The Faceless (22 page)

Stakowski chuckled. “Can I come too, then, ma’am?”

“I can handle Banstead on my own.”

“Oh, I know. That’s why I want to see it for myself.”

“Alright then, you old buzzard.”

“Good to have you back, boss.”

A
LLEN WAS SQUEALING
in his sleep. The clenched, muffled sounds she knew so well. In the neighbouring bed, Vera curled up on her side, her back to him, tried not to hear.

He’d made noises like these back at Shackleton Street. Sometimes Walsh took them to the clients; other times the clients came to the house. They’d been the worst. Hers and Alan’s rooms adjoined; so many times she’d heard noises like this through the bedroom wall.

The comforting had already started by then. As they’d grown up she’d given Alan the only release she could. Until Walsh had died.

Oh, that’d been sweet, coming down to find him on the kitchen floor, croaking for help. And, yes, she’d pulled up a kitchen chair to watch the hate, terror and finally the nothingness in the bastard’s eyes as he died, slowly, alone and in pain.

She’d been careful. She’d not trodden in the wetness on the kitchen floor where his bladder had emptied; even then she was planning what she’d say and do. No-one was going to know what had happened. She was taking Alan and getting them both clear, as fast as they could.

Yes, she’d looked for his hiding places until she’d found all of his filth, everything, and hidden it safe, where no-one else would find it. Fitton and Yolly had taken Alan away somewhere that day. She’d been afraid they wouldn’t bring him back at all, but they did, and she’d stood up to Fitton with all the steel she had in her, all the while screaming inside. When they’d gone, she finally called the ambulance. She’d said afterwards she’d been upstairs, in bed – her period, she’d claimed – and had come down hours later to find him dead.

Two days later they’d packed their cases. Fitton had given them money; she’d told him where Walsh’s filth was. She’d only heard years later about his death, and the priest’s; about Yolly.

She’d got him away from there, made sure that no-one would ever know what they’d been put through – never prove it, anyway. First Manchester, then London, shaking the bastard North’s dust off their feet.

Even though Alan had told her: told her how Fitton and Yolly had taken him with Mark, Sam and Johnny to an abandoned mill; how the Shrike had come and taken the other three, but rejected Alan as too old. Walsh had wanted rid of him, and then, presumably, it would have been her turn.

Fitton was taking the boys to the farmhouse on Dunwich Lane; the Shrike was waiting. Alan had begged her to call the police. But there was no trusting them; no knowing which one was Walsh’s friend. And Walsh had loved to taunt her how Alan would be put in a home, become the prey of a dozen predators like Walsh or Fitton or Father Joseph, if the police ever knew. In retrospect, would that have happened, even then? Perhaps not, but she couldn’t be sure. She was only just technically an adult herself, and she’d learned not to trust the authorities. Or anyone else.

So, no. No phone call to the police, even an anonymous one. Her priority was getting Alan clear. So, yes: she’d left three children to the Shrike.

Did it bother her? Some nights, if she let it. Guilt was a luxury. She had it now, she hadn’t then. But it’d been different for Alan. They’d visited him soon after, shown him what the Shrike had done. He’d started to tell her. She’d begged him to stop.

Years later, she’d hired investigators to find them. Even Alan –
Allen,
by then – hadn’t known. It was for her, not him. If they were alive, Alan couldn’t have seen their ghosts. But there was nothing. Sam, Johnny, Mark had effectively ceased to exist one October day in 1985.

Muffled squeals from the next bed.

So tired of this now. She pulled the covers back, stood, stumbled across the room. Would tomorrow be the end of it? The debt’s final payment? Oh, please. He’d retire; she’d make sure of it. And perhaps – oh, just perhaps – he wouldn’t need her comfort again. Perhaps she could finally have her own life.

She could ignore him. She could pretend she hadn’t heard. Just this once.

No, she couldn’t. She’d never left him at a time like this. It could kill him and then where would she be? Infected with his bloody Sight for the rest of her life? No bloody thank you. She knelt by his bed. She’d wake and cradle him, sing to him. Try to believe the price was worth paying for what they had. Praying she wouldn’t have to pay it this time. Knowing she would.

“Allen. Allen.”

Praying, most of all, that his embrace wouldn’t pull her through the mirror again, into the world of his terrible Sight.

A
NNA TURNED IN
the narrow bed, pulled the covers tighter. Whenever she closed her eyes, it seemed a pipe gurgled, a floorboard creaked, footsteps sounded outside, or voices murmured through the walls.

She turned again, closed her eyes, tried counting. She’d read somewhere the human brain took seven minutes to shut down for sleep. Sixty seconds times seven. What were six sevens? Six sevens are forty-two. So all she had to do was count to four hundred and twenty. One... two...

Finally she switched on the bedside light and sat up. She got out of bed, went to the mirror. Crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, thin lines at the corners of her mouth. Age. Your one and only life, Anna. Slipping through your fingers like so much dust because you’re afraid to act, to give up even a little control. Or you’ve forgotten how to.

And tomorrow, Ash Fell. She’d only glimpsed what had happened in the evidence room, but it had been enough. She might die.

And here she was wasting money on a hotel room and she didn’t even know why. Or perhaps she did, thinking of a pair of catlike eyes. Christ. Of all the times to start acting on impulse. Tonight, tomorrow morning – it could be her last chance to see Mary, and she was throwing it away.

She whispered: “I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore.”

At least her reflection’s lips moved. She’d half-expected it to listen in silence. Or answer her back.

What was worse: to see what wasn’t there, or what was?

You might have a touch of it too
. She needed to know more than that. Well, there’d be time to visit Stangrove Wood tomorrow, get what answers she could.

She peeled off the t-shirt, went into the bathroom, ran the shower.

A
LLEN LAID HIS
head on Vera’s breasts; his lips moved against her skin. She stroked his mussed hair.

“I’m afraid,” he whispered.

“What of?” As if she couldn’t guess.

“Ash Fell.”

She said nothing.

“I was here, to begin with. In bed, in this room. But then the dark came in, you know what that’s like now.”

Her fingers tightened in his hair. “Yes.”

“It came, and this room went away. I was in... a corridor. The paint was coming off the walls. There were pieces of it all over the floor. Mark and Sam and Johnny were there. And then they were gone, and I was alone. Something... I heard something coming down the corridor. It was coming for me. I had to fight it somehow. And I didn’t know how. Still don’t. I’m a fraud. I’m a fake.”

“Then let’s go. We’ll tell them you’re ill. Anything. Drive back–”

“We can’t. I’ll have no peace till this is done with, sis. That’s been made very clear. I’m meant to be here, doing this. This might even be the reason I was given the Sight. Maybe afterwards, I won’t have it anymore. We’ll be free.”

“Free?” A whisper; a prayer.

“But I don’t know... I might not be able to do it, sis. I don’t know if I can. And if I can’t, I’ll die. I know that. I’ll die.”

Either way, this would be at an end. An ugly, shaming thought, but true. She couldn’t pay this price anymore.

At last he slept. He wouldn’t wake again now, not until morning. I need a drink. I need something. Disentangling herself from him was a slow, careful job, but she managed. She was damp with their mingled sweat, and other fluids too. She felt filthy. Fouled. What decent woman would ever want her, if she knew? The shower, she decided, wouldn’t wake him.

D
RESSED,
A
NNA APPLIED
makeup, brushed her hair. She’d let it dry naturally. She studied her reflection, nodded. “You’ll do.”

Go downstairs, have a drink. She doubted anything would happen. Not in Kempforth. Should have moved back to Manchester a long time ago. Well, there was nothing to stop her going at weekends, if she made it through tomorrow. Get the train or the bus. Even stay overnight, maybe. A hotel, or somewhere else if she got lucky...

She picked up her handbag. Christ. At the end of the day, Anna, if you actually think having a drink in the hotel bar is adventurous, then god help you.

A last glance in the mirror, and she went out.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

L
IKE
S
TAKOWSKI,
B
ANSTEAD
lived in a converted farmhouse in the hills above the town. In the dark, in the fog, the drive had been a nightmare, but now they were here.

His living room was cold despite the log fire lighting it. The stone-flagged floor didn’t help. Spartan, too; there were crosses and religious icons on the walls, not much else. No Christmas decorations, even. No photographs of Mrs Banstead either; she’d left years before.

Banstead huddled in his armchair in dressing-gown and pyjamas, hot water bottle hugged to his chest. He was in his fifties. A shaved head to hide baldness; pasty skin and pale, bulbous eyes. Cheeks becoming jowls, a pursed smug mouth. He looked diminished. Sat in the opposite armchair, Renwick thought of the Great Oz, finally unmasked as a shabby old man.

“Sorry to have to disturb you, sir,” she lied. “But the phones were still down and as you can see, there’ve been developments.”

“Yes.” Banstead looked up at the ceiling. “Give me a moment.”

“Sir.” Renwick waited. Banstead coughed hard. She glanced at Stakowski, stood by the sofa, then back to Banstead. He looked up, gave a weak, insincere smile.

“My confidence in you clearly wasn’t misplaced,” he said at last.

Renwick kept a straight face somehow, waited.

“So. As well as the four previous mispers, we’ve now evidence that the kidnappers have claimed other victims.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And have been operating in Kempforth far longer than we thought.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“And indeed, these... Spindly Men are linked to the case. And Ash Fell.” He shook his head. “That place.”

“You’d heard of Ash Fell, sir?”

“Of course I’d heard of it, Chief Inspector–” a renewed bout of coughing “–but even I thought the place had been demolished. There’ll be hell to pay with someone at the council over this.” Banstead got up and shuffled to the drinks cabinet. “A drink, Joan?”

“Just a small one, sir.”

“Sergeant?”

“Designated driver, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Ah well.” Banstead handed Renwick a glass. “Very fine single malt, this. Well... you were right, I was wrong. Let’s say no more about it.”

“Of course, sir. Ash Fell’s a big place. We don’t know how many people we’ll be dealing with and we’re short-staffed. So I’d be tempted to request outside support.”

Banstead’s face twitched. Direct hit on his raw nerve.

“But on the other hand, I’m loath to delay. We still don’t know exactly what the Spindlies want the kidnap victims for. And there’s the risk they might abandon Ash Fell if we don’t move quickly.”

Banstead licked his lips. “Yes, I see.”

“So my plan’s this. Get as many qualified AFOs together as we can, draw firearms and get out to Ash Fell first thing tomorrow. At the same time – if comms aren’t restored – I’ll send officers out by road, request some additional bodies from one of the neighbouring forces. With your permission, of course.”

“It’s your investigation, Chief Inspector. I trust your judgement.”

Translation: it’s still your neck if it goes wrong. But she could live with that if it stopped Roseanne Trevor becoming another Julie Baldwin. Renwick sipped her whisky; it tasted like burning earth. Definitely a male thing, she decided.

“Hadn’t had a chance to speak to DI Sherwood about the investigation. Won’t be necessary now. Joan?”

“Sir?”

“This could be a damn good result, careerwise.”

“Sir.”

“Hate to lose you, but I suspect it’s only a matter of time. Promotional opportunities around here are thin on the ground.”

We’ll see about that. “Sir.”

T
HE HOTEL BAR
was lit by candles on the tables, until about ten o’clock, when the lights came back on. The half-dozen guests still there blinked and squinted; the bar staff went table to table snuffing the candles out, although they were left in place for now. Outside, the Christmas lights swung from the lampposts in low gusts of wind.

Anna had picked a quiet little table in the corner, good for people-watching. A couple had been cuddling in another corner, kissing occasionally. One had long hair, the other short. It was only now that she saw they were both women. The long-haired one was more self-conscious now. The more girlish of the two; the femme. The butch drew her close, kissed her mouth. Anna saw the fight in the femme’s body, between wanting to yield and the fear of being seen.
Don’t let me stop you
,
girls
. She tried not to look. But did.

A woman came in. Tall, elegant.
My type
. She went to the bar. Anna looked back at the couple. They’d drawn apart now. The butch was frowning, hands on hips. The femme’s head was bowed. Arguing in low voices; she knew the sound.
Don’t argue
.
Don’t fight. Don’t be afraid like I was.
Am.
Be happy. Show me the way
. The butch’s eyes met hers.
Look somewhere else
. Anna glanced over at the bar.

The tall woman was looking at her. Yellow, catlike eyes.

Anna blinked. It was Vera Latimer.When had she seen Anna? And how much had she seen? Vera mimed taking a drink, raised her eyebrows. Anna nodded, mouthed
dry white wine
. Vera nodded back, turned to the barman.