The Face Stealer

by Robert Scott-Norton

  “Good question. I thought at first to list it as suffocation, but check out her nose, or rather where her nose was. The skin looks different there. I’m guessing it’s permeable. My guess is she was still capable of breathing even without it.”

  Payne leaned over the face to see what Charlie was talking about. He could see the strange patterning that Charlie referred to.

  “There's some bruising as well to her upper arms where her attacker probably held her. There was definitely a struggle; she’s got marks all over her body.” Charlie pointed to some unpleasant bruising on her legs. “She was kicked too. It was a violent death.”

  She must have been terrified, Payne thought, trying to see things from the victim's point of view. Going blind, not being able to cry for help. “It must have been like drowning on dry land,” he said softly.

  5

  Charlie washed his hands in the sink and took a good look at himself in the mirror. The scolding water barely registered, but when it did, he cursed and turned the cold on to sooth his red skin. Thoughts were scrambling over and over in his head like balls on a roulette wheel.

  What's done is done.

  But, now he had to move quickly to protect himself. He glanced over at the body, its waxy sheen making it glow under the fluorescent light and he felt—nothing.

  There was a time when Charlie believed he was actually having a conversation of sorts with the bodies he was brought. Each had its own story to tell and it was Charlie's job to listen and absorb everything he was told. It was like they'd turned foreign, desperate for a translator to tell their secrets. But, since Pauline left him, the bodies stopped talking in the same way. Now, everything was ambiguous, every scar had a hundred causes, every bruise a hundred more.

  He needed a drink. For a moment he considered heading back to his office and reaching at the back of his cupboard where he kept a little something to make the bad days smoother.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello,” he said, banishing the thought of the bottle from his mind.

  “Is that you Charlie?” A man said. “It’s been a long time.”

  A dozen memories flashed before his eyes and Charlie pushed his palm down hard on the table as he supported himself. A second passed. The pause threatened to stretch out but the caller spoke again.

  “Charlie. I know what the police found today, and I know it’s probably in the same room as you now.” The caller’s voice had a very slight Manchester accent to it, and when he spoke his voice was deep and brooding, like a backdrop for a funeral.

  “I’m not sure I can help you. The police are all over this case.”

  “Yes. I know that too. Disappointing, but even that doesn’t have to be a problem for long. I have a few things I need you to do for me.”

  “No. I can’t help you.”

  The caller hesitated, then finally, “You will do these things I’m about to ask.”

  Charlie stared at the body on the table, then at the phone handset. Slowly, as if pushing through air made of tar, he replaced the handset in the cradle.

  He checked his watch. With a slow, deliberate pace, he walked to the body, looked down at the new mouth he’d surgically created to get to the jawline and the woman’s teeth. In a distant part of his brain, he heard the phone ringing again.

  “What did they do to you?” he whispered, then on an impulse, he bent down and left a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

  Knowing what was coming, what had been awakened, maybe she’d been given an easy way out. Perhaps it was a mercy.

  He scurried over to his table with notes and grabbed the latest paperwork he’d written up on the woman’s identity. I hoped at first that it was an artificial layer that had been grafted on to her face. Barely registering now that the phone was still ringing, Charlie practically ran from the room.

  6

  The last few hours had been exhausting. After the arrest, the police had taken Max to hospital to get his injury seen to. They jumped the queue—a fringe benefit of being in police custody—and Max was very quickly holed up in a police cell whilst they waited for his solicitor to arrive. His cell stunk of disinfectant, and although he’d closed his eyes a few times on the bunk, he’d failed to get any rest. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Heather. They hadn’t said what had happened to her despite his pleas. What would it take to convince them they’d made a mistake?

  Time passed at the speed of a funeral procession and Max kept pacing his cell feeling like something had been ripped from him. Eventually, a solemn looking constable arrived and led Max to an interview room.

  A seated grey-haired woman rose from her chair. In her pin-striped suit, she reminded him of her old school headmistress.

  “Max,” she asked and without waiting for a reply continued. “I’m Chrissie White, your mother arranged for me to come and represent you.”

  Max offered his hand and she shook it politely.

  “Can you get me out of here?”

  “I’m working on it. You’re going to be interviewed first, but I’ll be here throughout.”

  Two steaming cups of coffee sat on the table. She saw Max glance at them and gestured he should sit down and take one. “I can’t even function without at least three cups inside me.”

  Max took one of the cups gratefully and supped it. The powdered milk hadn't dissolved completely but it tasted glorious.

  The clock on the wall was showing just after eleven-thirty.

  “How’s mum?”

  “About what you’d expect. Worried. Wondering what on earth happened.”

  “She can join the club.”

  Chrissie smiled and pulled a notepad from her briefcase and a Mont Blanc pen from her jacket.

  “How long had you been having the affair?”

  “Mum’s been filling you in?”

  “A little.”

  “You need to get me out of here. They think I killed Heather.”

  “Yes, they do.” Chrissie paused, not savouring the thought of her next question. “Did you kill her?”

  Max glared at her. “No. I was going to leave Cindy for her. I loved her.” He felt lightheaded and took another sip of his drink. “Cindy’s psychotic. She’s been dangerous for years but I’ve been able to fend off most of her assaults. She caught me off my guard this time.”

  “She’s abused you before?”

  “Yes,” he said looking up at the clock.

  “And you’ve been arrested for assaulting her before?”

  Max sighed. There seemed little point denying it. “Yes. But the police got the wrong end of the stick both times. Cindy knows how to play the victim.”

  “And that’s what she’s doing now?”

  “Obviously.”

  “But she’s got a hole in her chest from a pair of scissors.”

  “That she was trying to stab me with. She fell on them.”

  “OK, there’s no point in getting angry. I’m trying to get a clearer picture of what happened. The police are going to be more aggressive than that.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Yes, I believe you.” She flashed him a quick smile, but Max didn’t know her well enough to read her. Is that something that all solicitors said to their clients? Was believing your client a prerequisite of the job? When it came down to it, Max didn’t care whether she believed him or not. As long as she got him out of here.

  Another sheet of paper was pulled from her bag and placed squarely on the table in front of her, and they spent the next ten minutes conferring about how the interview should be handled. Max was told to keep his answers brief and to the point; if Chrissie didn’t like what was being asked, she would interrupt.

  The door opened and a tall, middle-aged man appeared in the doorway. His face ragged with sagging skin under the chin that foreshadowed the onset of jowls. He wore a dark blue jacket, a little too big for him. A second man followed him into the room, younger, with a polite smile that looked like it could
twist into a smirk in a heartbeat.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Payne. I'll be conducting this interview. This is Detective Sergeant Nixon.”

  Payne nodded at Chrissie, acknowledging her presence for the first time. In return Chrissie offered her hand. Max guessed they’d met each other several times before.

  Payne sat down at the table opposite Max, and Nixon sat to his right. Chrissie’s pen was poised in readiness over her notepad.

  Payne clicked the record button then scratched the end of his nose.

  “So Max, do you want to explain why you tried to murder your wife last night?”

  Chrissie interjected immediately. “Inspector. My client's just been through a traumatic experience. A little less antagonism would be appreciated. You ask a question like that again, and I’ll walk my client out of here.”

  Payne smiled but said nothing more, letting the silence sit between them.

  “I didn’t try to murder her.” Max replied eventually.

  “Your wife’s in hospital with a serious stab wound; your shirt is covered in her blood. Can you see why I'm having trouble believing you?”

  Max repeated his story, terribly aware of how implausible it sounded when he said it out loud. The Inspector kept quiet, hands folded in front of him. It looked like he was praying.

  “Yes, I read your statement. Sounds like you've had a tough night.” Payne frowned. “But it is just a story isn't it.”

  “It happened.”

  “An accident,” Payne said softly. “And prior to the accident, she'd been holding you against your will. Why would she do that?”

  “She found out I’ve been having an affair. I think she was trying to punish me.”

  “Bit extreme isn’t it?”

  “Not for her.”

  “Care to explain?”

  “She has a temper. More than normal. She lashes out.”

  “She's violent towards you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand we've spoken to you before about this turbulent relationship with your wife.”

  Max folded his arms, leaned back in his chair and stared vacantly at the cracked polystyrene tiles above. “Several times,” he said.

  “Several times. That's right. Got the notes right here. It seems your relationship has always been an extreme one. You were brought in for violence against your wife three years ago. And again almost twelve months later.”

  “She smashed me on the head with a frying pan. I was trying to defend myself when your men came in and slammed me on the floor.”

  “But you didn’t put in a complaint against your wife?”

  “No but I considered putting in a complaint against your men.”

  Payne tapped his fingers on the table. “Why didn't you separate if things were difficult?”

  “My client’s marriage is not the issue here.”

  “Oh, do you not think so? I’d have thought establishing whether your client was restrained last night would be very much in his interest.”

  Max sighed. “I felt sorry for her. I thought I could help her.”

  “I see.” Payne leaned back in his chair and nodded sagely. “And were you having your affair back then?”

  Max sat upright and looked into Payne’s eyes. “No.”

  “I see.”

  “I never meant for the affair to happen.”

  Chrissie interjected again. “You don't need to justify yourself to the Inspector.”

  Payne regarded her with disdain and took a sip of his coffee. “But obviously, it all helps to give us a nice rounded picture doesn't it. You tell us whatever you think we need to know, Max.”

  Max sat quietly.

  “Can you tell me where you were at eight o’clock last night?”

  “I already have. I was tied up in my kitchen.”

  “Inspector, I believe my client has already been through his whereabouts of the last twenty four hours.” She placed her palm on Max’s arm, and Max took it to mean he should keep quiet. For once he was happy to oblige. He wasn’t sure whether it was the air-conditioning or the vending machine coffee that was making his mouth so dry.

  Payne didn't take his eyes from Max. “It's a simple question Ms White. Does your client have a problem remembering?”

  “No. I remember all right. You try being tied to a chair for most of the night. See if you forget it in a hurry.”

  “Most of the night?” Payne asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “You know what I mean. I was tied up until just before you lot showed up.”

  “Ah, of course. Problem is, I know you’re lying. I can place your van on the promenade at eight-thirty last night.”

  Max was confused. “I was at home.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “This morning, your mistress was found dead, murdered at some point during the period you say you were tied up by your wife. Bit convenient that, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Convenient?”

  “That you have an alibi for your whereabouts. But to be honest, as alibis go, it’s rather ‘out there’.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Max shook his head, the palms of his hands tingled. He focused on Payne’s eyes, a cool intensity there that Max couldn’t break away from.

  Payne pulled a photograph from the pile of paper beside him. He turned it round, deliberately, like it was the page from an ancient manuscript and might crumble under his touch.

  Max stared at the photo. A slim female, flat on her back on brownish sand, arms by her side. He’d never seen a dead body before, and he crossed his arms in a protective huddle as he leaned on the table, looking at the face, looking for Heather’s image, but there was something wrong.

  “I don’t understand. Why have you hidden her face?”

  Payne leaned forward, his hands pointing at the victim’s head. “That photo has not been doctored. We found her looking exactly like this.”

  Max tried to swallow but couldn’t breathe.

  “How did you do it?” Nixon asked urgently.

  “I don’t know—I don’t understand.”

  Chrissie reached for the photograph. “What kind of puerile game is this Inspector?”

  “No game,” said Payne calmly. “Her body is in the morgue. She doesn’t have a face.”

  “You bastards.” Max stood up.

  “Sit down please Mr Harding,” Payne said firmly.

  “What kind of sick bastards are you?”

  “I won’t tell you again. Sit!”

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  Chrissie stood up and took him by the arm. “I’m sorry. But you need to come and sit down.”

  Max closed his eyes but he could only see flashes of Heather on the backs of his eyelids. He let Chrissie lead him back to the table.

  Chrissie shook her head at the Inspector. “I think a break is in order. My client needs a moment.”

  “I’m sure he does Ms White. But I’ve only a couple more questions to ask him right now. That’s OK with you isn’t it Max?”

  Max glared at him, then nodded.

  “Your company logo is distinctive isn't it?” Payne revealed a grainy black and white photograph and squared it up in front of Max.

  Max looked and saw his van parked on a slip road. He could see the sea wall along one edge and immediately beyond that, the unmistakable lines of pier supports.

  “It's from a CCTV camera.” Payne tapped the van with his index finger. “The image quality might not be the best but there's no denying that's your van right there.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “We got this from a CCTV camera from the back of the cinema. And we know that’s your van. But there’s more. The footage shows you pulling a body from the back of your van and dragging it to the beach.”

  Max felt like he'd been thumped in the bollocks. It was his van.

  Payne pulled a new photo to the top of the pile. Even with a light pixelation caused by enlarging the image, the
re was no mistaking the driver of the van.

  “That's not possible,” Max whispered.

  Payne folded his hands. “It's a good likeness isn't it?”

  Max could only stare at the grainy picture Payne had dropped onto the table top—he was looking at himself.

  7

  Sergeant Alan Diggins was nearing the end of his shift and he could almost taste the beer waiting for him in the fridge. It had been a typically tough day manning the reception desk with the usual mixture of rough sorts from the Eastlands estate and posh nobs complaining about parking tickets. Those beers couldn’t come quickly enough.

  The reception had one occupant at the moment: a woman clutching a Burbery handbag like it was an old pet, sitting on one of the plastic chairs that had been screwed into the wall—well, no point taking a risk with the general public. Raquel had spent the last hour pacing the room in between nipping outside for a smoke. Every now and then she’d come over, ring the bell on the counter, despite Alan sitting behind the desk, and demanded to know what was taking so long with her daughter. Alan looked across at her but she noticed him watching her and smiled an odd little smile. Alan suspected Dracula gave such a smile before fanging his victims.

  Alan looked back down at his desk and shuffled some forms.

  “She’s been in there three hours!” Raquel shouted at him. “What’s taking you so long? Just caution her and let her come home. It was only a pair of trainers weren’t it?”

  Alan sighed. “Isn’t it time you went home love? I can get her to call you when she’s done.” He took a good slurp of tea.

  “No chance. I’m not gonna leave my baby here on her own, so you can frig off.”

  “Nice. I’ll think on it eh.”

  Raquel smiled, and twisted her hand, bringing forward her middle finger in a charming display of motherly protection. By all rights, Diggins could have had her kicked out of the station for the way she was acting, but in her own sad way, she was protecting her daughter. He knew that if it was his daughter in there, he wouldn’t leave her either.

  Rhianna started singing from inside Raquel’s handbag, and a couple of seconds later, Diggins’s own phone started vibrating in his trouser pocket. He reached for his at the same time as Raquel took hers out of her bag. He could hear another mobile ringing from the back office. The caller was withheld. Probably just another irritating firm trying to push their luck and sell him phone insurance, or offer him some financial advice, or whatever else was the current vogue in cold calling.