The Faceless (16 page)

“Martyn? Martyn! Martyn, can you hear me?”

She thought he was shouting her name, but couldn’t be sure, the static was too loud. And there were other voices mumbling in the background, like a dozen crossed lines at once. She thought she heard
Dace
, and
Ash Fell
, but that couldn’t be right.

“Martyn–” The alarm stopped. A moment’s relief, but the phone was silent too. “Martyn? Martyn?” She rattled the phone’s cradle, but there was nothing. She replaced the handset, put her purse back in the bag.

The streetlights’ orange glare was gone too. Mist swirled outside the windows; it looked dun-coloured in the dark. She clicked the light-switch; nothing. Power cut.

Tattered shapes came out of the mist; silhouettes with pale blurred faces. They came to the windows, pressed their faces and thin brittle hands to the glass. A picking, scratching sound from the far end of the library. Then metal rattling. They were trying to open the fire escape. She found a letter-opener with a six-inch blade in a desk drawer, gripped it two-handed, like a sword.

The fire door rattled in its frame. Footsteps thumped across the roof. Something picked at the skylight. There were faces at all the windows she could see. She gripped the letter-opener tighter. She wouldn’t stand a chance. She bit back a scream as something smashed into the fire door. They’d be inside in minutes. Unlock the door and run? Stupid – they were waiting outside.

Another crash; the fire door gave way. Cold wind gusted into the library. A tall thin shape moved in the dimness at the far end of the library. Its footsteps were like the clop of hooves on the threadbare carpet. It stopped, stood watching her. Brittle fingers scratched at the window. She raised the letter-opener. The intruder came forward. In a moment it would be in the light.

The sound of glass cracking; she spun. One of the windows had almost shattered; a dozen long cracks splayed out from the middle, where one of them had punched it. He looked at the intruder in the library. The intruder stared back at him, then
–
went backwards, literally, as if mounted on casters. It glided back into the shadows. The window-breaker looked up at the skylight. The scratching stopped; the shadow vanished. He turned his head left, then right and, as he did, the faces at the windows vanished back into the mist. Finally he gazed directly at her, perhaps for as long as half a minute. That face. That immobile face. Of course. She realised now. It wasn’t a face; it was a mask. She’d been right.

The window-breaker stepped back; the mist flurried and swallowed him. The cold wind blowing through the open fire door cut through her clothes to the skin. She should go and close it, but couldn’t bring herself to go down there, not now.

She was shaking. She needed to move but was afraid to. Had to do something. Quickly. They might come back. But she felt frozen, a statue.

Move.
Move.

And then she was moving, but not for the doors, not yet. She’d come here for something. To do a job, and prove she was sane as well, maybe. Already there was the nagging fear she’d imagined the attack. She hadn’t. She knew that. Which made this madder. She should get out now. But she’d finish what she’d started.

The librarian’s office. Her desk drawer. What if it was gone, or it’d never been? But no, here it was. The stained manila file; yellowed pages, faded photographs. Her fingers shook as they found the photographs and turned them in the faint dim light. Staying here, the risk – it was insane, but she couldn’t leave yet. She held up one of the pictures, then another. Yes. Here. The proof. Anna’s not mad.

She stuffed the report into her bag, closed it tight, ran back into the library as light flared through the windows. Two lights; a pair. Headlights. A car door slammed. “Anna?”

“Martyn?”

She ran to the doors. Quickly. Move quickly. A tall shape loomed out of the mist as she got the doors open. A scream in her throat–

“Anna?”

Martyn was flushed; he looked focused, directed. Alive, like when he’d chased the Spindly Man.

“I’m fine. Come on.”

The mist swirled white. No sign of movement, but there was no guessing what might be within. The headlights’ glow made a luminescent channel through the mist, guiding her in, but that only made the murk on either side more impenetrable.

Minnie the Micra awaited, engine idling. She got the passenger door open. Any second and something would grab her from behind. But no-one touched her. She pulled the door shut, fumbled for her seatbelt. Martyn climbed in. Then Anna remembered–

“Mary. Where’s Mary?”

“Got Mrs Marshall from next door over to keep an eye on her.”

“You found the spare keys, then?”

“Aye. What happened?”

“I was followed.”

“Who by?”
Had
something just moved there in the mist? “Was it–”

“Martyn, we can talk about this later. Can we just get to the police station?”

“You OK?”

“
Yes
. Just drive. Please.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“L
EAST WE CAN
have a brew. Thank god for the emergency generator.” Stakowski peered out of the window. “Looks like the whole town’s blacked out. You OK?”

“Yeah, but the phone’s still dead. Mobile network’s still down too.”

“Power cut wouldn’t do that.”

“No. Damn. Can’t call the Bedstead back now.”

“Never all bad.”

“Ha.” Tinsel hanging from the ceiling. The Christmas tree in the corner. Dad and Morwenna would have one set up in the front room. Perfect couple. Except she was half his age. Daddy, how could you? The message he’d left; the quiet, resigned tone. She knew the face that went with that: lined, melancholy, gentle. Like Stakowski’s. Love you, Daddy. Hate you, Daddy.

“Looks like it came at a good time.”

“What?”

“The blackout. What did the Bedstead want?”

“What’s the radio reception like?”

“Joan–”

“What’s it like?”

“Sounds like it’s going through a sack of tinsel. Well?”

“I’m to fill out a report for DI Sherwood so he can take over.”

“What?”

“No focus. Flailing about. No evidence to link the cases. Ashraf’s pissed off at me for nosing in on his investigation. The Spindly Men were the final straw.”

“Christ.”

She didn’t answer.

“What’s he said about me?”

“What?”

“He’s said summat.”

“No.”

Stakowski pulled up a chair. “How long we known each other?”

“Four years?”

“Try five. Have I
ever
not backed you up?”

She looked down.

“Do I brown-nose for promotions?”

“No.”

“Who warned you Banstead would try and fuck you over?”

“You.”

“Who told you Janson’d been stirring the shit?”

“You.”

“I know how that bastard works. Oldest trick in the book. Divide and conquer. Ashraf’s not got a problem with you. Just not used to taking orders off a woman, that’s all. But he’s a professional, gets on with his job. So come on, what was said?”

“Nothing. Nothing specific or direct.”

“What was it?”

“Does it matter?”

“Might. Was it to do wi’ the Spindlies?”

“Yeah. You getting that library book out.”

“Banstead’s style. Throw something into the mix, make you think I’d gone behind your back. But–” He closed his eyes. “Tranter. Wayland didn’t want to talk in front of him.”

“What?”

“When he told me about Janson, at Shackleton Street, Wayland called me aside so Tranter wouldn’t hear. Thought it was cos he doesn’t like telling tales, even on Janson’s sort. Wayland’s loyal to folk he serves with. One reason I’ve a lot of time for him when he’s not being a poseur. But then I asked if there were owt else.”

“And?”

“He said no.”

“But?”

“Hesitated.”

“That doesn’t prove–”

“Did you tell anyone about that library book?”

“No. You?”

“Haven’t told a soul. But Tranter knew; he drove me to the library.”

“Tranter? But why?”

“He’s young. Ambitious. Doesn’t want to spend his career in the sticks. Banstead’s never gonna worry about Tranter wanting his job. He’s after a posting to Manchester, or the Met. Little bastard.”

“So he tells Banstead about the library book.”

“And the Bedstead gets you wondering if you can trust me.” She couldn’t meet Stakowski’s eyes. “So, what now?”

“Bastard can whistle out his arse for his report. We go through everything we’ve got. See if we can find something to go on.”

“OK.”

“So what did you find out about the Spindly Men?”

“A bit. There’s what I told you, obviously. They came from Hell, according to the legend. And like I said, they had no faces. They wanted faces of their own more than owt else, so if you could give ’em one, they’d do whatever you told them.”

“Give ’em one?”

“If you made them a mask to wear, for example.”

“Interesting–”

“There’s more. According to the tale, if they touched you, you saw Hell. And if that happened you’d either kill yourself or die of fright.”

“Like Hardacre?”

“Aye.” Light flashed through the window. “Ey up. Visitors.”

Outside, a man helped a woman out of a minicab. “They look well-to-do.”

“Have to be, pay a cabbie to go out in this.”

Footsteps thumped along the corridor outside. “Boss?” Crosbie stuck his head round the door. “You’re never gonna believe who’s just turned up.”

“Let me guess,” said Stakowski. “Allen bloody Cowell.”

“Jesus, sarge, you’re the one who should be on the telly.”

Stakowski stared at Crosbie; Crosbie looked at Renwick. “And he’s asking to see you personally, ma’am.”

Renwick breathed out. “Give me five minutes.”

“Ma’am.”

A
N INTERVIEW ROOM.
Three officers: Renwick, Stakowski and Crosbie. Two interviewees: Allen Cowell and Vera Latimer.

Cowell had come in looking pale, shaken. Not anymore. He took a deep breath, composed himself. He had an audience now.

Stakowski looked down at his A4 pad. He hadn’t written on it; wasn’t likely to. But it beat looking at Cowell.

“I cancelled tonight’s show in Liverpool because I had a vision.”

“A vision,” said Renwick.

“A message, if you prefer. Do you know what a spirit guide is?”

“I watch television, Mr Cowell.”

“Then you’re familiar with my show.”

“Not my cup of tea.”

Crosbie chuckled. The sister glared at him. Hard bitch, that one. But you’ve read the case files, Mike. What they went through. Show some pity.

But he’d heard all the excuses in the world for being a bastard. Daddy never loved me; mummy locked me in the cellar. After a while you sickened of them. And besides, he couldn’t get past Laney. Couldn’t.

Well, try. Act like a bloody professional. He’s part of this somehow. Try and see how. For her if not yourself, or for the kiddie.

“But,” said Renwick, “I understand the concept.”

“Mine told me I had to come back here. When I arrived, they sent me to Shackleton Street. Which was where I experienced–”

“This ‘vision’,” Stakowski said.

Cowell sighed. He sounded bored, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “There are always sceptics. Very close-minded way of looking at the world. You need to open your mind, Sergeant.”

The sister smirked. Stakowski’s fists clenched beneath the table.

“All very well, Mr Cowell,” said Renwick. “But we do need evidence that can be used in a court of law.”

“I appreciate that, Inspector.”

“
Chief
Inspector.”

“But what if I could point you in the right direction? Show you where to look? Because you aren’t getting far at the moment, are you?”

“Oh, aren’t I?”

“Four missing persons. Tahira Khalid. Danielle Morton. Ben Rawlinson. And... ah, yes, Roseanne Trevor.”

Silence. Was she taking him seriously? Banstead would rip her apart if she did. Cowell was bad enough, but if he endangered her career–

“What if I told you something the general public hadn’t been told?”

Renwick folded her arms.

“The Spindly Men made Pete Hardacre tear his own eyes out before his heart burst.”

Renwick went still.

No, you bastard. You’ll not fleece her like your kind did me. Sod the case files. Sod what happened to you. You won’t.

He clapped, slowly. “Not bad. Quite impressive. Who’d you pay off?”

“Mike,” said Renwick.

She had to see Cowell for the fake he was. “A copper? Someone in Forensics? Some poor gullible sod who’ll help you out if you give ’em a message from the dear departed? What’s the plan? Give your sales a boost?”

“Mike, that’s enough.”

Christ. Losing control. He was supposed to be a professional. Vera looked ready to fly at him. Take the girl out of Shackleton Street, but you’d never take Shackleton Street out of the girl.

Cowell’s face was twitching. Scared, close to panic. The sister leant forward, reached for him. Then his eyelids fluttered shut. His eyes rolled underneath. Cowell’s head dipped forward. Great. Here came the amateur dramatics.

“Mr Cowell–”

Cold, suddenly. Central heating must be on the blink.

White breath poured from Cowell’s mouth, and he spoke. “Elaine Rudleigh. She was a paramedic. You called her Laney.”

The moment where it mightn’t have been said; the moment where he realised it had been. The hollow feeling in his stomach. The roaring in his ears. Shock, disbelief. And then the rage.

“April 15
^th
, 1998.” Cowell opened his eyes, smiled. He looked tired, relieved, and triumphant. “The baby would’ve been a girl.”

The next Stakowski knew, he was coming round the table, making for Cowell. Vera was on her feet. Renwick too – “Mike!” – but he wasn’t stopping, even for her. His fist went back. Cowell looked up at him and said: “Paul Marshall. July the 12
^th
, 1999.”

The roaring in his ears became a wind. Any second it’d sweep him away. Nobody. Nobody alive knew that. He looked down at Cowell; Cowell looked up at him with a cold, flinty smile.
You wanted a fight? You got one
.