Captives

FIFTEEN

The lift doors slid open with a muted whirr and DI Frank Gregson stepped out into the corridor.

He moved quickly but unhurriedly, his footsteps rattling out a tempo in the quiet corridor. At such a late hour every noise seemed amplified, too. Not that New Scotland Yard was run by the clock. Crime and criminals didn't hold regular hours, murderers didn't clock on and off.

By God, my dear Holmes, I should say not.

Gregson found the door to the pathology labs locked, as he'd expected, but he had a key and let himself in, walking through the outer lab into the autopsy room itself. He paused in the doorway, recoiling slightly from the pungent odour of chemicals and death that greeted him like a long-lost friend. Reaching round he slapped at the panel of switches. Seconds later, the room was bathed in cold white light as the banks of fluorescents in the ceiling cast their luminosity over the dissecting tables. The light was reflected in their polished, stainless steel surfaces and Gregson caught a glimpse of his own distorted image in one as he passed.

The tables were empty, their occupants removed and stored in the cabinets that lined the walls. So many puzzles lay within those boxes. So many unanswered questions.

Gregson stood looking at them for a moment, the silence inside the lab quite overpowering. It was like a living organism, so complete it was almost palpable. It surrounded him. He felt as if it were penetrating his very pores, seeping into his bloodstream and circulating around his body.

He could hear the thud of his own heart in the solitude and its pace quickened as he found the locker he sought. He slid it out.

The body was covered by the familiar plastic sheet and the DI pulled it back to reveal the charred corpse beneath.

He stood gazing, for what seemed like an eternity, at the crushed skull, the wisps of hair that still clung to the blackened remains of the scalp. The scorched bones still covered, in places, by burned flesh.

He reached out and touched what was left of the face.

A piece of black flesh came away on his fingertip. He looked at it for a moment then rubbed it away between his index finger and thumb. It crumbled like ash.

He looked at the body once more, his forehead deeply lined.

When he spoke, his gaze never leaving the charred body, his words echoed around the silent laboratory:

'Who are you?'