Heathen/Nemesis

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

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

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.

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