The Faceless (15 page)

Their lips moved.
Something new has happened here. The police found two bodies here. They found other things, too. Ask to see them.

As before, Vera caught some blurred impression of Allen’s thought. There was doubt there. Fear. He didn’t know how he could convince them. They weren’t one of his audiences; most like they belonged to the half of the country that thought him a fake and charlatan.

Her name is Renwick
, they said.
Detective Chief Inspector Joan Renwick. Ask to see her. Give her these names: Roseanne Trevor, Tahira Khalid, Danielle Morton, Ben Rawlinson. Tell her this: the Spindly Men made Pete Hardacre tear his own eyes out before his heart burst. Ask to see the things the police found here. You will be able to see. And you will show them. Do this and you will be free.

As one, the children stepped back into the dark and were gone. A few seconds later, the streetlights came back on and Shackleton Street was restored. Vera shuddered. Dear Christ, to be glad to see this fucking place again. Allen swayed and sagged against her. She held him up. She’d need to find him food, first of all; chips, a kebab, chocolate from an all-night garage. Traffic sounds washed in.

“Free,” said Allen. “You heard them, sis. Free. Free.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I heard them.”

“Have to. Have to do this. Have to.”

“Yes. Yes, sweetheart, I know.”

She’d call another minicab to take them there, get Allen restored enough to go to the police station. Convincing them would be hard enough, without him looking off his face on drugs. As always, presentation was important.

But they were going to the police, as fast as possible. Not for the missing; for themselves. This was the price, was it, for what they had? For getting out? Then they’d pay it and be gone, back down south, away from this. Pay the piper, pay the ferryman. Do it and they could go. And never come back.
Ever
. Fuck the North. However many punters there were up here, they’d never come back again.

A
NNA SHOULD HAVE
called a cab. In the mist every lamppost, waste-bin or junction box was a thick blurred shape you only saw when you were a few feet away. They seemed to jump out of the white. She’d managed to convince herself half a dozen times already that she was about to be attacked. No matter. Not far now.

She should have called a cab, or let Martyn walk her there, get a neighbour to watch Mary. Pride, that had been; needing to be right, to be sure. Now look at her. But stay calm. Don’t panic. It’ll all be fine.

Behind her: click, click, click.

She stopped, turned. The footsteps stopped. Mist drifted past her, sodden orange with trapped streetlight. She could see nothing.

Move. Doesn’t mean anything. Someone got where they were going, that’s all. Move.

Walking again.

Behind her: click, click, click.

Stopping, turning. The footsteps stopped again. Staring into the mist but only seeing the same thing: drifting vapour, trapped streetlight.

Someone playing silly games. That was all. Just walk. Even her heels’ rapid clicking on the pavement sounded panicky, and too loud.

But not loud enough to drown out the click, click, click behind her.

She didn’t look back this time, not until she was across the road. She went faster; her breath was ragged but she was at the crossroads with Raglan Street. The library was to her left; to her right was the traffic on Dunwich Road. She stopped for a moment there, then realised she couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore.

There. There now. She turned, looked back.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The pale cone of the streetlight three posts away from her flickered as something stepped into it.

It was tall and thin, in a long, tattered cloak. It wore a cap of some kind.

Tall and thin.

Spindly.

She couldn’t see its face, but knew it was watching her.

Anna took two steps back.

It stayed still.

Then behind her: click, click, click. She spun. Across the road another identical figure stepped into the streetlight’s glow.

And then, to her right: click, click, click. She knew what she’d see even before she turned around.

The third Spindly Man stepped into a cone of light further up Raglan Street, cutting her off from Dunwich Road.

Together, the three of them advanced.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

O
NLY ONE WAY
to go; she ran left down Raglan Street, hands out ahead of her. The fronts of houses rushed past her in the mist. None of their lights seemed to be on. Even if they were it didn’t prove the house was occupied; even if it
was,
they mightn’t answer the door. Not in time. She’d seen how fast the Spindly at Witchbrook had moved. She was fit enough, but wouldn’t outpace them for long.

She veered to avoid a lamppost, tripped on a paving slab, cannoned into a gatepost. She stumbled on, hip throbbing, glanced back into the mist, trying to hear over the thump of blood in her ears.

Footsteps echoed in the dark.

She spun and ran, arms still out. At any moment another thin, tattered shape might loom out of the mist to grab her. Whooping for breath now, she shouted for help, but if anyone heard, there was no sign. Her shoulder bag thumped against her side. Was that why they were coming after her? Ditch it and she might be safe.

And she might have, but then she saw the library’s windows glint in the streetlight, across the road. She ran to it, arms still outthrust.
Would
it protect her? It didn’t matter. Her lungs burned and she could hardly breathe, and their heels were clicking on the pavement behind her. She had to stop. Oh god. She fumbled in her bag for the keys.

“T
HE HELL HAVE
you been?”

“Sorry, boss.” Stakowski dumped three manila files on his desk. “Checking the archives.”

“Archives?”

“Aye. Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, we didn’t have computers. So we had to write stuff down, and they had to use this stuff called paper.”

“Mike... please. No jokes, not now.”

“You OK, boss?”

“No. This case is turning into a real shitball. Always more pieces, and less and less idea how they’re supposed to fit together.”

“Boss...”

“Maybe Janson’s right. Maybe I
am
just flailing around and making up connections where there aren’t any. I dunno.”

“You really think that, Joan?”

“I don’t know what I think right now, Mike.”

Renwick’s phone rang.

“Let us have a deck at this. Let you know if I find owt.” Stakowski picked up his phone and dialled. Renwick’s phone kept ringing.

“Renwick.”

“Chief Inspector.” Banstead. No
Joan
this time.

“Sir. How are y–”

“Detective Chief Inspector, I’ve received... well, what I can only call a litany of complaints about the way the investigations are being handled.”

“Sir, if you mean DC Janson–”

“Not just her. The complaints I’ve had indicate a disturbing lack of focus in both investigations.”

Deep breath, Joan, he’s tricky. But he’s the one gave you the case, said they might be connected. Wayland said Janson was on her own, the others trying to ignore her. Stakowski would have told her about any issues with his half of the team, wouldn’t he? “With respect, sir, the investigation–”

“Investiga
tions
, Joan, plural. I made that clear to you from the beginning.”

“Sir, you indicated there might well be a connection and–”

“
Might
. It made sense to have a senior officer in overall charge in case there was. It’s true, however, that I thought you’d be able to manage two parallel investigations.” He sighed. Weary, martyred. Tom Baldwin in the dock; smug, pious, dishonest. “I was wrong.”

“Sir, I’ve just investigated the relevant leads, pooled information–”

“And tried to hijack Detective Sergeant Ashraf’s investigation, which is completely unrelated to your caseload. He’s not a happy man either. And as well as that, you’ve even had Detective Sergeant Stakowski running to the library for books on local bogeymen. Who’s your prime suspect? The Loch Ness Monster?”

“Sir, with respect–”

But all she could see was Stakowski, phone tucked under his chin, scribbling on an A4 pad. You didn’t go to him behind my back, Mike. Please, Mike. Not you.

“Well?” She couldn’t speak; Banstead sighed. “See? Joan, your investigation is unfocused and hopelessly disorganised. You’re flailing about to try and prove a connection that doesn’t exist.”

“Sir, that is not–” Voice rising; she could hear the strain in it.

“Please don’t embarrass yourself or say something you’ll later regret, Joan. I’m trying to prevent you causing irreparable damage to your career. Getting defensive and making excuses won’t help.”

A
NNA GOT THE
key in the lock, turned it. The door opened. Something moved in the mist. She turned and a thin, cloaked shape flew at her. She shoved the door closed behind her, locked it again. The Spindly Man stopped, black-hole eyes staring in his pale immobile face. He reached out; broom-twig fingers scraped the wire-meshed glass. She stepped back from the door. The Spindly Man pushed himself away, back into the mist.

Something beeping. The burglar alarm. If she didn’t disarm it, it’d go off. Good. Let the police come. She wanted them. But she needed Renwick. Her mobile phone – no, couldn’t find a network. The telephone at the counter – she punched 9 for an outside line, opened her purse and found the card Renwick had given her. Two numbers: the police station and Renwick’s own.

The alarm began shrilling. She dialled the police station. Engaged. Try Renwick’s mobile? But there was no network. Perhaps there was just a fault on her phone. She dialled. A recorded voice said:
It has not been possible to connect your call
.
Please try again later
.

The alarm shrilling. The police would come. Wouldn’t they? Even on a Saturday night, fights probably raging in the pubs and the High Street? How high a priority would this be?

A flicker of motion. She looked up. Something thin and tattered flitted past a window, vanished into the mist. Other shapes moved there also.

The back of the building. They were heading there. There was a back entrance, a fire escape, windows they could break. There was a skylight above her; any number of ways in.

She had to stay calm. Mustn’t panic. So much for playing detectives. Stay calm. Ring Martyn.

“I
T’S AS MUCH
my fault as yours,” Banstead went on. “This was clearly the wrong job for you, after the Baldwin business. I think the best approach would be to hand both cases over to DI Sherwood.”

Stakowski was watching her, frowning. He half-rose; his phone rang. He picked it up, still watching her.

“We always have a full caseload this time of year. There are plenty of other, less demanding investigations you can handle. If you write your report of all that’s been done so far tonight, DI Sherwood can pick things up tomorrow with the minimum disruption.”

“Boss?” Stakowski, phone cradled to his chest. “Call for you.”

Renwick mouthed: “Who?”

“Dr Wisher.”

“Joan?”

“Sir.”

“About that report–”

“Sir–” Renwick stood. Everything was suddenly clear. “I’ll have to call you back. Might have some new information here.”

“DCI Renwick–”

“Call you right back, sir.” She hung up. Her fingers shook. Stakowski stared at her.

“I’ll be buggered,” he said.

Please, Mike, not you. “Well, if I wasn’t finished before...”

“Finished? What–?”

She held a hand up. “Just put Dr Wisher through.”

“OK.”

“Never thought I’d be glad to take a call from her.”

“You know, Chief Inspector, my hearing really is rather good.”

Shit. “Doctor Wisher–”

“But never mind that. Completed the post-mortem on the Dunwich body. Sergeant Ashraf
insisted
I called you. Said it’s linked to another case.”

“Is it Hardacre?”

“Unless anyone else has gouged their eyes out with kitchen knives this week.”

“Hope not. Mind you, on the Dunwich you never know.” Renwick chuckled, heard only silence. “Anyway–”

“I would have emailed you my findings but there seem to be problems with your internet server.”

“Same story all over Kempforth. Nobody’s been able to access the net all d–”

“Fascinating. Your mobile network seems to be down as well. No matter. Thought you’d like to know, toxicology report found mild traces of THC in the bloodstream, so he’d partaken of a reefer or two, but in my view that’s unlikely to have caused a reaction that extreme.”

“Any idea what did trigger the episode?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me anything?”

“Just that it killed him.”

“We already knew that.”

“
No
, Chief Inspector.
Listen
to what I’m saying. He didn’t commit suicide as a result of the episode; the psychotic episode
itself
killed him.”

“How’s that possible?”

“Cause of death was massive heart failure, brought on by the panic he experienced. He was unlikely to have survived in any case, of course. He wasn’t particularly young and he’d subjected his body to years of drug abuse. Shock and blood loss would have probably killed him in the end, but neither got the chance to. Put simply, whatever he thought he saw, he was so terrified he not only ripped his own eyes out to avoid seeing it, but his heart burst.”

“Are you telling me that Pete Hardacre died of
fright
?”

Wisher was silent for a moment, then said, quietly: “Yes. I suppose I am.”

And then the lights went out. “Shit!”

“I beg your pardon?”

Renwick opened her mouth to apologise, but then the phone went dead too.

T
HERE WAS STATIC
on the line as soon as the phone started ringing; when Martyn answered it became a mushy roar. “Hello?”