Captives

TWENTY-TWO

Detective Inspector Frank Gregson leaned back on the two rear legs of his chair and began rocking gently, his gaze rivetted to the sheets of paper on his desk.

They were statements taken from witnesses to the shooting in the Haymarket two days ago. Jesus, it seemed longer than two days. It seemed like a fucking eternity. Maybe it would be an eternity before they identified the mysterious killer. Once that was done they might at least have a chance of figuring out why, when escape had been possible he had chosen to kill himself.

No word had come up from the pathology labs from Barclay as yet. He was still working on the remains of the corpse, trying to find some clue in the twisted, blackened remnants of humanity that might give them a lead on the individual who had, for no apparent reason, taken six lives (one of the victims on the critical list had died late the previous night) and then killed himself, all in the space of about five minutes.

Where did he come from?

Where did he get hold of the weapons?

Why did he chose to strike where he did?

Fuck it, thought Gregson, it was all questions and no answers so far.

The statements didn't help much, either.

'One says he was blond, another says he was ginger,' the DI muttered, flipping through the neatly typed sheets. 'One says short hair, another says tied in a pony-tail. It's a wonder they all managed to agree he was the same fucking colour.'

On the other side of the desk, DS Stuart Finn pulled a Marlboro from the packet and jammed it between his lips. He lit up, blowing a long stream of blue smoke into the air.

The DS was holding a photo-fit picture on his lap. It was held firmly in place by a bulldog clip at the top and bottom.

'That's the artist's impression,' he said, handing the sketch to Gregson. 'Based on the witnesses' statements.'

Gregson ran his gaze over the picture, his face expressionless. He tossed it onto his desk contemptuously.

'Does it match up with anything in our files?' he asked, clasping his hands clasped across his stomach. He was staring down at his desk as if trying to see through the wood, through the floors to the pathology labs below.

'There's only one way to find out and that's to go through every one. One by one.' Finn shrugged. 'Want to toss for it?' He smiled thinly.

'If there were two bloody statements which said the same thing about him then we might have a chance. As it is…' Gregson stopped in mid-sentence and flipped open the first file of statements. He leafed through them, pulling one out. It had been made by a cashier in the bank the man had entered. He looked hurriedly through the others until he found what he sought. The other statement was that of a motorist who had nearly collided with the killer when he'd been escaping on the motorbike.

'Staring eyes,' said Gregson, running his index finger over the words in both statements. 'Two of them do agree on one thing,' he said. 'The killer had staring eyes.'

Finn shrugged.

'Have I missed something?' he said. 'Perhaps he had thyroid. I'm not with you.'

'We nicked a guy about six years ago, he'd done a series of bank blags, never got away with much; he seemed more interested in hurting people than the money. He hit four banks all in Central London, same method every time. He walked in, blew out the cashier's window and took the dosh. He always carried a shotgun and an automatic.'

Finn nodded slowly, the recollection gradually coming to him.

'The most striking thing about him, most of the witnesses at the time said,' Gregson continued, 'were his eyes. His staring eyes.' He tapped the two newest statements. 'Staring eyes.'

'Lawton,' the DS said, a faint smile on his lips. 'Peter Lawton. Shit, I remember him now.' The smile faded rapidly. 'It's a coincidence, though, Frank; somebody imitating Lawton's methods, that's all. He's been inside for six years, still got another five to do before he even comes up for parole.'

Gregson nodded slowly.

'Weird, though, isn't it?' he muttered. 'Copy-cat killers, maybe, but copy-cat bank robbers?'

'What are you saying?'

The DI shrugged.

'I don't know what the fuck I'm saying,' he snapped. 'We know Lawton couldn't have done it because he's inside. So what do we make of these statements? The man had staring eyes,' he read aloud.

'Twin brother?' Finn offered somewhat lamely.

'Do me a favour,' said Gregson getting to his feet. 'At the moment, though, I'm willing to consider anything. Let's check his file.'

Finn looked at his watch.

Seven-twenty P.M.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray which was already overflowing with butts. A couple spilled over onto Gregson's desk and he swept them into his hand hastily before his superior noticed.

'Another fucking blank,' said Gregson, looking at the file on Peter Lawton. 'No family, no living relatives.' He looked at Finn. 'No twin brothers.'

'So what do we do next?' the DS wanted to know.

'You tell me.'

'Well, I fancy a drink. Join me?' Finn said, getting to his feet.

'No, I'm going to stay here for a while, try and think this through.'

'Frank, we're banging our heads on a fucking wall until pathology comes up with something concrete to identify the bloke. What's the point?' Finn asked, exasperated.

'You go, I'll see you in the morning,' the DI said, flipping open Lawton's file once again.

Finn hesitated, then said goodnight and left. Gregson heard his footsteps receding down the corridor.

Peter Lawton, sentenced to fifteen years for armed robbery and murder. Term being served in Whitely Maximum Security Prison, Derbyshire.

Term being served.

Gregson rubbed both hands over his face, exhaling deeply.

Another ten or fifteen minutes and he would leave. It was time to go home.

But first there was something he had to do.