Donna looked for a way in to the exhibit. The only door was in the side of the cage-like display, at the end near the exit. In order to reach the figure of Crippen she would have to pass the other figures, too. She turned and headed for the door immediately, relieved that it was open when she pushed. She stepped inside.
Julie gripped the bars, wincing as she felt how cold and wet they were, watching as her sister drew closer, pausing to look at the tableau of Christie. There were many cupboards in the display; Ward could have hidden the Grimoire in any one of them.
Donna opened them but found that they were empty. She glanced at the figure of Christie and walked on. Past Haigh. Past Nilsen.
The figure of Peter Sutcliffe was standing over the body of a woman, old newspapers beneath his feet. Donna paused to lift the newspapers and look beneath them.
Julie sucked in an anxious breath, her eyes fixed on the model of Sutcliffe.
The head moved a fraction.
She opened her mouth to shout but no sound would come.
Donna was still at his feet.
Julie blinked hard and looked at the waxwork again.
This time she saw no movement. A trick of the light? A trick of her mind? A little of both, she fancied.
‘Come on, Donna,’ she said, her breath coming in gasps.
Her sister nodded, got to her feet and finally reached the Crippen figure. She looked at the books on the desk: a medical book and a book on anatomy.
The third had a picture of a bird on it.
A hawk?
Was this the Grimoire?
Her hands were shaking as she lifted it.
A
picture
of a hawk, not an embossed crest.
Could it be ...
She opened it.
Blank pages.
‘Shit,’ she muttered angrily and replaced the book. She hurried out of the cage and rejoined Julie. Ahead of them was another wall with a small gap in it; barely five feet high and three across, it formed a doorway into the last part of the exhibit. The Torture Chamber.
Donna advanced towards it.
There was a red light over the narrow opening. As she waited for Julie to join her, the light bathed her in crimson so that it looked as if she’d been drenched in blood. She looked down into the Chamber and saw that the same inky blackness awaited them. Only the models were lit, but this time by even weaker beams from hidden spotlamps in the low ceiling. This was the only entrance in
and
out. Donna led the way, glancing at several severed heads arrayed before a guillotine. Nearby a wax body dangled from a hook embedded in its side. Behind them a display featured a man with rats trying to eat their way through his stomach while imprisoned in a red hot cage.
Burning out the eyes.
Driving needles beneath the fingernails.
Tearing off the nose with red-hot pincers.
The horrors came thick and fast, vying with each other.
A man being boiled alive in what looked like a massive metal bowl.
A man with a steel ring through his tongue, the ring attached to a metal ball by a chain.
The revulsion Donna felt was tempered by her recognition of the skill with which these monstrosities had been constructed. They were obscenely realistic.
The two women turned a corner and Julie groaned aloud.
THE MURDER OF SHARON TATE proclaimed the plate on the bars of the enclosure that housed one of the most horrendously realistic exhibits in the building.
In front of the tableau a newspaper of the day headlined the slaughter of the Hollywood star and four others by members of the Charles Manson family. The figure of Manson himself, eyes wild, hair flying behind him, watched over the scene. It showed the living-room of the Tate residence with the film star’s killers, armed with knives and guns, and the other people who died with her. Whoever had modelled it had certainly been painstakingly accurate in the depiction, anxious to show that Sharon Tate had been eight months pregnant when she’d been hacked to death, her blood used to write the word PIG on the wall.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Julie whispered, her attention drawn to the vile display.
Donna had her eye on something else.
Further down the corridor another, larger exhibit showed the Spanish Inquisition. It featured several hooded figures and a victim being racked, while another was being hung from the ceiling on chains, his glass eyes fixed on a cowled figure carrying what looked like a set of rusty garden shears. The intention was castration.
Another hooded figure sat at a desk, a book open before it.
A book of Latin phrases. An old book.
Donna looked round frantically for the entrance to the exhibit and found it nearby in the form of a metal door. She opened it and stepped inside, making for the book. She pulled it towards her and flipped it over, looking at the cover.
The crest showed a Hawk.
The cover felt cold and clammy, as if the book had been in a damp hole for months, years even. The pages were stiff with age, some of them split at the edges. Some of the writing was in Latin, the rest in the same quaint script she’d seen in the book in the library in Scotland.
‘Julie,’ she called.
Her sister hurried over.
‘I’ve found it,’ Donna said triumphantly. ‘This is the Grimoire.’
It was then that the hooded figure at the desk leapt to its feet.
The cowl slipped away to reveal the face of Peter Farrell.
Seventy-Eight
Farrell lunged at her, his face contorted in an expression of pure hatred.
His grunt of anger mingled with Donna’s own shout of surprise and Julie’s scream.
Donna jumped back, pulling the book with her, allowing it to fall to the floor with a crash.
Farrell leapt over the desk, not sure which to grab first, Donna or the Grimoire. He launched himself at Donna, who managed to avoid his rush, seeing him crash into the figure holding the castrating irons. An arm broke off and the metal implement went skidding across the dusty floor. Donna snatched it up as she saw Farrell reaching inside his jacket, pulling the .45 free.
She swung the castrating iron with all her force and caught him across the back of the hand, the clang of metal on bone reverberating through The Torture Chamber.
The gun flew from his grasp, but instead of trying to retrieve it Farrell came at her again.
Donna swung the iron again. This time she caught him in the face with it.
The blow split his cheek almost to the bone and blood burst from the wound and ran down the side of his face. Grabbing the book, Donna dashed past him towards the door where Julie was waiting.
‘Get them,’ roared Farrell. As if from nowhere, Ryker and Kellerman appeared from the shadows. Like two spectres rising from the umbra they rose up before the women.
Donna pulled the .22 Pathfinder from her handbag, thumbed back the hammer and fired twice. The first shot carved a path through the shoulder of Ryker’s jacket without touching flesh; the second missed both men and blew the head off the model of Torquemada.
Ryker dived to one side but swung his foot at Donna and managed to trip her.
She pitched forward, the gun falling from her grasp and skittering across the floor. As she hit the ground, she fell on top of the Grimoire.
Ryker leapt on her, trying to wrestle the book from her grip.
Julie kicked out at him, catching him in the groin, but then she felt powerful hands fastening around her throat as Kellerman grabbed her.
‘You cunt,’ he hissed, squeezing until his fingers pressed deep into her windpipe.
White stars began to dance in front of Julie’s eyes; no matter how she scratched at his hands she could not break his grip.
She was helpless, supported by the hands but dying because of them.
Donna pushed Ryker off her and scrambled to her feet, seeing that Farrell was now about to free himself and join the fight, blood pouring down his face. But it was Julie she was concerned with.
Kellerman was tightening his grip on her throat, squeezing until Julie’s eyes bulged madly in their sockets as she fought for breath.
Donna looked around for the gun and saw it. She dived onto the floor, snatched up the Pathfinder and rolled over. She fired once, and more by luck than judgement the bullet hit Kellerman in the shin, just below the left knee. The sound of the pistol was deafening inside the chamber, but even above the roar she could hear the strident crack of splintering bone as the tibia was shattered by the bullet.
Kellerman shrieked and released his grip on Julie, clapping his hands to the wound. Blood ran through his fingers as he crashed to the ground, clutching the ragged hole.
Julie, too, had fallen to the ground, barely conscious. Donna tried to help her up but felt herself grabbed from behind by Ryker.
She pushed herself backwards and both of them went hurtling over the low chain that separated them from the exhibits. Donna landed on top of Ryker, winding him as he took her elbow in his chest. Again the gun slipped from her grasp.
Farrell was out of the cage by now, racing towards Julie, the .45 out and lowered at her.
He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her to her feet, the barrel of the pistol pressed to her temple.
‘No,’ Donna shouted, trying to struggle away from Ryker, ‘leave her alone.’
Kellerman was groaning loudly, his lower leg smashed by the bullet.
Ryker made a grab for the book but missed and overbalanced, crashing into the guillotine display. He cracked his head on one of the sharp corners and went down in a heap, clutching his throbbing skull.
‘Stop.’
The voice boomed out, filling the chamber.
Both Donna and Farrell turned towards the entrance.
Francis Dashwood moved slowly into the chamber, closely followed by Richard Parsons.
Dashwood was smiling.
Seventy-Nine
The stench was appalling.
Donna noticed it as soon as Dashwood and Parsons entered the chamber. The unmistakable rank odour of death.
‘You have something which belongs to us,’ Dashwood said, jabbing a finger towards the book she held.
‘Your husband stole it from us,’ Parsons added.
‘Return it.’
Donna swallowed hard, her stomach somersaulting as she inhaled the rancid stench that emanated from the two men.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, seeing the pallid skin that hung in festering coils from their faces. Dashwood’s forehead was dotted with boils, one of which had recently burst. Thick pus seeped down towards his eyebrow.
‘Friends of your husbands,’ Dashwood told her, smiling, lips sliding back to reveal blackened teeth. ‘Now give me the book.’ The smile faded to be replaced by a look of anger. He held out a hand.
Donna kept a tight grip on the Grimoire.
‘I’ll blow her fucking head all over the wall,’ hissed Farrell, pushing the barrel of the .45 forcefully against Julie’s temple. ‘Now give him the book.’
‘Fair exchange, Mrs Ward,’ Dashwood said. ‘You have something we want. We have something
you
want. Give me the Grimoire.’
‘If I do you’ll kill us both,’ Donna said, trying to swallow.
‘And if you don’t, Farrell will shoot you.
Then
we’ll take it,’ Dashwood told her.