Captives

ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

All three of the coffins were empty.

They lay beside the graves, as if forced up from the dark earth, now discarded by it.

Empty.

Gregson moved slowly between them, not quite ready to believe the evidence of his own eyes but aware of the twinge of triumph deep within him.

The wind, blowing across the cemetery, ruffled his hair as he stood looking at the boxes. Beside him Sherman, Clifford, Finn and the two warders who had helped to disinter the caskets also looked on.

Nicholson and Dexter said nothing.

'There was a reason for it,' said Dexter finally.

Nicholson looked contemptuously at him.

'I'm not interested in your reasons,' Gregson told him.

'It was to help the men,' Dexter protested.

'What about the public, you bastard,' snapped the DI. 'You released murderers back into society, knowing they'd kill again.'

'No,' Dexter protested. 'The experiments would have worked. Their violent tendencies would have been cured.'

'Well they weren't, were they? You're as guilty of murder as the men who actually pulled the triggers or used the knives.'

'They got what they deserved,' said Nicholson. 'They died. Died as they would have done thirty years ago. We did the country a favour by experimenting on men like Bryce and Magee. What else would they have done? Sat here for the rest of their miserable lives feeding on taxpayers' food, clothed by the state, protected.'

'Well, it's over now, Nicholson,' said the DI. 'You're both under arrest.'

'It isn't over,' the Governor told him flatly.

'What the hell do you mean?'

'A man escaped from here last night. Another man we'd experimented on.'

Gregson's expression changed to one of shock.

'Who was he?' he demanded.

'He can't have got far,' Dexter said, dejectedly. 'I only operated…'

'Who was he?' Gregson roared.

'His name was James Scott,' Nicholson said.

Finn and Gregson looked at each other.

'How long's he been gone?' the DI wanted to know.

'We can't be sure,' Dexter said. 'Probably since late last night.'

'Jesus Christ,' murmured Gregson. He looked at Finn. 'Stuart, you take care of things here. I've got to get back to London as quickly as possible.'

'You think Scott will head back there?' the DS said.

'It's the only place he knows,' Gregson said, stepping over an empty coffin. 'I'll put out an alert to all units to watch for him. If he got a car he's probably there by now.' He looked at Dexter. 'Have you any idea what you've done?' he snarled.

'All I wanted to do was help them,' Dexter said quietly.

Finn pushed him and Nicholson away, nodding in the direction of the graves.

'Fill those in,' he said.

Gregson ran off across the cemetery, almost slipping on the mud in his haste. He sprinted across the exercise yard towards the waiting helicopter, wrenching the passenger side door open. The pilot hurriedly stubbed out his cigarette and looked in surprise as the DI scrambled into the other seat.

'Get us back to London as fast as you can,' Gregson told him. 'Move.'

He was already strapping himself in as the pilot switched on the motor and the rotors began to turn, carving an arc through the air as they rotated with increasing speed. The power built up rapidly.

Gregson clenched his fists together, his emotions a curious mixture of elation and foreboding. Elation that his theory had been proved correct. And foreboding at what Scott might do or, indeed, might have already done.

As the Lynx rose into the air he found that his hands were shaking.