by Shaun Hutson
For all he knew she could be dead.
He opened his eyes, rubbing his face with both hands, increasing the speed of the jets so that the water stung his skin when it struck him.
He didn't even hear the knocking on the door.
The rushing of water from the shower masked every other sound.
The knocking came again, more insistently this time.
Scott ran both hands through his hair, smoothing it back tight against his scalp.
The banging on the door had become more frenzied.
He reached for the soap and began to wash.
There was a thunderous crash as the door was smashed in. It flew back on its hinges and crashed against the wall with an almighty bang.
Scott heard it at last and looked around, fumbling for the taps, trying to turn off the shower.
There was movement in his sitting room, in his kitchen. He heard voices. Then, through a gap in the shower curtain, he saw a dark shape.
What the hell was happening?
The dark shape was coming closer.
Scott steadied himself, waiting until the shape was only a couple of feet from him, then leapt forward, crashing into the intruder.
Both men went hurtling backwards, Scott slamming the newcomer's head against the bathroom cabinet. The mirror shattered and pieces of glass cut into the intruder's neck. Scott grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him to his feet. But now there were others coming into the room.
He saw the uniforms.
The two policemen in the doorway stared in at him, one of them taking a step closer, anxious to rescue their plain clothes colleague from Scott's attack. The man was dazed but managed to shake loose of Scott's grip. He felt the back of his neck and brought his hand around covered in blood.
'Put some fucking clothes on, Scott,' he said angrily. 'You're under arrest.'
'You've got no right to come bursting in here like this,' Scott snarled. 'What's the fucking charge, anyway?'
The plain clothes man looked at him, his eyes narrowed.
'Murder.'
SEVENTY-ONE
'I'm here to help you. But I can't do that unless you help yourself.'
Brian Hall leant on the edge of the table and looked down at Scott.
Hall was about thirty-five, dressed immaculately in a charcoal-grey Armani suit. He was clean-shaven and his hair combed perfectly. The contrast between the lawyer and Scott was stark. Scott was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt which needed washing. He sported a thick growth of stubble and his eyes were sunken, with dark rings beneath them. He'd managed to grab a couple of hours' sleep in the cell since they'd brought him in, but it was scarcely enough to refresh him. He looked as bad as he felt. Now he cupped both hands around the plastic beaker full of luke-warm coffee and lowered his head, staring into the depths of the brown liquid as if seeking inspiration there.
Hall had arrived at Dalston police station about twenty minutes ago and announced that he was acting for Scott. He'd been shown to the interview room where Scott sat with a uniformed officer close by the door. The room smelt of stale sweat and strong coffee. All it contained were the table and two wooden chairs, one of which Hall now gripped the back of, looking first at the policeman then at Scott.
'Talk to me, Jim,' he said. 'That's what I'm here for. I'm here to help you but I can't do that unless you talk to me. Tell me what happened.' There was a hint of exasperation in his voice.
Scott looked up at him and motioned towards the policeman.
'Could I have a few minutes alone with my client, please?' Hall said. The policeman nodded, got to his feet and walked out, closing the door behind him.
'Now will you talk to me?' Hall said.
'How did Plummer know I was here?' Scott wanted to know.
'I don't really see what that's got to do with it…'
'How?' snarled Scott.
'Word gets round, Jim. Once he heard you'd been arrested it was just a matter of finding out which police station you were being held at,' Hall said. 'He called me, asked me to help you.'
Scott was unimpressed. He lowered his head again, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing angrily.
Plummer knew where he was.
'And are you supposed to get me out of here?' he asked, sardonically.
'I can't do that,' Hall said, flatly. 'You know that. They won't even post bail with the evidence against you.'
'I didn't kill those blokes,' Scott told him.
'I'm sure you didn't but…'
Scott interrupted him, angrily.
'I didn't fucking kill them,' he snarled.
'That's as maybe, but unfortunately the evidence points to the fact that you did.' Hall exhaled deeply. 'The three men were shot with your gun. Your fingerprints were found on the spent shell cases they found on The Sandhopper's deck. On top of that you've got no alibi for the time of the murders.' Hall walked slowly up and down. 'They've got enough evidence to throw away the key, Jim. My only advice to you is to plead guilty.'
Scott smiled humourlessly.
'Well, thanks for that brilliant piece of help,' he sneered. 'Did Plummer send you here just to tell me that?'
'I don't know what else to say to you. The evidence against you is overwhelming.'
'I didn't kill them.'
'Then who did?'
'John Hitch,' Scott said flatly. 'Hitch killed them with my gun on Plummer's orders. I've been fitted up.'
'That's ridiculous,' Hall said. 'If Plummer was trying to frame you, why send me here to help you?'
'All part of the fucking act. He's done me up like a kipper and I fucking fell for it. That's what annoys me as much as anything. I walked straight into it.' He clenched his fists.
'You say Hitch killed them. You may believe that…'
'I know it,' Scott snarled.
'All right,' Hall said, raising his own voice. 'You know it. You know it, but on the evidence against you there isn't a jury in the world that's going to believe you.' He lowered his voice slightly. 'You'll go down for life.'
SEVENTY-TWO
She could hear their voices from the sitting room. As Carol Jackson moved about in the kitchen she could hear the steady burble of conversation, punctuated every so often by a laugh.
She cracked eggs into a frying pan and stood over them while they cooked, wincing as hot fat spat at her from the pan. It missed her skin and stained Plummer's monogrammed dressing gown. Beneath it, Carol was naked. She had hauled herself out of bed about twenty minutes ago when she'd heard the doorbell. Plummer had told her to make breakfast while he spoke to John Hitch. The blond man had nodded a greeting to her, and Carol had been aware of his appraising gaze. She retreated to the kitchen to cook breakfast but the odd sentence floated to her through the smells of frying bacon and toasting bread. Words and sentences, some of which she found unsettling.
'Scott was arrested…'
'Three killed…'
'The boat was sunk…'
Scott was arrested. She had almost dropped the frying pan when she'd heard that. She wanted to rush into the sitting room and ask why, ask where he'd been taken, but she knew she could not do that. And she wondered why she felt such a sense of despair.
Or was it loss?
Was it despair for Scott or for herself?
You wanted him out of your life; well, now he'll be gone for good.
But that wasn't how she wanted it. She didn't want him hurt.
He won't be hurt, just locked up. Locked away for the rest of his life.
Carol ran a hand through her tousled hair and sighed.
Out of sight, out of mind.
She heard Hitch mention where he'd been taken.
The fat spat at her again and she jumped back in surprise and pain as, this time, it burned her hand. She ran it beneath the cold tap for a moment then dried it and returned to the pan, lowering the heat, scooping the eggs out and onto a plate. She called to Plummer that his breakfast was ready and a moment later he ambled in, followed by Hitch
. Both men sat down and Plummer began eating immediately. Hitch accepted the cup of tea Carol offered him, looking at her as she turned her back on him. He gazed at her shapely legs, exposed as far as her thighs. Carol gave him his tea then sat down at the table next to Plummer, who carried on eating.
'When will it be unloaded?' he wanted to know.
'By the end of the day it'll be hidden. Safe. Then all we have to do is sit on it until the time's right,' Hitch told him. He glanced across at Carol. She self-consciously pulled her dressing-gown more tightly across her breasts.
'And there's no way Connelly can trace the job back to us?' Plummer said, shoving a piece of bacon into his mouth.
'Not without witnesses,' Hitch said, smiling thinly.
Plummer smiled and shook his head.
'Twenty million fucking quid,' he chuckled.
Carol looked at him. She couldn't even begin to imagine that amount of money. The figures were enough to make her head spin.
And Scott? She wanted to ask. Instead she glanced across at Hitch and found his gaze on her again.
'Nice cup of tea,' he said, smiling.
Carol smiled thinly in response and picked at the piece of toast on her plate.
The phone rang.
Plummer got to his feet immediately and walked through into the sitting room to answer it.
'Is that how you keep your figure?' Hitch asked, lowering his voice slightly. 'By not eating much?' He was gazing at her breasts again.
She shrugged.
'What do you mean?'
'You've got a good figure,' he told her, glancing quickly towards the door to make sure Plummer hadn't returned.
'More tea?' Carol asked in an effort to change the subject.
He shook his head, leaning back slightly, watching as she drew one shapely leg up beneath her on the chair.
From the sitting room he could still hear Plummer speaking.
'You used to go out with Jim Scott, didn't you?' Hitch asked.
She nodded slowly.
'I'll bet he'll miss you inside,' said Hitch. 'Only his right hand for company when he used to have you to get his rocks off.' Hitch smiled again. 'Are you moving in with Ray, then?'
'It's not really your business, is it?' she said, glaring at him.
He shrugged.
'I just wondered what was going to happen to your little flat if you did move out,' he said, his gaze never leaving her. 'Dollis Hill, isn't it?'
'How do you know?' she demanded.
'My business to know,' he told her. 'You're mixed up with Ray, Ray's my boss, I have to look out for him. I just did some checking, that's all.' He took a swig from his mug, pushing the empty receptacle towards her. 'I think I will have that cup of tea.'
She took the mug and moved across to the worktop, aware of Hitch watching her every move.
'You must have done a thing or two working in that club,' Hitch said, still looking at her. 'I've seen some of the acts.'
She pushed the mug towards him and sat down again, trying to avoid his gaze.
He glanced towards the door, still able to hear Plummer on the phone.
'Did you used to get off on what you were doing?' he enquired. 'I mean, especially with other girls?' He smiled.
Carol looked directly at him.
'If all the blokes I knew were like you then I'd be better off with another girl, wouldn't I?' she said scornfully.
Hitch held her gaze until he heard Plummer heading back towards the kitchen. He sat down and prodded his breakfast.
Hitch finished his tea and got to his feet.
'I'd better go,' he said. 'I'll pick you up in an hour, Ray. I've got a couple of things to do.'
'All right, John,' Plummer said. 'Carol, see John out, will you?'
Hitch smiled thinly.
'It's okay, I can manage,' he said, looking again at Carol's breasts. 'See you later, Ray.' He held her stare this time. 'See you around, Carol.' His smile broadened and he walked out. She heard the door close behind him.
'Are you going to work tonight?' Plummer asked.
'I wasn't planning to,' she said, still uneasy about Hitch. 'I thought we could stay in and…'
'I've got business to take care of tonight,' he said. Carol regarded him impassively, 'I'm going to have a bath before Hitch picks me up,' he told her. He waved an expansive hand around the kitchen. 'Tidy this place up a bit, will you?' Then he was gone.
SEVENTY-THREE
He'd been dozing in his sitting room when the noise from upstairs woke him.
Doctor Robert Dexter sat forward quickly, sucking in a deep breath as he regained his senses. He looked around the large sitting room, catching sight of the clock on the mantlepiece. The hands had crawled around to 1.26 A.M.
Again the noise from upstairs.
Footsteps.
Dexter got to his feet, glancing up at the ceiling. He swallowed hard and headed for the door that opened out into the hall. Outside the wind was blowing strongly. The house stood on top of a low hill, joined to the main road by a narrow driveway flanked on both sides by dwarf conifers. As he moved into the darkened hallway he could see those conifers bowing deferentially to the strong breeze.
Dexter stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up into the gloom at their head. He reached across to the bank of switches at his right hand and flicked a couple. The darkness at the top of the stairs was dispelled swiftly by bright lights.
He put one foot on the bottom step and prepared to ascend.
The crack came from behind him.
A sharp slap of wood on glass. He spun round to see that a skeletal branch from one of the bushes beneath the hall window had been blown against the pane.
Dexter felt his heart beating a little faster as he began to climb the stairs.
From above him the sounds of movement had all but ceased; only the creak of a solitary floorboard broke the silence now. As he reached the landing he paused, looking around at the five closed doors that faced him.
He knew which one the sounds were coming from.
Dexter sighed and made his way across to the third door, halting outside it.
He found that he was shaking.
After all these years he was still afraid.
Afraid of the occupant of that room, afraid of what he might find, yet, simultaneously, knowing exactly what he would find. The same sight would confront him that had confronted him for the past fifteen years.
He stood by the door, listening for movement, and again heard the slow footsteps, pacing back and forth over the carpet. The creak of the one loose board.
Dexter closed his eyes for a moment. Perhaps it would just be best to walk away this time. Go to bed. Go back downstairs.
He heard breathing on the other side, close to the door. As ever, he was aware that the occupant was listening for him, was perhaps aware even now of his presence there. The time to turn back had passed. He knew he must enter.
Dexter unlocked the door, turned the knob and walked into the room.
His heart was thudding hard against his ribs and he felt the first droplet of perspiration pop onto his forehead.
The occupant of the room was sitting in one corner. Dexter closed the door behind him.
PART THREE
Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
-Romans 12:19
… in this last and final hour,
You can't hide.
There's nowhere now that you can run…
-Black Sabbath
SEVENTY-FOUR
The door crashed shut, the loud clash of metal on metal reverberating inside the cell.
James Scott stood in the centre of the small room for a moment, looking round, then sat down on the edge of the bottom bunk.
He felt numb, as if his entire body had been pumped full of novocaine. There was a lead weight where his heart should have been. He felt as if every last drop of feeling had been sucked out of him. The past two days had passed quickly, so quickly in fact that the events of
those four days were somewhat hazy. And yet still he retained memories of that time. Like splinters in his mind.
The journey to the court. The police had brought a suit he'd requested from his flat and he'd changed into that, shaved and smartened himself up.
The trial.
He had decided, as advised, to plead guilty and proceedings had moved with dizzying speed. The gun had been produced as evidence. Pictures of the dead men had been circulated around the jury. Scott could remember one of the jurors in particular. She had been in her mid-forties, a smart, efficient-looking woman who had hardly taken her eyes off him throughout the trial. And he had seen hatred in those eyes. When sentence -had been passed he glanced at her and was sure he could see the trace of a smile on her lips.
Scott had heard little of the Judge's summing up or, indeed, of his comments after the life sentence had been passed. Just the odd word here and there, like 'horrendous', 'brutal', 'cold-blooded' or 'dangerous', had filtered through the screen that seemed to have erected itself around him. He felt as if he'd been inside a cell ever since his arrest, imprisoned within his own mind.
He had spent much of the trial gazing around the court room particularly into the public gallery, but not once did he see Carol.
Bitch.
God, how he needed her now.
If only he could have spoken to her one last time before he'd been taken down. Touched her. Kissed her. But that was not to be. She was gone now, out of his life as surely as if she were dead.
After sentence had been passed he had been taken to the cells, then back to Dalston in a black van. From there he'd been taken in a police van to Whitely by two police officers.
The journey, despite the distance between London and the prison, had taken a surprisingly short time. Or so it seemed to Scott. It was as if time had lost all meaning, as if even that were conspiring to hasten him to this place where he would spend the rest of his life.
The rest of his life.
