'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 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.