Captives by Shaun Hutson

business. He looked at his uncle then at Scott.
        'It's all right,' Kinsellar called to him. 'Go back to work, Bernie. There's no bother.'
        Bernie hesitated a moment, his gaze held by Scott.
         You want some, too? Come on then, you big fucker.
        Scott could feel the vein at his temple pulsing angrily.
        The big man disappeared again.
        Scott pushed the trolley on.
        'You're bloody crazy,' Kinsellar said, catching up to him. 'I was only asking a question.'
        'You ask too many questions, George. It's my problem, so I'll sort it out, right?' He looked unblinking at the older man, who nodded.
        'You ought to watch that temper of yours, son. It's going to get you into bother one day.'
        Scott looked at him impassively.
        'What about the videos?' he asked.
        
***
        
        The ordering took less than half an hour. Scott sat in Kinsellar's office gazing into space, a mug of tea gripped in one hand. He didn't seem to notice that it was burning his fingers. He finally looked across at the older man and got to his feet.
        'I'd better go,' he said, glancing at his watch.
        Another eight hours before he could see Carol.
        'I've got some good stuff coming in next week,' Kinsellar told him. 'German again. Some bird in a video having toothpicks shoved through her cunt lips.'
        'Just send some over, eh?' He headed towards the door.
        'Are you seeing Carol tonight?' the older man asked.
        Scott turned slowly to look at him, his face darkening.
        'I told you not to ask me any more questions about her, George,' he rasped.
        'Just curious,' he said, a slight grin on his face. 'Maybe it comes with age.' He cackled his mucoid giggle.
        'And I told you, you ask too many questions.'
        'I've got one more,' Kinsellar said, reaching for a magazine that lay on his desk. He flipped it open to the centre spread where a girl with her legs spread wide and fingers parting her moist vagina was smiling into the camera.
        'What is it?' asked Scott.
        Kinsellar held up the centrespread.
        'Where do you reckon she lives?'
        

TWENTY-TWO
        
        Detective Inspector Frank Gregson leaned back on the two rear legs of his chair and began rocking gently, his gaze rivetted to the sheets of paper on his desk.
        They were statements taken from witnesses to the shooting in the Haymarket two days ago. Jesus, it seemed longer than two days. It seemed like a fucking eternity. Maybe it would be an eternity before they identified the mysterious killer. Once that was done they might at least have a chance of figuring out why, when escape had been possible he had chosen to kill himself.
        No word had come up from the pathology labs from Barclay as yet. He was still working on the remains of the corpse, trying to find some clue in the twisted, blackened remnants of humanity that might give them a lead on the individual who had, for no apparent reason, taken six lives (one of the victims on the critical list had died late the previous night) and then killed himself, all in the space of about five minutes.
        Where did he come from?
        Where did he get hold of the weapons?
        Why did he chose to strike where he did?
         Fuck it , thought Gregson, it was all questions and no answers so far.
        The statements didn't help much, either.
        'One says he was blond, another says he was ginger,' the DI muttered, flipping through the neatly typed sheets. 'One says short hair, another says tied in a pony-tail. It's a wonder they all managed to agree he was the same fucking colour.'
        On the other side of the desk, DS Stuart Finn pulled a Marlboro from the packet and jammed it between his lips. He lit up, blowing a long stream of blue smoke into the air.
        The DS was holding a photo-fit picture on his lap. It was held firmly in