Scott gritted his teeth.
'You didn't have to kill three blokes to impress her,' Draper continued. 'You could have waved a twenty-quid note in front of her. That would have impressed her. It's good enough to get anyone else a fucking blow job, isn't it?' He laughed quietly.
He was two places away now. Scott gripped the handle of the ladle until his knuckles turned white, pouring the boiling soup into the bowl of the man in front of him.
'I bet she's impressed with Ray Plummer,' Draper said.
Scott glared at him.
'Impressed with his money, his power and his cock,' the red-haired man said. 'She must have had it up her and in her mouth enough times.'
He was level with Scott now.
Scott could feel himself shaking with rage. He glared at Draper.
'Fill it up,' Draper said scornfully, pushing the bowl towards Scott. 'Fill it like Plummer fills your bird's cunt.' He smiled. 'Everyone knows about them. Everyone knows she's fucking him. Everyone knows they made a prick out of you.'
Scott's face darkened; the vein at his temple throbbed. His entire body was quivering.
'Come on, fill the fucking bowl, Scott,' Draper said. 'Just try not to think about your tart with Plummer's dick stuck down her throat. Carol Jackson, isn't it? Carol "I take it anywhere for a tenner" Jackson.' He leant towards Scott. 'Seems like the only dick she's not getting any more is yours.'
Scott struck out, bringing the ladle down with incredible force on the top of Draper's head. The blow split his scalp. Already warders were running towards them, but Scott moved quickly.
He grabbed Draper by the hair and shoved his face downwards into the boiling vat of soup.
The red-haired man struggled madly as the searing fluid stripped flesh from his face and neck.
Scott pushed his head deeper, ignoring the pain in his own hand as the boiling liquid lapped around his wrist.
Others had seen the struggle now and a chorus of shouts and cheers rose from the other prisoners.
Scott, his face contorted madly, drove down with even greater force, dragging Draper off his feet.
The entire vat of soup toppled backwards, spraying up in all directions as the copper container hit the floor, spilling its load over the tiles.
Scott still had hold of Draper's hair. As he pulled the other man upright, he looked into his face. The flesh was red-raw, large portions of it hanging off the muscles where the incredible heat had stripped it away. Slivers of flesh hung like leprous wet tendrils from the blistered mess that had once been Draper's features. The other man was burbling incoherently, his eyes rolling upwards in their sockets, but he remained on his feet, supported by Scott's hand, until finally he felt the thunderous blow from the metal ladel once again. This time it was across his swollen face. His nose was shattered by the impact, blood bursting outwards, spattering his overalls, mixing with the soup and the slivers of skin.
The first of the warders crashed into Scott, knocking him to the ground.
The new clash was greeted by a fresh wave of shouts, from the other inmates.
Another warder pinned him down, forcing the ladle from his grip. A third man pulled Draper away, sickened by the hideous sight of his scalded features. Blisters that had already risen on the face were liquescent and close to bursting.
Scott struggled in vain as two more officers dragged him to his feet and hauled him away.
Away from the bloodied image of Draper. Away from the deafening shouts of the other inmates.
Scott found that he too was shouting, screaming his rage not just at his captors and at Draper but at someone else.
At Plummer.
At Carol.
Consumed by rage unlike anything he'd ever experienced, he was dragged bellowing from the refectory.
Up above, on one of the catwalks, Governor Peter Nicholson had seen the entire tableau. He watched as Scott was dragged away, his face impassive.
He stood there for a moment, listening to the cacophony of sound crashing all around him, then walked off.
EIGHTY-THREE
To Finn it was as if they'd been sitting there for hours.
The Detective Sergeant fidgeted uncomfortably, his hand moving habitually towards the pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, but each time he glanced across the outer office his eyes were met by the sign which proclaimed NO SMOKING in large red letters.
Beside him, DI Gregson kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, occasionally rubbing the palms of his hands over his thighs. Every now and then he would glance at his watch, wondering how much longer they were going to be kept waiting.
The outer office of Police Commissioner Lawrence Sullivan was large and brightly decorated. There was a desk behind which sat Lawrence's secretary, an officious woman in her early forties with long auburn hair and, Finn had noticed, a terrific pair of legs. Gazing constantly at her legs had just about made the wait worthwhile, taking his mind off the task to come. She had already offered the men coffee; the DS had accepted but Gregson had refused. Now Finn was considering whether or not to ask for another cup, even if only to watch her sashay out of the office. His request was interrupted when a buzzer on the intercom sounded and she leant forward to press a button. She answered and got to her feet, approaching the two policemen. They also rose and followed her as she beckoned them.
She showed them into the Commissioner's office, then left.
Sullivan was a powerful, bull-necked specimen of a man who looked more like a refugee from a bare-knuckle ring than Commissioner of Police. He was in his midforties, his complexion ruddy, his nose flat against his face. His normally piercing eyes were almost hidden by thick eyebrows.
On his desk Gregson saw a number of framed photos. His wife, his children and one that looked strangely incongruous, considering Sullivan's demeanour; it showed the Commissioner cradling his baby son in his arms, feeding him with a bottle. Gregson thought he might have looked more at home using one hand to choke a goat.
The big man was reading a report of some kind when the other two policemen entered and did not look up.
'Sit down,' he said sharply.
They obeyed.
Sullivan glared at them immediately.
'You're lucky I'm not suspending both of you,' he snarled. 'What the bloody hell were you playing at last night? Digging up a man's grave? I should have you locked up.'
'There wasn't time to obtain an exhumation order, sir,' Gregson said.
'Why?' Sullivan roared. 'Was the man you dug up leaving? What was so important it couldn't have waited one more day?'
'If you'll just listen, sir, I'll tell you,' Gregson said, aware of the acid glance Sullivan shot him. The DI waited a moment, wondering if his superior was going to interrupt again. When he didn't, Gregson began, keeping it as brief as he could. He mentioned the three killers, their victims, the suicides. Sullivan didn't move a muscle as he listened, his eyes never leaving Gregson as he talked about his visit to Whitely. How he'd seen the graves of men who, he knew for a fact, were actually dead and in the pathology room at New Scotland Yard itself. About four men who had died in Whitely in three years and now…
Sullivan held up a hand to silence him.
'Enough,' he said, rubbing his forehead with one thumb and forefinger. There was a long silence finally broken by the Commissioner himself. 'You are aware of what you're saying, Gregson?' he asked. 'You're asking me to believe that three men returned from the dead to re-enact their crimes? You're talking to me about zombies?' He smiled menacingly. 'If you're not out of this office in five seconds I'm going to have you both suspended. You'll be pounding a bloody beat by the end of the month.' The anger had returned to his voice.