Nicholson shook his head.
'You're insane,' he snarled.
'Maybe I am, but I'm also right.'
'You can't open the graves,' Nicholson said defiantly. 'I won't allow it.'
'You have no choice,' Gregson said triumphantly. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the three exhumation orders, hurling them down in front of Nicholson. 'You can read them if you want to, but the most important thing is the signature at the bottom. Look at it.'
Nicholson picked up one of the documents with his thumb and forefinger, as if he were handling some kind of contagious material. He saw the sweeping hand of Commissioner Lawrence Sullivan on the order and the signature of a well-known Judge.
'Do you still want to argue with me?' Gregson said.
Nicholson merely glared at the policeman.
'The records we had on Lucas say that his body was prepared by your resident doctor,' the DI said. 'Someone called…'
'Dexter. Dr Robert Dexter,' Finn interjected.
'I want to speak to him, too,' Gregson insisted. 'No autopsy was carried out on Lucas, according to the records. Did Dexter prepare the other three, as well?'
Nicholson nodded.
'Was he the one who experimented on them?'
'What are you talking about?' Nicholson snapped.
'There's nowhere to run now, Nicholson. We know it all. We have the bodies back at New Scotland Yard. We know the men were all suffering from massive brain tumours, possibly triggered by some kind of brain surgery. Surgery performed by Dexter. Where is he?'
'In the hospital wing.'
'Get him. Now.'
Nicholson's hand hovered over the phone.
'And then?' he asked.
Gregson smiled thinly.
'We've got some digging to do.'
ONE HUNDRED
Scott could see the 'CLOSED' sign on the door of Les Gourmets as he pulled up across the street from it. He parked the Renault and sat behind the wheel for a moment, his head resting against the steering wheel.
Stop this fucking pain.
He swallowed hard and opened his eyes, squinting at first to clear the mist of pain that seemed to have clouded his vision. A cobbled walkway ran alongside the restaurant and led to the back entrance. Scott swung himself out of the car and crossed the street. The walkway was wide enough for a small delivery truck and Scott noticed that there was a dark red Rover Sterling parked there.
He recognised the car; it belonged to Terry Morton.
As Scott moved towards the rear of the restaurant he saw two men in shirt-sleeves carrying large metal bins to a skip in the back yard of the eatery, emptying waste into the receptacle. He paused for a moment, his hand slipping down to touch the hilt of the knife. He pulled it free and slipped it into the back of his belt, hiding it beneath his jacket.
Scott moved closer as the men finished their task. He could hear the clanking of pots and pans inside the kitchen at the rear and there were several excitable voices being raised within. He peered around the corner and noticed that the door to the kitchen was open.
He assumed that Morton was inside.
He edged towards the back door, cursing as he slipped in a mess of spilled potato peelings. He walked on, into the kitchen of the restaurant. Several curious heads turned to look at him.
'Can I help you?' one of the staff asked, wiping his hands on a tea-towel.
'I work for Mr Plummer,' Scott said, regarding the man coldly. 'I noticed one of my friends is here. I saw his car parked round the side. Where is he?'
The man seemed to relax.
'Mr Morton is through there in the restaurant with Mr Perry,' he told Scott. 'Shall I tell them you're here?'
Scott shook his head.
'No, I'll surprise them,' he said, pushing past the man, who watched as he stepped through the macrame streamers that separated the kitchen from the dining area.
It was dull inside the restaurant, despite the daylight outside. The shutters were only half-open.
Morton and Perry were sitting at a table close to the window, a bottle of wine between them. Perry was glancing at a newspaper.
Scott took a couple of steps towards them.
It was Morton who saw him first.
Jesus Christ,' he murmured.
'Not quite,' said Scott softly, a thin smile on his face.
'You're supposed to be banged up,' Morton told him, as if imparting information only he was aware of.
'Yeah, well, there's been a change of plan,' Scott told him.
'You look like shit, Jim,' Perry said, putting down his paper. 'What happened?'
'It's a long story. Where's Plummer?'
The two men looked at each other, then back at Scott.
'Why?' Morton asked.
'I want to talk to him. We've got some business to discuss. About twenty years' worth.' Scott moved closer.
Perry's hand moved to the inside of his jacket.
'Back off, Jim,' he said, his hand touching the butt of the.357 inside his jacket.
'Fuck you,' rasped Scott and moved the last few paces towards them with lightning speed.
He pulled the knife free as Perry went for the pistol.
Scott brought the knife round in a wide arc, the powerful backhand swing catching Perry across the face, slicing through his cheek and shearing off bone. A flap of skin fluttered uselessly. Perry shrieked in pain, blood spouting from the wound. He fell backwards off the chair, the gun falling from his hand.
Scott kicked it away from him, driving his weight against the table at the same time, knocking Morton back against the window.
Perry made a grab for the pistol but Scott kicked him hard in the side of the face, shattering his left cheek bone. Then he himself snatched up the.357, aware of shouts from behind him as the terrified staff watched the struggle.
Scott swung round, bringing the pistol to bear on Morton, who was reaching for his own gun.
'You fucking…'
The words were drowned by the massive discharge of the.357, the sound amplified within the confines of the deserted restaurant. Scott was blinded momentarily by the searing muzzle-flashes as he fired three times.
The first bullet missed, shattering the window behind Morton, but the second two struck home. One tore through his chest to the left of the sternum, exploded a lung and erupted from his his back, carrying blood and portions of bone with it.
The other heavy-grain slug caught him in the stomach, doubling him up as it macerated a large portion of the duodenum and pulverised the liver on its deadly course. Morton was hurled backwards by the impact, blood
