Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  'What did they think of the electronic tagging idea?' Dexter wanted to know, still unwinding bandages.

  'They liked it. Needless to say, I didn't mention our other little venture.'

  'You won't be able to keep it secret forever,' Dexter exclaimed. 'Besides, secrecy wasn't my aim. Once the technique has been perfected there'll be no need to hide the truth.'

  'And how do you propose to announce your findings, Dexter? By showing the world an example of your work?' He nodded in the direction of the man in the bed. The first layer of bandages was off. Dexter began on the next one.

  'When it works, it'll be nothing to be ashamed of. It's what I've been working towards for most of my professional life,' the doctor said defensively.

  'The world might applaud your achievement but I doubt if it will condone your methods,' Nicholson said, taking his eyes from the bandaged man to look momentarily at Dexter. 'Brain operations on convicted murderers.' He smiled. 'It'll be interesting to see how the Home Office reacts to that.'

  'It was you who allowed me to work here; why do you ridicule me?'

  Nicholson held up his hands.

  'No offence meant.' He smiled again, 'I'm happy for you to do your work here.'

  'It doesn't seem to bother you that it hasn't been altogether successful so far.'

  Nicholson shrugged.

  'I sometimes wonder if you realise what this work actually means, Nicholson. An end to man's violent tendencies… An end by the insertion of a device constructed and perfected by me.'

  'Don't lecture me, Dexter.'

  'If this work is successful it could mean an end to places like Whitely. An end to violence.'

  'You're starting to sound like a refugee from a bad horror film. The role of mad scientist doesn't suit you.'

  'What the hell is mad about wanting to stop violence?'

  'Because it's a wasted dream,' hissed Nicholson. 'If you believe you can stop violence by your surgery, you're crazy. You've seen some of the men in here; you know what they're capable of. How can you hope to stop that with technology? I find the twisted nobility of your scheme rather amusing, all the same,' he added sardonically.

  'You don't care whether it works or not, do you?' Dexter said. 'You never have. If the men die as a result of the surgery you don't care.'

  'They're murderers. If we still had the death penalty they'd be hanged, anyway. You've become the executioner, Dexter. All you're doing is carrying out a sentence that the courts no longer have the power to impose. That's what I agree with. Not the ethics behind your work.'

  'And what about the ones who've survived? It was you who allowed me to release them. If they'd been traced back to here, it would have been your responsibility.'

  'We've been fortunate, so far,' the Governor said, looking down at the man lying in the bed.

  Dexter was pulling the last layer of bandages away, using the scissors to snip off any loose pieces, exposing the face beneath. Only the bandages around his scalp remained. Slowly Dexter began to loosen those, too. 'What makes you think you can succeed now, when you couldn't all those years before?' Nicholson wanted to know. 'You were using surgery on your patients in the asylum.'

  'When I was working in Bishopsgate I was using a different method,' Dexter explained. 'My colleague and I thought we could stop patients' psychotic tendencies by removing the parts of the brain responsible for triggering violence. I now know that was wrong,' He pulled more bandages away, 'Inserting the device inside the brain, actually placing it in the lateral ventricle ensures that the chemical is evenly spread around the brain.'

  He pulled the last piece of bandage away, revealing the bald dome of his subject.

  There was a thin cut running around the skull, stitched in several places but held, in others, by several aluminium clips fixed to the skull like large staples holding the cranium shut.

  'Good morning, Doctor Frankenstein,' said Nicholson, smiling.

  Dexter didn't appreciate the joke.

  He took a scalpel from the pocket of his jacket and slipped the plastic sheath off its sharp blade. Then with infinite care, he loosened two of the clips, sliding the tip of the scalpel into the incision in the scalp.

  As he applied pressure to the blade, a portion of the skull about the size of a ten pence piece came free. Beneath, the greyish-white brain was clearly visible, criss-crossed by countless tiny blood vessels. The brain was throbbing rhythmically, looking as if it was trying to well up out of the hole in the scalp. In the centre of the pulsing greyness was a gleaming object only millimetres square.

  'When hormone levels in the blood rise, due to anger or aggression, the device releases an artificial chemical which neutralizes other bodily fluids like adrenalin,' Dexter explained. 'It's like a warning system. As soon as the patient feels anger, the device releases the chemical, calming him down again.'

  'Why is it placed there?' Nicholson wanted to know. 'I thought the mid-brain controlled sight and hearing.'

  'It does, but no area of the brain has yet been identified as controlling reactions like reason. Violent men don't usually stop to reason first. The device is located centrally because the chemical can be distributed more quickly through the brain that way. It also makes the operation easier.' He kept his eyes on the pulsing grey matter.

  'You said you used to cut away portions of the brain,' Nicholson said.

  'That was useless,' Dexter said. 'I might as well have lobotomised the patients. It stopped them reacting violently because it stopped them reacting at all.'

  Nicholson raised his eyebrows.

  'I don't want to create mindless idiots, that's not my goal. It doesn't benefit them or me.'

  Nicholson was unimpressed. He stepped away from the bed.

  'Is he going to die?' he asked, nodding towards the patient, the brain still throbbing gently through the hole in the skull.

  'Does it bother you?'

  'Not really. No.'

  'He's got as much chance as the others had.'

  'If it works, Dexter, if he survives, this time we have to be sure before we go any further. We can't afford any more mistakes. Either of us.'

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Pick it up.

  Come on, for Christ's sake. Answer the bloody phone.

  Jim Scott drummed his fingers on the table and held the receiver to his ear, irritated by the insistent ringing tone that throbbed inside his head.

  He pressed down on the cradle, waited a moment then dialled again.

  He listened to the hisses and pops of static as the number connected and the phone rang again.

  'Come on,' he murmured under his breath, glancing at his watch, wondering where the hell Carol had got to at nine-forty in the morning. Perhaps she'd gone out to get some shopping, he thought. Perhaps she was in the bath.

  Perhaps…

  Perhaps she knew it was him and she deliberately wasn't answering.

  How could she know? He rebuked himself for his stupidity. Anger that she wasn't answering now combined with concern and something approaching desperation in his mind. If only she would pick up the receiver. He needed to hear her voice, needed to speak and to hear her speak. Most of all he needed to apologise. In his clumsy, fumbling way he needed to say sorry for what had happened at the club the night before. He shouldn't have grabbed her, shouldn't have shouted at her. She was right, he had no hold over her. He didn't own her.

  Pick up the fucking phone.

  She had left the previous night without speaking to him, without giving him the chance to say how sorry he was. He'd sat up for most of the night brooding about it, wondering what her reaction to him would be, finally deciding that he couldn't wait until the evening to find out.

  He put down the phone, sat staring at it for a moment and then dialled once more.

  The ringing tone greeted him.

  'Shit,' hissed Scott and slammed it down. He got to his feet and pulled on his jacket, heading for the front door.

  He would speak to her, no matter what.
r />   ***

  The journey took him the better part of an hour, due to delays on the Tube, but now, as he walked from the station, he felt a curious mixture of elation and anxiety.

  He was going to see Carol. Not just speak to her, but see her. He could tell her face to face how sorry he was for the incident of the previous night. As he walked he wondered if he should have bought her flowers. No. It was enough that he should have taken the trouble to visit her and offer his apologies.

  What if she wasn't home?

  He would wait for her. If she was out he'd sit on her front step and wait until she returned, or he'd walk around and try again later. He would not leave until he'd seen her.

  He rounded a corner, passing three children kicking a football back and forth across the road. The ball bounced near Scott and he trapped it with his left foot, then swivelled and hooked it to one of the young boys with his right, smiling to himself.

  The boy, no more than ten, looked at Scott and frowned. 'Flash cunt,' he called as the man walked on.

  The kids continued their game.

  Scott finally reached the house he sought. He knew that Carol occupied the basement flat. A short flight of stone steps led down to the entrance. Scott paused for a moment, looking up at the house. The paintwork on some of its window frames was blistered and peeling like scabrous skin. A pane of glass in one of the ground floor flats had been broken, replaced hastily with just a sheet of newspaper held in place by masking tape. There were tiles missing from the roof. Scott wandered down the short set of steps to Carol's door, noticing that there was a pint of milk on the step.

  He banged twice and waited.

  No answer.

  Perhaps she was still in bed.

  He banged again. This time, when he received no answer, he moved across to the window and, cupping one hand over his eyes, endeavoured to see inside the flat. Net curtains prevented his attempted intrusion. He could see nothing.

  'Can I help you?'

  The voice startled him and he spun round, looking up to see a young woman standing there. She was in her early thirties, dressed in a worn leather jacket and faded jeans. She was carrying a bag of shopping that she kept moving from one hand to the other.

  'I live upstairs,' she told him.

  'I'm looking for Carol Jackson,' he said, noticing that the woman was running appraising eyes over him. i'm a friend of hers. I've been ringing all morning but I couldn't get any answer.'

  The woman nodded.

  'I should have taken her milk in,' she said. 'I usually do if she doesn't come home.'

  Scott frowned.

  'She's not here, then?' he exclaimed.

  'She didn't come home last night,' the woman told him.

  Scott gritted his teeth.

  'Where is she?' he demanded.

  The woman shrugged.

  'I take her milk in, I don't ask her for reports,' she said as Scott started up the steps.

  He brushed past her.

  'Can I give her a message?' the woman asked. 'I'll probably see her later.'

  Scott was already stalking off up the road.

  'I'll see her later,' he called over his shoulder.

  The woman shrugged and made her way into the house.

  When he reached the end of the street, Scott turned and looked back towards the house.

  Where the hell is she?

  Could something have happened to her on the way home last night?

  Perhaps she never got home.

  The ball the three youngsters were kicking about landed near Scott once more.

  If she didn't go home, where the fuck did she go?

  'Oi, our ball,' shouted one of the kids.

  Scott looked at the lad, then at the ball close to his feet. He lashed out at it and sent it flying down the road, away from the trio of kids.

  'You bastard,' one of them shouted as he raced after it.

  Scott ignored his insult and continued walking, his face set in hard lines.

  Where the hell was she?

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  The shutters were still closed, the door firmly locked. It would be another two hours before Les Gourmets opened for business.

  Inside the restaurant the tables were bare but for cloths, all immaculately clean. The staff wouldn't arrive to set them for a while yet. Out in the kitchen preparations were already taking place in readiness for the lunch-time trade. The restaurant always did well at lunch-times, situated as it was in Shepherd Market. It was one of five such establishments owned by Ray Plummer.

  Now he sat at one of the tables, cradling a glass of white wine in one hand. With the other he gently stroked his hair.

  There were five other men with him. They too had drinks. Plummer put down his glass and reached into his inside pocket for the monogrammed cigarette case. He took one and lit it, looking round at his companions.

  'Same voice as the other night, Ray?' said John Hitch, flicking his long blond hair over his shoulders.

  Plummer nodded.

  'And I still couldn't pin the bastard down,' he complained.

  'He says the shipment's coming in by boat?' Terry Morton said.

  'The Sandhopper, it's called,' Plummer told him. He repeated the other details about the shipment of cocaine, as relayed to him by the mysterious informant the previous night. He sat back when he'd finished and sipped his wine.

  'Could it be a set up?' Joe Perry wanted to know. Perry was a thick-set, bull-necked man who looked as if he'd been eased into his suit with a shoe-horn. The material stretched so tightly across his shoulder blades it threatened to rip. His face was smooth, almost feminine; it looked as if it had never felt the touch of a razor.

  Plummer shrugged.

  'It could be,' he said.

  'It could also be bollocks, couldn't it?' Morton interjected. 'I mean, there might not even be a shipment of coke.'

  'Then why bother phoning?' asked Adrian McCann, rubbing a hand over his close-cropped hair. Over his ears it was completely shaved. 'It's a bit fucking elaborate, isn't it?'

  'That's what I said,' Plummer agreed. He turned to Hitch. 'You heard the geezer the other night, John; he didn't sound like he was joking, did he?'

  Hitch shook his head.

  'I agree with Joe,' he added. 'It could be a set-up.'

  'But by who?' Plummer wanted to know, a note of exasperation in his voice. 'We know it's not another organisation in London, especially not Ralph Connelly's firm.'

  'Could it be somebody working for Connelly with an axe to grind?' asked Martin Bates, running his finger around the rim of his glass. Bates was in his early twenties, one of Plummer's youngest employees.

  Plummer shrugged.

  'Who knows? The point is, do we go with it or not? Do we assume there is a shipment? And, if there is, do we knock it over?'

  'Are you asking for votes, boss?' Hitch said, laughing.

  The other men laughed too. Plummer didn't see the joke and glanced irritably at Hitch, waiting until they calmed down.

  'Right, let's assume there is a shipment of coke,' he continued. 'Let's say that phone call was kosher. The day after next the shipment is meant to be arriving, if the information's right. If it is right then the coke is hidden among a load of coffee beans. Now the question is, if this is a set-up, we're going to get hit when we try to take the lorry they're transferring the shit to. How do we get round that?'

  'Take out the lorry first?' offered Joe Perry.

  'No,' Hitch said, smiling. 'We hit it before they even take it off the boat.'

  Even Plummer smiled.

  'Hijack the fucking boat,' Hitch continued. 'Unload it somewhere else down the river. We have our own lorry waiting. Unload it, pack it away and piss off.'

  Plummer slapped him on the shoulder.

  'That's what we'll do,' he said. 'Take the shipment while it's still on the river.'

  'Like pirates,' chuckled Morton.

  The other men laughed.

  'Ray, there are some other things to consi
der,' offered McCann. 'Once we've hit Connelly's shipment, he ain't going to be too happy.'

  'I wouldn't be if I'd just lost twenty million,' Plummer said humourlessly. 'What are you getting at? You reckon he might come looking for bother?'

  'Wouldn't you?' McCann said.

  'He's right, Ray,' Hitch interjected. 'A fucking gang war is the last thing we want.'

  'What am I, stupid?' Plummer said. 'There's no need for Connelly to know who turned him over. If it's done properly, and I'm not talking about fucking balaclavas and funny accents, there's no reason why he should know who hit him.' He looked at Hitch. 'I'm leaving that side of it to you, John. Like I said, you got about thirty-six hours.'

  Hitch nodded.

  'If the worst comes to the worst and he does find out, what then?' Perry wanted to know.

  'A gang war would be as damaging to Connelly as it would to us. He won't want it,' Plummer said with assurance. 'But if he does, he can't win. We're stronger and, for twenty million, I'm bloody sure we're going to be better equipped. Connelly will realise that. He's not stupid.'

  'So we go with it, then?' Hitch echoed.

  Plummer nodded. He reached across and touched Hitch's arm.

  'John, I want Jim Scott to drive one of the cars,' he said quietly.

  Hitch looked puzzled.

  'Scott? He runs one of your clubs, doesn't he? I wouldn't have thought he was the right bloke for this kind of operation,' Hitch said.

  'I want him involved,' Plummer said, his eyes never leaving Hitch. 'He knows how to handle himself. He'll be all right.'

  'I'm sure he will. I just don't know why you want him in on it.'

  'I've got my reasons,' Plummer said.

  Hitch shrugged.

  'I'm sure you have,' he said. 'Okay, I'll tell him. If you want him in, that's fair enough, Ray. You're the boss.'

  Plummer smiled.

  'Yeah, I am.'

  FIFTY-NINE

  They were watching him. He was certain of it now.

  As the tube pulled into Westminster station Trevor Magee looked directly across the compartment and saw his own reflection in the glass. He tried not to look either left or right. As the doors slid open he glanced at the middle-aged couple who got out but then stared straight ahead again.