Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  The magazines were stacked up to three feet high on shelves that reached almost to the tall ceiling of the warehouse. Light struggled to penetrate a skylight which was so filthy it was nearly opaque. Inside, the place smelt of newsprint. As he pushed the trolley, Scott couldn't help but smile to himself. Whenever he visited this place (usually once a month to check up on new stock and place his order) he couldn't shake the feeling that, pushing his trolley around amidst shelves piled high with books featuring every kind of sexual perversion, he was like a shopper in some depraved branch of Sainsbury's.

  'Some of this new stuff that's been coming in is fucking ace, I tell you,' Kinsellar said, making another note. 'Especially the German stuff. The krauts certainly know what they're doing when it comes to porn.' He chuckled, hawked and swallowed. 'I got a load of videos in the other day. You've never seen anything like it. Birds eating each other's shit. I was fucking amazed.' He smiled. 'I just kept thinking, "I hope they got it right on the first take". I mean, it's difficult enough getting an actress to cry on cue, isn't it? But to shit on cue.' The sentence disappeared beneath that mucoid chuckle.

  Scott continued pushing the trolley, his mind elsewhere.

  Carol wouldn't be in until eight that night.

  He had another nine hours before he could ask her where she'd been last night when he was trying to call her.

  They rounded a corner and began down another aisle.

  'You're quiet today, Jim,' Kinsellar noticed at last.

  They don't call you flash for nothing, George, do they? thought the younger man.

  'Business bad, is it?'

  'Business is fine.'

  It's me that's fucked up.

  'You still seeing that bird that works at the club?' Kinsellar wanted to know. 'Whatsername…'

  'Carol,' Scott said, reaching for another magazine and flipping it open. He studied the first few pages, looking at the girls lying on a bed, their fingers thrust deep into their vaginas, their labia spread wide for the prying camera. He dropped the magazine into the trolley and walked on.

  'Yeah, I'm still seeing her,' Scott said wearily.

  'You don't sound very enthusiastic.'

  Scott rounded on him.

  'What do you want, a fucking blow-by-blow of the last two months?' he snapped.

  'All right,' Kinsellar said, taking a step back. 'No need to bite my fucking head off. I just wondered if I could help. If you wanted to talk about it.'

  'Stick to selling the mags, George. Being an agony aunt doesn't suit you,' Scott rasped.

  'You young blokes are all the same. Think you know it all when it comes to women, don't you?'

  'I wish I knew something. Anything. I don't understand them.'

  'You and every other bloke around, my son,' Kinsellar told him. 'I've been married twice, lived with two other birds, the last one for fifteen years, and I'm still none the wiser. But I've seen more of them than most.'

  'Are we talking crotches now, George?' Scott said acidly. 'Well, come on, let me have it. Let's hear some advice from the world's number one cunt expert.'

  'Somebody really did rattle your cage this morning, didn't they?' Kinsellar said. 'You had a row with her, is that it?'

  Scott shook his head.

  'No, I haven't had a row with her,' he said. 'That's the trouble. We've hardly spoken in the last couple of weeks.' He suddenly became aware that he was opening up to Kinsellar. 'Fuck it, why am I telling you?'

  'A trouble shared…'

  'Fucks up two people instead of one. I know,' snapped Scott. 'Now can you stop asking me questions about Carol?' He glared at the older man.

  Kinsellar shrugged and followed him in silence for a few paces.

  'You still shagging her?' he asked at last.

  Scott spun round, his eyes blazing. He grabbed the older man by the lapels of his jacket and hurled him up against one of the bookshelves, his face only inches away from Kinsellar's.

  'No more questions,' he hissed through clenched teeth.

  Kinsellar tried to nod but Scott's fists beneath his chin prevented that gesture.

  'All right,' he croaked.

  Scott held him a moment longer then pushed him away.

  A large figure appeared at the end of the aisle. Six-four and over sixteen stone, he was Kinsellar's nephew, biceps and chest hardly covered by the T-shirt he wore, muscles pumped up by years of loading and unloading lorries and generally helping with the older man's business. He looked at his uncle then at Scott.

  'It's all right,' Kinsellar called to him. 'Go back to work, Bernie. There's no bother.'

  Bernie hesitated a moment, his gaze held by Scott.

  You want some, too? Come on then, you big fucker.

  Scott could feel the vein at his temple pulsing angrily.

  The big man disappeared again.

  Scott pushed the trolley on.

  'You're bloody crazy,' Kinsellar said, catching up to him. 'I was only asking a question.'

  'You ask too many questions, George. It's my problem, so I'll sort it out, right?' He looked unblinking at the older man, who nodded.

  'You ought to watch that temper of yours, son. It's going to get you into bother one day.'

  Scott looked at him impassively.

  'What about the videos?' he asked.

  ***

  The ordering took less than half an hour. Scott sat in Kinsellar's office gazing into space, a mug of tea gripped in one hand. He didn't seem to notice that it was burning his fingers. He finally looked across at the older man and got to his feet.

  'I'd better go,' he said, glancing at his watch.

  Another eight hours before he could see Carol.

  'I've got some good stuff coming in next week,' Kinsellar told him. 'German again. Some bird in a video having toothpicks shoved through her cunt lips.'

  'Just send some over, eh?' He headed towards the door.

  'Are you seeing Carol tonight?' the older man asked.

  Scott turned slowly to look at him, his face darkening.

  'I told you not to ask me any more questions about her, George,' he rasped.

  'Just curious,' he said, a slight grin on his face. 'Maybe it comes with age.' He cackled his mucoid giggle.

  'And I told you, you ask too many questions.'

  'I've got one more,' Kinsellar said, reaching for a magazine that lay on his desk. He flipped it open to the centre spread where a girl with her legs spread wide and fingers parting her moist vagina was smiling into the camera.

  'What is it?' asked Scott.

  Kinsellar held up the centrespread.

  'Where do you reckon she lives?'

  TWENTY-TWO

  Detective Inspector Frank Gregson leaned back on the two rear legs of his chair and began rocking gently, his gaze rivetted to the sheets of paper on his desk.

  They were statements taken from witnesses to the shooting in the Haymarket two days ago. Jesus, it seemed longer than two days. It seemed like a fucking eternity. Maybe it would be an eternity before they identified the mysterious killer. Once that was done they might at least have a chance of figuring out why, when escape had been possible he had chosen to kill himself.

  No word had come up from the pathology labs from Barclay as yet. He was still working on the remains of the corpse, trying to find some clue in the twisted, blackened remnants of humanity that might give them a lead on the individual who had, for no apparent reason, taken six lives (one of the victims on the critical list had died late the previous night) and then killed himself, all in the space of about five minutes.

  Where did he come from?

  Where did he get hold of the weapons?

  Why did he chose to strike where he did?

  Fuck it, thought Gregson, it was all questions and no answers so far.

  The statements didn't help much, either.

  'One says he was blond, another says he was ginger,' the DI muttered, flipping through the neatly typed sheets. 'One says short hair, another says tied in a pony-tail.
It's a wonder they all managed to agree he was the same fucking colour.'

  On the other side of the desk, DS Stuart Finn pulled a Marlboro from the packet and jammed it between his lips. He lit up, blowing a long stream of blue smoke into the air.

  The DS was holding a photo-fit picture on his lap. It was held firmly in place by a bulldog clip at the top and bottom.

  'That's the artist's impression,' he said, handing the sketch to Gregson. 'Based on the witnesses' statements.'

  Gregson ran his gaze over the picture, his face expressionless. He tossed it onto his desk contemptuously.

  'Does it match up with anything in our files?' he asked, clasping his hands clasped across his stomach. He was staring down at his desk as if trying to see through the wood, through the floors to the pathology labs below.

  'There's only one way to find out and that's to go through every one. One by one.' Finn shrugged. 'Want to toss for it?' He smiled thinly.

  'If there were two bloody statements which said the same thing about him then we might have a chance. As it is…' Gregson stopped in mid-sentence and flipped open the first file of statements. He leafed through them, pulling one out. It had been made by a cashier in the bank the man had entered. He looked hurriedly through the others until he found what he sought. The other statement was that of a motorist who had nearly collided with the killer when he'd been escaping on the motorbike.

  'Staring eyes,' said Gregson, running his index finger over the words in both statements. 'Two of them do agree on one thing,' he said. 'The killer had staring eyes.'

  Finn shrugged.

  'Have I missed something?' he said. 'Perhaps he had thyroid. I'm not with you.'

  'We nicked a guy about six years ago, he'd done a series of bank blags, never got away with much; he seemed more interested in hurting people than the money. He hit four banks all in Central London, same method every time. He walked in, blew out the cashier's window and took the dosh. He always carried a shotgun and an automatic.'

  Finn nodded slowly, the recollection gradually coming to him.

  'The most striking thing about him, most of the witnesses at the time said,' Gregson continued, 'were his eyes. His staring eyes.' He tapped the two newest statements. 'Staring eyes.'

  'Lawton,' the DS said, a faint smile on his lips. 'Peter Lawton. Shit, I remember him now.' The smile faded rapidly. 'It's a coincidence, though, Frank; somebody imitating Lawton's methods, that's all. He's been inside for six years, still got another five to do before he even comes up for parole.'

  Gregson nodded slowly.

  'Weird, though, isn't it?' he muttered. 'Copy-cat killers, maybe, but copy-cat bank robbers?'

  'What are you saying?'

  The DI shrugged.

  'I don't know what the fuck I'm saying,' he snapped. 'We know Lawton couldn't have done it because he's inside. So what do we make of these statements? The man had staring eyes,' he read aloud.

  'Twin brother?' Finn offered somewhat lamely.

  'Do me a favour,' said Gregson getting to his feet. 'At the moment, though, I'm willing to consider anything. Let's check his file.'

  Finn looked at his watch.

  Seven-twenty P.M.

  He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray which was already overflowing with butts. A couple spilled over onto Gregson's desk and he swept them into his hand hastily before his superior noticed.

  'Another fucking blank,' said Gregson, looking at the file on Peter Lawton. 'No family, no living relatives.' He looked at Finn. 'No twin brothers.'

  'So what do we do next?' the DS wanted to know.

  'You tell me.'

  'Well, I fancy a drink. Join me?' Finn said, getting to his feet.

  'No, I'm going to stay here for a while, try and think this through.'

  'Frank, we're banging our heads on a fucking wall until pathology comes up with something concrete to identify the bloke. What's the point?' Finn asked, exasperated.

  'You go, I'll see you in the morning,' the DI said, flipping open Lawton's file once again.

  Finn hesitated, then said goodnight and left. Gregson heard his footsteps receding down the corridor.

  Peter Lawton, sentenced to fifteen years for armed robbery and murder. Term being served in Whitely Maximum Security Prison, Derbyshire.

  Term being served.

  Gregson rubbed both hands over his face, exhaling deeply.

  Another ten or fifteen minutes and he would leave. It was time to go home.

  But first there was something he had to do.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The wound was big enough to push two fists through. Portions of ribcage, shattered by the shotgun blast, protruded through the mess of pulped flesh gleaming whitely amidst the crimson.

  Gregson looked long and hard at the photo, then slipped it carefully, almost reverently, on top of the others.

  The baby had been practically cut in two by the blasts that had ripped through its pram.

  Gregson looked at the tiny form, his face expressionless. There was another shot of it from a different angle. The angle made no difference to the massive damage that had been inflicted on the tiny child.

  The DI took a swig from the glass of whisky he held in his other hand and pulled another photo from the pile on the table.

  Before leaving New Scotland Yard he had collected the files on all of the victims of the gunman whose identity still remained a mystery.

  There was a picture of the head of the motorcyclist the man had shot outside the bank.

  The wound in the base of the skull looked relatively small, no larger than a ten pence coin. It was the other photo that showed the exit wound which caused Gregson to drain, a little more quickly than he would normally, the last dregs in his glass.

  The bullet had exited just below the motorcyclist's right eye, shattering the cheekbone and dislodging the eye from its socket.

  Although, Gregson reasoned, it hadn't been the shell itself that had blasted the orb free but the gases, released from the high velocity round as it had powered through the man's head. The eye was intact, still attached to the skull by the optic nerve.

  Gregson dropped the picture down with the others and got to his feet, crossing the room to the sideboard. He opened it and took out the bottle of Teacher's. He poured himself a large measure, thought about adding some soda then decided against it. For long moments he stood by the sideboard, his breath coming in low, deep gasps, as if he'd just run a great distance. He rolled the glass across his forehead, his back still to the sitting room door.

  He heard the door open but did not turn as his wife entered the room.

  Julie Gregson was wiping her hands on a dishcloth. She muttered something about the diamond in her engagement ring coming loose and gazed across the room at her husband.

  'Dinner's ready,' she said.

  'I'm not hungry,' Gregson said flatly, his back still to her. He took a swig from his glass.

  'Did you have any lunch?' she wanted to know.

  He shook his head.

  She moved towards him, passing the table where the photos were spread out.

  'Jesus Christ,' she muttered, noticing the topmost of them. She moved a step away, her eyes still fixed on it mesmerised for a moment.

  Gregson finally turned to look at her.

  No. Not at her. At the table. The photos.

  'What are they?' she said, the colour draining from her face.

  'Isn't that obvious?' he said acidly, sitting down and looking at the photos again.

  'Who are they?' Julie enquired, still keeping away from the table.

  'Is it important?'

  She moved the dishcloth from one hand to another, gazing at her husband then looking swiftly at the pictures once more.

  She was a couple of years younger than him, her face etched with lines a little deeper than a woman in her late twenties would expect. She was slim, almost thin, her small breasts hardly visible even beneath the tight T-shirt she wore. Her jeans were faded, one knee thread
bare, her skin showing through the narrow rent in the material.

  'Why did you bring those home?' she wanted to know.

  'It's part of my job,' he told her without looking up.

  She balled up the dishcloth and dropped it onto the table beside the pictures. Then she sat down on the edge of the chair opposite him.

  'Your bloody job,' she said quietly, but with anger. 'Everything is part of your bloody job, isn't it?'

  'It pays the mortgage. Perhaps you should remember that.' He looked at her impassively.

  'I work, too, Frank, in case you hadn't noticed. I do my bit towards the running of this house.'

  'But it's my bloody job,' he said contemptuously, 'that pays the bills, isn't it? Perhaps you should think about that before you start moaning. What do you want me to do, give it up? Find something else to do?'

  'When you're like this I wish you'd never joined the force,' she told him. 'Especially not the murder squad.'

  'When I'm like what?' he said, that note of contempt still in his voice.

  'You know what I'm talking about. This case, the last few cases, they've been getting you down badly.'

  'Bullshit,' he sneered.

  'It's not bullshit,' she rasped. 'It's true.' She glanced down at the photos briefly, revolted by them. 'Look at yourself, Frank, dwelling on what this man's done even when you're at home.'

  'Do you think I can just wipe it clean when I leave my office?' he said, with scathing contempt. 'Do you think my mind is like a fucking blackboard? You scratch things on it, words, sights, you scratch those on it during the day, then at night I just forget about them? Is that what you think?' He picked up the next picture. It showed what was left of the skull of the cashier who had taken a blast from the Spas in the face. Gregson shoved the picture towards Julie angrily. 'Can you expect me to wipe something like that from my mind so easily?'

  She looked away from the picture, feeling her stomach churn.

  'I see things like that every day and every night,' he continued vehemently. 'And you expect me to forget them? Have you any idea what goes through my mind? What thoughts are in here?' He prodded his temple with his index finger. 'No, you haven't. You could never understand.'