Captives

SIXTY-FIVE

Why?

The word kept rolling around in his mind like a marble.

Why?

Jim Scott looked at his reflection in the mirror, studying his features.

Why did they need him for this job? He sighed. Plummer had insisted that he be involved.

Why? Why? Fucking why?

He slammed his hand down on the top of the dressing table, causing some of the bottles to topple over. An aftershave bottle spilled its contents and Scott inhaled the aroma momentarily before stepping back. He crossed to his bed and sat down. Outside the wind was blowing strongly again, wailing around the block of flats. He heard footsteps passing his door as someone made their way home. There was a thumping noise coming from above that was a record player. He got to his feet, staring up at the ceiling, wondering whether or not he should shout to the owner to turn the volume down.

Better still, go up there and tell him.

Scott finally decided to do neither. He wandered out into the kitchen and took a pint of milk from the fridge, supping straight from the bottle.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked back into the bedroom.

Why?

Why did they want him on this particular job?

Why couldn't he get in touch with Carol?

Why hadn't she been in to work?

Why hadn't she called him?

Fucking why?

He slammed the milk bottle down on top of the bedside cabinet, pulling the drawer open.

He reached in and took out the Beretta, cradling it in his hand, working the slide. He held the piece up and sighted it, squeezing the trigger, allowing the hammer to fall on an empty chamber. Finally he lowered the weapon and dropped it onto the bed beside him, then fumbled in the drawer again for the box of ammunition.

He began feeding 9mm shells into the magazine.

***

She could hear him moving about in the sitting room. Carol Jackson rolled onto her back and gazed at the ceiling, aware of the movement from the adjacent room and also of the perspiration that sheathed her body. She ran a finger through the glistening moisture, allowing her hand to trail lower, through her pubic hairs. She felt the wetness of Plummer's semen as it trickled from her. Carol sighed and reached for a tissue from the bedside table.

Plummer called through and asked if she wanted a drink. She called back that she didn't.

For some reason her thoughts turned to Scott. He must be wondering where she was by now. She hadn't been to work for two nights. Carol could imagine his state of mind.

Had he finally realised there was someone else?

If so, what was going through his mind?

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. If only she'd had the courage to tell him she wanted to end their relationship when the cracks had first started to appear. He would have been disappointed. Upset. Perhaps even angry. But now she feared what he might do.

Would he really try to kill her?

She wished she could convince herself that what he'd said had merely been an idle threat. But she knew him too well. There was no avoiding the issue any more. Either he would find out she was seeing Plummer or she would have to tell him.

It was only a matter of time before the truth emerged.

And then?

She exhaled deeply.

Plummer would look after her, wouldn't he? After all, he was her lover.

Carol almost smiled.

Lover.

The word implied some kind of emotional bond and that, she knew, they didn't have. But he thought a lot of her; he seemed to want her around.

If she could move in with him.

The prospect of escaping her job and her flat suddenly seemed to lift her spirits and the threat of Scott was momentarily shrouded.

Move in.

He'd never mentioned it to her and she had not even thought about it until now, but therein lay her escape. Both from Scott and from her lifestyle. Carol sat up, resting her back against the padded headboard. She wasn't escaping. She was running, running from herself as much as her surroundings. She wanted to move in with Plummer, though. Even loveless comfort was preferable to what she had.

She called to Plummer to come back to bed but he didn't answer.

***

Twenty million pounds.

He concentrated on the figure, held it in his mind, savouring it as a wine expert savours a fine vintage.

Twenty million fucking pounds.

Hitch had arranged details of the job and Plummer felt safe enough with him dealing with it. He hated having to trust anyone, but Hitch was one of the few he did. Plummer poured himself another drink, pulled his monogrammed housecoat more tightly around him and paced the sitting room slowly, glancing around at the expensive furnishings and ornaments which filled the flat.

Carol called him again and he called back that he wouldn't be long. He told her to go to sleep.

Pain in the arse.

He smiled and sipped his drink, glancing across at the phone as he refilled his glass.

There had been no more calls since the informant had rung with the news of the cocaine shipment. Plummer licked his lips and frowned.

Who the hell was the informant?

He'd wondered countless times, ever since that first call it had played on his mind.

Set-up?

Wind-up?

They'd soon know.

If it was a member of Connelly's gang it made no sense, yet who else would know about the shipment?

It made no fucking sense at all, but Plummer had his reasons for believing the information. Twenty million reasons.

Carol called to him again.

He smiled and headed for the bedroom.