'Get up,' snapped Swain, kicking Robinson hard at the base of the spine.
The office door slammed shut behind them.
'Don't tell me I won't get away with this,' Nicholson said, a slight smile on his lips, his gaze flicking back and forth from one inmate to the other. 'You can report this to the prison authorities if you like, but you'll never prove it happened. No matter what we do to you.'
'What do you want from us?' Robinson said.
'You were cell-mates with Scott; I want to know how he got out. I want to know if he talked about escaping. I want to know if you helped him.'
Porter eyed the Governor coldly, a slight smile on his face.
Nicholson saw it, took a step forward and struck Porter hard across the face, splitting his bottom lip. He fell backwards into the arms of Swain, who drove a fist into his kidneys then let him drop to the ground.
'For God's sake, stop it,' Dexter said.
'You keep out of this,' Nicholson roared. 'This is my prison and this is my affair.'
'You've lost him, Nicholson,' Porter said, sucking in a painful breath. 'He's long gone by now and you won't find him.'
'Did you help him escape?' the Governor rasped.
Porter spat blood, then clambered to his feet.
'Yeah, I gave him a leg up over the fucking wall,' he said.
Swain hit him hard across the small of the back with his baton.
Porter doubled up, falling to the floor once more.
'This will put another five years on your sentences,' Nicholson snarled. 'Both of you.'
'We don't know where he's gone,' Robinson protested angrily.
'Five years,' Nicholson spat. 'And I'll make it five years of hell.'
'Fuck you,' rasped Robinson and hawked loudly, propelling a gob of mucus into the Governor's face.
It hung there like a tear, trickling slowly down his cheek until Nicholson wiped it away.
Swain struck Robinson across the shoulder with his baton, then the shoulder blades, both blows almost cracking bone. Then the warder turned and opened the office door. Two of his colleagues, jackets already removed and sleeves rolled up, walked in.
'Take these men to solitary,' Nicholson said. 'See if they feel more like talking there.' He nodded, watching as the two men were dragged away.
'You can't do this,' Dexter protested as the office door slammed shut behind them.
'I've told you before,' Nicholson snarled. 'This is my prison and I can do what I like. Now, if you're not a solution to this problem then you're a part of it, so get out of here.'
Dexter turned to leave.
'I'll find him, Dexter,' said the Governor. 'And if he's not dead when he's brought back, he will be by the time I've finished with him.'
NINETY-FIVE
'I don't like having to trust other people, Gregson.' Police Commissioner Lawrence Sullivan held the pieces of paper in his large hands, shuffling them like playing cards. 'I warned you before, you'd better be right, otherwise I'll have you back pounding a beat quicker than you can imagine.'
DI Gregson looked on indifferently.
'I told you, if I'm wrong, I'll resign,' he said flatly.
Sullivan got to his feet, the three pieces of paper in his hand.
'These,' he said, brandishing the papers before him, could be the key to what's been going on, or they could mean an end to your career and mine. I hope you realise what a bloody risk I'm taking. Not only do I dislike having to trust other people, I also hate gambles. And this, to me, is a gamble.'
'There's too much evidence…'
Sullivan cut him short. 'I know, you've told me that before. Well, after considering it all, I tend to agree with your theory that things at Whitely are, shall we say, a little irregular. But while there's the slightest element of doubt I don't like it. A conspiracy is one hell of an accusation, Gregson. Like I said, you'd better be right.' He sat down at his desk, the exhumation orders laid out in front of him.
'Are you going to pass them, sir?' Gregson asked, looking at his superior.
'They're already signed,' said Sullivan. He handed them to Gregson.
'A helicopter will take you, Finn and two other men to Whitely. It'll pick you up in an hour. It shouldn't take more than about fifty minutes to get there.' He exhaled deeply. 'Gregson, I want a full report on what you do or don't find up there, do you understand? An investigation of this kind makes me accountable to the Government as well as to our own people and the prison authorities.'
Gregson nodded.
'Do you think I'm right, sir?' he finally asked, quietly.
'Would it matter one way or the other?'
'Not really. I'm just curious as to what made you decide to get these.' He held up the exhumation orders.
'You seemed to have a pretty strong case to support your argument and if there is some kind of conspiracy going on at Whitely, then it should be exposed. Or perhaps, for once in my life, I decided to gamble.' He looked at Gregson. 'But there's a lot on this bet. More than I think you either care or realise.' They exchanged glances once more then Gregson turned to leave.
'A full report,' Sullivan reminded him as he left. The door closed and the Commissioner was left alone in his office. He sat back in his seat, hands clasped together beneath his chin, gazing out of his window at the overcast sky.
'I got them,' Gregson said triumphantly, holding the exhumation orders in front of him.
'Now what?' Finn asked him.
Gregson explained about the helicopter, the impending journey to Whitely.
'I doubt if they're going to be very helpful up there,' the DS observed.
'I couldn't give a fuck,' rasped Gregson. 'They don't have to be helpful. The only thing that matters is, with these exhumation orders they can't stop us.'
NINETY-SIX
He'd slept in the back of the car on a side-road, the merciful oblivion he sought interrupted so often by the pain in his head. Finally, after two disturbed hours, Scott had decided to drive on. He'd discarded his prison overalls in favour of one of the shirts and a pair of the jeans but he still wore his prison boots. He'd washed his face and hands in the rain and he'd fixed a small bandage over the surgical dressing with Elastoplast. The wound in his calf had stopped bleeding, but it hurt; every time he pushed his foot down on the clutch, fresh blood seeped out.
The pain inside his head was less insistent. That was the handfuls of pain-killers he'd taken, he told himself. But it was still there, ever-present as he drove, glancing around him, wincing in the early morning sunlight that streamed through the windscreen.
He was well inside the outskirts of London now, heading for his own flat in Brent. If only he could reach it, the flat would provide a haven at least for a couple of precious hours. Providing the police hadn't already covered it, waiting for him to go there. No, surely they wouldn't expect him to head back to London so soon. Would they? He was convinced his escape must have been discovered by now, but he'd seen precious little in the way of police pursuit. Not as yet, anyway.
