The Faceless

by Simon Bestwick

  Vera got out without speaking, slammed the door. Crosbie caught Anna’s eye, raised his eyebrows. She gave a little smile in return, then took a deep breath.

  “Actually,” she said, “can you let me out here?”

  “Eh?” Martyn stared at her.

  “I need some time to myself.” She couldn’t believe she was saying it. “I’ll get a cab back, or book a room if it’s late.”

  “But Mary–”

  “Yes, Mary. One of us should be there when she wakes up. And it should be you.”

  “But–”

  “Martyn, you’re her father. And I’m never going to be her mum.”

  Crosbie climbed out, opened the passenger door. “Ma’am.”

  Was he flirting? “Thank you.”

  Vera opened the other rear door. Cowell sagged sideways. “Allen?”

  “Tired. So tired.” The energy of a few minutes before was gone; he looked old, raddled, an ageing drag-queen whose makeup had started to run. Vera released a long breath and helped him stand.

  “Way past someone’s bedtime,” Crosbie murmured.

  “Thanks for the lift,” Anna said.

  “See you the morrow, then.”

  “Yeah. See you, Martyn.”

  “Yeah.”

  The car pulled out; its foglights faded into the dirty mist.

  Anna followed Vera and Allen into the hotel. The lobby was empty; a couple of battery-powered lanterns had been hung up for lighting.“Best ring the bell,” Vera said.

  “Yes.” They studied each other, until Anna looked down. She shrugged. “Sometimes you just need a bit of time off from your family.”

  “Yeah. I know.” The yellow eyes lingered on hers. “See you later.”

  Vera shepherded her brother to the stairs; Anna wondered if there’d been hints and hidden meanings there, too, of a kind she’d welcome more. Vera was definitely her type, and there was that sense of strength; coiled, catlike. Dangerous, but exciting too.

  She shook her head. No time for daydreaming. Getting carried away there. Her grip on reality still wasn’t perfect.

  You might have a touch of it too. Might wasn’t good enough, not anymore. She needed better answers than that.

  She shook her head, chasing away an afterimage of yellow, catlike eyes. Even if Vera was gay, that didn’t mean she was interested. She rang the bell on the reception desk and waited.

  STAKOWSKI CRUSHED THE last flavour from the teabag, flicked it into the bin. “Like I said, nowt were ever proved, but rumour was Adrian Walsh wasn’t just a kiddie-fiddler, but a pimp into the bargain.”

  “The paedophile ring.”

  “Oh aye. Equal opportunities – boys and girls. Late ’70s, early ’80s, about a dozen kids went missing round Kempforth way. Ben reckoned most of them were down to Walsh and co.”

  “Where did all this information come from?”

  “A burglar, would you believe? Trying to trade information for softer treatment.”

  “And how did he know about them?”

  “An old schoolmate, name of Tom Yolland. They were both ’bout eighteen, nineteen years old. Went drinking occasionally.”

  “How did Yolland come into it?”

  “He were one of them. Sort of. One of the – alleged – members were a local butcher, ran a shop on Station Road. Name of George Fitton. Yolland worked in the shop. Lived above it, too, with Fitton. Anyroad, Yolland used to be one of the victims, and when he got too old for them, Fitton took a shine to him, for whatever reason, and kept him on. According to Ben’s informant, Yolland got sledged one night and it all spilled out. He’d begun... participating in the ring’s activities. Fairly full of self-loathing about it. He were a bit backward, apparently. Under Fitton’s thumb, too, or so folk thought.” Stakowski sighed. “There’s some you hate, and some you pity.”

  “How many were involved?”

  “Apart from Fitton and Walsh, Yolland mentioned three others. Father Joseph Sykes – parish priest at St Matthias’ R.C. Church. Another one – you’ll love this – according to Yolland, were a copper. Never substantiated, of course. No names. Yolland claimed he were obsessed wi’ keeping his identity secret, so he always wore a mask when he were with a kid. Only Walsh knew who he was. Another reason they got away with it for so long. Never any lead on who this copper might be.”

  “If he ever existed.”

  “True.”

  “And the last one?”

  “The last one wasn’t what you’d call full-time; came from out of town every October. They called him the Shrike. No name, no description. Special kind of punter. Didn’t just rape them.”

  “Killed them too?”

  “Child predator. Worst kind of paedo there is, and they’re all bloody bad enough.”

  Renwick shook her head. “And I thought Tom Baldwin was bad. But nothing ever came of this?”

  “Nowt.”

  “Why not? Got as far as them mounting an operation.”

  “Well, first off, Walsh died – heart attack at Shackleton Street.”

  “Natural causes?”

  “In a way.”

  “Spit it out, Mike.”

  “He wasn’t alone.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Vera Latimer. Nineteen years old. She said she were upstairs in bed – women’s troubles – and didn’t hear owt. Even though he crashed around, pulled a drawer out. She came down an hour or so later to put kettle on and there he was.”

  “Think she knew something?”

  “Ben said they found a fag butt in the kitchen ashtray, just one. Had her lipstick all over it. Could never prove it, but he reckoned she were there when it happened. And she just... watched.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Well, I’d not shed any tears for Adrian Walsh,” said Stakowski. “Bear in mind he’d probably raped them both. And Christ knows how many others.”

  “You are Old Testament, aren’t you, sarge?” Stakowski looked away. “Sorry.”

  “Probably looked like divine punishment, from where she were standing. Never seems to happen early enough, though, does it? And here’s a thing. Vera Latimer took her little brother and scarpered out of town sharpish after that.”

  “How old was he, back then?”

  “Fourteen, fifteen. My guess would be she tapped one of Walsh’s cronies for money to skip town with. Fitton, most likely; he made a big withdrawal from his bank that day.”

  “Why would he pay out?”

  “CID searched Walsh’s house afterward – found cameras and unexposed film, but no sign of his porn stash. He’d have had one. You know these bastards as well as I do.”

  “You think she blackmailed him? A nineteen-year-old girl?”

  “Stranger things have happened. If Fitton were in any of those pictures, she’d’ve had him over a barrel.”

  “Why didn’t this masked copper step in?”

  “Only Walsh knew who he was, remember? He were safest staying out of it.”

  “So what about Fitton and the priest? No-one try bringing them in?”

  “Didn’t get the chance. Remember Tom Yolland? George Fitton kept a twelve-bore in the house; same night Vera Latimer did a flit, Yolland got hold of it and gave the bastard – sorry, alleged bastard – both barrels. One in the bollocks, one in the face. Then he drove Fitton’s van out to St. Matthias’, waited for Father Sykes to show and redecorated the church with him.”

  “Jesus. And what happened to Yolland?”

  “Drove out of town, to an abandoned farmhouse on Dunwich Lane. Place’s still there now. Only a bit charred – he emptied two cans of petrol over hisself and struck a match.”

  “Fuck.”

  “And guess where the farmhouse is next to?”

  “No way.”

  “Yup. Ash Fell. Tell you summat else too – those spirit guides of Cowell’s?”

  “Sam, Johnny and Mark?”

  “Three lads, few years younger than Cowell, went missing round the same time Walsh died. Ben
reckoned they were the ring’s last victims. Samuel Morrison, John Kiley, Mark Danes.”

  “The Shrike?”

  “It were October. About time for his annual visit. You saw how Vera Latimer reacted when I asked about them. She acted like she had summat to be guilty about.”

  “Like what?”

  “If they’d come to us, we might have been able to save those kids.”

  “Or they might have been dead already.”

  “True.”

  “And if one of the ring was a copper...”

  “True.”

  “And that kind of thing, you feel guilty whether you should or not.”

  “And that’s true too.” Silence. “Anyroad, she buggered off to the big bad city – Manchester, then London. Made whatever living she could till Alan – Allen – started his medium act. She’s a hard woman, Vera Latimer; like bloody nails. But you can understand why. And if there is one thing she cares about, it’s her kid brother.” Stakowski drained his tea. “So, what happens now?”

  Renwick leant back in her chair. “You’re an Authorised Firearms Officer, right?”

  “Aye. You?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re sure you want me along?”

  “Why wouldn’t I, Mike?”

  “You know why.”

  “I don’t know any reason why I shouldn’t be able to rely on you as I always have. Do you?”

  A pause. “No ma’am.”

  Renwick smiled. “I’m glad.”

  “Me too, boss.”

  “OK. So, we get a team together, go up there soon as it’s light.”

  “Sounds about right. Best take a look at this place’s layout, then.”

  “Later.”

  “Why later?”

  “First of all I’m going to brave the elements and see Banstead.”

  “The hell for? You can authorise use of firearms yourself.”

  “As far as he’s concerned, I’m off the case and Sherwood’s taking over. I don’t need that gumming up the works. So I need to get at least one day’s grace out of him.” Renwick pulled her jacket on.

  “You’re going now?”

  “Damn right. He’s still full of the flu, remember? If I get him out of bed, I’ll bet you any money he’ll be sick, confused and not thinking straight. Which is exactly how I want the bald-headed bastard.”

  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.”

  ALLEN 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.

  ANNA 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 was
ting 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.

  ALLEN 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.