Heathen, p.1
Heathen, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Eighty
Eighty-One
Eighty-Two
Eighty-Three
Eighty-Four
Eighty-Five
Eighty-Six
Eighty-Seven
Eighty-Eight
Eighty-Nine
Ninety
Ninety-One
Ninety-Two
Ninety-Three
Ninety-Four
Ninety-Five
No one can be trusted.
How prophetic had been those words he’d written. How apt. How irritatingly, fittingly, fucking appropriate. She gritted her teeth in anger and pain.
And frustration?
No. She would not give in to these men. She would not let them have the Grimoire.
She wanted it. Not because she needed it, but because she was determined no one else should have it. It was like a prize. This hunt for the book had become a contest and Donna intended winning.
Life and death.
Win or lose.
There was no turning back now, even if she wanted to.
Life or death.
She looked at the guns.
Also by Shaun Hutson
Assassin
Breeding Ground
Captives
Compulsion
Deadhead
Death Day
Dying Words
Erebus
Exit Wounds
Hell to Pay
Hybrid
Knife Edge
Lucy’s Child
Necessary Evil
Nemesis
Purity
Relics
Renegades
Shadows
Slugs
Spawn
Stolen Angels
Twisted Souls
Victims
Warhol’s Prophecy
White Ghost
Heathen
SHAUN HUTSON
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Published by Hachette Digital 2010
Copyright © Shaun Hutson 1992
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
eISBN : 978 0 7481 2257 8
This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE
Hachette Digital
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY
An Hachette Livre UK Company
This book is dedicated to my wife,
Belinda, without whom there would be nothing.
‘Truth is rarely pure, and never simple’
- Oscar Wilde
Acknowledgements
The following is a list of people who, in some way, shape or form, helped with the book you are about to read. I am indebted to them all and, those whose names are listed should know why.
Many thanks to Gary Farrow, Damian Pulle (and Christina) and Chris. If a Pit Bull could walk it’d be called Gary. Thanks, mate.
To everyone at Little, Brown/Warner especially my ever-ready, ever-battling Sales Team. There are none to match them.
To Mr James Hale whose advice and expertise was, as ever, invaluable.
And, to the following who, as I said before, should know why they are listed here: Brian Pithers, Malcolm Dome, Jerry Ewing, Phil Alexander, Jo Bolsom, Gareth James, John Martin, Chas Balun, John Gullidge, Nick Cairns, Bert and Anita, Maurice, Trevor (and anyone else at Broomhills pistol club I’ve left out), Krusher, Steve, Bruce, Dave, Nicko and Janick. Rod Smallwood and everyone at Sanctuary Music. Merck Mercuriadis, Howard Johnson. Gordon Hopps, James Whale, Jonathan Ross, everyone at The Holiday Inn, Mayfair and the Adelphi, Liverpool. Ian Austin, Zena, Julie and Colin (for keeping us fit). The quite marvellous Margaret Daly. Mr Jack Taylor, Mr Stuart Winton, Mr Amin Saleh, Mr Lewis Bloch and Mr Brian Howard. Indirectly I thank Metallica, Queensryche, Judas Priest, Sam Peckinpah, Martin Scorsese and Oliver Stone. As ever, I thank Liverpool F.C.
Special thanks to Mr Wally Grove, valued friend and pursuer of etiquette ...
Love and thanks to my Mum and Dad for so many things I can’t list them.
And to you, my readers, as ever, without whom everything would be a little bit pointless.
Let’s go.
Shaun Hutson
One
The handkerchief was covered in blood.
PC John Stigwood cradled it in the palm of his hand and gazed at it through the plastic bag in which it was encased.
As daylight fled from the sky and night began to encroach, the sun was sliding towards the horizon. It left a crimson tint to the heavens. A little like the colour of the blood on the handkerchief, Stigwood thought.
He sighed wearily and glanced at his companion.
PC Andrew Cobb was older by two years. Older. More experienced?
‘You do it,’ Stigwood said, handing the bloodied parcel to his colleague.
‘Does it matter which one of us does it?’ Cobb said, a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘Someone’s got to tell her.’
Stigwood shook his head.
‘I can’t,’ he said quietly.
‘We don’t even know if it’s him,’ snapped Cobb.
He glared at Stigwood then swung himself out of the car, slamming the door hard. He swallowed hard and began the short walk up the path which led to the front door. Jesus, he didn’t want to do this. He pushed the handkerchief into the pocket of his tunic and rubbed his hands together as he approached the door. Dark wood. Elegant. Like the rest of the house. Large without being ostentatious, and secluded without being isolated. It was an imposing building, its dark stonework covered with clinging ivy. A moth fluttered around a lamp that was activated by a sensor, Cobb noticed as he reached the doorstep. He heard its wings pattering against the glass.
He had no speech rehearsed, no words ready on his tongue. All he had was the dreadful apprehension he knew his companion shared.
Across the street were lights in windows. He thought he saw shadows, figures moving behind closed net curtains, gazing out, wondering why a police car should be parked in the driveway of the large house.
There were no lights on in this house. Perhaps no one was home. Cobb told himself it would be better that way. He would ring the bell but there would be no answer. End of story. But he also knew that once the information was radioed back to base he and Stigwood would be told to wait until the occupant returned.
He glanced back; Stigwood was watching him impassively. The two policemen locked stares for a moment, then the younger of the two concentrated on the Escort’s steering wheel.
Cobb slipped one hand into his tunic pocket and felt his fingertips brush against the plastic bag that held the handkerchief. He closed his eyes briefly, sucked in a deep breath and held it for a second.
Come on, do your job.
He exhaled, opening his eyes in the process, one index finger aimed at the doorbell.
He noticed that his hand was shaking.
Two
Donna Ward thought she heard the two-tone chime of the doorbell and cocked an ear in the direction of the front door. The music continued to flow from the ghetto-blaster propped on the kitchen unit beside her. Donna wondered for a moment if she’d imagined it. She eased the volume down slightly, then continued with her task. She stepped back from the picture, trying to see if it was straight or not. She smiled to herself. Chris wouldn’t even notice when he came in. She’d hung three small pictures in the kitchen, military prints of men in uniform. She’d found them in a box under the stairs a day or two ago. Chris had owned them for years, as long as she could remember. He’d once had a passion for military history. Years ago.
This time, when the ringing of the doorbell came, she did hear it. She jabbed the ‘off’ button and silence dropped like a blanket over the house as she walked across the hall towards the front door.
Donna didn’t bother to check the spy-hole but she always left the chain in position and now, as she eased the door open, she only pulled it as far as the restraints of the metal would allow.
Through the gap between door and jamb she saw PC Cobb.
He nodded his head with such exaggeration it looked almost like a bow.
Donna felt a sudden, unexpected coldness run through her, as if someone had suddenly injected her with iced water. She didn’t know why; perhaps it was just the sight of the uniform. She’d seen policemen often enough when her father had been alive. They’d arrive at her parents house to tell her mother that the drunken wreck she’d married was either too pissed to get home and was sleeping it off in the cells, or that they had him in the car outside.
But that, as the saying went, had been then. This was now.
What was a policeman doing ringing her doorbell at seven in the evening?
She brushed a hair from her face and looked at him impassively.
‘Mrs Ward?’ he asked, his tone subdued.
She swallowed hard.
‘Mrs Donna Ward?’
‘Yes. What is it?’
‘Can I come in, please?’ Cobb asked, running a swiftly appraising glance over the young woman. Blonde, pretty. Slim. Late twenties, he guessed. She was dressed casually in jeans, sweatshirt and trainers. She had grey eyes, eyes which flickered back and forth, regarding him now with a combination of bewilderment and concern. He wondered for a moment if she was going to let him in but she pushed the door to and he heard the chain being slipped. The door opened to allow him entry, then was closed behind him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I was going to ask you in.’ There was a pleasant smile on her face, but it never touched her eyes.
Do your job.
Cobb stood rigidly in the hallway.
‘Mrs Ward,’ he began. Go on, you can do it. ‘I’m afraid to tell you there’s been an accident. It’s ...’
She cut him short.
‘Chris,’ she murmured, her eyes riveted to the uniformed man.
‘Your husband has been involved in a car crash. At least, we think it’s your husband ...’
She closed her eyes tightly for a second.
‘Is he hurt?’ she demanded, her voice cracking.
‘We need you to identify him,’ Cobb said.
There were tears forming in her eyes.
‘How do you know it’s him?’ she said frantically.
‘We’re not sure; that’s why we need you to come with us and look at him. We have this.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, plastic-wrapped package. With a trembling hand he held it out towards Donna, who snatched it from him.
‘Those are your husband’s initials, aren’t they?’ Cobb said, indicating the CW on one corner of the bloodied handkerchief.
‘Oh God,’ Donna said, her eyes brimming with tears. She put one hand to her mouth. ‘Is he dead?’
Cobb had been expecting the question but he still didn’t know how to deal with it. No amount of training could prepare you.
‘If you come with me, there’s a car outside,’ he said, trying to sound efficiently detached. ‘We’ll take you to ...’
‘Is he dead?’ she snarled through clenched teeth.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh God, no, please.’ She tried to swallow but couldn’t. The tears began to flow.
Cobb felt helpless. So fucking, pathetically, screamingly helpless. Jesus Christ, he wanted to help this woman, but what did he do? What could he do, except drive her to the hospital to inspect the body of the man they were convinced was her husband?
There was a coat stand close by. Donna reached for a leather jacket and pulled it on, pushing past Cobb and out of the front door towards the waiting police car. He slammed the front door behind her and followed her to the car, helping her into the back, scurrying around the other side and strapping himself in.
Donna wiped tears from her face.
‘We don’t know for sure that it is your husband, Mrs Ward,’ he said, as if that were some kind of comfort.
‘Just take me to him, please,’ she said.
The car sped away.
The sun slipped away, leaving the last of its colour to fade from the sky. Night closed in.
Now there was only darkness.
Three
She might as well have been blindfolded for the journey. Donna saw little or nothing of the houses and countryside that flashed by. Stigwood guided the police car along the streets with sometimes bewildering speed. She could see her own face reflected in the glass of the windows when other vehicles passed: her eyes looked blank. There was no expression behind them other than that of fearful expectation. Or desperate hope.
They’d said they weren’t sure if it was her husband or not.
You’re holding his handkerchief, for Christ’s sake. Look at it.
It could be someone else.
Someone who looked like him?
It was possible.
Someone who had the same initials?
Please God let them be wrong.
There was so much blood on the handkerchief she could have wrung it out. As she sat in the back of the car she ran her fingers over the plastic. Occasionally she would clasp her hands together.
The silence inside the car was as uncomfortable as it was impenetrable, but what were the uniformed men supposed to say? Stigwood was too busy concentrating on the road to strike up a conversation and Cobb couldn’t even bring himself to look round at the distraught woman. The only indication of her presence was the occasional sniffle.
If it wasn’t Chris, then how did they know where to find her? From his driver’s licence? She gripped the handkerchief more tightly, one part of her mind filled with the unshakeable conviction that the man she was being taken to identify was indeed her husband. The other part of her being fought to believe, prayed that there had been some terrible mistake. She tried to make herself think that there could be another Christopher Ward.
