flesh hung like leprous wet tendrils from the blistered mess that had once been Draper's features. The other man was burbling incoherently, his eyes rolling upwards in their sockets, but he remained on his feet, supported by Scott's hand, until finally he felt the thunderous blow from the metal ladel once again. This time it was across his swollen face. His nose was shattered by the impact, blood bursting outwards, spattering his overalls, mixing with the soup and the slivers of skin.
The first of the warders crashed into Scott, knocking him to the ground.
The new clash was greeted by a fresh wave of shouts, from the other inmates.
Another warder pinned him down, forcing the ladle from his grip. A third man pulled Draper away, sickened by the hideous sight of his scalded features. Blisters that had already risen on the face were liquescent and close to bursting.
Scott struggled in vain as two more officers dragged him to his feet and hauled him away.
Away from the bloodied image of Draper. Away from the deafening shouts of the other inmates.
Scott found that he too was shouting, screaming his rage not just at his captors and at Draper but at someone else.
At Plummer.
At Carol.
Consumed by rage unlike anything he'd ever experienced, he was dragged bellowing from the refectory.
Up above, on one of the catwalks, Governor Peter Nicholson had seen the entire tableau. He watched as Scott was dragged away, his face impassive.
He stood there for a moment, listening to the cacophony of sound crashing all around him, then walked off.
EIGHTY-THREE
To Finn it was as if they'd been sitting there for hours.
The Detective Sergeant fidgeted uncomfortably, his hand moving habitually towards the pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, but each time he glanced across the outer office his eyes were met by the sign which proclaimed NO SMOKING in large red letters.
Beside him, DI Gregson kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, occasionally rubbing the palms of his hands over his thighs. Every now and then he would glance at his watch, wondering how much longer they were going to be kept waiting.
The outer office of Police Commissioner Lawrence Sullivan was large and brightly decorated. There was a desk behind which sat Lawrence's secretary, an officious woman in her early forties with long auburn hair and, Finn had noticed, a terrific pair of legs. Gazing constantly at her legs had just about made the wait worthwhile, taking his mind off the task to come. She had already offered the men coffee; the DS had accepted but Gregson had refused. Now Finn was considering whether or not to ask for another cup, even if only to watch her sashay out of the office. His request was interrupted when a buzzer on the intercom sounded and she leant forward to press a button. She answered and got to her feet, approaching the two policemen. They also rose and followed her as she beckoned them.
She showed them into the Commissioner's office, then left.
Sullivan was a powerful, bull-necked specimen of a man who looked more like a refugee from a bare- knuckle ring than Commissioner of Police. He was in his midforties, his complexion ruddy, his nose flat against his face. His normally piercing eyes were almost hidden by thick eyebrows.
On his desk Gregson saw a number of framed photos. His wife, his children and one that looked strangely incongruous, considering Sullivan's demeanour; it showed the Commissioner cradling his baby son in his arms, feeding him with a bottle. Gregson thought he might have looked more at home using one hand to choke a goat.
The big man was reading a report of some kind when the other two policemen entered and did not look up.
'Sit down,' he said sharply.
They obeyed.
Sullivan glared at them immediately.
'You're lucky I'm not suspending both of you,' he snarled. 'What the bloody hell were you playing at last night? Digging up a man's grave? I should have you locked up.'
'There wasn't time to obtain an exhumation order, sir,' Gregson said.
'Why?' Sullivan roared. 'Was the man you dug up leaving? What was so important it couldn't have waited one more day?'
'If you'll just listen, sir, I'll tell you,' Gregson said, aware of the acid glance Sullivan shot him. The DI waited a moment, wondering if his superior was going to interrupt again. When he didn't, Gregson began, keeping it as brief as he could. He mentioned the three killers, their victims, the suicides. Sullivan didn't move a muscle as he listened, his eyes never leaving Gregson as he talked about his visit to Whitely. How he'd seen the graves of men who, he knew for a fact, were actually dead and in the pathology room at New Scotland Yard itself. About four men who had died in Whitely in three years and now…
Sullivan held up a hand to silence him.
'Enough,' he said, rubbing his forehead with one thumb and forefinger. There was a long silence finally broken by the Commissioner himself. 'You are aware of what you're saying, Gregson?' he asked. 'You're asking me to believe that three men returned from the dead to re-enact their crimes? You're talking to me about zombies?' He smiled menacingly. 'If you're not out of this office in five seconds I'm going to have you both suspended. You'll be pounding a bloody beat by the end of the month.' The anger had returned to his voice.
'They didn't return from the dead,' Gregson said defiantly. 'Lawton, Bryce and Magee never died in the first place. They each committed suicide after re-enacting their crimes.'
'They were all in prison, you said yourself you saw their graves,' Sullivan reminded him.
'The men who committed those murders recently were Lawton, Bryce and Magee. There is no mistake,' the DI insisted. 'As I said, they never died in prison. Their deaths were faked. Just like the death of Gary Lucas. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make out that Lucas died of a heart attack inside Whitely. A weighted coffin was buried in that cemetery at Norwood to make it look convincing.'
'So where's Lucas?' Sullivan asked.
'We don't know yet.'
'And, more importantly, why would anyone want to fake his death? Are you trying to tell me there's some kind of conspiracy going on?' Sullivan got to his feet. 'Four murderers are pronounced dead, headstones are erected for them, and they're still alive? Why would anyone want to do that?' he continued. 'But you're not just implying that their deaths were faked, you're trying to tell me they escaped from Whitely. Four killers over the last three years escape from one of Britain's biggest maximum security prisons and nobody hears about it.' He turned on Gregson angrily. 'For God's sake, man, do you really know how ridiculous that sounds?'
'Then you explain the weighted coffin, sir,' Gregson said defiantly.
'I don't have to explain it,' Sullivan told him. 'I'm not the one who dug it up. As I said, you're both lucky I'm not suspending you.' He looked at Finn, too, and the DS blenched and lowered his gaze.
'There was no corpse in that coffin,' Gregson said.
'Then it must be buried somewhere else,' Sullivan said dismissively. 'I suggest you find out where. I also suggest you keep these revelations to yourself until you have more evidence to back them up.'
'How much more fucking evidence do we need?' snapped the DI.
'More than a fucking weighted coffin,' Sullivan bellowed, the two men holding each other's gaze. 'Now get out of here.' He motioned towards the door.
Gregson and Finn rose. The DS was only too happy to leave. His companion hesitated a moment.
'Lucas will kill again, sir, I'm sure of it,' the DI announced.
