Captives

    LIFE.

    The word screamed inside his brain.

    No. There had to be a way.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

    The raindrops against the window sounded like a handful of gravel being hurled at the glass by the strong wind. Rivulets of water coursed down the panes, puddling on the sill.

    Governor Peter Nicholson watched the rain, hands clasped behind his back, his office lit only by the desk lamp at one corner.

    He was looking out over the prison courtyard, watching the sheets of rain falling, the brightness of the observation lights along the prison walls reflecting in his eyes.

    The wall clock ticked somnolently in the silence, each movement of the minute hand magnified by the stillness in the office.

    It was 10.56 P.M.

    'As far as I can see, it's a perfect choice.'

    The voice cut through the stillness like sunlight through night.

    Nicholson didn't turn, hardly seemed to acknowledge the other voice. He merely shifted position slightly, knotted his fingers more tightly together and continued gazing out of the window.

    'No living relatives. There's no family anywhere, as far as I can tell,' said the other voice. 'There's a history of violence, at least that's what the psychological profile says. More recent events would appear to substantiate that supposition.'

    Nicholson remained silent.

    'I need to be one hundred per cent sure, though,' the voice added.

    At last Nicholson turned to face the other occupant of the room.

    Doctor Robert Dexter ran a hand through his hair and nodded slowly, as if answering his own unasked question.

    'How soon do you want to start?' Nicholson asked.

    'I think we should leave it a week,' the doctor told him. 'I need to observe. As I said, I have to be one hundred per cent sure.' He exhaled deeply, in fact, perhaps we ought to wait longer than that.' He looked questioningly at the Governor. 'You said that policeman had been here.'

    'He suspects nothing,' Nicholson said dismissively. 'I showed him the graves.'

    'Even so, it might be an idea to stop work for a while. Just until the fuss has blown over.'

    'What fuss? I told you, I showed him the graves.'

    'But you said they'd identified Lawton, Bryce and Magee. What if he isn't satisfied with your explanation? He might come back.'

    'And find what?' Nicholson leant across the desk and looked closely into Dexter's eyes. 'We've gone too far to turn back now. There's no need to delay the work, let alone stop it altogether. Unless you're beginning to have second thoughts.' He smiled scornfully. 'One failure too many, perhaps?'

    'They were not failures, Nicholson. It can work, I've proved that.'

    'So you say, doctor. I'm yet to be convinced.'

    'It doesn't matter to you if they die, anyway, does it?'

    'Not really, no.'

    'I sometimes wonder why you became involved in the first place.'

    'You know why.'

    'Medical executions,' said Dexter quietly. 'That's what you see them as, isn't it? The ones that don't work.'

    'You know my views,' Nicholson said sharply. 'This current situation is all that concerns me at the moment. Will you do it or not?'

    'I need a week to observe, as I said.'

    Nicholson nodded thoughtfully.

    'However, the choice is perfect,' the doctor continued. He picked up the file that lay on the desk and flipped it open. Amid the plethora of papers there was a photo. He picked it up and studied the contours of the face, a slight smile on his lips.

    'He'll be a good subject,' Dexter murmured. 'I'll operate as soon as I'm ready.'

    He slipped the picture back into the file and closed it, looking once more at the name on the cover:

    JAMES SCOTT.

SEVENTY-NINE

    Detective Inspector Frank Gregson paced slowly back and forth from one side of his office to the other, his gaze occasionally shifting to the blackboard behind his desk. To the names written on it.

    DS Stuart Finn took a long drag on his cigarette and nodded at the board.

    'Six murderers have been sent to Whitely in the past three years,' he said. 'I checked it out, just like you asked. Four of them died in there, all in the last eighteen months.' He looked at the blackboard once again.

    'Including our three men,' Gregson said, finally perching on the edge of his desk. He looked at the last name on the list.

    GARY LUCAS.

    'It's a hell of a coincidence,' the DI muttered. 'All died there, all buried there.'

    'All except Lucas,' Finn told him.

    Gregson turned to look at his companion.

    'By terms of his will, Lucas asked if he could be buried near his home, instead of in prison grounds. This burial in unconsecrated ground crap hasn't been enforced since they stopped the death penalty,' Finn went on. 'It's just that none of the other three had any family to protest.'

    'Nor had Lucas, had he?'

    'No; but, like I said, the terms of his will specified he could be buried outside prison grounds. They planted him in a cemetery in Norwood about three weeks ago.'

    Gregson stroked his chin thoughtfully.

    'What did the coroner say was the cause of death?' he wanted to know.

    Finn blew out another stream of smoke, it says cardiac arrest on the death certificate, but a proper autopsy was never carried out,' said the DS, 'The certificate was signed by some geezer called…' he consulted his notes, 'Doctor Robert Dexter. He's down as resident physician at Whitely. The body was prepared there too, you know. They even put him in the coffin and shipped him home instead of leaving it to a local undertaker. Thoughtful, eh?' He took another drag on his cigarette.

    'Jesus Christ,' muttered Gregson, his eyes fixed on the name of Lucas.

    'Lucas must have fitted in well with the other three there,' Finn observed. 'He killed four people, including an eighty-seven-year-old woman, with a claw hammer before he was caught. Apparently he kept the old girl's left hand in his wardrobe. After he killed her he tried taking her wedding ring and when he couldn't get it he hacked her whole fucking hand off.'

    Gregson appeared not to hear this last piece of information. He was already reaching for his phone, jabbing an extension number.

    It rang. And rang.

    'Where the hell is the boss?' he hissed.

    'I should think he's gone home, Frank,' Finn said, 'it is nearly midnight, after all. What do you want him for, anyway?'

    Gregson slammed the phone down, 'If I want an exhumation order he'll need to go and see a magistrate. I want Lucas dug up.'

    'Are you serious?' Finn murmured uncomprehend-ingly. 'You want to dig Gary Lucas up? Why, for Christ's sake? He's dead.'

    'So, apparently, were Lawton, Bryce and Magee.'

    'You know they're dead. You saw their graves.'

    'Yeah, I did. I also saw the three bodies downstairs in pathology. The ones that were positively identified as those same three men.' Gregson pulled his jacket on.

    'Frank, where the fuck are you going?' Finn demanded, standing up as his superior headed for the door.

    'I'm going to find out once and for all what the hell is going on,' Gregson told him.

    Finn gripped his colleague's arm but the DI shook loose.

    'Get off me,' he snapped.

    'This is fucking crazy,' Finn blurted.