by Shaun Hutson
EIGHTY-ONE
Gregson propped the torch up on a nearby headstone, ensuring that the beam pointed towards the grave of Gary Lucas. Then he shrugged off his jacket, draped it over a marble cross and gripped one of the shovels, driving the blade into the earth.
'Come on, help me,' he snapped, looking, up at Finn.
'This is fucking crazy,' the DS said, shaking his head, watching as Gregson lifted huge clods with the spade. His own breath was coming in short gasps now. He wondered if Gregson had gone insane.
'Dig, for Christ's sake,' the DI snarled. Finally, Finn began to drive his own spade into the moist earth.
'This isn't right, Frank,' he said angrily.
Gregson didn't answer, but continued digging, perspiration already beading on his forehead despite the chill wind whipping around them.
The two men hardly spoke as they burrowed deeper into the earth, leaving mounds of dirt on either side of the hole. Finn paused for a moment to catch his breath but Gregson kept up his labours, digging deeper all the time. His shirt was sticking to him now and he was panting like a cart horse but still he persevered, driving the spade into the soil and hurling dark mud away behind him.
They were getting close now, he knew it.
Finn ran a hand through his hair, feeling the slickness of sweat on his face, but one look at Gregson's expression persuaded him to continue digging.
There was a loud scraping sound of metal on wood.
They had reached the coffin.
Gregson immediately scrambed down beside it, scraping earth from the top of the casket with his hands.
'Give me the torch,' he said, snatching it from his companion and shining it on the lid.
'What now?' Finn asked, breathlessly.
Gregson reached up over the side of the grave and found the pick axe.
'We open it,' he said flatly.
Finn grabbed him by the shoulders.
'Frank, you can't do this,' he said angrily.
'Why the fuck do you think I dug him up, to admire the craftsmanship of the bloody box? I want to see that body.' He pushed his companion away. 'Hold that fucking torch over here,' he rasped, sliding the end of the pick-axe beneath the first of the coffin screws.
Finn wiped sweat from his face and pointed the torch downwards watching as his colleague exerted all the force he could muster on the other end of the pick.
As the screw came loose, part of the coffin lid broke away.
Gregson drove the pick underneath the lid, prizing upwards until the casket snapped again.
One more screw loose and he'd be able to remove the lid.
He forced the pick between the two edges of wood and pressed down.
Finn's heart was thudding madly against his ribs as he held the light steady over the ghoulish tableau.
The screw came loose with a whine of snapping wood.
Gregson pulled the lid free and tossed it aside.
Finn shone the torch into the coffin.
'Jesus Christ,' he murmured slowly, the colour draining from his cheeks.
Gregson stood beside him, panting, his eyes riveted. He shook his head very slowly.
'What the hell is it?' Finn whispered, his voice cracking, almost lost in the blast of wind that swept across them.
The DI leant forward slightly, still gripping the pick in one hand.
In the bottom of the coffin was a black dustbin bag, its top secured by a piece of thick string.
Nothing else.
No body. No rotting corpse.
Nothing.
Gregson used the pick to tear the plastic open while Finn shone his torch at the bag.
The DI reached in and pulled something out, holding it up.
A brick.
There were a dozen more in the dustbin bag.
'What the fuck is going on?' murmured Finn. 'Where's Lucas?'
Gregson slumped back against the wall of the grave, his eyes closed. Then he dropped the brick back into the weighted coffin.
Finn looked at him, his face pale.
'Where's Lucas?' he asked.
Gregson shook his head.
'I wish I knew.'
EIGHTY-TWO
The huge refectory of Whitely Prison was filled with rows of long tables, each of which could seat over fifty men.
Above, warders patrolled the catwalks, looking down onto the seething mass of grey-clad men, while other uniformed officers stood on either side of the queue for food. More warders were positioned at every third table, eyes constantly flicking back and forth over the rows of faces as they ate.
The inmates were usually allowed in according to the number of their landing. Each landing would eat in turn, then the refectory would be emptied of mainstream prisoners while the occupants of D Wing were ushered in.
Those in D Wing were kept in permanent solitary for their own protection. They were men guilty of child molestation or abuse, who had either already been threatened or injured by other inmates. These men, twenty-six of them, would be closely guarded even as they ate before being ushered back to their cells to the jeers and threats of the prisoners who were now locked up again.
Jim Scott had come to know these men from D Wing and he felt the same disgust and anger towards them as so many other inmates of Whitely. Twice he had seen men from that wing have boiling water thrown over them by the kitchen workers, the last one just two days earlier. After that, Scott was offered a job on kitchen detail. He accepted mainly because it was preferable to the boredom of being locked inside the cell for twenty-three hours of the day.
He cleaned, peeled potatoes, even helped to cook the vast quantities of food necessary to feed the inmates. He stood at the counter to splash dollops of stew or thick wads of mashed potato onto their plastic trays as each presented it in turn, moving in a slow and well ordered line along the counter, gathering mugs of tea and plastic cutlery at the end before taking their seats.
Scott was ladling soup into the bowl of a prisoner when he looked up and saw a familiar face.
Mike Robinson nodded a greeting to him and held out his bowl. Scott scooped soup from the massive copper container.
'A woman's work is never done, eh?' Robinson chuckled, winking at his cell-mate.
He reached for a bread roll, allowing the man behind him to pass by, obviously not enticed by a bowl of soup that resembled bubbling vomit.
Robinson's smile faded rapidly. He looked first at Scott, then back down the line to where a red-haired man stood, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overalls.
'Clock the geezer with the red hair,' Robinson said.
Scott looked.
'See him?' Robinson persisted.
Scott nodded.
'His name's Vince Draper. He's one of Ralph Connelly's boys. Remember I warned you there were two of them in here? Watch yourself.' He moved on, noticing one of the warders moving across towards him.
Scott glanced up and saw that the red-haired man was coming closer. He had the plastic tray in his hand now, about three places back.
'Fucking cunt,' the words came drifting towards Scott. It was Draper who had spoken them. He was looking directly at Scott.
The warder who had approached Robinson had retreated to a nearby table, out of earshot.
Scott ladled more soup and tried to ignore Draper.
'I knew those three guys you shot, you fucker,' the red-haired man said, drawing closer.
Robinson glanced back to see what was happening.
'Did your girlfriend know you killed them?' Draper said, smiling. 'Did you do it to impress her?'
Scott gritted his teeth.
'You didn't have to kill three blokes to impress her,' Draper continued. 'You could have waved a twenty-quid note in front of her. That would have impressed her. It's good enough to get anyone else a fucking blow job, isn't it?' He laughed quietly.
He was two places away now. Scott gripped the handle of the ladle until his knuckles turned white, pouring the boiling soup into the bowl of the m
an in front of him.
'I bet she's impressed with Ray Plummer,' Draper said.
Scott glared at him.
'Impressed with his money, his power and his cock,' the red-haired man said. 'She must have had it up her and in her mouth enough times.'
He was level with Scott now.
Scott could feel himself shaking with rage. He glared at Draper.
'Fill it up,' Draper said scornfully, pushing the bowl towards Scott. 'Fill it like Plummer fills your bird's cunt.' He smiled. 'Everyone knows about them. Everyone knows she's fucking him. Everyone knows they made a prick out of you.'
Scott's face darkened; the vein at his temple throbbed. His entire body was quivering.
'Come on, fill the fucking bowl, Scott,' Draper said. 'Just try not to think about your tart with Plummer's dick stuck down her throat. Carol Jackson, isn't it? Carol "I take it anywhere for a tenner" Jackson.' He leant towards Scott. 'Seems like the only dick she's not getting any more is yours.'
Scott struck out, bringing the ladle down with incredible force on the top of Draper's head. The blow split his scalp. Already warders were running towards them, but Scott moved quickly.
He grabbed Draper by the hair and shoved his face downwards into the boiling vat of soup.
The red-haired man struggled madly as the searing fluid stripped flesh from his face and neck.
Scott pushed his head deeper, ignoring the pain in his own hand as the boiling liquid lapped around his wrist.
Others had seen the struggle now and a chorus of shouts and cheers rose from the other prisoners.
Scott, his face contorted madly, drove down with even greater force, dragging Draper off his feet.
The entire vat of soup toppled backwards, spraying up in all directions as the copper container hit the floor, spilling its load over the tiles.
Scott still had hold of Draper's hair. As he pulled the other man upright, he looked into his face. The flesh was red-raw, large portions of it hanging off the muscles where the incredible heat had stripped it away. Slivers of flesh hung like leprous wet tendrils from the blistered mess that had once been Draper's features. The other man was burbling incoherently, his eyes rolling upwards in their sockets, but he remained on his feet, supported by Scott's hand, until finally he felt the thunderous blow from the metal ladel once again. This time it was across his swollen face. His nose was shattered by the impact, blood bursting outwards, spattering his overalls, mixing with the soup and the slivers of skin.
The first of the warders crashed into Scott, knocking him to the ground.
The new clash was greeted by a fresh wave of shouts, from the other inmates.
Another warder pinned him down, forcing the ladle from his grip. A third man pulled Draper away, sickened by the hideous sight of his scalded features. Blisters that had already risen on the face were liquescent and close to bursting.
Scott struggled in vain as two more officers dragged him to his feet and hauled him away.
Away from the bloodied image of Draper. Away from the deafening shouts of the other inmates.
Scott found that he too was shouting, screaming his rage not just at his captors and at Draper but at someone else.
At Plummer.
At Carol.
Consumed by rage unlike anything he'd ever experienced, he was dragged bellowing from the refectory.
Up above, on one of the catwalks, Governor Peter Nicholson had seen the entire tableau. He watched as Scott was dragged away, his face impassive.
He stood there for a moment, listening to the cacophony of sound crashing all around him, then walked off.
EIGHTY-THREE
To Finn it was as if they'd been sitting there for hours.
The Detective Sergeant fidgeted uncomfortably, his hand moving habitually towards the pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, but each time he glanced across the outer office his eyes were met by the sign which proclaimed NO SMOKING in large red letters.
Beside him, DI Gregson kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, occasionally rubbing the palms of his hands over his thighs. Every now and then he would glance at his watch, wondering how much longer they were going to be kept waiting.
The outer office of Police Commissioner Lawrence Sullivan was large and brightly decorated. There was a desk behind which sat Lawrence's secretary, an officious woman in her early forties with long auburn hair and, Finn had noticed, a terrific pair of legs. Gazing constantly at her legs had just about made the wait worthwhile, taking his mind off the task to come. She had already offered the men coffee; the DS had accepted but Gregson had refused. Now Finn was considering whether or not to ask for another cup, even if only to watch her sashay out of the office. His request was interrupted when a buzzer on the intercom sounded and she leant forward to press a button. She answered and got to her feet, approaching the two policemen. They also rose and followed her as she beckoned them.
She showed them into the Commissioner's office, then left.
Sullivan was a powerful, bull-necked specimen of a man who looked more like a refugee from a bare-knuckle ring than Commissioner of Police. He was in his midforties, his complexion ruddy, his nose flat against his face. His normally piercing eyes were almost hidden by thick eyebrows.
On his desk Gregson saw a number of framed photos. His wife, his children and one that looked strangely incongruous, considering Sullivan's demeanour; it showed the Commissioner cradling his baby son in his arms, feeding him with a bottle. Gregson thought he might have looked more at home using one hand to choke a goat.
The big man was reading a report of some kind when the other two policemen entered and did not look up.
'Sit down,' he said sharply.
They obeyed.
Sullivan glared at them immediately.
'You're lucky I'm not suspending both of you,' he snarled. 'What the bloody hell were you playing at last night? Digging up a man's grave? I should have you locked up.'
'There wasn't time to obtain an exhumation order, sir,' Gregson said.
'Why?' Sullivan roared. 'Was the man you dug up leaving? What was so important it couldn't have waited one more day?'
'If you'll just listen, sir, I'll tell you,' Gregson said, aware of the acid glance Sullivan shot him. The DI waited a moment, wondering if his superior was going to interrupt again. When he didn't, Gregson began, keeping it as brief as he could. He mentioned the three killers, their victims, the suicides. Sullivan didn't move a muscle as he listened, his eyes never leaving Gregson as he talked about his visit to Whitely. How he'd seen the graves of men who, he knew for a fact, were actually dead and in the pathology room at New Scotland Yard itself. About four men who had died in Whitely in three years and now…
Sullivan held up a hand to silence him.
'Enough,' he said, rubbing his forehead with one thumb and forefinger. There was a long silence finally broken by the Commissioner himself. 'You are aware of what you're saying, Gregson?' he asked. 'You're asking me to believe that three men returned from the dead to re-enact their crimes? You're talking to me about zombies?' He smiled menacingly. 'If you're not out of this office in five seconds I'm going to have you both suspended. You'll be pounding a bloody beat by the end of the month.' The anger had returned to his voice.
'They didn't return from the dead,' Gregson said defiantly. 'Lawton, Bryce and Magee never died in the first place. They each committed suicide after re-enacting their crimes.'
'They were all in prison, you said yourself you saw their graves,' Sullivan reminded him.
'The men who committed those murders recently were Lawton, Bryce and Magee. There is no mistake,' the DI insisted. 'As I said, they never died in prison. Their deaths were faked. Just like the death of Gary Lucas. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make out that Lucas died of a heart attack inside Whitely. A weighted coffin was buried in that cemetery at Norwood to make it look convincing.'
'So where's Lucas?' Sullivan asked.
'We don't know yet.'
'An
d, more importantly, why would anyone want to fake his death? Are you trying to tell me there's some kind of conspiracy going on?' Sullivan got to his feet. 'Four murderers are pronounced dead, headstones are erected for them, and they're still alive? Why would anyone want to do that?' he continued. 'But you're not just implying that their deaths were faked, you're trying to tell me they escaped from Whitely. Four killers over the last three years escape from one of Britain's biggest maximum security prisons and nobody hears about it.' He turned on Gregson angrily. 'For God's sake, man, do you really know how ridiculous that sounds?'
'Then you explain the weighted coffin, sir,' Gregson said defiantly.
'I don't have to explain it,' Sullivan told him. 'I'm not the one who dug it up. As I said, you're both lucky I'm not suspending you.' He looked at Finn, too, and the DS blenched and lowered his gaze.
'There was no corpse in that coffin,' Gregson said.
'Then it must be buried somewhere else,' Sullivan said dismissively. 'I suggest you find out where. I also suggest you keep these revelations to yourself until you have more evidence to back them up.'
'How much more fucking evidence do we need?' snapped the DI.
'More than a fucking weighted coffin,' Sullivan bellowed, the two men holding each other's gaze. 'Now get out of here.' He motioned towards the door.
Gregson and Finn rose. The DS was only too happy to leave. His companion hesitated a moment.
'Lucas will kill again, sir, I'm sure of it,' the DI announced.
'Gary Lucas is dead,' Sullivan pronounced with an air of finality.
'No, he isn't,' Gregson said. 'Lucas is alive and I'm going to find him.'
EIGHTY-FOUR
He could feel his hand throbbing.
Scott sat on the floor of the cell looking at the raw flesh, wincing as he touched it. It was beginning to blister in places, large pustules rising on the pink skin. At the time he'd felt nothing. Even when he'd forced Draper's head into the boiling soup he'd felt no pain. All he'd felt was the furious pleasure of being able to inflict agony on his tormentor. For all he knew Draper could be dead. A slight smile touched Scott's lips. So what if he was? What could they do to him? What more could they threaten him with? He was destined to spend the rest of his life inside; how else could they punish him? Fuck them.
