Captives

EIGHTY

The Ford Scorpio came to a screeching halt at the massive wrought-iron gates of the cemetery.

Gregson looked at the huge barriers and banged the wheel angrily.

'You didn't expect them to be open, did you, Frank?' Finn grunted. 'Perhaps you should have called ahead and warned them we were on a zombie hunt. They might have laid on some lights too and some fucking shovels.'

'We're going in there,' Gregson snapped, his face hidden by the gloom of the night. He hauled himself out of the car and walked towards the stone wall surrounding the necropolis. The DI looked up at it, estimating the height to be about six feet.

He could climb it easily.

Taking a few steps back he ran at it, gripped the top row of bricks and pulled himself up onto the rampart. Balanced there, he looked into the cemetery. To his right was the chapel of rest; a little to the left of that was a wooden hut he took to be the domain of the cemetery caretaker.

They would find tools in there.

'Come on,' he called to Finn.

'You're fucking mad,' the DS snarled, looking up at him.

In response Gregson merely leapt down from the wall, landing on the gravel drive of the cemetery and rolling over to cushion his fall. The pieces of stone crunched loudly-beneath him.

Finn sucked in a deep breath and ran at the wall, springing up and swinging himself over. Cursing quietly, he lowered himself down, dropping the last foot or so to the ground. He set off after Gregson, hearing his own feet crunching gravel as he hurried to catch up with his superior.

A cold breeze whipped across the open space, stirring fresh flowers on a new grave close by. One of the blooms was lifted from its pot and sent tumbling across the grass.

Trees towered over both sides of the driveway, which snaked through the vast graveyard like a mottled tongue. Branches stirred by the wind clattered together like muted applause as Finn finally caught up with his companion.

'Frank…' he began.

'We've got to get this door open,' Gregson said, ignoring his colleague. He took a step back and kicked at the doorknob. It came loose. Another similar impact and it gave way, the door flying inwards to crash against the wall. Gregson walked in, squinting in the gloom. 'Give me your lighter,' he said to Finn, who fumbled in his pocket and pressed the Zippo into his superior's palm.

Gregson flicked it on and raised it above his head, the sickly yellow puddle of light spreading out to illuminate the inside of the hut. There was dried mud on the floor and the place smelt damp. Ahead stood a wooden workbench; to the right on the wall there were cupboards. To the left there were tools. Gregson smiled at the shovels, spades, picks and assorted other pieces of hardware.

'Try and find some lights,' he said to Finn, who shook his head and wandered towards the cupboards.

In the darkness he cracked his leg against a wheelbarrow, yelping in pain, then cursing as he rubbed his shin.

Gregson picked up a couple of spades and a pick-axe and turned to see that his companion had discovered a large torch in one of the cupboards.

'Bring that,' he snapped as Finn flicked it on. The beam was powerful and broad. 'We've got to find the grave.'

'I joined the force to uphold the law, not play at fucking Burke and Hare,' snapped Finn.

Gregson smiled thinly and motioned for his companion to lead the way.

'Take this,' he said, handing Finn a spade.

'There must be thousands of people buried in this fucking place,' snarled the DS. 'How the hell are we supposed to find one grave? We don't even know where it is.'

They set off along the driveway, feet sinking into the loose chippings.

'If Lucas was only buried three weeks ago, I know which part of the cemetery he'll be in,' Gregson reassured his companion. 'A friend of my father's died about a month ago. He was buried here, too. I came along with my old man. All the new ones are put in the same place. It's not far.'

As they walked Finn shone the torch from side to side, the light picking out graves on either side. Headstones stuck up from the earth like accusatory fingers, many moulded with age. Larger, sepulchral edifices appeared occasionally out of the night; marble reflected the beam of the torch. Some graves had crosses, others were completely unmarked. In many places the grass was overgrown. Great long tufts of it encroached onto the graves, the blades stirred by the strengthening wind.

As the path sloped upwards slightly, both men spotted a secondary track that was little more than a well-worn path carved out by the passage of many weary feet.

'Over there,' Gregson said, indicating the muddy path.

They changed direction. Finn sucked in breath.

'Do you reckon they'll still pay us our police pensions when we're locked up in a nuthouse? Because that's what's going to happen when people find out what we're doing,' he said.

'This is no joke,' hissed Gregson.

'You're fucking right it's not,' snapped Finn. 'Traipsing round a graveyard at one o'clock in the morning isn't my idea of a fun way to pass the time.'

'Give me the torch,' Gregson snapped, taking the light from his companion. He shone it over the headstones, picking out names.

'It's around here somewhere,' he said, it has to be.'

'I hope to Christ you're right,' Finn said, pulling up the collar of his jacket against the wind. A tree nearby bowed mockingly, its skeletal branches clacking together.

Gregson noted that most of the graves had fresh flowers on them. He could smell violets as he moved from one plot to another, moving the torch beam steadily over the monuments, careful not to tread on any of the graves. He noted the names, the inscriptions. The ages.

VALERIE SUTTON - BELOVED WIFE.

SLEEPING MARK KELLER - TAKEN BY GOD.

JONATHAN PIKE - THE LIGHT OF OUR LIFE - DIED MARCH 8th AGED 11 MONTHS.

'This could take all night,' said Finn. Every time he stepped on a grave he apologised to its occupant, feeling stupid but unable to stop himself.

Gregson kept the torch beam moving steadily.

LOUISE PATEMAN - OUR DARLING DAUGHTER - AT REST.

A metal rosebowl, overturned by the wind, clattered off its plinth and rolled against a headstone.

'Shit,' hissed Finn, spinning round.

COLIN MORRIS - A SPECIAL HUSBAND - SADLY MISSED.

The roses from the bowl were quickly scattered by the wind. The bowl continued to roll back and forth.

Finn reached for his cigarettes.

'Stuart.'

The sound of the voice startled him and he spun round to look at Gregson who was holding the beam on a simple plinth set into the ground. It bore only the name.

'I've found it,' said the DI.