Shaun Hutson: Heathen/Nemesis

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

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.