jetting from the wounds, his own pistol falling to the floor.
He pitched forward, crashing into the table, spilling the bottle of wine, sending it flying. Scott stepped back and looked down at Perry, who was still trying to crawl away.
Scott shot him once in the back of the head, the bullet blasting away a sizeable portion of his skull, exposing his brain. He lay in a spreading pool of blood, his body twitching spasmodically.
Moving quickly now, Scott snatched up the pistol Morton had dropped, jamming the Smith and Wesson 459 automatic into his belt. He then rifled through the dead man's pockets and found his car keys. These he dropped into his own pocket before straightening up and moving across to Perry.
Scott found two full quick-loaders in the man's jacket. Each one carried six hollow-point.357 rounds. He pocketed those, too, then hurried towards the rear of the restaurant, where the staff who hadn't bolted in panic at the sound of gunfire were standing paralysed with fear. At one of the stoves a gas flame leaped high beneath a large copper pot. Scott's eyes narrowed.
'Get out,' he shouted at the staff. 'All of you, get out of here, now.' The sight of the.357 and the tone of Scott's voice combined to accelerate the evacuation. He crossed to the gas flame and stuck a balled up tea towel in it, watching as the material ignited. He tossed it inside the dining area, then threw another after it, watching with delight as flames began to lick at chairs and tables, began to ignite table cloths. Fire spread rapidly, greedy tongues of it flaring wildly inside the room. Scott looked through the curtain of flames to the bodies of Morton and Perry, then turned and headed out into the yard and around the corner to the waiting Rover. He unlocked it and clambered in, sliding behind the wheel.
He stepped on the accelerator and the car sped away past the front of the restaurant.
Smoke and flame were already belching through the shattered front window.
Another few minutes and the entire building would be an inferno.
ONE HUNDRED AND ONE
All three of the coffins were empty.
They lay beside the graves, as if forced up from the dark earth, now discarded by it.
Empty.
Gregson moved slowly between them, not quite ready to believe the evidence of his own eyes but aware of the twinge of triumph deep within him.
The wind, blowing across the cemetery, ruffled his hair as he stood looking at the boxes. Beside him Sherman, Clifford, Finn and the two warders who had helped to disinter the caskets also looked on.
Nicholson and Dexter said nothing.
'There was a reason for it,' said Dexter finally.
Nicholson looked contemptuously at him.
'I'm not interested in your reasons,' Gregson told him.
'It was to help the men,' Dexter protested.
'What about the public, you bastard,' snapped the DI. 'You released murderers back into society, knowing they'd kill again.'
'No,' Dexter protested. 'The experiments would have worked. Their violent tendencies would have been cured.'
'Well they weren't, were they? You're as guilty of murder as the men who actually pulled the triggers or used the knives.'
'They got what they deserved,' said Nicholson. 'They died. Died as they would have done thirty years ago. We did the country a favour by experimenting on men like Bryce and Magee. What else would they have done? Sat here for the rest of their miserable lives feeding on taxpayers' food, clothed by the state, protected.'
'Well, it's over now, Nicholson,' said the DI. 'You're both under arrest.'
'It isn't over,' the Governor told him flatly.
'What the hell do you mean?'
'A man escaped from here last night. Another man we'd experimented on.'
Gregson's expression changed to one of shock.
'Who was he?' he demanded.
'He can't have got far,' Dexter said, dejectedly. 'I only operated…'
'Who was he?' Gregson roared.
'His name was James Scott,' Nicholson said.
Finn and Gregson looked at each other.
'How long's he been gone?' the DI wanted to know.
'We can't be sure,' Dexter said. 'Probably since late last night.'
'Jesus Christ,' murmured Gregson. He looked at Finn. 'Stuart, you take care of things here. I've got to get back to London as quickly as possible.'
'You think Scott will head back there?' the DS said.
'It's the only place he knows,' Gregson said, stepping over an empty coffin. 'I'll put out an alert to all units to watch for him. If he got a car he's probably there by now.' He looked at Dexter. 'Have you any idea what you've done?' he snarled.
'All I wanted to do was help them,' Dexter said quietly.
Finn pushed him and Nicholson away, nodding in the direction of the graves.
'Fill those in,' he said.
Gregson ran off across the cemetery, almost slipping on the mud in his haste. He sprinted across the exercise yard towards the waiting helicopter, wrenching the passenger side door open. The pilot hurriedly stubbed out his cigarette and looked in surprise as the DI scrambled into the other seat.
'Get us back to London as fast as you can,' Gregson told him. 'Move.'
He was already strapping himself in as the pilot switched on the motor and the rotors began to turn, carving an arc through the air as they rotated with increasing speed. The power built up rapidly.
Gregson clenched his fists together, his emotions a curious mixture of elation and foreboding. Elation that his theory had been proved correct. And foreboding at what Scott might do or, indeed, might have already done.
As the Lynx rose into the air he found that his hands were shaking.
ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
'I don't want to kill you, Rick. But I will if I have to.' Rick Calder froze when he heard the voice. He felt the colour drain from his face, felt his bowels loosen as the barrel was prodded into the small of his back.
'Open it up,' James Scott told him, watching as Calder turned the key in the lock that secured one of the two metal grilles at the front entrance of 'Loveshow'. Calder hooked his fingers beneath the sliding screen of metal and pushed upwards.
'I thought you were inside,' he said quietly. His hands shook as he tried to find the key to open the door.
'Yeah, you and everybody else,' Scott told him, prodding him a little harder with the 459. 'Come on, get a fucking move on.' He looked to his right and left, satisfied that the gun he held was hidden from the view of any passers-by.
Calder finally found the right key and unlocked the door, stumbling inside as Scott pushed him through the entrance and slammed the door behind them. He winced as he felt that all-too familiar pain inside his head, throbbing and pulsing. His brain seemed to be swelling, trying to burst through his skull.
