Captives (31 page)

    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.

    

    

    '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.'

    

    

    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.