Read Heathen/Nemesis Online

Authors: Shaun Hutson

Heathen/Nemesis (35 page)

 
By the time they reached the outskirts of Portsmouth the rain had practically stopped, but the sky was still slate grey and threatening. There wasn’t much traffic on the roads until they approached the city centre, and then roads became a little more clogged. Julie had cold air blowing into the car in an effort to keep them both alert. The crushing weariness was a formidable enemy, though, and she felt her eyelids drooping as if they’d been weighted.
 
‘I’m going to have to stop for a while, Donna,’ she said finally. ‘I’m practically driving asleep.’
 
‘I know how you feel,’ her sister said, pointing at something up ahead. ‘There’s a café there. Let’s get a coffee.’
 
Julie checked the rear-view mirror and prepared to swing the car across the road into a parking space. At the last moment she stopped the manoeuvre and drove on instead.
 
Donna looked at her in bewilderment.
 
‘I thought you were stopping,’ she said.
 
Julie didn’t answer, but drove on towards the traffic lights, glancing again in the rear-view mirror. They were amber as she swung the car round to the right and through them, heading down a side street, taking another right then another until they were back on the street where they’d started.
 
‘I appreciate the tour of the block,’ said Donna, smiling, ‘but what’s wrong?’
 
‘We’re being followed,’ Julie said flatly.
 
Donna’s smile faded immediately. She sat forward so that she could see into the Fiesta’s wing mirror.
 
‘How can you be sure?’ she wanted to know.
 
‘Because whoever’s driving went through a red light to keep up with us.’
 
‘Which car?’
 
‘The Granada,’ Julie said, and Donna saw the dark blue vehicle behind them.
 
‘What shall I do?’ Julie asked.
 
‘Pull in,’ Donna said unhesitatingly. ‘See what he does.’
 
Julie nodded, indicated again and this time swung the car into a gap in front of the café.
 
The Granada drove past, disappearing around a corner.
 
 
‘They spotted me,’ Brian Kellerman said into the two-way radio.
 
‘Where are they now?’ Farrell wanted to know.
 
Kellerman told him.
 
‘All right, we’ll follow them from here. You keep out the way. I’ll let you know where we’re heading, but keep back. If they spot you again we might lose them.’ Farrell switched the two-way off and jammed it into the seat pocket beside him. He gave Ryker directions, then sat back in his seat.
 
‘Now we’ll see,’ he murmured.
 
Seventy-Two
 
They sat at a window table in the café looking out, watching every car that passed.
 
Donna warmed her hands round her tea and glanced at her watch again.
 
4.26 p.m.
 
They’d been in the café for over thirty minutes now, with only the sound of a fruit machine and the loud chattering of a group of youngsters in their late teens for company. A couple were playing the fruit machine; every so often, a cacophony of bells and buzzers would go off. The place smelt of damp clothes and cigarette smoke. There were a few curled-up sandwiches in a glass-fronted cabinet beneath the counter and a cheese roll that looked like it had been hewn from granite rather than baked with dough. Bottles of Coke, Tizer and Pepsi were lined up, along with a few token bottles of Perrier and Evian. The Formica-topped tables were scarred with cigarette burns and discoloured by spilled coffee. A woman in her forties was busily scrubbing tables at the far end. Donna thought she would need more than hot, soapy water to remove the accumulated grime.
 
Julie did not take her gaze from the window. Every vehicle that passed she scanned, every passer-by she scrutinised.
 
The Granada hadn’t been past. But it could be lurking up ahead somewhere, Julie reasoned, waiting to continue its pursuit. Or worse.
 
‘We can’t sit here forever,’ Donna said finally. ‘Come on.’
 
‘They could be waiting,’ Julie said warily.
 
‘We’ll take that chance.’ As she opened her handbag to retrieve her purse, Julie saw the Pathfinder .22 nestling inside.
 
Donna paid for the teas and the two women walked out to the Fiesta and got in.
 
Julie’s hand was shaking as she pushed the key into the ignition but she sucked in a deep breath and started the car, checking her rear-view mirror both for approaching traffic and, more particularly, for that Granada.
 
‘How much further?’ she wanted to know.
 
Donna consulted the directions on the sheet of paper and realized that they must be pretty close to their destination. She checked street names carefully, peering at a sign indicating an approaching roundabout. She pointed to the turn-off they should take.
 
‘We’re close now,’ Donna said.
 
They were still on the outskirts of the city centre itself and Donna wondered what something as strange as a waxworks was doing so far from the city centre, even what it was doing in a place like Portsmouth. She could understand the existence of such an attraction at a seaside resort, but this traditionally nautical stronghold could hardly be classified as such. She wondered how Paxton made it pay.
 
‘There,’ Donna suddenly shouted, jabbing a finger against the glass.
 
Julie looked to her left and caught a glimpse of what looked like a large terraced house fronted by a blue and white canvas awning. There was a small paved area in front of it and a low wall. The paved area had several figures on it. A ticket booth was guarded by two of these figures dressed as policemen.
 
HOUSE OF WAX proclaimed the sign on the awning.
 
The shutters were firmly closed at the ticket booth, the waxwork policemen staring with sightless eyes at passers-by. The street was more or less deserted.
 
There were more shutters at the windows of the building, only one of which was open. Leaning out of it the figure of Charlie Chaplin waved to anyone who cared to look up, frozen forever in that pose.
 
‘Now what?’ Julie asked, seeing that the place was closed.
 
‘Let’s find a phone box,’ Donna said. ‘I’ll call Paxton.’
 
They finally found one two streets away. Julie pulled in and her sister ran across to the two booths, pulling the piece of paper from her handbag, finding Paxton’s number. She touched the .22 Pathfinder for reassurance as she removed the sheet.
 
The first phone was broken and the second took only phone cards. Donna rummaged in her purse and found hers. She pushed it into the slot and dialled, dismayed to see she only had six units left. She hoped he picked up the phone quickly. She hoped he was there. The phone continued to ring.
 
‘Come on,’ she muttered.
 
Another unit was swallowed up.
 
The phone was picked up.
 
‘Hello,’ the voice said.
 
‘Mr Paxton? George Paxton?’
 
‘Yes. Who’s this, please?’
 
Another unit disappeared.
 
‘I’m in a call box, I can’t speak for long, just listen to me, please. My name is Donna Ward, Chris Ward’s wife. You knew my husband very well; he wrote a book about waxworks and you helped him with his research. He left something inside your waxworks. He hid something. A book.’
 
Silence at the other end as another unit was consumed.
 
‘Mr Paxton, I need your help, please. It’s very important.’
 
‘Where are you?’ he wanted to know.
 
‘In a call box, I told you.’
 
‘Meet me outside my waxworks in an hour, Mrs Ward,’ he said.
 
Donna hung up, left the phone card in the box and hurried back to the car.
 
Julie drove off.
 
 
‘We’ve got them,’ said Peter Farrell into the two-way. He gave Kellerman the location. ‘Get here as quick as you can, but stay out of sight. We don’t want to fuck it up now.’ He looked at Ryker and nodded in the direction of the Fiesta. ‘Don’t lose them, but be careful.’
 
Ryker guided the Orion into traffic, keeping well back from the Fiesta.
 
Farrell watched as the smaller car parked across the street from the waxworks. He saw the two women sitting there as the Orion glided past and disappeared up a side street. Satisfied that they were staying put, he flicked on the two-way again.
 
‘It’s Farrell. We’ve got them under surveillance. They won’t get away this time.’
 
‘We’ll be there in about thirty minutes,’ the voice on the other end said, then there was a sharp hiss of static followed by silence.
 
Farrell reached inside his jacket, his fingers touching the butt of the .45 in his shoulder holster.
 
No escape, he thought, smiling. Not this time.
 
Seventy-Three
 
The office was small, less than fifteen feet square, dominated by a large antique desk piled high with correspondence. A glass paperweight in the shape of a tortoise held the letters down. Framed photos on the walls showed the front of the waxworks. Set out in chronological order, the first picture had been taken in 1934, then, every ten years until the most recent one. The building itself had changed little, apart from a lick of paint here and there; it still reminded Donna of a huge terraced house.
 
There were cabinets set against one wall, each filled with photos and biographical details from figures in history and the media, politics and sport - everyone from Clement Attlee to the Greek god Zeus.
 
‘My grandfather started the museum,’ said Paxton. ‘He saw a number of them in America when he visited during the Thirties. When he died it was passed on to my father and then to me. It doesn’t make much money now, just enough to keep it running, but we break even every year. I wouldn’t want to close it down.’ Paxton smiled affectionately and touched the picture of the Wax Museum taken in 1934.
 
He was a tall, attractive man in his mid-forties, the grey hair at his temples giving him a distinguished look. More so than the bald patch at the back of his head. He wore an open-neck shirt and trousers that needed pressing, but he’d apologized for his ‘unkempt’ condition when he’d first greeted them, explaining that he’d been decorating at home and had pulled on the first things to hand in his haste to get to the waxworks.
 
‘We used to make all the figures here ourselves,’ he said. ‘There was a workshop in the basement. My father employed three people to create them. I don’t need them any more. I simply write to Madame Tussaud’s and put in a list of requests for figures.’ He smiled. ‘They send me the ones I need. They sometimes suggest figures I should have here. You know, the ‘Famous for fifteen minutes’ type. The pop stars, the TV celebrities or sportsmen. I put them in my Warhol Gallery. That’s what I call it.’ He smiled again. ‘Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes,’ he mused. ‘I usually replace them after a month or so.’
 
‘Mr Paxton, how well did you know my husband?’ Donna asked.
 
‘How well do
any
of us know someone else, Mrs Ward?’ he said philosophically. ‘I got on well with Chris while he was here doing his research. He spent about a week with me, learning about the running of the place, things like that.’

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