Captives

SIXTY-FOUR

Detective Inspector Frank Gregson tapped agitatedly on the steering wheel as he looked up at the red light, waiting for it to change.

He revved his engine.

Come on. Come on.

He sped away with them still on amber, narrowly avoiding a car coming the other way. The driver banged on his horn but Gregson drove on at speed, unconcerned by the accident he'd almost caused.

He'd spoken to Houghton less than ten minutes ago.

The DI had returned home and been greeted by Julie telling him that the Records Officer had called. Gregson had asked what it was about. Julie had only been able to tell him that it was urgent. Gregson had called immediately and Houghton had explained about the fingerprints and how he was sure he now had positive identification of at least one of the bodies. Gregson had hardly allowed him to finish speaking before telling him he'd be there as soon as he could.

Julie had asked him what was going on but he'd rushed out without telling her, mumbling only that it was important and that he didn't know when he'd be back.

Now he pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator and eased the Ford Scorpio past a car, cutting in ahead of the driver. Gregson glanced at the clock on the dashboard and estimated that he could be at New Scotland Yard in less than thirty minutes, traffic permitting.

Thirty minutes. It seemed like a fucking lifetime.

However, mingling with that frustration was a small feeling of triumph. He'd been right about Bryce. The copy-cat MO theory he'd come up with had born fruit. It should prove so for the first killer as well. He almost smiled to himself.

He had been proved right, but how could it be? The men he had suspected were in prison serving life sentences. No escapes had been reported.

What the fuck was going on?

'Lima 15, come in.'

The metallic voice that rattled out of his radio made him jump.

'Lima 15, do you read me? If you're there, pick it up, Frank.'

He recognised DI Finn's voice.

'Frank, for fuck's sake…'

Gregson snatched up the handset.

'Lima 15, I hear you,' he said. 'This better be good.'

'Where are you?' Finn wanted to know.

'On my way to see Houghton, he's identified one of the dead killers.'

'Jesus,' muttered Finn. There was a moment's silence, then the DI spoke again. 'Frank, you'd better tell Barclay to have one of his slabs ready.'

'Why?'

'We've got another one,' Finn told him flatly. 'A murder suicide. Just like the other two. The guy tried to torch himself.'

'What happened?' Gregson demanded, hardly slowing down as he drove.

Finn told him about the murders of the tramp and the taxi driver. 'He stole the cab, drove it up Charing Cross Road then aimed the fucking thing at the fountains outside Centre Point. The car blew up as soon as it hit the wall.'

'Shit,' hissed Gregson. 'What about the driver?'

'Well, like I said, he was obviously trying to kill himself. The thing is, when the car hit the wall, he went through the windscreen. He was thrown clear. They fished him out of the water. He's badly cut up from the broken glass but he's more or less in one piece.'

'Any ID on him?' Gregson wanted to know.

'Nothing. Not even a name tag in his fucking underwear. Just like the other two. The only difference is, this geezer doesn't look like burnt toast.'

'No ID at all?' Gregson repeated. 'Could he have dropped it in the car? You said he was thrown clear. He might have been carrying something, it might be lying around…'

Finn cut him short. 'The boys here have been over the area with a fine toothcomb, Frank. I'm telling you. There was no fucking ID. All he had on him was a couple of quid in small change.'

'Where are you now?' Gregson wanted to know.

'I'm still at the scene. We've closed the road off while the boys go over the area. The fire brigade have put out the blaze, thank Christ.'

'Meet me at the Yard in thirty minutes. Stuart, I want a full report on what happened, right?'

'Thirty minutes?'

'Yeah.'

'I'll see you there, over and out.'

The two-way went dead and Gregson replaced it, pressing his foot harder on the accelerator, coaxing more speed from the Scorpio.

Another twenty minutes, he thought, then perhaps at last they might have some answers.