Captives (44 page)

    Scott fell onto the concrete of the forecourt and sprinted for the Renault, cursing as he looked down to see blood from his torn calf seeping through the material of his overalls. He tossed the jeans and shirts into the back of the car, slid behind the wheel and drove off, struggling one-handed to free some paracetamol from their container. He shook two out and pushed them into his mouth, chewing them dry, almost gagging at the bitter taste. Then he swallowed another two, washing them down with a swig from the lemonade bottle.

    In a short while he would pull in somewhere and change into a pair of the jeans and a shirt. It would give him a little more camouflage for his journey.

    He gripped the wheel tightly, closing his eyes momentarily against the pain.

    On the opposite carriageway a police car hurtled past him, lights flashing.

    Scott drove on, past a sign which proclaimed: LONDON 143 MILES.

    He looked at his watch, wincing once again at the unbearable pain inside his head. He swallowed two more tablets, wondering how long they would take to work. If indeed they did.

    He drove on.

    

    

    The cell door crashed open, slamming back against the wall, the impact reverberating found the small room.

    Mike Robinson blinked hard, shocked from sleep by the sound and, now, by rough hands on him, pulling him from the top bunk.

    Beneath him, Rod Porter was also being pulled from the warmth of his bunk, hurled across the room by the first of the warders who had barged into the cell.

    'What the fuck is this?' snarled Porter but, as he turned, he was struck hard across the face with a baton. The hardwood split his cheek and he fell to the ground, blood pouring from the gash.

    Robinson was thrown against the wall, a fist driven into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. Through pain-misted eyes he saw his locker torn open and its contents scattered, saw the bunks being overturned, saw the small cupboard that had housed James Scott's belongings ripped open. The photograph of the blonde woman Scott had spoken of (Robinson couldn't remember her name) fluttered to the floor where it was trodden on in the melee.

    Then another blow to the stomach sent him crashing to the ground, where he was allowed to lie for only brief seconds before being dragged to his feet behind Porter. Both men were dragged on to the landing.

    Other prisoners, woken by the noise, were shouting and banging against their doors, not knowing what the early morning disturbance was. As warders passed by cell doors they smashed their batons against them by way of warning, but this only served to inflame the inhabitants further. The cacophony of noise rose to deafening proportions as Robinson and Porter were dragged along the landing towards the stairs, almost hurled down them by their captors.

    'What the fuck is going on?' shouted Robinson at one of the men pulling him.

    'Shut it,' the warder hissed, driving a punch into his kidneys, almost throwing him down the metal steps behind Porter.

    The noise from the other cells filled the prison.

    'How could he have got away?'

    Governor Peter Nicholson glared at Dexter, his eyes unblinking.

    'I wish I knew,' Dexter said. 'He would have been weak from the operation. In pain. I can't understand how he managed it.'

    'Well, he won't get far,' Nicholson said, an air of conviction in his voice.

    'I can't see how he'll survive so soon after the operation,' Dexter added.

    'I don't care if they bring him back dead but I want him back here.'

    'You never did care, did you? It never bothered you whether the men who were operated on lived or died.'

    'That isn't what's at stake here, Dexter,' Nicholson hissed. 'No one has ever escaped from a prison where I've been Governor and I don't intend to let Scott be the first.'

    'Your pride doesn't matter any more, Nicholson. The man is already out. He got away, that's the point. He did escape.'

    'We'll find him. He'll be brought back. I want to know how he did it.'

    There was a knock on the office door and Nicholson called for the visitor to enter.

    The door opened and Warder Paul Swain entered, supporting Porter. The other two men in the room saw the blood pouring down the convict's face.

    Nicholson nodded and Swain threw the man down.

    Robinson followed, landing heavily on his arm.

    'Get up,' snapped Swain, kicking Robinson hard at the base of the spine.

    The office door slammed shut behind them.

    'Don't tell me I won't get away with this,' Nicholson said, a slight smile on his lips, his gaze flicking back and forth from one inmate to the other. 'You can report this to the prison authorities if you like, but you'll never prove it happened. No matter what we do to you.'

    'What do you want from us?' Robinson said.

    'You were cell-mates with Scott; I want to know how he got out. I want to know if he talked about escaping. I want to know if you helped him.'

    Porter eyed the Governor coldly, a slight smile on his face.

    Nicholson saw it, took a step forward and struck Porter hard across the face, splitting his bottom lip. He fell backwards into the arms of Swain, who drove a fist into his kidneys then let him drop to the ground.

    'For God's sake, stop it,' Dexter said.

    'You keep out of this,' Nicholson roared. 'This is my prison and this is my affair.'

    'You've lost him, Nicholson,' Porter said, sucking in a painful breath. 'He's long gone by now and you won't find him.'

    'Did you help him escape?' the Governor rasped.

    Porter spat blood, then clambered to his feet.

    'Yeah, I gave him a leg up over the fucking wall,' he said.

    Swain hit him hard across the small of the back with his baton.

    Porter doubled up, falling to the floor once more.

    'This will put another five years on your sentences,' Nicholson snarled. 'Both of you.'

    'We don't know where he's gone,' Robinson protested angrily.

    'Five years,' Nicholson spat. 'And I'll make it five years of hell.'

    'Fuck you,' rasped Robinson and hawked loudly, propelling a gob of mucus into the Governor's face.

    It hung there like a tear, trickling slowly down his cheek until Nicholson wiped it away.

    Swain struck Robinson across the shoulder with his baton, then the shoulder blades, both blows almost cracking bone. Then the warder turned and opened the office door. Two of his colleagues, jackets already removed and sleeves rolled up, walked in.

    'Take these men to solitary,' Nicholson said. 'See if they feel more like talking there.' He nodded, watching as the two men were dragged away.

    'You can't do this,' Dexter protested as the office door slammed shut behind them.

    'I've told you before,' Nicholson snarled. 'This is my prison and I can do what I like. Now, if you're not a solution to this problem then you're a part of it, so get out of here.'

    Dexter turned to leave.

    'I'll find him, Dexter,' said the Governor. 'And if he's not dead when he's brought back, he will be by the time I've finished with him.'

    

    

    'I don't like having to trust other people, Gregson.' Police Commissioner Lawrence Sullivan held the pieces of paper in his large hands, shuffling them like playing cards. 'I warned you before, you'd better be right, otherwise I'll have you back pounding a beat quicker than you can imagine.'

    DI Gregson looked on indifferently.

    'I told you, if I'm wrong, I'll resign,' he said flatly.

    Sullivan got to his feet, the three pieces of paper in his hand.

    'These,' he said, brandishing the papers before him, could be the key to what's been going on, or they could mean an end to your career and mine. I hope you realise what a bloody risk I'm taking. Not only do I dislike having to trust other people, I also hate gambles. And this, to me, is a gamble.'

    'There's too much evidence…'

    Sullivan cut him short. 'I know, you've told me that before. Well, after considering it all, I tend to agree with your theory that things at Whitely are, shall we say, a little irregular. But while there's the slightest element of doubt I don't like it. A conspiracy is one hell of an accusation, Gregson. Like I said, you'd better be right.' He sat down at his desk, the exhumation orders laid out in front of him.

    'Are you going to pass them, sir?' Gregson asked, looking at his superior.

    'They're already signed,' said Sullivan. He handed them to Gregson.

    'A helicopter will take you, Finn and two other men to Whitely. It'll pick you up in an hour. It shouldn't take more than about fifty minutes to get there.' He exhaled deeply. 'Gregson, I want a full report on what you do or don't find up there, do you understand? An investigation of this kind makes me accountable to the Government as well as to our own people and the prison authorities.'

    Gregson nodded.

    'Do you think I'm right, sir?' he finally asked, quietly.

    'Would it matter one way or the other?'

    'Not really. I'm just curious as to what made you decide to get these.' He held up the exhumation orders.

    'You seemed to have a pretty strong case to support your argument and if there is some kind of conspiracy going on at Whitely, then it should be exposed. Or perhaps, for once in my life, I decided to gamble.' He looked at Gregson. 'But there's a lot on this bet. More than I think you either care or realise.' They exchanged glances once more then Gregson turned to leave.

    'A full report,' Sullivan reminded him as he left. The door closed and the Commissioner was left alone in his office. He sat back in his seat, hands clasped together beneath his chin, gazing out of his window at the overcast sky.

    'I got them,' Gregson said triumphantly, holding the exhumation orders in front of him.

    'Now what?' Finn asked him.

    Gregson explained about the helicopter, the impending journey to Whitely.

    'I doubt if they're going to be very helpful up there,' the DS observed.

    'I couldn't give a fuck,' rasped Gregson. 'They don't have to be helpful. The only thing that matters is, with these exhumation orders they can't stop us.'

    

    

    He'd slept in the back of the car on a side-road, the merciful oblivion he sought interrupted so often by the pain in his head. Finally, after two disturbed hours, Scott had decided to drive on. He'd discarded his prison overalls in favour of one of the shirts and a pair of the jeans but he still wore his prison boots. He'd washed his face and hands in the rain and he'd fixed a small bandage over the surgical dressing with Elastoplast. The wound in his calf had stopped bleeding, but it hurt; every time he pushed his foot down on the clutch, fresh blood seeped out.

    The pain inside his head was less insistent. That was the handfuls of pain-killers he'd taken, he told himself. But it was still there, ever-present as he drove, glancing around him, wincing in the early morning sunlight that streamed through the windscreen.

    He was well inside the outskirts of London now, heading for his own flat in Brent. If only he could reach it, the flat would provide a haven at least for a couple of precious hours. Providing the police hadn't already covered it, waiting for him to go there. No, surely they wouldn't expect him to head back to London so soon. Would they? He was convinced his escape must have been discovered by now, but he'd seen precious little in the way of police pursuit. Not as yet, anyway.

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

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

    Plummer.

    Scott ran one index finger tentatively over his forehead.

    Carol.

    She wouldn't be expecting him back, either.

    The bitch.

    How surprised they would be to see him.

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

    And the carving knife that lay hidden beneath.

    This time he did smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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