The Faceless (11 page)

Something else; it was pale, pinkish-coloured. The hell was it? No idea, but it was on the pavement outside a house where the front door was a gaping hole. Only the front door though; the big front window was still tinned up. Well, you’d want that, if there was stuff going on in there you didn’t want folk seeing. He went closer to it, saw it, was still.

Half a face looked up at him. A forehead, an eyebrow, a near-black eye; a nose, most of a cheek. He nudged it with his toe and it moved with a tinny, scraping sound. That was a relief of sorts – at least it wasn’t real – but he still wasn’t touching the bastard thing. He somehow knew it would have the same cold, greasy feel as the cap.

No wonder the fucker’s face’d looked like there was something wrong with it. There bloody was. Must be deformed or summat.

Martyn reached into his pocket, found his key ring. Eva had given him a little key ring torch for his birthday last year. If it still worked–

He clicked the switch. A pale beam fingered at the dark. The sirens were louder still. Nearly here. Better get a shift on, you want to be a have-a-go hero.

Shining the torch ahead, he risked a step in through the door. The torchlight picked out peeling walls; bricks and lathwork showed through the gaps. There was a table with a bucket on it in the middle of the floor. He pointed the beam down at the floor. The boards were still there, at least; they hadn’t been ripped up for firewood. That was about all you could say for them though; they were pitted and rotten. Would they bear his weight? One way to find out. Best foot forward, lad.

A faint, brittle sound. He flashed the torch at the kitchen door. Was that a flicker of motion? No. There was nothing there. Nothing.

He stepped forward, shone the torch around the room as the first police car screeched to a halt outside, and a horde of white, mangled faces swarmed out of the room’s back wall. And all of them were screaming.

THE TESTAMENT OF PRIVATE LEONARD BLOOR CONCLUDED and nothings changed has anything changed and drinking drinking to blot it out and stump of left thigh failed to heal properly and became infected septicaemia set in resulting in and lying in bed at home speckled with fagash and vomit and crying crying crying for all the things now gone and burning with fever heat and running with sweat and floating and seeing visions the old men will see visions and the young men will dream dreams and saw my comrades my friends the battlefields ruined plain spread out before me and the eyeless bloodless limbless faceless dead dying maimed crippled wounded disfigured scarred in endless procession across it british french german turkish italian austro hungarian russian belgian serb who are they who are we what does it matter all torn meat and churned mud linked solely by the capacity to suffer kyrie eleison and delirum coma and death from septicaemia and into thy hands o lord but there are no hands were no hands to receive me only darkness and the howling void and no justice done no leg restored no restitution recompense or peace

GUEULES CASSÉES

‘C’ BLOCK

Flakes of paint lie like brittle leaves on the cracked floor tiles. The exposed brickwork is fretted and crumbling. A peeling wooden door with a pane of safety glass stands ajar. Beyond it, decaying, eyeless faces stare emptily from the wall.

CHAPTER TEN

S
TAKOWSKI SAW TWO
cars in the car park by Witchbrook when he pulled in: a white Nissan Micra and a police Land Rover, back doors open. A girl – nine or ten – sat on the running board, wailing in the arms of a thin blonde woman beside her. Two uniforms, both young, hovered nearby.

“Jesus Christ, they’ve just left her like that?”

“They’re green, ma’am.”

“Bloody will be when I’m done with them.”

“Flu outbreak. We’re short on experienced officers.”

“Ask me if I give a toss.” They got out. “They catch anyone?”

“Said they had a bloke in custody, but he says he’s the kid’s dad.”

“Who’s on scene?”

Stakowski central-locked the car. “Tranter and Wayland.”

“Thank god. Was worried it might be Janson. Can you go supervise?”

“Aye. Just let’s get a description of the dad first.”

“OK.”

The blonde woman wore minimal makeup and dressed like a maiden aunt; be pretty if she gave herself the chance, though. He knew her from somewhere, but couldn’t place it yet. Mist drifted down the hillside. The woman’s teeth chattered, but she still held the sobbing child close, stroked her hair.

“Get some blankets.”

“Ma’am.” The uniforms scurried off. Renwick stepped forward. “Miss...”

“Ms. Anna. Anna Mason. Mary’s aunt.” She half-rose; Renwick waved her back down. Where did Stakowski know her from? A uniform draped a blanket round the child; she flinched back from it, then settled.

“Detective Chief Inspector Renwick. Detective Sergeant Stakowski.”

He smiled at her. She smiled back, shy but genuine, folding a blanket round herself. Hazel eyes that never seemed to settle. “We’ve met.”

“You have?”

“The library, yesterday. You came in for a book.
Myths of Old Lancashire
.”

“Oh, aye.” Should’ve remembered. Getting old.

“It was the name I recognised,” she said. “Stakowski.”

He smiled. “No, not that common a name round here.”

“Polish?”

“Me Dad was. Came over here after the war, married a local lass. Anyroad–” He looked down at the kid. Red hair, blue eyes. “So, you’ll be Mary, then.”

The girl huddled closer to Anna. “Where’s Daddy?”

Stakowski’s radio crackled; he stepped aside. “Stakowski.”

“... arge...?” Tranter. “...opy?”

“Repeat. You’re breaking up.”

The static thinned. Other voices murmured, faintly, somewhere else. Then Tranter came through clearly. “Sarge?”

“Aye, lad. What’s up?”

“You might want to pop over here, Sarge.”

“Where’s ‘here’?”

“Shackleton Street.”

“What’s up?”

“There’s some pretty weird stuff here. Oh–”

“Aye?”

“–and two dead bodies.”

“Save the best till last. Be right over.”

THE TESTAMENT OF SERGEANT EDWARD HOWIE an here i was in the crazy house the nuthatch the lunatic asylum call it what ye like they called it a military hospital but i called it madhouse madhouse madhouse populated with the shudderin an the twitchin an the jerkin an the rigid an the mute an the screamin relics of shellshock aye an i were one of them my father a butcher by trade id worked in his shop afore the war when i wasnt in ma room a busily readin marx engels kropotkin readin an learnin an dreamin of a new world youd have thought id know better than to heed the call and march to war but there was a girl emma who lived a few streets away id known her since she was a scabby kneed bairn an time was wed been sweethearts an never a question but we would marry but now she was older an her mother had put airs an graces into her head told her i was no good enough for her an besides her mother was a patriotic fool lapped up all the jingoistic pish in the newspapers an drummed it into her daughters head till now she said she would na consider a man who shirked his duty as she called it so here was i twenty two years of age at the wars outbreak old enough to know better but still i signed up for the duration cursing myself all the while

L
EFT ONTO
F
RANKLIN
Street, then on up to Shackleton. Automatic pilot. He’d been called out to the bastard Polar in his beat days often enough: the domestic disturbance on Peary Street where the husband had waved a shotgun at him; the ginnel behind Amundsen Street where a boy had bled to death. Shackleton Street had been the worst; seemed it still was. The mist thickened as he drove. He turned the headlights on.

Blue lights flashed in the mist. He parked up behind the police cars. A big man sat in one, chafing his wrists and scowling. Tranter headed over. “Sarge.”

“Colin.”

Wayland followed, hands in his raincoat pockets, chewing gum. “Sarge.”

“Get your hands out your pockets, lad, you look like a flasher. That the dad?”

Tranter nodded. “Checked his ID.”

“Good work. Name?”

“Martyn Griffiths.”

“Right. So where are the bodies?”

“Upstairs.”

“And the ‘weird stuff’?”

“There’s a lot to choose from, but try this for starters.” Wayland held up two evidence bags. “Says he found them in the street.”

Stakowski turned the first one over. “A cloth cap? That’s not weird.”

“Matches what the Spindlies are supposed to wear, Sarge,” said Tranter. “And have a look at the mask.”

“Mask?” Stakowski saw. “Christ Almighty.”

“Pretty much what we thought, Sarge.”

“Yes, thank you, Wayland. Fair enough,
I
call that bloody weird too.”

“Ever seen anything like it before, Sarge?”

“I’d remember if I had.”

“What gets me is how life-like it is,” said Tranter. “Someone spent a lot of time on it.”

“And then just dumped it,” said Wayland.

“Mm.” Stakowski hefted it. “Pretty light, too. What is it, tin?”

“Tin or copper, I think.”

“Alright. Get it down to Sergeant Brock at the station – signed for, tagged, the lot. And while you’re at it, take Mr Griffiths down the station, get a statement off him. Everything. Every detail. Clear?”

“Sarge.”

“Good. But first, get onto the boss and tell her Mr Griffiths is alive and well. His kiddie were sobbing her heart out.”

Wayland nodded, didn’t move.

“What is it lad?”

“Speak to you a sec, Sarge?”

“Alright.” They moved aside. Tranter stood outside the gate, scratching his head. “What’s on your mind, Paul?”

“Just–” Wayland bit his lip.

“Spit it out.”

“DC Janson, Sarge.”

“What? She sexually harassing you? Christ, I’ll have nightmares.”

“Er... no, Sarge. But she has been mouthing off something fierce.”

“What about?”

“The way the investigation’s being handled.”

Wayland looked miserable. No-one liked being the school sneak. “Go on.”

“Basically... we’re wasting time treating the two cases as linked. The Khalid girl’s an honour killing, Pakis being Pakis, nothing to do with the missing kid.”

“I can imagine.”

“And she keeps going on about the Spindly Men angle as well. Says that’s wasting time too.”

“Where’s Sergeant McAdams been in all this?”

“Even Janson’s not thick enough to gob off near him. But... we were in the canteen today and she was rattling on. Rest of us were trying not to take any notice of her – heard it a dozen times already. But, you know Inspector Sherwood?”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. He was on the next table, and you know what he’s like.”

“Oh yeah. Old Brown Nose himself. So by now he’ll’ve gone straight to the Bedstead saying the investigation’s a shambles and her own team think she’s lost it.”

“Thought you’d best know.”

“Aye. Thanks lad. Owt else I should hear?”

Wayland bit his lip, glanced at Tranter, shook his head. “No, Sarge.”

“Alright. Get weaving. Shift the evidence down the station, let the boss know ’bout Griffiths.” Stakowski turned away.
Cover her back, Mike
. What, even though he’d most likely get pulled down with her?
Yes
. Didn’t even need to think on it, really. “Tranter! Where’s the rest of the weird stuff?”

“Inside, Sarge. We gave the place the once-over, made sure it was empty. Apart from that we’ve kept it clear for the SOCOs.”

“You called in the circus, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad. Suppose we should wait for them to arrive, properly speaking.”

“Suppose so, Sarge.”

“Dr Wisher’ll be
very
upset, otherwise.”

“There is that.”

Stakowski grinned. “Let’s get in there, then.”

“Sarge.” Tranter passed Stakowski a pair of latex gloves and a torch; they went through. Stakowski shone the torch around; bloated white faces came out of the walls. “Bloody hell.”

“Yeah.”

They picked their way over the rotten floorboards. In the middle of the room, the table and the bucket on top. There was a stick laid across the top of the bucket, something dangling down from it. There was a car battery on the table too, wired to the bucket or its contents. “Shit.”

“Don’t think it’s a bomb, Sarge.”

“Oh, you don’t, do you? That’s nice to know.”

“I’ve not touched it,” said Tranter.

“Thank heavens for that. Might be wearing half the bloody street otherwise.” Stakowski had seen a few bombs during his army years. And their effects.

“Think it’s some sort of electro-plating gear.”

“Plating?”

“Been a while since I did my Chemistry exams, but I think so.”

“We’ll let the circus get stuck into that.” Stakowski went to the wall and studied one of the faces. “Plaster of Paris?”

“Looks like it.”

“Plaster of Paris. Car batteries. Why’s that sound familiar?” He studied the faces. One was missing most of its jaw, the mouth warped into a gaping wound. Another had a trench above the mouth where eyes and nose had been ripped away. “Someone needs to see the psychiatrist.”

“They look like casts of some kind,” said Tranter.

“Who of, though? Any bugger went round looking like that, we’d know about it.” Stakowski stopped. The bucket. Plating. Something. He went to the bucket and looked inside, reached for the stick.

“Sarge–” Tranter began.

The bucket was half full of liquid. Stakowski lifted the object clear of it. A thin piece of copper, now almost completely coated with grey metal. It was a cast of eyes and a nose. Stakowski looked from it to the second mutilated face, then lowered it back into place. Leave the scene as fresh as he could. But what was the betting it’d fit like a glove?

“Where are the bodies?”

“Upstairs, sarge.”

The stairs were rickety; the risers gave underfoot and the railing nearly pulled free of the wall when Stakowski reached for it. The air was thick and stale with dampness and rotten wood. But there were other smells, worse: excrement, urine and another one. Cold slowed down decay, but didn’t stop it.