Captives (47 page)

    Scott gritted his teeth.

    Stop this fucking pain.

    He sucked in several deep breaths, his hands pressed to his temples, his eyes closed.

    He stood there for several seconds, finally taking one last glance down at the prone figure of Calder. Then Scott made his way downstairs.

    He slapped on lights as he reached the bottom of the flight. Everything was how he'd last seen it. The bed in the centre of the room, the old chairs and sofas. The fading pictures on the peeling walls. He walked through towards his office, past the changing room, selecting the key to his office. He walked in, looking round.

    Scott exhaled wearily and walked across to his desk.

    With a shout of anger he overturned it, then snatched up the chair, swinging it wildly around his head, smashing the light bulb as he lashed out. The chair shattered and he was left holding just one of the legs. Brandishing it like a club, he headed back into the other room. There he smashed the nearest picture on the wall, overturned chairs and sofas. He picked up one of the small coffee tables and hurled it across the room, watching as if broke against the far wall. Scott's breath was coming in gasps now as he moved towards the small bar.

    He stuck out his hand and, with one movement, swept the bottles from the shelves. They landed on the floor, glass shattering, contents spilling everywhere. He picked up one bottle and hurled it across the room, watching it smash against the far wall. Then another. And another. The place was filled with the sound of breaking glass. He hurled the bottles at the pictures, at the bed, at the walls. When there were no bottles left he ripped the shelves from their brackets, wielding one like a staff, breaking it across the bar top.

    Scott picked up a handful of match books. He struck one match and held it close to the others, watching them ignite, then he dropped the flaming bundle to the floor.

    The alcohol that had been spilled there ignited immediately, flames leaping up around his feet. He moved away from the bar and lit more matches, tossing them onto the bed, the sofas. All went up with a loud whump. Flames began to take hold now, scorching their way across the floor in the wake of the spilled drink. Like the tentacles of some fiery octopus the flames shot out in all directions, incinerating everything they touched.

    Satisfied that the fire had taken hold, Scott headed for the stairs, thick smoke already swirling around him.

    As he reached the top of the stairs he noticed that Calder had regained consciousness. He was sitting up, tentatively touching the spot where Scott had hit him.

    As he saw the other man he cowered back against the wall.

    'Jim, please…' he began.

    'If I was you, I'd get out of here, Rick,' Scott told him and headed for the door.

    Thick black smoke was already beginning to fill the stairwell behind him.

    'Oh Jesus,' murmured Calder, seeing the noxious clouds coming from below.

    Scott pushed the door and stepped out on to the pavement, striding across to the Rover which was parked across the street. He slid behind the wheel and started the engine, noticing that, as Calder bolted from the building, the smoke billowed out of the door after him.

    The flames had taken a grip. They would work their way up the stairs, destroying everything.

    Scott watched for a moment longer then started the engine. As he shifted position slightly he could feel the two pistols jammed into his belt. They had a reassuring bulkiness to them. In one pocket he had the two quick-loaders, in the other a couple of spare magazines for the automatic.

    He took one last look at 'Loveshow', smoke now belching from its door, and drove off.

    

    

    'How much further?'

    DI Frank Gregson looked at his watch then at the pilot, who adjusted his microphone before speaking.

    'Another twenty or thirty miles,' the pilot told him.

    Gregson muttered something under his breath and looked out of the side window, watching the cars on the motorway below speeding along. The journey had seemed to take an eternity, although he realised they had been in the air less than forty-five minutes. Already the outskirts of London were appearing below them; the areas of greenery they had passed over when first leaving Whitely were now giving way to more densely populated conurbations.

    The steady drone of the rotor blades continued and the maddening sensation of little or no speed only served to exacerbate the policeman's impatience. Again he checked his watch.

    He'd called through to New Scotland Yard within minutes of leaving Whitely, to tell them that Scott was loose and probably back in the capital. He had also said that the man was possibly armed and extremely dangerous. Gregson had asked for armed squads to aid in the hunt for the fugitive. The radio had been conspicuously quiet, apart from the pilot picking up flying instructions. Despite Gregson's insistence that someone get back to him with a progress report, nothing had disturbed the airwaves yet.

    He glanced at the radio and thought about calling again.

    Had Scott been caught yet?

    Had he been cornered?

    Gregson wondered if he might even have been shot?

    But no information had been forthcoming. No pieces of knowledge for him. Christ, he felt helpless.

    'Tango Zebra, come in.'

    The metallic voice over the radio seemed to startle Gregson.

    The pilot flicked a switch on his control panel.

    'Tango Zebra, I hear you, over,' he said.

    'I want to speak to Detective Inspector Gregson,' the voice said.

    Gregson tapped his microphone and the pilot nodded.

    'Gregson here. What have you got?' he said.

    'James Scott has been sighted in two places.'

    'Where? How long ago?'

    'He killed two men at a restaurant called Les Gourmet about an hour ago. The men are believed to be Terry Morton and Joe Perry.'

    'What do you mean, believed to be?' Gregson snapped.

    'After he killed them he set fire to the place. The bodies were quite badly burned. He also wrecked and burned the place where he used to work, a clip joint called "Loveshow". Both places, as you probably know, were owned by Ray Plummer. Morton and Perry worked for Plummer. It seems like Scott's on a little crusade.'

    'When was he last seen?' the DI demanded.

    'About forty minutes ago. He's driving a stolen Rover Sterling which belonged to one of the men he killed.'

    Gregson chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment.

    'Tango Zebra, can you hear me?' the voice said, insistently.

    'Don't try to take Scott alive, do you understand?' the DI said.

    Silence from the other end.

    'Did you hear what I said? Don't try to take him alive. Is that understood?'

    'Understood.'

    The Lynx was descending now, the shapes and outlines of the buildings below becoming more discernible.

    if you see Scott,' he said, 'Shoot to kill. Over and out.' He switched off his microphone.

    The pilot looked across at him, saw the expression on his face and decided to say nothing.

    Below them Gregson could see the Thames, winding through the city like a dirty ribbon.

    It wouldn't be long now.

    

    

    The black police transit van stood with its back doors open, two uniformed men waiting.

    DS Stuart Finn shielded the flame of his lighter as he tried to light the Marlboro he'd just taken from the pack. The wind was blowing strongly now; twice the lighter flame was extinguished. Cursing, Finn stuck to his task, drawing gratefully on the cigarette at last. He looked up to see Governor Nicholson being led out of the main building by two of his warders.

    The irony of the situation was inescapable. The two men looked bewildered, embarrassed almost as they led the older man towards the waiting transit. He allowed Finn only a cursory glance as he passed, clambering up into the back of the van and sitting down on one of the benches. A uniformed policeman joined him.

    Finn watched as Dexter was also led towards the van. He had taken off his lab coat and now wore just a pair of plain brown trousers and a brown jacket. His shirt was undone at the collar. Finn thought how weary he looked. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes sunken and lifeless.

    He was scanning the exercise yard as she walked, noting that there were a couple of unmarked police cars nearby as well as an official one besides, of course, the transit in which he was about to take his place with Nicholson.

    The plain clothes men who occupied the unmarked cars were standing around chatting, two with their hands dug in their pockets, collars turned up against the icy wind cutting across the open courtyard.

    Inside the van, Nicholson looked out and saw Dexter approaching. So this was how it was to end, he thought. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He glanced up at one of the windows of B Wing to see an inmate staring down.

    The two men would be held at the nearest police station until charges could be formally brought against them. What exactly those charges were, Finn wasn't sure as yet.

    Conspiracy. But conspiracy to do what?

    Pervert the course of justice?

    What did the rule book say about brain operations on convicted murderers? Where were the clauses on experimentation and release of those same murderers?

    That, he was relieved to think, was not his problem. His only problem was getting these two men to the nearest police station. He took another drag on his cigarette and patted the side of the transit.

    He'd ensured that the coffins had been reburied before they left. It was rather an empty gesture, considering they'd been without occupants, but Finn had a curious feeling of respect and dread for graves and he felt it only right that the cemetery be restored to its former state before he and his colleagues departed.

    Dexter was slowing down, looking at the transit.

    Perhaps the realisation was finally hitting him, Finn thought.

    The doctor looked at the black vehicle and seemed to swoon. He took a step backwards.

    Finn frowned, moved forward to help the older man.

    Dexter ran at him and crashed into him, the power of the impact unexpected enough to send Finn toppling. He spun round in time to see Dexter running towards the nearest of the unmarked cars.

    The drivers were standing about twenty feet away. They hadn't seen what had happened.

    Dexter was already behind the wheel of the black Sierra.

    'Stop him,' Finn bellowed, now chasing after the doctor. Dexter had started the engine, oblivious to the plain clothes and uniformed men running at him from all direction.

    The closest of the officers actually managed to get a hand inside the car through the open side window. His fist closed around Dexter's collar, but the doctor stepped on the accelerator and the car shot forward, dragging the policeman.

    With one hand Dexter hammered at the vice-like grip, speeding up as he approached the open prison gates. He braked hard and the jolting impact caused the policeman to lose his hold. He somersaulted, landing heavily on the concrete.

    Dexter drove on, glancing in the rear-view mirror, seeing that Finn had clambered into the blue Citroen and was following. The marked car was also in pursuit.

    Dexter roared through the open gates and felt the car skid on the slippery track, but he regained control and drove on, flooring the accelerator, the needle on the speedometer touching ninety.

    Behind him the Citroen and the police car followed, Finn hunched low over the wheel.

    The Sierra reached the road and Dexter wrestled with the wheel, guiding the vehicle to the right. It skidded madly on the road but he kept it under control, noticing that Finn was closing the gap on him.

    The police car had cut across in an attempt to head him off but Dexter saw what was happening and sent the Sierra speeding towards a ridge ahead. A wire fence separated the road from the field beyond, the bank sloping up like a ramp.

    Dexter gripped the wheel and drove straight at the fence, crashing through it, the Sierra hurtling up the low bank. It was moving at such a speed that all four wheels left the ground and the vehicle seemed to hang in mid-air, suspended as if on invisible wires, for long seconds before slamming down with a bone-jarring crash.

    The car skidded again, great geezers of mud spraying up behind it, but Dexter, his face covered by a thin sheen of sweat, kept control and sped on across the field.

    Finn, his face set in an attitude of concentration, followed. The Citroen hit the bank and hurtled through the air, banging down in the muddy field.

    The police car wasn't so lucky.

    The driver, either because of misjudgement or fear, eased up his speed and the car hit the bank. But instead of sailing through the air, it nose-dived into the mud, the rear end toppling over until the entire vehicle crashed onto its roof, metal buckling under the impact.

    Finn saw in his rear-view mirror that the other car had come to grief but he was more concerned with the Sierra now, roaring away from him across the field.

    Surely, he thought, Dexter would have had more chance of outrunning him on an ordinary road. The muddy field could only slow him down.

    What the hell was he playing at?

    The cars roared on.