Captives (29 page)

    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.'

    

    

    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. Mageie 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.

    

    

    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.

    

    

    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 BIFF A. 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.