken down.
Touched her.
Kissed her.
But that was not to be.
She was gone now, out of his life as surely as if she were dead.
After sentence had been passed he had been taken to the cells, then back to Dalston in a black van.
From there he'd been taken in a police van to Whitely by two police officers.
The journey, despite the distance between London and the prison, had taken a surprisingly short time.
Or so it seemed to Scott.
It was as if time had lost all meaning, as if even that were conspiring to hasten him to this place where he would spend the rest of his life.
The rest of his life.
The finality of the words hit him once more; only now, within the confines of the cell, they had an almost deathly abruptness.
He looked around the room, at the bunks, the other small bed on the other side of the cell.
At the thick metal door, the wooden table and chairs.
The slop buckets.
There was one single window set about seven feet up the wall, covered by wire mesh as well as being barred.
Freedom was now only something to be glimpsed through steel.
Death must be similar to this feeling, he thought.
The four walls of the cell might as well be the wooden sides of a coffin.
There was no such thing as life within prisons, only day-to-day existence.
Passing time.
Waiting for the only real release, which would come in the form of death; the actual termination of life, not the living death of captivity.
He had been shown which locker in the room was his and told that one of his cell-mates was on work detail, the other in the exercise yard.
Scott didn't really care.
He unzipped his bag and took out what few possessions he'd been allowed to bring in to the cell: a small cassette-radio and a few tapes.
The towels were prison issue, along with the roll of toilet paper and the clean white T-shirts and underwear.
He crossed to his locker and opened it.
From the pocket of his overalls he took a photo of Carol.
She was smiling out at him, her long blond hair tousled.
She was wearing jeans and a denim shirt (which he'd bought her).
He looked at that smile.
A mocking smile?
He wanted her badly.
Bitch.
He needed her.
She had betrayed him.
Perhaps she would visit him.
He wedged the picture inside the locker door and stood staring at it.
No, she wouldn't visit him.
Perhaps she'd write.
He looked at the photo.
His jaw was clenched tightly, his eyes narrowed.
Why did you betray me?
I love you.
' Fucking bitch, ' he snarled and drove his fist against the door, against the photo.
When he looked at it, there was blood oozing from two split knuckles.
Red spots had splashed across the picture.
Across her smile.
Fucking bitch.
' I love you, ' he breathed softly.
The blood dripped from his gashed hand.
75
John Hitch drained what was left in his wine glass and put it down, looking across the table at Carol Jackson, who held his gaze for a moment and then went on eating.
Beside her, Ray Plummer was struggling to wind spaghetti around his fork but it kept falling back into the dish.
Cursing, he began cutting it up, pushing the shorter strands onto his spoon.
Les Gourmets was busy, to Plummer's relief.
The trade in all his restaurants had been slack over the past couple of weeks, and he was glad to see so many lunchtime diners.
The babble of conversation was punctuated by the chink of bottles against glasses.
Hitch poured himself another glass of Chablis, raised his eyebrows at Carol expectantly and moved the bottle towards her, but she shook her head, covering her glass with one hand.
As she did he saw the ring on the third finger of her left hand; the large diamond sparkled brightly.
Fuck knows how much that cost, Hitch thought, glancing at the impressive stone.
He afforded himself a quick glance at Plummer, who was still struggling with his spaghetti.
The manager of the restaurant, a short Italian with sad eyes and a pinched face, emerged from the kitchen and chatted briefly with Plummer about the improvement of business.
Hitch kept his eyes on Carol; by this time, she was beginning to feel uneasy under his almost unwavering stare.
The manager disappeared a moment later, leaving them alone again to finish their meal.
' Dozy bloody wop, ' muttered Plummer.
' He used to work for Ralph Connelly.
Ran one of his clubs in Kensington. '
' If you don't like him, why did you employ him? '
Carol wanted to know.
Plummer shrugged.
' When I took over the club from Connelly I agreed to give old Giuseppe there a job, ' he explained.
' Just part of the process, sweetheart. '
He smiled at Carol.
' It's called diplomacy.
We shafted Connelly when we took his shipment of coke but a gang war wouldn't have been any use to either of us.
He knew he couldn't win one; I had too much money behind me.
So we agreed to compromise with him on certain things, in return for him keeping his nose out of my business. '
' I still don't trust that cunt, ' said Hitch.
' He could still try something. '
Plummer shook his head.
' If he was going to do anything, he'd have done it months ago.
You worry too much, John. '
' Maybe you're a little too settled, Ray, ' Hitch said challengingly.
' You might get over-confident... '
Plummer glared at him.
' Are you trying to tell me I've lost my bottle? ' he rasped.
' I didn't say that, ' Hitch added hastily.
' Then what the fuck are you saying? '
Hitch looked at Carol, then at his colleague.
' Well, you and Carol, you're sort of settled now, aren't you? ' he said.
' You've got enough money to keep you for the rest of your life.
It must be easy to lose your grip.
Without even realising it, that's all I 'm saying.
I 'm thinking about you. '
' Your concern is touching, Johnny boy, ' chuckled Plummer, ' But don't worry about me.
Just because Carol's wearing that ring doesn't mean I 'm ready to get out my fucking pipe and slippers, either. '
He eyed Hitch malevolently.
' So if you've got any ideas... '
He allowed the sentence to trail off.
' Leave it out, Ray, ' Hitch said indignantly, reaching for his glass of wine.
He looked round at the other diners.
Mostly businessmen.
A few couples, laughing and joking, talking animatedly.
Fucking yuppies, all of them, thought Hitch, glancing back across the table.
She's got you where she wants you, you silly cunt, he thought, watching as Carol slipped one hand onto Plummer's thigh, stroking gently as he ate.
Horny little slag.
Carol looked at Hitch and smiled.
A smile of triumph?
He held her gaze, allowing his own eyes to drop to her breasts, which were pressing against the clinging material of her dress.
He could see the outline of her nipples.
Got him right where you want him, haven't you?
She lifted her glass, the light striking the ring, reflecting off the diamond.
To Carol it was a symbol of victory.
A hard-earned trophy fought for and suffered for.
She felt she deserved it.
Sometimes she even felt something for Plummer.
Sometimes.
It wasn't love, that much she was sure of.
Gratitude, perhaps.
Appreciation that he had provided her with the escape route she had so badly sought?
She wasn't sure.
What was more, she didn't care.
She was here now.
She was with him.
She wore his ring.
She shared his penthouse flat.
She looked at Hitch and smiled thinly, wetting her lips slightly with the tip of her tongue.
The gesture was provocative and he knew it.
Little slag.
Beneath the table, his fists were clenched.
76
' We spoke on the phone a few days ago. '
Detective Inspector Frank Gregson shook hands with Governor Peter Nicholson, feeling his own strong grip matched.
Nicholson motioned for him to sit down.
' I 'm sorry I couldn't see you earlier, Inspector, ' Nicholson said.
' 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 'm 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.
77
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. '
Scott looked impassively at him, a slight grin on his face.
' You trying to say I 'm queer? ' he said quietly.
' No, I 'm just telling you that if you are then you're going to have a long love affair with your right hand because I 'm straight and so is Rod.
But there's plenty in here who aren't.
If you want to find them, good hunting. '
' Who's Rod? '
' Rod Porter.
The other bloke in this cell.
He's on work detail at the moment. '
Robinson swung himself up onto his bunk and pulled a magazine from beneath his pillow.
Scott regarded him impassively for a moment.
' You know enough about me, ' he said.
' Who are you? '
' Mike Robinson. '
Scott extended his hand in greeting.
Robinson regarded it cautiously for a moment, then shook it, feeling the power in the other man's grip.
Scott squeezed more tightly, the muscles in his forearm standing out like chords.
When he finally released his grip, Robinson's hand felt numb but he managed to hide the discomfort.
' You got life, didn't you? ' he said.
Scott nodded.
Jesus, even the words made him shiver.
Life.
' What else do you know about me? ' he asked.
' In the real world you worked for Ray Plummer, ' Robinson told him.
' And just a word of warning on that score.
There are a couple of Ralph Connelly's boys in here who weren't too happy when they heard you'd blown away three of their mates. '
' I didn't kill them, ' Scott snapped.
' Sorry, I forgot.
You're innocent, ' Robinson said.
' Whatever the case, watch your back with Connelly's boys.
I 'll point them out to you when I get the chance. '
Scott nodded.
' You done time before? '
Robinson asked.
Scott shook his head.
' What about you? ' he wanted to know.
Robinson smiled.
' I've been in and out since I was ten, ' he said with something bordering on pride.
' Remand homes, detention centres, borstals and nicks.
They're all much the same.
It's usually just the screws who are different.
The ones here are okay, as far as screws go.
It's the Governor who's the real cunt. '
He described Nicholson briefly, and mentioned particularly his words before the visit of the prison delegation.
Scott sat on the edge of his own bed listening intently, hands clasped on his knees.
Robinson was still giving him the low-down on life in Whitely when the key rattled in the door again and it opened to admit Rod Porter.
He was wearing a white overall on top of his grey prison issue clothes and he pulled the overall off as soon as he was inside.
Scott noticed there were bloodstains on it.
' Hard day at the office, dear? ' chuckled Robinson as Porter crossed to the sink and began splashing his face with water.
He finally turned and looked at Scott.
' Well, ' he said.
' I suppose a murderer is better company than a ponce. '
He extended his right hand.
A token of greeting.
Scott shook it.
Brief introductions were made and Porter explained about their last cell-mate, just as he had to the prison delegation.
' There's just one thing, Rod, ' Robinson said, still smiling.
' Old Jim here is innocent.
He didn't kill those three blokes.
He was framed. '
Porter smiled.
' How many fucking times do I have to tell you? ' snarled Scott.
' It wasn't me who killed them. '
There was fury in his eyes.
' The cheque's in the post, I love you and I promise not to come in your mouth, ' Porter added.
' They're the three most common lies, mate.
Except inside and you just added the fourth.
We're all fucking innocent.
I don't know why they don't just open the gates and let us all out now. '
' Fuck you, ' Scott rasped.
' You don't have to, ' said Porter.
' A jury already did that.
They fucked me, Mike and you and everyone else in this shithole.
There's no virgins in here.
The law fucked everybody. '
Robinson chuckled.
' Very philosophical, ' he said.
Porter stretched out on his bunk, hands clasped behind his head.
' So what do you think of the hotel? ' he said.
Scott shrugged.
He felt cold, as if all the warmth had been sucked from his body.
He sat down on his own bed, exhaling deeply.
Life.
He nodded in the direction of the balled-up overall Porter had been wearing.
' What's that for? ' he wanted to know.
' Work detail, ' Porter explained.
' Laundry.
I collect it and deliver it.
It s better than sitting in here every day.
Apart from the hospital wing. '
He grunted.
' That's where the blood came from.
Blood, shit and Christ knows what else.
It used to be used as a punishment: they'd make inmates clean up the hospital wing, that sort of thing.
Even make them change sheets and empty fucking bedpans. '
' What did anybody do to get that punishment? '
Scott wanted to know.
' It was usually if somebody tried to escape, ' Porter said.
Escape.
' Has anyone ever managed it? '
Scott wanted to know.
' Not since I've been here, ' Porter told him.
' A couple of blokes tried to go over the wall about a year ago.
Before that, some prat even managed to hide in the boot of one of the warders' cars. '
The other two men laughed.
' Somebody did it a while back, ' Robinson said.
' Actually got out.
They didn't get far, of course, but they managed to get out of the prison itself... '
' How? '
Scott demanded, cutting him short.
' This place is very old, as you know.
Supposedly there's a network of sewer tunnels running under it, ' Robinson explained.
' Most of them have probably caved in by now.
But one old boy over in B Wing was telling me that it's like a fucking maze down there.
Some geezer got down into the tunnels and found his way out. '
' Rather him than me, ' Porter muttered.
' That was probably how they found him.
Just followed the smell of shit. '
Robinson laughed.
Scott didn't.
He sat back on his bed, looking around at the confines of the cell.
Life.
He sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily.
A vision of Carol filled his mind.
Then Plummer.
He gritted his teeth.
' You all right? '
Porter asked.
Scott nodded slowly, opening his eyes.
When he spoke his words were almost inaudible.
' I was just thinking. '
LI FE.
The word screamed inside his brain.
No.
There had to be a way.
78
The raindrops against the window sounded like a handful of gravel being hurled at the glass by the strong wind.
Rivulets of water coursed down the panes, puddling on the sill.
Governor Peter Nicholson watched the rain, hands clasped behind his back, his office lit only by the desk lamp at one corner.
He was looking out over the prison courtyard, watching the sheets of rain falling, the brightness of the observation lights along the prison walls reflecting in his eyes.
The wall clock ticked somnolently in the silence, each movement of the minute hand magnified by the stillness in the office.
It was 10.56 p.m.
' As far as I can see, it's a perfect choice. '
The voice cut through the stillness like sunlight through night.
Nicholson didn't turn, hardly seemed to acknowledge the other voice.
He merely shifted position slightly, knotted his fingers more tightly together and continued gazing out of the window.
' No living relatives.
There's no family anywhere, as far as I can tell, ' said the other voice.
' There's a history of violence, at least that's what the psychological profile says.
More recent events would appear to substantiate that supposition. '
Nicholson remained silent.
' I need to be one hundred per cent sure, though, ' the voice added.
At last Nicholson turned to face the other occupant of the room.
Doctor Robert Dexter ran a hand through his hair and nodded slowly, as if answering his own unasked question.
' How soon do you want to start? '
Nicholson asked.
' I think we should leave it a week, ' the doctor told him.
' I need to observe.
As I said, I have to be one hundred per cent sure. '
He exhaled deeply.
' In fact, perhaps we ought to wait longer than that. '
He looked questioningly at the Governor.
' You said that policeman had been here. '
' 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.
79
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 uncomprehendingly.
' 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. '
