'What's that for?' he wanted to know.
'Work detail,' Porter explained. 'Laundry. I collect it and deliver it. It's better than sitting in here every day. Apart from the hospital wing.' He grunted. 'That's where the blood came from. Blood, shit and Christ knows what else. It used to be used as a punishment: they'd make inmates clean up the hospital wing, that sort of thing. Even make them change sheets and empty fucking bedpans.'
'What did anybody do to get that punishment?' Scott wanted to know.
'It was usually if somebody tried to escape,' Porter said.
'Has anyone ever managed it?' Scott wanted to know.
'Not since I've been here,' Porter told him. 'A couple of blokes tried to go over the wall about a year ago. Before that, some prat even managed to hide in the boot of one of the warders' cars.' The other two men laughed.
'Somebody did it a while back,' Robinson said. 'Actually got out. They didn't get far, of course, but they managed to get out of the prison itself…'
'How?' Scott demanded, cutting him short.
'This place is very old, as you know. Supposedly there's a network of sewer tunnels running under it,' Robinson explained. 'Most of them have probably caved in by now. But one old boy over in B Wing was telling me that it's like a fucking maze down there. Some geezer got down into the tunnels and found his way out.'
'Rather him than me,' Porter muttered. 'That was probably how they found him. Just followed the smell of shit.'
Robinson laughed.
Scott didn't.
He sat back on his bed, looking around at the confines of the cell.
He sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily.
A vision of Carol filled his mind.
Then Plummer.
He gritted his teeth.
'You all right?' Porter asked.
Scott nodded slowly, opening his eyes.
When he spoke his words were almost inaudible. 'I was just thinking.'
LIFE.
The word screamed inside his brain.
No. There had to be a way.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
The raindrops against the window sounded like a handful of gravel being hurled at the glass by the strong wind. Rivulets of water coursed down the panes, puddling on the sill.
Governor Peter Nicholson watched the rain, hands clasped behind his back, his office lit only by the desk lamp at one corner.
He was looking out over the prison courtyard, watching the sheets of rain falling, the brightness of the observation lights along the prison walls reflecting in his eyes.
The wall clock ticked somnolently in the silence, each movement of the minute hand magnified by the stillness in the office.
It was 10.56 P.M.
'As far as I can see, it's a perfect choice.'
The voice cut through the stillness like sunlight through night.
Nicholson didn't turn, hardly seemed to acknowledge the other voice. He merely shifted position slightly, knotted his fingers more tightly together and continued gazing out of the window.
'No living relatives. There's no family anywhere, as far as I can tell,' said the other voice. 'There's a history of violence, at least that's what the psychological profile says. More recent events would appear to substantiate that supposition.'
Nicholson remained silent.
'I need to be one hundred per cent sure, though,' the voice added.
At last Nicholson turned to face the other occupant of the room.
Doctor Robert Dexter ran a hand through his hair and nodded slowly, as if answering his own unasked question.
'How soon do you want to start?' Nicholson asked.
'I think we should leave it a week,' the doctor told him. 'I need to observe. As I said, I have to be one hundred per cent sure.' He exhaled deeply, in fact, perhaps we ought to wait longer than that.' He looked questioningly at the Governor. 'You said that policeman had been here.'
'He suspects nothing,' Nicholson said dismissively. 'I showed him the graves.'
'Even so, it might be an idea to stop work for a while. Just until the fuss has blown over.'
'What fuss? I told you, I showed him the graves.'
'But you said they'd identified Lawton, Bryce and Magee. What if he isn't satisfied with your explanation? He might come back.'
'And find what?' Nicholson leant across the desk and looked closely into Dexter's eyes. 'We've gone too far to turn back now. There's no need to delay the work, let alone stop it altogether. Unless you're beginning to have second thoughts.' He smiled scornfully. 'One failure too many, perhaps?'
'They were not failures, Nicholson. It can work, I've proved that.'
'So you say, doctor. I'm yet to be convinced.'
'It doesn't matter to you if they die, anyway, does it?'
'Not really, no.'
'I sometimes wonder why you became involved in the first place.'
'You know why.'
'Medical executions,' said Dexter quietly. 'That's what you see them as, isn't it? The ones that don't work.'
'You know my views,' Nicholson said sharply. 'This current situation is all that concerns me at the moment. Will you do it or not?'
'I need a week to observe, as I said.'
Nicholson nodded thoughtfully.
'However, the choice is perfect,' the doctor continued. He picked up the file that lay on the desk and flipped it open. Amid the plethora of papers there was a photo. He picked it up and studied the contours of the face, a slight smile on his lips.
'He'll be a good subject,' Dexter murmured. 'I'll operate as soon as I'm ready.'
He slipped the picture back into the file and closed it, looking once more at the name on the cover:
JAMES SCOTT.
SEVENTY-NINE
Detective Inspector Frank Gregson paced slowly back and forth from one side of his office to the other, his gaze occasionally shifting to the blackboard behind his desk. To the names written on it.
