Dying Words Read online

  Shaun Hutson is a bestselling author of horror fiction and has written novels under nine different pseudonyms. He was one of eight bestselling authors taking part in the BBC’s End of Story competition and has appeared in his first film. He lives and writes in Buckinghamshire with his wife and daughter and two pairs of Michelle Pfeiffer’s shoes. For more details about Shaun Hutson and his books visit www.shaunhutson.com

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  Also by Shaun Hutson

  Assassin

  Body Count

  Breeding Ground

  Captives

  Compulsion

  Deadhead

  Death Day

  Dying Words

  Epitaph

  Erebus

  Exit Wounds

  Heathen

  Hell to Pay

  Hybrid

  Knife Edge

  Last Rites

  Lucy’s Child

  Necessary Evil

  Nemesis

  Purity

  Relics

  Renegades

  Shadows

  Slugs

  Spawn

  Stolen Angels

  Twisted Souls

  Unmarked Graves

  Victims

  Warhol’s Prophecy

  White Ghost

  This novel is dedicated to my wife, Belinda.

  I don’t deserve her but I thank God I’ve got her.

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 9781405514507

  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.

  Copyright © 2006 by Shaun Hutson

  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.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Also by Shaun Hutson

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  The Gift of Life

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Complications

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Attrition

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Progeny

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Decisions

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Instinct

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Nurture

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Exile

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Acknowledgements

  Right, here we go again. Another list of people, places and things that have featured in some way, shape or form before, during or after the writing of this novel.

  Once again, if there’s anyone missing from this list who I’ve forgotten, I apologise. I’ll get you next time …

  My first thank you is and always will be, to my publishers. Especially to Barbara Daniel, Andy Edwards, Clara Womersley, Sheena-Margot Lavelle, Carol Donnelly and everyone else who puts up with me on a frighteningly frequent basis.

  Extra special thanks to my ‘Wild Bunch’ – my superb sales team. Just a little extra mention for one of them in particular: Mr Andrew Hally. It was, in some small measure, thanks to him that this book came about. I was suffering from appalling writer’s block at the time, and it was during a conversation we had (no, not the one about Spurs finishing above Liverpool, Andy …) that something sparked in this feeble brain of mine and eventually gave birth to this novel.

  Huge, immeasurable thanks to my fantastic agent, Brie Burkeman. I know I joke about our occasionally volatile working relationship, but she really has taught me more in the last two years than I care to mention. Thanks, Brie.

  Back with publishers, I’d like to thank David Crombie and Catriona Jardine for allowing me to have such a great time working with them. Let’s hope there’re plenty more to come.

  The same goes for everyone at Working Partners who endure my phone calls and God knows what else, but allow me to indulge in some of my most enjoyable journeys in writing. Thanks folks.

  Thanks also to Stephane Marsan.

  This next bit is going to sound like name-dropping but you should all know me better than that by now so here goes.

  Many thanks, as usual, to Mr James Whale and Melinda. And, of course, to Ash.

  Special thanks to Bruce Jones. A man who consumes haggis at a rate unlike anyone I’ve ever seen. A man whose heart is as big as his talent (but not quite as big as his dog …). Cheers, mate.

  Thank you also to Mr Shane Richie, whose appalling taste in football teams is balanced, thank God, by him being such a decent human being. No phone calls after that cup game I notice, you bastard … Take care, mate.

  Many thanks to October 11 Pictures. Especially the ‘Irish Coen Brothers’; Jason and Jonathan Figgis. As always, it’s a pleasure to work with you, fellas. Thanks to Maria also (yes, that English bloke is still on the bloody phone …).

  Thanks also to Jo Roberts (I don’t think you’re leaden, mate) and Gatlin Pictures. And by the way, I don’t ******* swear that much, Jo.

  Thanks, as ever, to Sanctuary Music, especially Mr Rod Smallwood, Val Janes and Dave Pattenden and, of course, to the six noisy sods who continue to delight me with their music. I speak of course of Steve, Dave, Bruce, Adrian, Janick and Nicko. All the best, lads.

  A very big thanks to Marc Shemmans, a man of incredible patience among other thin
gs.

  On a more personal level, I’d like to thank Brian at the bank. Everyone at Chancery, and Leslie and Sue Tebbs.

  Even though I never seem to answer her e-mails, I’d also like to thank Meaghan Delahunt.

  Thanks to my very good friend Martin ‘Gooner’ Phillips. We’ve known each other forty-odd years yet he still talks to me …

  To Ian Austin, Zena, Hailey, Terri, Becky and Rachel, Nicky and to Sandi at Waterstone’s in Birmingham.

  Thanks seems a bit inadequate a word to say to Graeme Sayer and Callum Hughes who continue to run, organise and expand www.shaunhutson.com so brilliantly. Once more, to everyone who has ever visited the site, contacted me through it or keeps coming back, thank you. Or thanks to those two guys more to the point.

  Thank you, as ever, to Claire and everyone at Centurion who take care of me when I have to travel.

  I know I say this every time but my thanks to the two greatest influences on my life and work go to the sadly departed Sam Peckinpah and Bill Hicks. I still feel their loss all too keenly, as should anyone who recognises true genius.

  A huge thank you to Cineworld UK, especially Mr Al Alvarez and, of course, to everyone at Cineworld Milton Keynes, especially Debbie, Paula, Mark, Martin, Sharon, Mel, James, Terry, Nick and everyone else I’ve forgotten or who’s left by now. I seem to spend most of my waking hours at the pictures but then again, do you blame me … ? Thanks to all of you from me and my sandwiches …

  I have to thank Liverpool Football Club, naturally. My love and admiration for that club goes so deep at times that it scares me, but (and yes, I know it seems like ages ago now) for that night in Istanbul alone, I will always be grateful. May 25th 2005 will live in my memory for ever as I’m sure it will every other Reds fan who was there (and yes, at half-time, I did think we were screwed. How wrong I was …). To all those in the Bob Paisley lounge and who sit around me at Anfield, thanks.

  An incredible thank you to my mum and dad for everything.

  My wife, Belinda. Well, what do I say? Thank you is never enough. Without her there would be nothing. It’s as simple as that.

  My other girl is the same. Who else would enjoy getting up at six-thirty to drive to Wigan with me? (Thank God we won …) To say I love her is an understatement beyond measure. She knows I’m crazy (she’s told me enough times). I think she’s taught me more than I’ve taught her about some things. This book is for my wonderful daughter.

  Now, you lot. My readers. All ages. New and Old. If there’s a more loyal, honest bunch I’d like to see them.

  Time for another journey.

  Let’s go.

  Shaun Hutson

  ‘Where there is no imagination there is no horror.’

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  1

  London, Monday the 15th, 12.32 p.m.

  The car missed the bus by inches.

  There was a high-pitched scream of rubber on tarmac as the Renault skidded past. The driver of the bus sounded his horn angrily, the sound adding to the cacophony already filling the air.

  Detective Inspector David Birch gripped the wheel of the car more tightly and drove on, pressing his foot down harder on the accelerator. Ahead of him, his eyes fixed like laser sights upon it, the silver-grey Nissan he was pursuing also speeded up, scraping the side of a Mini as it pushed and barged through the traffic on Jamaica Road.

  More horns blared as the two cars hurtled along the thoroughfare, Birch keeping the Renault as close to the fleeing Nissan as he could. There was perspiration on his face. His shirt was sticking to his back.

  ‘Where the fuck is he going?’ Birch muttered, aware that they were approaching another set of traffic lights.

  The Nissan showed no signs of slowing down and shot through the junction with the lights on red.

  Birch followed without hesitation.

  Beside him in the passenger seat, Detective Sergeant Stephen Johnson glanced at his watch.

  ‘We’ve been chasing the bastard for thirty minutes,’ he remarked.

  Birch glanced down and saw that the fuel tank was half empty. He accelerated as he saw a short stretch of clear road.

  ‘Maybe he’ll run out of petrol,’ Johnson offered, hopefully, nodding in the direction of the Nissan.

  ‘Where’s our fucking support?’ Birch demanded. ‘We’ve been on him all the way from Canning Town.’

  ‘There’re marked units moving parallel with us. Others up ahead.’

  ‘Tell them to cut off all routes across the river.’

  Johnson lifted the two-way to his mouth.

  ‘This is Unit Seven,’ he said, gripping the side of the seat as Birch sent the Renault veering around another car, the wheels slamming into the kerb. ‘Heading up St Thomas Street towards Borough High Street. Suspect must be prevented from crossing the river. Close London Bridge.’

  After a second or two a metallic voice rattled into the car. ‘Closing A3 on approach to London Bridge,’ it said before disappearing in a hiss of static.

  More lights ahead. They were on green this time. Beyond them Birch could see a pedestrian crossing. There were people waiting on either side of the street.

  ‘Shit,’ he murmured, watching as the Nissan bore down on the black and white lines across the road.

  A man stepped on to the crossing, jumping back hurriedly when he realised the Nissan wasn’t going to stop.

  The silver-grey vehicle hurtled past him then turned sharply left and right, cutting across the path of several other cars. Up ahead of the Renault, two vehicles collided, momentarily blocking the street.

  ‘Moving into Southwark Street,’ Johnson said into the two-way.

  Birch saw a police motorcycle swing out from a side street. It roared after the Nissan.

  From above he heard another sound. The police helicopter swooped as low out of the sky as it dared and hung there like some massive metallic bird of prey. It followed the two speeding vehicles for a moment then once more rose high into the air.

  Birch gripped the wheel more tightly and drove on.

  2

  There was an unedifying jolt as the Renault momentarily mounted the pavement to avoid the damaged cars blocking the thoroughfare. Both policemen grunted as Birch swung it wildly back on to the road again.

  Up ahead, the uniformed motorcyclist was less than twenty feet from the rear of the speeding Nissan.

  ‘Just stay with him,’ Birch muttered under his breath.

  The bike was gaining by the second.

  ‘Moving down Stamford Street,’ Johnson said into the two-way. ‘All units converge.’

  More traffic lights.

  The Nissan shot through the next set, narrowly avoiding a collision with a Mercedes. There were more blaring horns and the shriek of tyres, and as the Renault sped onwards after its prey Birch could smell the stink of burning rubber strong in his nostrils.

  The police motorbike was now within ten feet of the Nissan. The rider suddenly accelerated, coming up on the inside of the vehicle.

  Birch shook his head. ‘Tell him to stay back,’ he snapped.

  Johnson had the two-way to his mouth when the Nissan suddenly swung violently to the left. It hit the motorbike and sent it veering out of control.

  The two wheels mounted the pavement, and the rider managed to control the bike long enough to guide it back on to the road.

  ‘No,’ snarled Birch.

  The Nissan lurched left once more, its driver wrenching the wheel violently, slamming into the bike with even greater force.

  This time, the motorbike was shunted towards a line of parked cars. It struck the side of a Vauxhall. The impact sent the bike rider flying from his seat. He hit the bonnet of the Vauxhall, skidded across it and landed on the other side. The bike crashed on to its side and ricocheted back into the road, tyres still spinning.

  Birch twisted the steering wheel to avoid the obstacle, his offside tyre clipping the bike.

  There was a sound of shattering glass. Pieces of the bike’s windsc
reen and portions of one Renault headlight skittered across the tarmac like crystal shrapnel.

  Somewhere behind he heard screams but his eyes never left the road. Never left the Nissan that he was still pursuing.

  Johnson turned slightly in his seat and saw the injured police motorcyclist lying motionless on the pavement, people running towards him, some to help, others to merely gaze in bewildered fascination at his body.

  On the right, the gaunt edifice of the National Theatre appeared.

  Up ahead, traffic on the roundabout was heading straight for them.

  ‘He’s going for Waterloo Bridge,’ Birch said.

  ‘All units,’ Johnson repeated into the two-way. ‘Suspect is crossing the river at Waterloo Bridge.’

  Birch twisted the wheel left and right, intent only on not hitting anything. In front of him, the Nissan wove in and out of the heavy traffic, ignoring the blaring horns, somehow finding a path through. It finally swung left on to the bridge.

  Birch followed, narrowly avoiding a taxi whose driver gestured angrily at him.

  ‘Get out of the road,’ the DI roared as he drove on, his teeth gritted as he saw people ahead crossing.

  Ahead, the Nissan ploughed on.

  It hit a woman and sent her careering backwards on to the pavement. She flopped down on to the flagstones, cracking her head hard on the concrete.

  ‘Close the far end of Waterloo Bridge,’ Birch rasped.

  The police helicopter, seeing the open space over the river, suddenly swooped down again, dropping to within a hundred feet of the fleeing Nissan.

  ‘All units converge,’ Johnson ordered. ‘Strand and Aldwych.’

  ‘Bastard’s got nowhere to run now,’ hissed Birch and pressed down harder on the accelerator.

  3

  The sunshine glinted on the dirty grey surface of the Thames as it snaked through London, but Birch cared nothing for the river beneath him as he sped over Waterloo Bridge. All that mattered to him was the Nissan and its occupant and he was closing on them with every second.

  I’ve got you now, you bastard.

  He guided the Renault round an Interflora van; nothing now between him and his prey but open road.

  Look in the rear-view mirror, shithouse. Look and see. You’re going nowhere, you murdering fuck.