Sunshine was pouring through the windows of Sullivan's office. Gregson could feel the warming rays on his arms as he sat looking at his superior.
'What were the final figures on dead and injured?' Sullivan wanted to know.
DS Finn flipped open his notebook.
'Twelve dead - that includes Lucas - and twenty-four injured,' he announced.
'I suppose you think this supports your idea, Gregson?' said the Commissioner.
'It seems hard to argue with the facts now, sir, I would have thought,' he said triumphantly.
'The facts, according to you, being that Bryce, Lawton, Magee and Lucas didn't die inside Whitely. Their deaths were, for some unknown reason, faked. Correct?'
'How can you argue with the evidence in front of you, sir?' Gregson wanted to know.
'I can argue with it because this,' he held up a blue, bound file, 'is the report of a Government committee chaired by an MP called Bernard Clinton. It seems that he and three of his colleagues visited Whitely not long ago to investigate the overcrowding there. He doesn't mention anything unusual. In fact, he compliments the administration there for their work in trying to alleviate "overcrowding." ' Sullivan dropped the file onto his desk with a thud. 'No mention of anything like a conspiracy. No mention of faking the deaths of murderers, then releasing them.'
'Well, I don't expect he was shown the process, sir,' snarled Gregson.
'What process, for Christ's sake?' Sullivan demanded. 'Four men died in Whitely. Their crimes were imitated…'
'The crimes were re-enacted by their original perpetrators,' Gregson interrupted angrily. 'What the fuck is it going to take to make you realise what's going on?'
Finn looked warily at his companion, then at their superior.
'What do you want, Gregson?' Sullivan asked.
'I want exhumation orders for those other three men,' the DI said flatly. 'I want to go into Whitely. I want those graves dug up. I want to see that Lawton, Bryce and Magee are in the coffins they're supposed to be in.'
'You're insane,' Sullivan hissed.
'Just like I was insane to dig up Lucas? If I'm crazy then so is Finn, because he saw that empty coffin. So is Barclay, because he's told you that it's Lucas we've got downstairs, just like it's the others we've got down there keeping him company. I'm beginning to think it's you who's crazy, sir. You refuse to believe what's right in front of your nose.'
'There'll be a dismissal notice in front of your nose if you ever speak to me like that again, Gregson. Do you understand?' Sullivan rasped, 'I've seen the evidence, I've heard the facts but I can't issue exhumation orders for those other three men.'
'Why not?' Gregson asked, exasperated.
'Because this isn't just police business, it's political,' Sullivan said. 'What the hell do you think the Press would make of it? Police officers, digging up graves in a prison to find out whether or not the men supposedly buried there are really dead? There's a Home Office report testifying to the efficiency of Whitely Prison and you're trying to tell me there's a conspiracy going on there with the full knowledge of the Governor.'
'At least consider the facts, sir,' Gregson said, leaning forward. 'We have irrefutable proof that the four men lying in the pathology lab supposedly died anything up to a year before they actually did. We know their identities. We know the death of at least one of them was faked. They all duplicated their original crimes, they all committed suicide. Every one of the four was suffering from a massive brain tumour at the time of his death, and every one had been an inmate at Whitely Prison.'
Sullivan exhaled deeply, sitting back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He looked at the pictures of his wife and kids on the corner of his desk, reaching across to straighten one of them slightly. When he spoke again his tone was softer.
'Gregson, I have considered the facts,' he said. 'But I've also considered something you obviously haven't. Namely, the consequences. Have you stopped to think, once, of the ramifications involved if you're right?' He looked at the DI whose gaze never faltered. 'Christ alone knows, there's enough public concern about what goes on in our prisons at the moment; can you imagine what would happen if you were proved to be right? A conspiracy of officials at one of the country's leading maximum security prisons? As I said, it isn't just a police matter. It's a question of politics, too. Politics and ethics.'
'I'm sure the people that Lucas and the others killed would be impressed if they were alive to hear you, sir,' Gregson said acidly.
'I can't sign those exhumation orders,' the Commissioner said wearily.
'Why not?' snapped Gregson. 'It's our only way of finding out once and for all what's going on. How many more times has this got to happen before you'll agree?'
'Appeals to my conscience won't work,' Sullivan told him.
'I'm not appealing to your conscience, I'm appealing to your common sense.'
There was a heavy silence, finally broken by Sullivan. 'You're so sure you're right,' he began.
'The evidence…'
Sullivan cut him short. 'I know all about the bloody evidence,' he interrupted, holding up a hand to silence the DI. 'But just suppose, for one second, that you're wrong.'
'Then I'll resign,' Gregson said flatly.
'You and all the rest of us, too,' Sullivan said, looking around the room. 'You still don't know why the murderers are being released again.'
'And the only way I'll do that is by getting inside Whitely and seeing inside those graves,' the DI said. 'You could be wrong,' Sullivan repeated, it's a chance I'm willing to take.'
The Commissioner rubbed both hands over his face. 'Well, I'm not willing to take that chance,' he said. Gregson got to his feet angrily.
'That means you won't sign the papers for the magistrate's order?' he rasped.
'Not until I've thought about it more.'
'How much longer is that going to be?' Gregson wanted to know.
'As long as it takes,' Sullivan told him. 'Now get out.' As the three men filed out of the office Sullivan called to the DI.
'You want an answer?' he said, reflectively. 'You can have one. In forty-eight hours.'
'Forty-eight hours could be too long,' Gregson snapped.
'You don't have a choice. I'll give you my answer then.'
Gregson nodded, closing the office door behind him.
Sullivan turned his chair to face the sun, looking out over London, the beginnings of a headache throbbing at his temples.
Outside, the sun had been obscured by a thick bank of dark clouds.
Sullivan closed his eyes, fingertips pressed together beneath his chin as if he were praying.
It seemed most appropriate.
EIGHTY-NINE
Pain.
Pain like he'd never experienced before.
Jesus, it felt as if his head were going to explode. As if someone were filling it steadily with molten lead, his veins swelling inexorably.
James Scott tried to open his eyes but even that simple act seemed beyond him. Whatever he did, it brought more pain.
