Heathen/Nemesis

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.