There was a massive explosion as the vehicle went up, bursting into flames, portions of it flying across the street like massive lumps of shrapnel. Other pieces, propelled by the force of the blast, stove in great sections of the hotel's front. The revolving doors, with two guests inside, disintegrated as the bus engine was sent flying into them. The sound of shattering glass mingled with the deafening roar as the explosion shook Piccadilly. A searing reddish-white ball of fire blossomed out from the riven bus, a thick mushroom cloud of smoke rising from the inferno. Windows not shattered by the impact were forced inwards by the sheer power of the concussion blast.
Immediately, cars parked outside the hotel, caught in the detonation, began to burn. A Mercedes exploded with incredible ferocity, part of its roof spinning across the street and smashing through the plate glass windows of a chemist's. It was as if the first blast had set off a chain of smaller eruptions as half a dozen cars disappeared beneath shrieking balls of flame. Those running for cover were lifted off their feet by the shock waves; some were hit by flying glass. There were people lying all over the road and pavements, cars immobile as their drivers scrambled to escape the inferno that had filled the road and engulfed the Ritz.
In the shattered, blazing wreckage of the bus lay Gary Lucas, flames slowly devouring his skin, blistering lips still frozen in what looked like a grin.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
Scott was waiting when the cell door was opened. He dutifully followed the two warders, walking briskly between them, his eyes occasionally straying to right or left as he heard voices behind the thick steel of the doors.
The trio marched along one of the catwalks around landing C and descended the iron steps carefully.
It felt good to be able to move about again after the cramped conditions of solitary. As the three men reached the exercise yard, Scott sucked in deep breaths of air. The sky above was the colour of wet concrete but he didn't care. Anything was better than the cold, insipid yellow walls of his cell.
Life.
He sucked in another lungful of air, remembering his conversation with Nicholson.
Risks. What kind of risks?
He didn't care. There was a chance of escape, perhaps.
A chance to get away from this place. To return to London.
To Plummer.
To Carol.
He marched faster as they drew near the hospital wing. Despite himself, Scott felt a shiver of fear run along his spine.
Was the means of release within that gaunt edifice? And, if so, what form did it take?
Release.
He clung to the word like a dying man clings to life.
The trio entered the building, Scott recoiling from the pungent odour of disinfectant. He was led down a long corridor. At an office door one of his escort knocked and was told to enter.
Scott waited, glancing at the other warder. He remained impassive. Finally Scott was ushered in, the first warder hesitating inside the door.
'You can leave,' said Dr Robert Dexter.
'He's dangerous,' the warder insisted.
'Wait outside,' Dexter said, and the uniformed man left reluctantly. He waited until the door was closed, then motioned for Scott to be seated.
'Do you know who I am?' Dexter asked.
'Should I?' Scott enquired.
Dexter smiled thinly.
'No, I suppose not.' He introduced himself quickly. 'And you are James Scott.' He had a file open before him. 'A convicted murderer.'
'I didn't kill those men…' Scott began.
'That's as maybe, but as far as the law is concerned you're guilty. You're going to spend the rest of your life inside.'
Life.
Dexter looked at the file, even though he already knew the contents well enough.
'You lived alone; you have no family. No wife. No children,' he said quietly. 'No one.'
Scott regarded him coldly.
'Nobody to miss you,' Dexter continued.
'Try telling me something I don't know,' Scott snapped. 'You seem to know such a lot about me. Who the hell are you? A doctor? Big deal. What's that got to do with me?'
'More than a doctor, Scott. A surgeon. I specialise in disorders of the mind. God alone knows there are enough in this place.' He smiled thinly, but it faded quickly.
'I still don't understand what this has got to do with me,' Scott told him. 'I couldn't give a fuck if you're a brain surgeon or a gynaecologist. Perhaps you'd be better off if you were. There are plenty of cunts in here, most of them wearing uniforms. Why should it matter to me?'
'The same way it mattered to the five men before you. Four of them were released from here. Four convicted murderers, like you, allowed back into society. Most had only served a year or two of their sentence.'
Scott sat forward.
'They were just like you,' Dexter continued. 'Alone. They had no one. That's why we chose them. The same way we've chosen you. They knew of the risks and they accepted them.'
'Nicholson said something about risks. What did he mean?' Scott wanted to know.
'The operation always carries a risk…'
'What fucking operation?' Scott snapped.
'The insertion, into the forebrain, of a tiny electronic device. Once it's placed there, after a few months you'll be released.'
Scott sucked in a deep breath. His mouth felt dry, and when he tried to lick his lips he found that his tongue was also as dry as parchment.
'No one except the Governor, myself and my immediate staff know about this. It's up to you whether or not you decide to go through with the operation, but think about the possibility. Release.'
'What about the law? They'll know I'm gone, that I've escaped.'
'But you won't have escaped, you'll have been released. And there'll be no police interference. All the arrangements will be taken care of here.'
Scott stroked his chin thoughtfully.
'You said you experimented on five men, but you said four were released. What happened to the other one?'
'He died. There were complications, the risks that Nicholson mentioned.'
'What happened to him?'
'A massive brain tumour developed where the device was implanted. There was nothing I could do to save him, but he'd known about the possibility of failure from the beginning. It was a chance he was willing to take.' Dexter eyed the other man coldly. 'Are you willing to take that chance, Scott? Six months at the most and you'll be able to leave here. Six months. Not life.'
Life.
'If I agree, how soon can you operate?' he wanted to know.
'Tomorrow.'
Six months, Scott thought. Six fucking months and then out. Back to London. Back to Plummer.
Back to Carol. The bitch.
Six months.
Fuck it. He wouldn't wait that long.
He looked directly at Dexter, his eyes unblinking, his voice even.
'Do it,' he said quietly.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
'Could there have been a mistake?'
Police Commissioner Lawrence Sullivan looked up from his desk at Phillip Barclay.
The pathologist shook his head.
'The body that was pulled out of the wreckage was Gary Lucas,' Barclay confirmed. 'The dental records matched and so did the fingerprints.' The pathologist sighed. 'And, like Lawton, Bryce and Magee, I found that Lucas had also been suffering from a massive brain tumour. There was enough left of the head to ascertain that.'
Sunshine was pouring through the windows of Sullivan's office. Gregson could feel the warming rays on his arms as he sat looking at his superior.
Now tell me I'm wrong, you smug bastard, he thought.
'What were the final figures on dead and injured?' Sullivan wanted to know.
DS Finn flipped open his notebook.
'Twelve dead - that includes Lucas - and twenty-four injured,' he announced.
'I suppose you think this supports your idea, Gregson?' said the Commissioner.
'It seems hard to argue with the facts now, sir, I would have thought,' he said triumphantly.
'The facts, according to you, being that Bryce, Lawton, Magee and Lucas didn't die inside Whitely. Their deaths were, for some unknown reason, faked. Correct?'
'How can you argue with the evidence in front of you, sir?' Gregson wanted to know.
'I can argue with it because this,' he held up a blue, bound file, 'is the report of a Government committee chaired by an MP called Bernard Clinton. It seems that he and three of his colleagues visited Whitely not long ago to investigate the overcrowding there. He doesn't mention anything unusual. In fact, he compliments the administration there for their work in trying to alleviate "overcrowding." ' Sullivan dropped the file onto his desk with a thud. 'No mention of anything like a conspiracy. No mention of faking the deaths of murderers, then releasing them.'
'Well, I don't expect he was shown the process, sir,' snarled Gregson.
'What process, for Christ's sake?' Sullivan demanded. 'Four men died in Whitely. Their crimes were imitated…'
'The crimes were re-enacted by their original perpetrators,' Gregson interrupted angrily. 'What the fuck is it going to take to make you realise what's going on?'
Finn looked warily at his companion, then at their superior.
'What do you want, Gregson?' Sullivan asked.
'I want exhumation orders for those other three men,' the DI said flatly. 'I want to go into Whitely. I want those graves dug up. I want to see that Lawton, Bryce and Magee are in the coffins they're supposed to be in.'
'You're insane,' Sullivan hissed.
'Just like I was insane to dig up Lucas? If I'm crazy then so is Finn, because he saw that empty coffin. So is Barclay, because he's told you that it's Lucas we've got downstairs, just like it's the others we've got down there keeping him company. I'm beginning to think it's you who's crazy, sir. You refuse to believe what's right in front of your nose.'
'There'll be a dismissal notice in front of your nose if you ever speak to me like that again, Gregson. Do you understand?' Sullivan rasped, 'I've seen the evidence, I've heard the facts but I can't issue exhumation orders for those other three men.'
'Why not?' Gregson asked, exasperated.
'Because this isn't just police business, it's political,' Sullivan said. 'What the hell do you think the Press would make of it? Police officers, digging up graves in a prison to find out whether or not the men supposedly buried there are really dead? There's a Home Office report testifying to the efficiency of Whitely Prison and you're trying to tell me there's a conspiracy going on there with the full knowledge of the Governor.'
'At least consider the facts, sir,' Gregson said, leaning forward. 'We have irrefutable proof that the four men lying in the pathology lab supposedly died anything up to a year before they actually did. We know their identities. We know the death of at least one of them was faked. They all duplicated their original crimes, they all committed suicide. Every one of the four was suffering from a massive brain tumour at the time of his death, and every one had been an inmate at Whitely Prison.'
Sullivan exhaled deeply, sitting back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He looked at the pictures of his wife and kids on the corner of his desk, reaching across to straighten one of them slightly. When he spoke again his tone was softer.
'Gregson, I have considered the facts,' he said. 'But I've also considered something you obviously haven't. Namely, the consequences. Have you stopped to think, once, of the ramifications involved if you're right?' He looked at the DI whose gaze never faltered. 'Christ alone knows, there's enough public concern about what goes on in our prisons at the moment; can you imagine what would happen if you were proved to be right? A conspiracy of officials at one of the country's leading maximum security prisons? As I said, it isn't just a police matter. It's a question of politics, too. Politics and ethics.'
'I'm sure the people that Lucas and the others killed would be impressed if they were alive to hear you, sir,' Gregson said acidly.
'I can't sign those exhumation orders,' the Commissioner said wearily.
'Why not?' snapped Gregson. 'It's our only way of finding out once and for all what's going on. How many more times has this got to happen before you'll agree?'
'Appeals to my conscience won't work,' Sullivan told him.
'I'm not appealing to your conscience, I'm appealing to your common sense.'
There was a heavy silence, finally broken by Sullivan. 'You're so sure you're right,' he began.
'The evidence…'
Sullivan cut him short. 'I know all about the bloody evidence,' he interrupted, holding up a hand to silence the DI. 'But just suppose, for one second, that you're wrong.'
'Then I'll resign,' Gregson said flatly.
'You and all the rest of us, too,' Sullivan said, looking around the room. 'You still don't know why the murderers are being released again.'
'And the only way I'll do that is by getting inside Whitely and seeing inside those graves,' the DI said. 'You could be wrong,' Sullivan repeated, it's a chance I'm willing to take.'
The Commissioner rubbed both hands over his face. 'Well, I'm not willing to take that chance,' he said. Gregson got to his feet angrily.
'That means you won't sign the papers for the magistrate's order?' he rasped.
'Not until I've thought about it more.'
'How much longer is that going to be?' Gregson wanted to know.
'As long as it takes,' Sullivan told him. 'Now get out.' As the three men filed out of the office Sullivan called to the DI.
'You want an answer?' he said, reflectively. 'You can have one. In forty-eight hours.'
'Forty-eight hours could be too long,' Gregson snapped.
'You don't have a choice. I'll give you my answer then.'
Gregson nodded, closing the office door behind him.
Sullivan turned his chair to face the sun, looking out over London, the beginnings of a headache throbbing at his temples.
Outside, the sun had been obscured by a thick bank of dark clouds.
Sullivan closed his eyes, fingertips pressed together beneath his chin as if he were praying.
It seemed most appropriate.