The Faceless

by Simon Bestwick

  “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

  LEFT ONTO FRANKLIN 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.

  There were three rooms upstairs: main bedroom, bathroom – toilet still embedded in the floor, the bath long gone – and the spare room. The doors were all long gone, stripped out like anything else that might have been of value. The bedroom was dim; a tin sheet still covered the window. Tranter shone his torch.

  Bare floorboards strewn with chunks of plaster. Rotten wallpaper hanging from walls and ceiling like coils of dead skin. A board creaked underfoot. In answer, the walls made a scratching, scuttling sound.

  “Rats,” Tranter said.

  The bodies lay side by side in the far corner. They were casually dressed – jeans, sweaters. Good quality but dirty. Stakowski took a step forward.

  “Careful, Sarge.” Tranter pointed out a ragged hole in the boards. “Put my foot through there. Both female – late thirties, early forties. One had a wedding ring. Not dead long. Rats would’ve done more damage otherwise.”

  “Owt else?”

  “There’s more masks in the spare room like the one outside. Dozens. And the bathroom...”

  “What about it?”

  “Might be connected, might not.”

  “Show us.”

  A dozen candles had burned down on the floor where the bath had been, leaving thin black soot-trails on the wall tiles, where a photograph of a man was fixed. There were markings on and around it, in something dark and crusted.

  “Is that blood?”

  “Could be. Ever seen anything like this?”

  “Not as I remember. And I would.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s an inverted pentacle there.”

  “A what?”

  “Five point star, sarge. Used in witchcraft and stuff.” Tranter shrugged. “Went out with one of those Goth girls for a bit.”

  “’Bout the rest?”

  “Dunno, sarge. Same sort of thing, I’m guessing.”

  “Probably right, if that bugger’s involved.” Sirens nearby. “Come on. Sounds like the circus is coming to town.”

  “If who’s involved?”

  “Him in the picture.”

  A thin shape in the front doorway, hands on hips. “Sergeant Stakowski. We meet again.”

  “Dr Wisher.”

  “How nice of you both to trample over my crime scene. Hope you’ve had fun. Don’t let me keep you from your real work. Assuming you have some.”

  Stakowski ushered Tranter outside. “Charming lady,” he murmured. “Think you’re in there, lad.”

  “So you know him, Sarge?”

  “Mm?”

  “The guy in the picture. You know him?”

  “Oh aye. You don’t?”

  “Looks familiar from somewhere.”

  “Oh, you’ll have seen that bugger around alright. That psychic johnny, off telly – bloody con-artist. Cowell, that’s his name. Allen Cowell.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THEY DIDN’T LEAVE until the afternoon; Vera dug her heels in over that.

  “We have to go,” he said.

  “And we will.”

  “I’m not messing you around, sis. I saw them. It was real.”

  “I know. You’ve hardly said a word since. Just what needs saying. Only happens when you’ve had a real one. Normally can’t shut you up.” That was harsh. “Sorry.”

  “No. It’s true.”

  “So we’ll go. But not till I’ve mended fences with them in Liverpool. I’m still your manager, last I checked. Aren’t I?”

  “Aye.”

  Aye. The bastard North again. “Right. So. Pulling out like that could fuck your career. So, I’ve some feathers to smooth and a future appearance, by you, at no extra charge, to arrange. I care about that, even if you don’t. So we’ll go – today – but when I’m ready. Not before. Clear?”

  They drove in silence, out of Manchester. City and suburbs thinned out quickly, and they were in another world: green, yellow and grey moors, crags and gullies, steel-coloured tarns, black spiky thickets of wind-warped trees. Places nobody went. A landscape made to hide the dead. Not far from here, on Saddleworth Moor, Brady and Hindley had buried their victims; some were never found. How many victims, out there, of crimes not even reported? They might pass Johnny, Mark and Sam, and never know. A wilderness of unmarked graves; a desolation of unpunished crimes. The few scattered towns were lumpen grey beleaguered outposts, on hills or in valleys in the rain that began to fall. So little distance travelled, and yet so much.

  The light was failing, the dirty grey clouds thickening to a rotted velvet black above, but the streetlights hadn’t come on. A road sign: Kempforth 5. God, almost there. No sign of it yet though. Nothing human in sight except three houses by the roadside, thin lampposts lined up into the distance, drystone walls criss-crossing the hills, and they all shivered in the rain like ghosts. They could wash away any moment and leave the moorland as it’d been centuries before. They’d believed in witches here; easy to understand why. By night here you’d believe in vampires, werewolves, the bloody lot. She hated the North, fucking hated it. And now here they were; the worst place of all. The black sun.

  When the mist came down she pulled into a layby, almost crying with relief.

  “We can’t go on in this,” she said.

  “Put the fog lights on and slow down. Just have to be careful.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Allen, we’ve got to turn back.”

  “Vera, we can’t. We can’t.”

  “But look at it, Allen, for pity’s sake.”

  “I know. I know. But we’ve got to, sis.”

  She looked across at him. “Allen, please.”

  He looked out of the window. “Think I want to go back?” he said at last. “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “No.”

>   “Then why?”

  “Cos I’ve got to. No choice. If you don’t understand that, nobody will.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “There’s a price on everything, sis. A price for everything. Law of life, that is. Sooner or later, we’ve all got to pay what we owe.”

  Vera realised she was crying. Her breath hitched when she tried to speak. “I can’t. Allen, I can’t. Please don’t make me.” She could feel it already. The pull of every brick and stone and turf of sod of the place trying to drag her back. You belong here. Never left. We know you for what you truly are. The years, the cosmetics, the elocution lessons, the bank accounts, the Bentley, the house on the Downs: all just shells. Shuck them away and there was just a skinny, scabby-kneed girl in grubby underwear, huddled on a stained mattress beneath an unshaded bulb and waiting for the door to open, the next punter to come through.

  No. Not true. She was more than that. But the closer she got to Kempforth, the less she believed it. And yes, she’d got away, but it had dragged her back in the end.

  She hated Allen then, hated him for bringing her back. She tried speaking but she couldn’t, only sob. Headlights flared through the rain-speckled window as another vehicle skimmed past. A warm hand curled around her own. She looked up. Allen was crying too.

  “I can drive the car back,” he said, “Once it’s over. Whatever it is. There’s a railway station down there somewhere. You get the train back to Manchester.”

  “What about you, you daft ha’p’orth?”

  “I’ll settle up here. Pay someone to drive the car back.”

  And it wasn’t that she wanted to say yes – anyone would’ve wanted to – it was that she almost did. She’d helped him keep afloat so long, so easy just to let go, to let him sink at last. She’d done her bit, hadn’t she?

  No, of course she hadn’t. Her bit would never be done.

  “Don’t talk daft.” Deep breath. “Can you get us the wet-wipes from the glove box?” Talk daft. Get us. The bastard North, creeping back into her voice again.

  “Aye, lass.” His, too. Kept growing back, like a cancer, no matter how much you cut away. She cleaned her face and reapplied her makeup.