Captives (18 page)

    Carol and Zena disappeared through the door marked 'Private'. Scott finished wiping the blood from his hands then stuffed the stained cloth back into his pocket.

    There was more blood on the carpet.

    He smiled.

    

    

    Before he switched off the engine he glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

    12.36 A.M.

    Frank Gregson swung himself out of the Escort and slammed the door, fumbling in his pocket for his front door key. He finally found it and let himself in, careful not to drop the thick manila file he had cradled under one arm. As he moved through the house he switched on lights, finally ending up in the sitting room. There he dropped the file onto the coffee table, crossed to the drinks cabinet, took out a bottle of Teacher's and poured himself a large measure. As he stood drinking the fiery liquid he heard movement from above him, soft padding footfalls on the stairs.

    He sighed and finished his drink, filling the glass again.

    'I couldn't wait up any longer.'

    The voice came from behind him as Julie moved into the room. He didn't bother to turn; he knew where she was. He heard the creak of springs as she perched on the edge of the armchair.

    'You could have phoned,' she said. 'I was worried.'

    'If anything had happened to me you'd have heard about it soon enough.'

    'I'd cooked you some dinner; I had to throw it out.'

    'My loss is the dustbin's gain,' he said, finally turning to face her.

    She wore just a short housecoat. He knew she was naked beneath it.

    Naked, like Paula Wilson had been on that slab.

    'Do you want me to get you something?' she asked, curling her legs under her.

    'I'll manage with this,' he said, raising the glass. He crossed to his seat and sat down, gazing at the file before him. 'Sorry I disturbed you,' he added, as an afterthought.

    'I wasn't asleep. I was waiting for you to get in,' she told him.

    He smiled thinly.

    'Well, something came up at the office, dear,' he said acidly, taking a sip of his drink. 'That's why I'm late.'

    'If you mean that girl, I saw it on the news.'

    'Yes, I do mean that girl. Paula Wilson, aged twenty-three.' He raised the glass in salute. 'Rest in peace.'

    'They said the man who killed her committed suicide.'

    Gregson nodded.

    'Went out in a blaze of glory, you could say,' he added.

    'Do you want to talk about it?' she asked.

    He shook his head and chuckled softly.

    'We tried talking about it last time, if you remember rightly. It wasn't a raging success, was it?' he said flatly.

    'Frank, don't start.'

    'Well, what exactly do you want to know? What details interest you about this case?'

    She pulled her housecoat tightly around her and met his gaze.

    'Do you want to know how many times he stabbed her? Or how many pieces of rubbish he'd shoved inside her?'

    'What do you mean?'

    'He stuffed pieces of rubbish between her legs. Inside her vagina. He filled her cunt with garbage.' Gregson hissed the last sentence through clenched teeth. Julie swallowed hard and lowered her head slightly.

    'Have you any idea who he was?' she said finally.

    Gregson shrugged, got to his feet and poured himself another drink. He turned and looked at his wife for a moment before returning to his seat.

    'Strangely enough I have,' he said. 'The only problem is, it doesn't make sense. My theory holds water about as well as a fucking colander.'

    She looked at him questioningly, relieved at least that he was talking to her.

    'The MO he used matches one of a murderer we put away eighteen months ago,' said Gregson.

    'I'm not with you, Frank,' she said.

    'No, you're not, are you?' he said cryptically. 'You're not with me.' He downed a large measure of the whisky. 'Perhaps it's better that you're not. I told you before that it isn't your problem.'

    'And I told you that it was,' she snapped. 'You think I enjoy seeing you like this? Wrapped up in yourself, punishing yourself? There's no need for it, Frank. Not when I'm here, you don't have to keep your problems or your thoughts to yourself. I want to help. I'm worried about you.' Her tone softened slightly. 'It's you I want to help because it's you I love. Please don't shut me out, Frank.'

    'You want to be a part of my world?' he asked sardonically. 'And everything in it?'

    'Yes.'

    He opened the file and pulled out one of the photos of Paula Wilson, holding it up for Julie to see, ensuring she had a good view of the knife wounds and the pulped face.

    'Say hello to reality,' he said.

    Julie glanced at the picture and lowered her head again.

    'You wanted to look, then look,' he snapped, throwing the photo towards her. It floated to the floor. 'Perhaps you like this one better.' He flicked a picture of Bryce's burned body in her direction. 'How many more do you want to see?' He picked up the file and dumped it on the table in front of her, standing over her challengingly. 'Go on, look at them. Look at the fucking photos.'

    He knelt down beside her and pulled another from the file, holding it up against her face as she tried to pull away from him.

    Paula Wilson just before the autopsy.

    'Look at it,' he shouted.

    Bryce after they found him on the building site.

    'Come on, I want to know what you think.'

    She finally shook loose of his grip and struggled to her feet.

    'I think you're crazy,' she said, fighting back the tears. 'I think this job is dragging you down and you don't even know it. Either that or you don't even care.'

    'It isn't a nine-to-five job, Julie. You don't clock in and out. At least you don't clock your mind in and out,' he said. 'You carry it with you every fucking hour of the day and night. I carry those images and those sounds and smells in my mind, all the time.'

    He took another gulp of whisky, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

    Julie bent down and picked up one of the photos. She held it for a moment then dropped it in front of her husband.

    When she spoke, her voice was low, strained.

    'I'll leave you alone with your work,' she said.

    

    

    'Something on your mind?'

    Jim Scott looked down at Carol Jackson, raising himself up on one elbow.

    She was gazing at the ceiling, tracing the outline of a crack in the plaster, holding his hand lightly as they lay naked side by side.

    
Tell the truth, shame the devil.

    It had been one of her mother's sayings. Now she wondered if she should put it into practice.

    
Tell him. Put him out of his misery.

    She glanced up at him and smiled.

    No. Now wasn't the time.

    He squeezed her hand and asked again what was on her mind.

    'Nothing,' she told him. 'Why?'

    'It looks as if there is,' he said, his own smile broader.

    'So you're a mind-reader now, are you?' She looked into his eyes.

    
I'd be in trouble if you were.

    He swung himself out of bed and wandered through into the kitchen, returning with two glasses and a bottle of Southern Comfort. He poured them both measures then got back into'bed, watching as Carol shifted position, sitting up slightly to avoid spilling the drink. She looked at Scott as he drank, his eyes fixed on something across the dark bedroom.

    Their lovemaking hadn't exactly been of the wild abandoned variety. Scott had barely been able to sustain his erection, due to Carol's relative passivity; it was as if his own ardour had been dampened by her perfunctory attempts to please him. But she had faked it enough times before with him and with Plummer. As far as she knew, neither man was aware of her disinterest.

    Scott was just glad that she was with him. She was his tonight. They hadn't spoken about the incident in the club earlier when he'd fought to protect her. Scott smiled to himself as he remembered the sight of the man's bloodied face. It had been so easy to hurt him, to break his nose. To split his face open. He'd bled a lot. Scott downed his drink and poured himself another. A celebration, perhaps? He lay down beside her again, the drink resting on his chest.

    'I've been thinking about getting a bigger place,' he told her finally.

    'Why? This is enough for you, isn't it?' she said.

    'Well, I won't be on my own forever, will I?'

    It could have been a plea.

    Carol didn't look at him.

    'I mean,' he continued, 'if someone was to move in with me, it wouldn't be big enough.'

    She smiled thinly.

    'I'd worry about that when the time comes, Jim,' she said, sipping her drink.

    'Have you thought of moving?' he wanted to know.

    'I'm happy where I am, I suppose,' she lied. 'Although perhaps happy is the wrong word. It's just that I'm stuck with it.' She turned her head away from him for a moment.

    
No way out. Except perhaps through Plummer.

    'I miss you when I can't see you at nights,' he confessed.

    'You see me every night.'

    'You know what I mean.' He took a long swallow of liquor. 'Seeing you at work, that doesn't count. Any bastard who pays can see you like that.' He began running his finger around the rim of the glass.

    'If it's any consolation, I hate earning my money that way too,' she told him.

    'I don't blame you for what you do. You've got a good body, why not use it to your advantage?'

    'I don't do it out of choice, Jim,' she said, her tone hardening. 'I do it because I've got no bloody option. Do you realise how much I hate that job? Do you know what I'd do to get out of there? What I'd do to change my lifestyle?'

    He shook his head.

    'Anything,' she said. 'And I mean anything.'

    'I didn't realise. I'm sorry.'

    She took a swig of her drink.

    'I've been doing it for over ten years now,' she told him. 'I've had enough.'

    'But what else could you do? There isn't any way out.' He smiled. 'I'll probably still be working there in ten years' time.'

    'Yes,' she said, with scarcely disguised contempt. 'You probably will.'

    They regarded each other impassively for a moment.

    'Maybe a rich Arab would walk in one night and whisk me off to a life of luxury,' she said bitterly.

    'I hope not,' said Scott, his face set in hard lines. 'I wouldn't want to see you with anyone else.'

    She swallowed hard.

    Did he know?

    'Why not? Things change, Jim. People change,' she said.

    'Not people like you and me,' he said adamantly.

    They lay in silence for long moments before she looked at him again.

    'You said you wouldn't want to see me with anyone else,' she murmured. 'What would you do if there was someone else?'

    He looked at her, his eyes blazing.

    'I'm curious,' she said, qualifying the statement.

    
Christ, if only he knew.

    Scott swung himself out of bed once more and pulled open the drawer of the cabinet. He took out the Beretta 92S and grasped it, pulling back the slide. The metallic click filled the room. Carol moved away inches involuntarily at the sight of the pistol.

    'I'd kill him,' said Scott flatly.

    He squeezed the trigger and the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber, the click amplified by the silence in the room.

    'And what about me?' she asked.

    Scott smiled, the pistol still gripped in his fist.

    'I'd probably kill you too.'

    

    

    He was gone when she awoke.

    Carol rolled over sleepily and felt for Scott but found that she was alone in bed. She blinked myopically, trying to clear her vision. There was a piece of paper lying on his pillow; she reached for it, running one hand through her hair.

    
SEE YOU TONIGHT. LOVE, JIM.

    Love.

    She sighed and lay down on her stomach, the note resting on the pillow in front of her.

    She knew now that it was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to break from Scott. Especially after what he'd said the previous night. He obviously felt more deeply for her than she had even imagined. That not only troubled her, it frightened her. Carol pulled herself across the bed to the cabinet and slid open the top drawer.

    The Beretta was inside, underneath some notepads.

    She took the pistol out and hefted it.

    Would he really kill her if he found out she was seeing Plummer?

    Common sense told her it had been a somewhat theatrical threat, but her knowledge of Scott told her otherwise. She had little doubt he would use the gun if he had to. Carol pulled back the slide, the weapon feeling heavy in her hand. She sat up in bed, the sheet falling away from her body to reveal her nakedness. Lifting the pistol she gripped it in both hands and aimed it at the mirror on the dressing table across the room, drawing a bead on her own reflection. She squeezed the trigger and the hammer slammed down.

    She lowered the gun again and sat back against the headboard. Scott would never let her go. No matter how she told him, no matter how gently she broke it to him, no matter what explanation she gave.