'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.'
NINETY-SIX
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.
He would have to use the knife to get into his flat as he had no keys.
Wearily he began to climb the stairs. He felt the blade cold against his flesh.
The razor-sharp blade. He thought of Carol. The knife.
Plummer.
He continued to climb.
NINETY-SEVEN
'Down there.'
The pilot tapped Gregson's shoulder and directed his attention towards the ground.
Through the cockpit windows of the helicopter the DI could see the shape of Whitely Prison standing darkly against the moorland that surrounded it.
He nodded as the pilot said something else, his voice metallic through the headset the policeman wore. The noise of the rotor blades filled the small cockpit as the twin-engined Lynx cruised smoothly towards its destination. Gregson checked his watch, noting that it had taken less than an hour to reach the prison from London. He glanced behind him to the rear seats, where Finn and two other plain clothes men sat. One of them, a tall man in his early forties called Clifford, was looking distinctly queasy. The other, Sherman, was looking out of the side window, watching the countryside rising up to meet them as the Lynx swept lower.
Finn was tapping his fingertips against his knees, waiting for the helicopter to land. He didn't like flying at the best of times and the Lynx, as far as he was concerned, offered even less protection in the air than an aircraft. He was looking forward to getting his feet back on firm ground. One glance at Clifford told him the tall man felt the same way.
'You okay?' Gregson said, raising his voice above the roar of the rotors.
Finn nodded.
'Where do you want me to drop her?' the pilot interrupted, tapping Gregson's arm once again.
The DI scanned the prison below and stroked his chin thoughtfully. From their present height the huge Victorian structure looked like a model. He could see figures moving about within the grounds, some doubtless able to see the approaching chopper and wondering about its presence.