'Where? How long ago?'
'He killed two men at a restaurant called Les Gourmet about an hour ago. The men are believed to be Terry Morton and Joe Perry.'
'What do you mean, believed to be?' Gregson snapped.
'After he killed them he set fire to the place. The bodies were quite badly burned. He also wrecked and burned the place where he used to work, a clip joint called "Loveshow". Both places, as you probably know, were owned by Ray Plummer. Morton and Perry worked for Plummer. It seems like Scott's on a little crusade.'
'When was he last seen?' the DI demanded.
'About forty minutes ago. He's driving a stolen Rover Sterling which belonged to one of the men he killed.'
Gregson chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment.
'Tango Zebra, can you hear me?' the voice said, insistently.
'Don't try to take Scott alive, do you understand?' the DI said.
Silence from the other end.
'Did you hear what I said? Don't try to take him alive. Is that understood?'
'Understood.'
The Lynx was descending now, the shapes and outlines of the buildings below becoming more discernible.
if you see Scott,' he said, 'Shoot to kill. Over and out.' He switched off his microphone.
The pilot looked across at him, saw the expression on his face and decided to say nothing.
Below them Gregson could see the Thames, winding through the city like a dirty ribbon.
It wouldn't be long now.
ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR
The black police transit van stood with its back doors open, two uniformed men waiting.
DS Stuart Finn shielded the flame of his lighter as he tried to light the Marlboro he'd just taken from the pack. The wind was blowing strongly now; twice the lighter flame was extinguished. Cursing, Finn stuck to his task, drawing gratefully on the cigarette at last. He looked up to see Governor Nicholson being led out of the main building by two of his warders.
The irony of the situation was inescapable. The two men looked bewildered, embarrassed almost as they led the older man towards the waiting transit. He allowed Finn only a cursory glance as he passed, clambering up into the back of the van and sitting down on one of the benches. A uniformed policeman joined him.
Finn watched as Dexter was also led towards the van. He had taken off his lab coat and now wore just a pair of plain brown trousers and a brown jacket. His shirt was undone at the collar. Finn thought how weary he looked. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes sunken and lifeless.
He was scanning the exercise yard as she walked, noting that there were a couple of unmarked police cars nearby as well as an official one besides, of course, the transit in which he was about to take his place with Nicholson.
The plain clothes men who occupied the unmarked cars were standing around chatting, two with their hands dug in their pockets, collars turned up against the icy wind cutting across the open courtyard.
Inside the van, Nicholson looked out and saw Dexter approaching. So this was how it was to end, he thought. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He glanced up at one of the windows of B Wing to see an inmate staring down.
The two men would be held at the nearest police station until charges could be formally brought against them. What exactly those charges were, Finn wasn't sure as yet.
Conspiracy. But conspiracy to do what?
Pervert the course of justice?
What did the rule book say about brain operations on convicted murderers? Where were the clauses on experimentation and release of those same murderers?
That, he was relieved to think, was not his problem. His only problem was getting these two men to the nearest police station. He took another drag on his cigarette and patted the side of the transit.
He'd ensured that the coffins had been reburied before they left. It was rather an empty gesture, considering they'd been without occupants, but Finn had a curious feeling of respect and dread for graves and he felt it only right that the cemetery be restored to its former state before he and his colleagues departed.
Dexter was slowing down, looking at the transit.
Perhaps the realisation was finally hitting him, Finn thought.
The doctor looked at the black vehicle and seemed to swoon. He took a step backwards.
Finn frowned, moved forward to help the older man.
Dexter ran at him and crashed into him, the power of the impact unexpected enough to send Finn toppling. He spun round in time to see Dexter running towards the nearest of the unmarked cars.
The drivers were standing about twenty feet away. They hadn't seen what had happened.
Dexter was already behind the wheel of the black Sierra.
'Stop him,' Finn bellowed, now chasing after the doctor. Dexter had started the engine, oblivious to the plain clothes and uniformed men running at him from all direction.
The closest of the officers actually managed to get a hand inside the car through the open side window. His fist closed around Dexter's collar, but the doctor stepped on the accelerator and the car shot forward, dragging the policeman.
With one hand Dexter hammered at the vice-like grip, speeding up as he approached the open prison gates. He braked hard and the jolting impact caused the policeman to lose his hold. He somersaulted, landing heavily on the concrete.
Dexter drove on, glancing in the rear-view mirror, seeing that Finn had clambered into the blue Citroen and was following. The marked car was also in pursuit.
Dexter roared through the open gates and felt the car skid on the slippery track, but he regained control and drove on, flooring the accelerator, the needle on the speedometer touching ninety.
Behind him the Citroen and the police car followed, Finn hunched low over the wheel.
The Sierra reached the road and Dexter wrestled with the wheel, guiding the vehicle to the right. It skidded madly on the road but he kept it under control, noticing that Finn was closing the gap on him.
The police car had cut across in an attempt to head him off but Dexter saw what was happening and sent the Sierra speeding towards a ridge ahead. A wire fence separated the road from the field beyond, the bank sloping up like a ramp.
Dexter gripped the wheel and drove straight at the fence, crashing through it, the Sierra hurtling up the low bank. It was moving at such a speed that all four wheels left the ground and the vehicle seemed to hang in mid-air, suspended as if on invisible wires, for long seconds before slamming down with a bone-jarring crash.
The car skidded again, great geezers of mud spraying up behind it, but Dexter, his face covered by a thin sheen of sweat, kept control and sped on across the field.
Finn, his face set in an attitude of concentration, followed. The Citroen hit the bank and hurtled through the air, banging down in the muddy field.
The police car wasn't so lucky.
The driver, either because of misjudgement or fear, eased up his speed and the car hit the bank. But instead of sailing through the air, it nose-dived into the mud, the rear end toppling over until the entire vehicle crashed onto its roof, metal buckling under the impact.
Finn saw in his rear-view mirror that the other car had come to grief but he was more concerned with the Sierra now, roaring away from him across the field.
Surely, he thought, Dexter would have had more chance of outrunning him on an ordinary road. The muddy field could only slow him down.
