Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  The doors remained open for a moment but no other passengers got on.

  Magee realised that he was alone apart from the other two.

  And he knew they were watching him.

  The two youths, both in their early twenties, one black, one white, had boarded the train at Gloucester Road station. At first they had sat directly opposite him, but as the train travelled through the subterranean tunnel one of them had moved three seats to his left. The other had moved to the right. Both sat on the opposite row of seats and Magee moved uncomfortably under their gaze. He looked up briefly and saw that the black youth was watching him. He was tall, taller than Magee's six feet, dressed in faded jeans and baseball boots which made his feet look enormous. He had one hand in the pocket of a baggy jacket. The other he was tapping on his right thigh, slapping out a rhythm, perhaps the accompaniment to the tuneless refrain he was humming.

  His white companion was also staring at Magee. He too wore baggy jeans and baseball boots, and across his T-shirt the words 'Ski-Club' could be clearly seen. His face was pitted and he needed a shave.

  Magee was painfully aware that he was alone in the compartment with the youths. He glanced at the map of the Underground on the panel opposite and saw that they were approaching Embankment Station. He decided to get off.

  Would they follow him?

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see the white youth had draped one leg over a plastic seat arm and was reclining, his gaze never leaving Magee.

  He began to consider the worst possible scenario. If they both came at him at once, from opposite sides, how would he deal with them?

  He tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous. He was, after all, thirty-six years old, six feet tall and well-built. Should they try anything he should be more than capable of dealing with them. But the doubts persisted.

  The black youth got to his feet, standing still for a moment, swaying with the motion of the train, gripping one of the rails overhead for support. Then he began walking towards Magee.

  The train was slowing slightly; they must be close to the station.

  The youth sat down opposite.

  Magee clenched both fists in the pockets of his long leather overcoat. The knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsed.

  He was ready.

  The train eased into the station and he got to his feet, heading for the door, pressing the 'DOOR OPEN' button even before it was illuminated. The orange light flared and he jabbed at it. The door slid open and he stepped out onto the platform, walking quickly towards the exit. Once there he paused and glanced behind him.

  There was no one following.

  He smiled and hurried to the escalator, scuttling up the moving stairway towards street level, finally emerging into the ticket hall. As he passed through he cast one last glance behind him to assure himself he was free of pursuers. Satisfied that he was, he walked out into Villiers Street, into the arms of the night.

  A chill wind had come with the onset of darkness and Magee pulled up the collar of his coat as protection against the breeze. Both hands dug firmly in his pockets, he walked along the narrow thoroughfare, the lights of the Strand up ahead of him. A young woman passed close and smiled. Magee returned the gesture, nodding a passing greeting, turning to look at her, appreciating the shapely legs visible below her short skirt.

  She had not been the first woman to offer him a smile during the past few hour. Magee was a good-looking man, his shoulder-length black hair and chiselled features making him look at least five years younger than his actual age. He had helped one woman with a pushchair and screaming infant on to a bus earlier, and she had gripped his hand tightly in hers as she had said thank you. He had merely smiled and waved to her as the bus pulled away.

  You either had it or you didn't, thought Trevor Magee, smiling broadly to himself.

  He passed a pub on his right called The Griffin, the sound of loud music swelling from inside. For a moment he thought about going in and fumbled in one of his pockets for some change, but he decided against it. He walked on, climbing the flight of stone steps that brought him up into the Strand itself.

  To his right there was a McDonalds; behind him the lights of the Charing Cross Hotel glowed in the darkness. To his left was Trafalgar Square.

  Magee's smile broadened.

  He looked around him, aware of the traffic speeding up and down, of the people who walked past him on the pavement, of people coming out of McDonalds laden with fast food. There was a dustbin outside and an elderly man dressed in a filthy jacket and torn trousers was shuffling towards it. There was a dark stain around the crotch of the trousers; Magee wrinkled his nose at the stench the old man was giving off.

  He watched as the tramp sorted through the rubbish, finally pulling out a soft-drinks container. He took off the lid and sniffed the contents, satisfied the liquid was drinkable. He swallowed it down as if parched.

  Magee's smile faded to a look of disgust.

  The tramp tossed the empty cup away and shuffled off in the other direction.

  Magee watched him go, pushing his way past pedestrians, finally disappearing down a side street.

  The younger man swallowed hard, then turned and walked briskly in the direction of Trafalgar Square.

  He had things to do.

  SIXTY

  She rubbed a thin layer of Vaseline over her lips and smiled, satisfied with the extra lubrication. Zena Murray had seen on television that beauty queens used the trick so she figured it would work for her. After all, she had to do a lot of smiling in her business, too. Contestants in a beauty contest had only judges to impress with their looks and stance. Zena had many other, more trenchant critics to impress. The punters were always demanding.

  Jim Scott watched as she finished applying the vaseline, pacing the dressing room as she stood naked before him, slipping on a G-string and a suspender belt.

  'And you haven't seen or heard from Carol since last night?' he said agitatedly.

  'Scotty, we work together, that's it,' Zena told him, rolling one stocking up her leg.

  'She didn't stay with you?'

  'There's hardly room in my place for me, let alone bloody guests,' Zena told him.

  Scott sighed.

  'She's okay, I bet you,' Zena said, trying to sound reassuring. She looked at Scott, something close to pity in her voice. 'Look, Scotty, you shouldn't worry about her so much. She's got her own life to lead, you know.' And you won't be part of it for much longer. 'You'd be better off looking for someone else,' she smiled, her attempts at light banter failing miserably. 'I'm unattached, you know.'

  'I don't want anyone else, Zena,' he told her.

  She shrugged.

  'Just trying to help,' she said. Help, or soften the blow?

  Scott opened the door.

  'When she comes in, tell her I want to see her, will you?' he said, then he was gone.

  Zena pulled on another stocking and heard his footsteps echoing away up the corridor.

  ***

  Scott returned to his office and sat at his desk, glancing at the phone, wondering if he should try calling Carol's flat again. He resisted the temptation, leaning back in his seat, running a hand across his forehead. A confusion of emotions tumbled through his mind: anger, concern, fear. He couldn't seem to settle on one that suited him. It was not knowing where she was that was so unsettling.

  Or who she was with?

  He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

  She wouldn't do that to him.

  Would she?

  He got to his feet and crossed to the window of the office. Below the streets were alive with people, all of them bathed in the neon glow that seemed to fill the very air itself with multi-coloured energy.

  Who was she with?

  Scott gritted his teeth.

  There couldn't be anyone else. He would know. There would be signs he'd have spotted. He sucked in a deep breath. No. There was a rational explanation for all this and, when Carol arrived, he
'd discover what it was.

  If she arrived.

  He returned to his desk and sat down. Even as he did there was a knock on the door and he was on his feet again instantly. The door opened.

  John Hitch walked in, smiling at Scott, who merely exhaled wearily.

  'Hello, Jim, I'm glad to see you too,' Hitch said, still smiling.

  'Sorry, John,' Scott said. 'I was expecting someone else.'

  The two men shook hands and Scott offered the other man a seat which he accepted and a drink which he declined.

  'Is Ray with you?' Scott wanted to know.

  Hitch shook his head.

  'I'm allowed out on my own tonight, Jimmy boy,' Hitch grinned.

  'This isn't a social call, is it, mate?' Scott said.

  'No. Ray sent me. I've got a job for you.'

  Scott looked puzzled.

  'Tomorrow night,' Hitch continued. 'We're going to hit a shipment of coke that Ralph Connelly's bringing in.' He laced his fingers on the desk top. 'You're supposed to drive one of the getaway cars.'

  'Are you fucking serious?' Scott exclaimed. 'That's not my line of work.'

  'I know that. I was as surprised as you, but Ray Plummer wants you in on it.' He sat back in his seat, i'm just a messenger, Jim. I do as I'm told, and he told me to include you in this job.'

  'Why?'

  Hitch shrugged.

  'Fuck knows. Like I said, I'm just doing what I was told.'

  Scott ran a hand through his hair, bewilderment on his face.

  'You'll be picked up from here tomorrow night at twelve,' Hitch told him. 'You'll be briefed on what you've got to do. I don't know what else I can say.' He looked almost apologetic.

  'I don't like this, John,' Scott told him.

  'Maybe not, mate, but you've got no choice.' Hitch got to his feet and crossed to the door.

  'You got a shooter?' he asked.

  'Beretta 92S. Why?'

  Hitch nodded.

  'Bring it.'

  SIXTY-ONE

  The beating of dozens of wings sounded like disembodied applause, receding gradually into the darkness.

  Trevor Magee stopped and looked up as the pigeons took off, anxious to avoid him as he made his way across Trafalgar Square. To his right was a hot-dog stand with a number of people gathered around it. From where he stood the pungent smell of frying onion was easily detectable. To his left one of the massive bronze lions that guarded the square had become a meeting place for some teenagers grouped around a ghetto blaster. Music was roaring from it. Magee didn't recognise the tune. Ahead were the fountains and Nelson's Column, jabbing upwards towards the overcast heavens as if threatening to tear the low cloud and release the torrents of rain that seemed to be swelling in them.

  Magee walked on, across the square, hands still dug firmly into his pockets. Every so often he would glance over his shoulder.

  As far as he could tell no one was following him. His pace remained steady as he walked past the low wall surrounding the fountain.

  A man was standing precariously on the wall urinating into the water.

  Magee stopped to watch him, his face impassive.

  'What the fucking hell are you looking at?' the man slurred, almost falling into the water.

  Magee stood his ground a moment longer, then headed towards the stone steps. He took them two at a time, pausing at the top to look back across the square.

  He scanned the dark figures moving about in the blackness, saw the odd flash-bulb explode as tourists took pictures of one of the capital's most famous landmarks. Then he crossed the street in front of the National Gallery, glancing up at the massive edifice of the building in the process. There was a man outside, close to one set of steps, selling hot chestnuts, the smell of burning coals and roasting nuts filling Magee's nostrils. The sights of London at night were something to behold but how many people, he wondered, ever noticed the variety of smells?

  He continued walking, past a queue of people filing aboard a sight-seeing bus, jostling for the best positions as they reached the open upper deck. Finally he turned into St Martin's Place.

  Across the street, on the steps of St Martin-in-the-Fields church, there was movement.

  Magee could make out two figures crouched on the steps near the top, quite close to the door of the church.

  They were passing a bottle back and forth between them.

  As he looked more closely he saw what appeared to be a bundle of rags behind them. On closer inspection the bundle of rags rose and revealed itself to be a woman, filthy dirty, her skin so grimy she was almost invisible in the gloom.

  As Magee watched she tottered down the steps and wandered off down Duncannon Street in the direction of the Strand.

  He stood watching her, his face set, the muscles in his jaw pulsing angrily.

  After what seemed an eternity he moved on, casting a cursory glance across at the two men sitting on the steps outside the church. As he reached Irving Street he paused again, looking behind him.

  Still no sign.

  Magee quickened his pace, walking up the centre of the wide road, passing restaurants on either side. The people inside them reminded him of goldfish, seated in the windows, bereft of any privacy from prying eyes as they ate. He emerged into Leicester Square slowing his pace again, glancing once over his shoulder before moving off to his right, past a line of people waiting to enter the Odeon. Two buskers were playing banjos, walking up and down the line, while a dwarf scampered in and out of the waiting cinema-goers with an outstretched hand, cajoling money from the queue.

  He was holding a flat cap full of coins. As each woman dropped money into the cap he would kiss her hand before skipping on to the next.

  He even looked up at Magee, who merely ignored the little man and walked on, hands still dug deep into his pockets.

  A drain had overflowed at the end of the road and water was running down the tarmac. Mageie paid it little heed as he continued his nocturnal stroll, looking around him constantly, occasionally slowing down to look over his shoulder or perhaps changing direction quickly, ducking into a group of people.

  Just in case.

  He could hear shouting up ahead; and there was a large gathering of people around a man who was obviously standing on a box of some kind.

  Magee pushed his way carefully through the crowd until he reached the front. The man was dressed in a combat jacket and jeans, and behind him stood two more men, their hair cropped short, dressed in a similar fashion but holding two flags, a Union Jack and a red flag with a cross on it. Another was handing out leaflets with 'THE JESUS ARMY' emblazoned on them. Magee took one, glanced at it and stuffed it into his pocket.

  The man on the box was shouting about death and re-birth, Heaven and Hell.

  Magee smiled.

  He walked on, heading round the square towards the cinema.

  To his right he saw another of them.

  Man. Woman.

  At first he couldn't be sure. As he drew closer he saw that it was a man huddled beneath a thick overcoat, sitting on the pavement watching the crowds go by. In front of him he had a piece of cardboard on which was scrawled: HOMELESS AND HUNGRY.

  Magee looked at the cardboard and then at the man who, he guessed, was younger than himself.

  Two girls passed by and tossed coins into his small plastic cup.

  The man nodded his thanks and watched the girls walk away. Both of them wore short skirts. He smiled approvingly.

  Magee glared at him, his hands still deep in his pockets.

  He hardly felt the hand on his shoulder.

  He spun round, his heart thumping against his ribs.

  He had been careless.

  'You got a light, please, mate?'

  A man stood there with the cigarette held between his lips. When he repeated himself, the words seemed to sink in. Magee nodded and fumbled in his coat pocket for some matches he knew were there. He struck one and cupped his hand around the flame.

  'Cheers,' said the man a
nd disappeared back into the throng.

  Magee nodded in silent acknowledgement and slipped the matches back into his pocket.

  As he withdrew his hand he felt the coldness of the knife and corkscrew against his flesh. He patted them through the material of his overcoat and walked on.

  SIXTY-TWO

  The light on the telephone was flashing. Someone was trying to reach him. Steve Houghton ignored the red bulb. He finally pushed the phone aside so that he couldn't see the distracting light. That task completed, he returned his attention to the work in front of him.

  On his desk there were six files. One of his assistants had worked slowly and laboriously through the records and come up with half-a-dozen prints which looked at least similar to the ones taken from Paula Wilson. Now Houghton reached for the first file and took out the piece of card that bore the fingerprints of a possible match. He looked at the name on the file. George Purnell. Murderer. He'd strangled two children with his bare hands, then called the police to give himself up.

  Houghton traced every curve and twist of the prints, comparing them beneath his microscope when he felt it necessary.

  He shook his head. No match. Not close enough.

  He reached for the second file. William Fisher. Killer of three elderly women he had robbed. Again Houghton began the comparisons.

  He paused for a moment, increasing the magnification on the microscope. A number of loops seemed similar. The radial loops were definitely alike. He sat back from the microscope for a moment, then looked again.

  Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Perhaps he was tired. They seemed totally different now. Houghton convinced himself he was searching so avidly for the match that he was almost willing himself to find it.

  He discarded Fisher's file and reached for another.

  Mathew Bryce.

  Murderer of a number of young women in a particularly brutal manner.

  He slipped Bryce's prints beneath the microscope.

  He peered through the lens, frowning slightly.