Renwick really didn’t want to think of Mike right now. “I suggest you leave Sergeant Stakowski out of this.”
“He went to hit Allen,” said Vera.
Who bloody deserved it, Renwick wanted to say, but couldn’t. And if they wanted to complain there wasn’t much she could do. Oh Christ, Mike, I didn’t want to know this. Cowell smiled. “I’m quite prepared to forget what happened before, Chief Inspector.”
“Glad to hear it. So that was your spirit guides, was it, told you that before?”
“About the Sergeant’s wife? Yes.”
“Tell me a bit more about your spirit guides then, Mr Cowell.”
“They’re called Johnny, Mark and Sam. Three boys I knew when I was little. They’re dead now.”
“What happened to them?”
“They–”
“No.” Vera was shaking. “Enough. I won’t... I won’t be put through that again. I won’t.”
Cowell looked at her, then Renwick. “How relevant is this, Chief Inspector?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine, Mr Cowell. OK. We’ll leave that part. For now.”
Vera sank back into her chair, shaking.
“Do you know what ‘psychometry’ is, Chief Inspector?”
“Enlighten me.”
“The ability to obtain information about an object by holding it. Who it belonged to, where it came from. It’s quite impressionistic – isolated names, images, and so forth. Can be confusing sometimes. But if I can handle the objects you found at Shackleton Street, perhaps I can find out who’s taken the child, and where.”
The child. That was what it came down to. If it got out she was taking anything Cowell said seriously... Christ, Banstead’d have an orgasm. She’d be finished. But she was anyway, unless she found Roseanne. Maybe even then. But that didn’t matter, if the child was found. She’d nothing else left.
“If – if – I allowed that, those items stay in their evidence bags.”
“Of course. That should be fine.”
“Should be?”
“It’s hard to be exact. Varies from case to case.”
“Uh-huh.” She glanced at Crosbie. Would he phone Banstead the first chance he got?
Judgement call. Down to her.
“Constable?”
“Ma’am?”
“Get hold of Constable Brock. Tell him we’ll need his help.” She didn’t take her eyes off Cowell. “And just so we’re clear, Mr Cowell, lives are at risk here. So if this does turn out to be a publicity stunt, I will personally ensure you’ll be holding your next sÉance at Strangeways Prison. Have I made myself clear?”
Vera looked furious. Cowell sighed. “I’m sorry you doubt me. But I suppose it’s inevitable.” He brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve; his fingers shook slightly. “Shall we go?”
THE TESTAMENT OF SERGEANT EDWARD HOWIE CONTINUED aye that could no be seen by any surgeon patient exhibited hysterical paralysis of the legs also violent reaction to any sight of blood referred to dr yealland at london hospital for course of treatment with electricity dr yealland aye i remember that bastard applyin electrodes in dose after dose to ma legs talkin to me as if i wasnt there as if i was not human he considered me degenerate i must recover he said an return to the front and serve my country that the times did not allow for coddling of such as i the greater good must be considered an he applied jolt after jolt of electricity to ma legs to force response an in a long long session an endless day he forced me to walk again an i was weeping torn between hatred of him an shame at my weakness for what else could i call it my mind would not allow my legs to move for i was terrified of death an some word or another of it got back to emma in glasgow for she wrote to me breakin off our engagement since i was a madman or a coward or both an she would have neither an so i returned to the front without demur
THE EVIDENCE ROOM was at the back of the station, long, narrow and breezeblock-walled. Ranks of tall steel shelves on either side made it narrower still. In the space between the entrance and the shelves, Renwick, Crosbie, Cowell and Vera waited.
The evidence room was Brock’s domain. His father – also a copper – had got him a job, but nothing could remedy Brock’s lack of ambition. He’d spent his career as a uniformed constable, the last ten years in the evidence room, but he was happy enough with that; he was far happier dealing with things rather than people. He lived alone, had modest savings; in a couple of years he’d retire. That was enough for him.
Wheels squeaked; Brock pushed a trolley slowly into view. He was stick-thin – cadaverous was the word – but slow and ponderous, like a much heavier man. Greasy, tangled black hair with streaks of grey. On the trolley was one of the plaster faces from Shackleton Street and the painted mask. Brock halted, stepped back.
Stark striplighting flickered above them.
“Is that enough for you to get started?” Renwick asked.
Cowell nodded, pale under the striplights. “Oh, yes. More than enough.”
“Well then. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Alright.” Cowell brushed at his lapels. His fingers shook; his face was grey.
He went round the side of the trolley and faced them. A showman’s gesture; probably didn’t even realise he’d done it. He began breathing deeply, in and out. Brock leant back against the wall beside Renwick, arms folded; he reeked of stale sweat and cheap spray-on deodorant. Crosbie shifted impatiently; Vera hugged herself, bit her lip.
Cowell’s fingers, shaking, settled on the plaster face. He closed his eyes. Brock sniggered. Cowell opened his eyes, blinked; Vera glared.
“Constable,” said Renwick, sharper than she’d meant.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
Cowell breathed deep. He looked afraid – of finding something, or maybe not finding it. His eyes closed again; his hands crept over the face. Its eyes were closed, the mouth agape, or what should have been a mouth. Below the upper lip there was just a gaping hole extending out into the cheek, down into the chin. Cowell sucked breath through his teeth. “Something institutional,” he said. “I’m getting a hospital. No, not a hospital exactly. I...” His eyes flickered under the lids. His lips twitched, pulled back from the teeth. He sucked in another breath, this one vast; it seemed to pull the air and light from the evidence room. His head fell forward.
“This was... this was a real face.” His speech had thickened and slowed. His head twitched left, then right, then left again as he spoke. “A plaster cast. He had to lie there. Wait for it to harden. He’s still waiting. Pain. The pain. And the sorrow. Shame. Misery.” He sucked in another breath; his head went back. The striplights flickered. He released the cast, fumbled for the mask.
Renwick breathed out; it hung white in the air. So cold, suddenly. She glanced at the others; Crosbie had pulled his lapels closer together, while Brock’s arms were wrapped around himself. Vera’s hands covered her mouth.
“We are the dead.” Cowell’s voice was thicker still. “We are the d–”
And then he was cut off. He didn’t stop speaking. We are the dead, she saw him say, but she couldn’t hear it; couldn’t hear anything. Brock looked puzzled. Crosbie stuck his fingers in his ears, waggled them around. His mouth said What? but again she couldn’t hear it. Vera had sunk back against the wall. Her mouth hung open; her eyes stared upwards.
At the far end of the room, a striplight flickered out; blackness poured into the space like a flood of ink. And then the next striplight died too. And then the rest, all but the one lighting the space around the entrance; the dark rushed forward. The last striplight flickered above them and blazed bright; the dark’s forward surge halted.
Vera sank to her knees, face still in her hands. Brock kept mouthing the word what? He looked close to panic. Crosbie fumbled at his throat and mouth, repeating what the fuck over and over. He stared at Renwick. She tried to speak too; nothing happened.
The dark around them rippled and pulsed. It was alive. It would flood in and swallow them if it could. The
remaining striplight was all that held it back. White mist streamed from her mouth with every breath.
She looked back towards Cowell. He was still clutching the mask, his head thrown back. His upper body kept jerking backwards. Over and over his lips formed the same words: We are the dead. We are the dead.
The striplight brightened; the glow spread. But the evidence room was gone. The breezeblock wall was still at their back, and the door too – Brock was wrenching at the handle, trying to get it open – but the narrow room and metal shelves were gone. Behind Cowell was an endless floor of cracked asphalt, mud, stagnant water. And then the light widened a little further, and showed someone standing there in a tattered black cape, head bowed.
Crosbie took a half-step forward, fists clenched; Vera’s hands had come away from her face and she was standing again, pressed back against the wall, eyes vast with fright. Brock was still trying to get the door open; Cowell just jerked back and forth, mouthing the same four words over and over.
The newcomer was tall and skeletally thin and wore a floppy black cap. Its head came up; a painted, immobile mask hid whatever face it had. If it had eyes, though, she couldn’t see them; just the black holes punched in its mask. When it looked at her, the purest cold seemed to stream from them.
It was the same kind of mask Cowell was holding, but a different shape. The uncovered part of the face was blurred, dark and writhing. She couldn’t focus on it properly, and didn’t want to. Even trying to do so hurt. She was grateful for the mask; if the whole face was exposed, she didn’t think she could bear the sight.
The light widened a little further; two more Spindly Men stood behind the first. One had a mask covering the top half of his face, with bright blue eyes painted on it; the other’s covered the left side of his. The three stepped towards Cowell. The light flickered again; the shadows around them thinned slightly for a moment, enough for her to glimpse more immobile faces just beneath the surface of the dark.
Mafeking Street, Kempforth itself, seemed an eternity away, the last fading echo of an old life, something from childhood, vitally important once but now irrelevant, belonging to another time, another place. Only this abyssal blackness remained, and the things that swarmed in it; the deep-sea predator fish, circling and closing around a diving bell and waiting for its protective walls to give way.
Was there any way back to the evidence room, the station – concepts already grown so vague she fought to picture them? She didn’t know. But if the light went out any chance would be gone. And now the first Spindly Man reached for Cowell.
She started forward, Vera too, but the other Spindly Men turned to them, the blue-eyed one staring at her, the other at Vera. So cold. Struggling to move. Like wading through treacle. The first Spindly’s hand falling, relentlessly, towards Cowell’s shoulder.
And then Brock flew past her, fell on his arse – the evidence room door was open, and the striplight flickered like a strobe, going wild. The scene was changing back and forth with each flash. One flash illuminated more ranks of Spindlies gathered on that endless field of mud and asphalt around them; the next lit the familiar shelves and walls of the evidence room.
A blur of motion – Stakowski. He vaulted over Brock, towards Cowell. Behind him Renwick saw the corridor, the striplights there flashing and flickering. Other people stood there – McAdams, Joyce Graham, Anna Mason and her brother coming out of the interview room.
Get the civilians out, Renwick shouted at McAdams, but of course there was no sound.
Stakowski – she spun back. He’d shoved Vera aside, lunged for Cowell. The blue-eyed Spindly reached for him. Renwick leapt forward, trying to shout his name.
Stakowski tried to wrench the mask from Cowell’s hands, but it wouldn’t budge. The first Spindly’s hand was an inch from Cowell’s shoulder. Stakowski balled a fist, drew it back. No, he wouldn’t stand a chance against the Spindly Men–
But it was Cowell he was aiming for and he caught him smack on the chin, snapping his head back. Cowell’s grip broke; the mask fell.
Vera screamed silently as Cowell pitched back into the dark–
The striplight overhead exploded in a shower of sparks, heralding an inrush of returning sound – a striplight in the corridor blew out as well. McAdams jumped aside as its plastic casing smashed to the tiled floor. A last flicker and the lights came back on.
“You fucking bastard–”
The Spindly Men were gone. The evidence room was the evidence room again: the steel shelves, the narrow aisle between them. Brock sat huddled against the wall, shaking. Crosbie stood by the door, blinking and dazed.
“Get off, woman–”
Crosbie ran forward to help Stakowski, who was trying to fend off Vera Latimer’s blows. Renwick waded in, grabbed her wrists. “That’s enough.”
“He fucking hit Allen, the cunt–”
“You can take the girl out of Shackleton Street...” Crosbie muttered.
“And fuck you, Jock–”
“That is enough. Vera. Vera. Cool it. Now.”
Vera blinked and stared at her. A thin whimper slid out of her throat. Renwick released her wrists and she covered her mouth.
“I had to clock him. Only way to stop it. Brock, can you grab us a chair, please?” Stakowski helped Cowell to his feet. “Take it easy, Mr Cowell. Brock. A bloody chair.”
Brock nodded, stumbled off to get one.
“Allen–” Vera went to her brother.
Renwick took a deep breath. Questions like what was that could come later. She turned to Crosbie. “Go help DS McAdams. Dave?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Make sure the station’s secure, get the broken glass swept up. Joyce?”
“Boss?”
“Can you come take a look at Mr Cowell, please?” Christ, if Cowell was injured – Graham grabbed the first-aid kit and jogged down the corridor towards them. Behind her Anna Mason and her brother stood staring – Anna pale and shaken, Martyn bewildered with nothing to fight. “Alastair–”
“Ma’am?” called Crosbie.
“When you’ve a minute, can you arrange to get Mr Griffiths and Ms Mason home too?”
“Actually, ma’am–” Having installed Cowell in the requested chair, Stakowski stepped aside to let Graham through “–you might want a word with Ms Mason first. Think we might have a lead here.”
Laughter. Cowell. “You see?” he said. “You see?”
“Allen, are you alright?” Vera gripped her brother’s hand in both of hers. He patted hers. He was ashen, blood at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m fine. Better than fine. You all saw that. No-one can deny it. What we saw. That was real. It was real.” The laughter subsided slowly. “Chief Inspector?”
“Yes, Mr Cowell. You’re sure you’re OK?”
He’d stopped laughing, but he was still smiling. His eyes were bright. “I’ve never felt better in my life. I don’t think any medium ever provided such clear proof of the supernatural as just now.” A deep breath. “But I suggest we pool our resources. Share what information we have, and see where we go from there.”
Renwick felt utterly calm and ready to jump with excitement, all at once. “Let Constable Graham finish checking you over,” she said. “And then we’ll see.”
She headed out into the corridor. McAdams had found a dustpan and brush and was sweeping up the glass. “Take Mr Griffiths and Ms Mason to interview room one for the moment,” Renwick told Crosbie. “Just let’s keep them out of the way.” She met Anna Mason’s eyes. “If that’s OK?”
“No problem.” Anna shook her head. “I want to help. I’ll wait.”
Crosbie led her off; Martyn followed, dazed and dumb.
“Thanks, Mike,” Renwick murmured.
“Any time.”
“Good punch as well.”
“Had to be done, boss. Only way.”
“Not that you enjoyed it at all.”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t.”
His hand shook; befor
e she could stop herself, she gripped it for a second, then quickly let go. “Let’s do this,” she said. “Find out what the hell’s going on.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ANNA SAT WITH Martyn in the interview room for nearly half an hour before they were taken up to the... squad room? Was that what the police called it, or was that only in America? It was on the first floor of the station and overlooked the misty street.
They pushed two desks together and sat around them. Eight in all: her and Martyn, Renwick and Stakowski, the big Detective Sergeant with the ginger hair and the Scottish one – Alastair, Renwick had called him. The man with the smart suit and expensive watch, pressing a cold flannel to his jaw. He looked familiar. An actor? The woman with him didn’t look familiar. His wife, maybe? Pity, she was tall and elegant, equally well-dressed. Older than Anna by a good few years, but handsome. Groomed. Short hair, but not mannish. Just her type.
“Alright,” said Renwick. “You all know who I am. I believe you all know Sergeant Stakowski as well. This is DS McAdams. DC Crosbie. This is Allen Cowell.” A brief pause. “The medium.”
Yes, of course. He had a TV series on one of the satellite channels. She’d seen it at Martyn and Eva’s once.
“Miss Latimer, Mr Cowell’s sister.”
Sister, then. Vera’s eyes met hers across the table. Light brown, almost yellow. Bright, clear, attractive. “Hi.”
“Hello.” Anna looked down. Miss, though. Not married.
“And this is Ms Mason, and her brother, Mr Griffiths.” Renwick took a deep breath. “Alright. Let’s begin. Mike, let’s talk about the house on Shackleton Street.”
Stakowski nodded. “We found various bits and pieces there, more about that in a mo. We also found the bodies of two women, which we’ve now identified as Elizabeth Fowler and–” he checked his notes “– Jayne Shore.”
“Jayne?” Anna nearly jumped; Martyn hadn’t spoken since they got here. “Jayne with a ‘y’? Shore like in sea-shore?”
“Yes, that’s right–”
The Faceless Page 14
