Captives (13 page)

    'Just call it homework,' he said flatly.

    'What are you trying to find?'

    'Answers. It's my job.' He finally afforded her a glance she would have preferred he'd kept to himself. It was icy as he glared at her. 'But you didn't want to hear too much about my job, did you?'

    'Don't start again, Frank,' she said wearily. 'Are you coming to bed? Yes or no?'

    'You go,' he told her. 'I'll be up in a while.'

    'How many whiskies later?'

    He smiled thinly.

    'Just go to bed, Julie. I'll handle it.'

    'That's just the trouble, Frank,' she told him. 'I'm beginning to wonder if you can handle it any more.' She left him alone.

    Gregson heard her footfalls on the stairs, heard her moving about in the bedroom above him. He listened to the sounds for a moment longer then got up and crossed to the sideboard where he retrieved another bottle of whisky. He poured himself a measure and sat down on the sofa once more.

    He returned his attention to the photos.

    

    

    A thin film of condensation covered everything in the small bathroom, even the clock on the wall. Behind the veil of dewy moisture the hands had reached 1.15 A.M.

    Water dripped from one of the taps. Carol Jackson watched the droplets falling for a moment, occasionally raising her toe to prevent the constant plink.

    She ran both hands through her hair and put her head back, closing her eyes, enjoying the feel of the water lapping around her neck. The flesh on her fingertips was already beginning to prune but she felt as if she needed to stay in the water to wash away more than just the grime of the day and the evening. If only it could wash away her problems as easily.

    Before she left 'Loveshow' that night Scott had spoken to her, asked her if she was okay, told her how nice she looked.

    Christ, his attempts at small-talk had been so clumsy she almost felt sorry for him. It had taken him a seemingly endless time and a barrage of aimless chatter before he finally asked her why he couldn't reach her the previous night when he'd called. She had the lie ready and told him she'd unplugged the phone from the wall because she didn't want to be disturbed. As if she was regularly pestered in the early hours of the morning by social calls.

    But Scott had merely smiled, nodded and said he understood. He'd been worried about her. She'd felt like telling him not to worry about her, that she didn't want him to worry about her. But she had not been able to find the words.

    Lies were simpler.

    He'd asked her to come for a meal with him when the club shut, but she'd found that another lie had been preferable. She'd told him she had to get home. Her sister was going to call her from America. She hadn't spoken to her for months. She would see him another night.

    Maybe.

    Carol dipped her hands into the water again and rubbed her face, catching a distorted view of herself in the mist-shrouded bathroom mirror opposite. She wondered what had made her think of the excuse she had used to Scott. Her sister was going to ring her? They hadn't spoken for months. That part at least was true. Carol hadn't spoken to any of her family for some time. She wrote occasionally, when she could be bothered, and her mother sometimes replied.

    Sometimes.

    The last time she had spoken to her sister, Fiona, had been on her birthday. Fiona was five years younger and worked for a record company in the West End. It was a well-paid job and she had her own flat in Hammersmith. Carol had never even seen the place but she knew that it must be an improvement on her own humble dwelling in the basement flat of a large house in Dollis Hill. There were four other flats above her and she was on nodding terms with the other resident. She even spoke to one of the women who lived on the top floor.

    Carol should have hated Fiona. She had often thought that. Fiona had everything she didn't: a good job, a nice place. More than that, she had a future.

    There were times, many times, when Carol could see herself this same way in ten years' time, lying in the bath regretting her wasted life. And yet how was she to change itl She sighed, knowing that it was not in her own power to do so. Her fate lay, to a large degree, with men like Plummer. He had wealth, power and influence. He commanded respect. He was her escape route.

    And then there was Scott.

    She closed her eyes more tightly, as if trying to blot him out of her thoughts. If only it were so easy to remove him from her life. She knew deep down she was afraid to tell him their relationship was over, not because she couldn't bear to speak those words but because she genuinely feared how he would react.

    Feared? A little melodramatic, wasn't it?

    He'd be hurt for a while but he'd get over it.

    Wouldn't he!

    Perhaps Zena had been right. She was a bitch.

    She pulled herself out of the water and reached for a towel, wrapping it around herself, using another to dry her hair. She padded through into the sitting room and switched on the television. There was a black and white film on one channel, a discussion programme on another. She switched the set off and started drying herself, standing close to the two-bar electric fire that was the only form of heating in the room. She had an electric fire in her bedroom but the radiators on each wall were merely eyesores; they didn't provide the central heating she craved on cold nights like this.

    As she was drying her hands she looked at the gold ring Scott had given her, the metal black in places. She ought to clean it.

    It could wait.

    She finished drying herself and pulled on a long sweater to cover her nakedness, then wandered into the kitchen to make herself a warm drink before she went to bed.

    At first she didn't hear the phone ring.

    The water was gushing from the tap into the kettle, obliterating all other sounds.

    Then she heard it and turned towards the sound coming from the sitting room.

    Who the hell was calling her at 1.30 in the morning?

    She sighed. Scott. Checking that she was okay.

    
Why can't you leave me alone?

    She put down the kettle and walked back into the sitting room, picking up the receiver.

    'Hello,' she said resignedly.

    Silence.

    'Hello.'

    Still no sound.

    She felt her heart beat faster.

    'I'm watching you.'

    The voice cut through her as surely as if it had been cold steel.

    She gripped the receiver until her knuckles turned white.

    'How did you get this number?' she said quietly, trying to control the fear in her voice.

    Silence.

    'I know your sort,' she said, her show of bravado fooling neither herself nor the caller.

    Only silence greeted her remark.

    Slam the phone down.

    'I know all about you,' the caller said, and now Carol was certain that it was the same voice as the other night. Not that she'd had much doubt in the first place.

    Now she did slam the phone down.

    For long seconds she stood looking at it, her eyes fixed to it as if it were some kind of venomous reptile that was about to bite her.

    Take it off the hook.

    She actually had her hand on the receiver when the phone rang again.

    She snatched it up and pressed it to her ear but this time she didn't speak.

    She heard a sound at the other end. A wet sound. Like someone licking their lips.

    'I'm still watching you,' said the caller. Then he hung up.

    Carol stared at the receiver, but all she heard was the dull monotone of a disconnected line.

    She didn't put it back on its cradle.

    She simply dropped it.

    

    

    

    The explosion had been massive.

    It had torn away the roof of the kitchen area, sending slates and lumps of stone hurtling skyward like shrapnel. The remains of the structure had simply collapsed in upon itself as if the walls had been made of paper. Tongues of flames thirty feet high had erupted from the wreckage, the pieces of burning debris showering down on the roof of the asylum like fragments of comet, some actually tearing through, others bursting again, causing more havoc, spreading the fire more rapidly than anyone could have imagined.

    It took less than six minutes from the initial blast to transform Bishopsgate Institution into a blazing inferno.

    The whisper was gas leak, the result was devastation.

    The fire brigade had been called and ambulances were outside the building ready to ferry the dead and injured away. The air was alive with a cacophony of sirens and the roaring of flames. Firemen directed jets of water at the flames while their companions struggled to help the staff of the institution evacuate patients.

    Smoke, belching from the burning building, hung like a thick black shroud over the blazing asylum. The air was filled with millions of tiny cinders, as if a plague of small flies had infested the air.

    Inside his office Doctor Robert Dexter pulled on his jacket and ran out into the corridor. An intern hurtled past him, his white jacket smoke-stained, his hair singed. Dexter could hear screams of rage and fear as he started along the corridor, aware of the acrid stench of burning.

    He saw two more interns running towards him, both sweating profusely, their faces dark, their uniforms dirty.

    'The West Wing is clear,' said one of them. 'We managed to get everyone out.'

    'The firemen are evacuating the rest of the building,' said his companion.

    Dexter nodded.

    It was then that he saw Colston round the corner.

    Dexter ran towards his colleague, his face pale.

    'We've got to get out,' said Colston, his breathing rapid. 'The whole place is coming down around,us.'

    As if to emphasise his words there was a loud creaking noise, a wrenching timber. A shower of sparks burst from the ceiling and covered the two men, who both ducked down. The smell of smoke was stronger now and Dexter could actually see the first wisps of it curling round into the corridor.

    'We've got to get to Ward 5,' said Dexter.

    'Let the fire brigade take care of it,' Colston said agitatedly, coughing now as more smoke filled the corridor.

    Dexter grabbed him by the shoulders.

    'And let them find what's in there?' he hissed, his gaze firmly on his colleague.

    The realisation seemed to hit Colston and he nodded. Together they hurried up the corridor, relieved that the smoke wasn't too dense as yet. Even so, both men found that the acrid fumes stung their throats as they ran on through the clouds of smoke.

    They passed a window and Dexter glanced sideways to see the firemen outside spraying the building with water. A number of people were being helped into ambulances, some supported by uniformed men.

    The two doctors ran on, reaching a closed door. It led through into another corridor and Dexter snatched at the handle. He cursed at the heat of the metal in his grip but he pulled the door open, standing back as he did so.

    A searing blast of flame swept through the open door and as Colston pushed himself back against the wall the fire scorched his sleeve. Dexter waited a moment then ran on.

    The smoke was dense inside the corridor, tongues of flame flaring from both sides.

    Doors of cells stood open, some of them blazing infernos. The incessant clanging of fire bells, curiously redundant in the blaze, filled their ears. Colston hesitated, but when Dexter bellowed at him he followed, shielding his face from the heat with one smoking arm. He could smell the burned hair on his arm. His eyes were watering, the back of his throat felt as if someone had turned a blow-torch on it. Dexter seemed unconcerned by the blistering heat; his only desire was to reach Ward 5.

    They had two more corridors to pass through.

    The first was clear.

    The second was an inferno.

    The roof had been holed by a lump of falling debris and the grey sky was visible through the clouds of smoke spewing through it. To the right Dexter saw something twisted and blackened, still ablaze, lying in the doorway of a cell.

    It took him a second or two to realise it was a body.

    'Leave them,' shouted Colston, forced to shout to make himself heard above the roaring of flames and the clanging of firebells.

    Dexter turned to look at his companion, his watery eyes narrowed.

    'We can't,' he roared back, ducking as a piece of the ceiling crashed down only feet from him. 'If the fire brigade reach Ward 5 before us…' He allowed the sentence to trail off, then shook his head.

    Both men sucked in deep breaths and ran on. Colston thought his lungs were on fire too.

    Another door and they would reach their goal.

    It was ahead of them at the end of the corridor and, as he ran, Dexter pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. As he reached the door he could feel an incredible heat from beyond, even through the thick steel.

    He turned the key and wrestled with the handle, ignoring the blisters that rose on his hands. He tugged the door open. The two of them dashed in.

    The ceiling was ablaze.

    From one end of the corridor to the other the area above them was one writhing, twisting mass of fire. Lumps of blackened plaster and wood fell around them, some striking them.