The Faceless

by Simon Bestwick

  The CID officers and Skelton all carried Glock pistols, the uniformed AFOs Heckler-Koch MP-5 carbines. The SFOs had G36 rifles, and there was a ram for door breaching.

  Renwick tucked her hair under her cap. It looked too big; so did her bullet vest. She looked like a girl playing dress-up. She discarded the vest and picked a smaller one. Better.

  Their eyes met. She took a deep breath, released it, and went out. Stakowski followed.

  ANNA REACHED THE hotel at 7.15 am; she made straight for the breakfast room even though she’d rarely felt less like eating. Bacon, eggs, toast, sausage, black pudding: she could go all-out today.

  She saw Vera and Allen at one table. Vera caught her eye; after a moment’s silence, she indicated an empty chair beside them.

  Anna sat down, smiled. “Hi.” She wanted to tell Vera you look lovely. Didn’t. Another might have been; another opportunity missed.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning,” said Allen, and looked away.

  “Sleep OK?” Vera asked.

  “Fine, thanks. You?”

  “Yes.” Vera’s eyes didn’t leave hers. Anna had to look away. Allen sighed loudly, rattled his spoon in his breakfast bowl.

  Vera ignored him, glanced at her watch. “Ten minutes.”

  “Best work fast, then.” Anna laid into her breakfast.

  “Want a shovel with that?”

  “Just stocking up on fuel.”

  “Well,” Vera slipped her cigarettes and gold lighter from her handbag, “I’m stocking up on nicotine. See you in a minute.”

  Anna returned to her breakfast. “You sleep OK, Mr Cowell?”

  “Like a baby.” His smile was serene and utterly fake, eyes empty and screaming at the same time.

  What would be up there, and what were they supposed to do when they found it? What good was a gun against the dead? Renwick and Stakowski must know that. And what did that leave them with? Cowell? She’d have called him a blatant fake before last night; she hadn’t much more confidence in him now. Behind all the plans and preparations, this was madness. They must all know that. And yet we’re all going anyway, because we must.

  Had it been like this for her great-grandfather at Passchendaele, or the Kempforth Pals at the Somme? Waiting for the shelling to end, to go over the parapet and flounder through the mud into that vast, destroying machine? Like Moloch in the Bible, burning up a whole generation.

  There’d been mutiny, like at Etaples, and rightly so. All those lives, sole, sacred, precious to their owners, cast away in their millions by incompetent brasshats and self-aggrandising politicians. The firing squad if you didn’t go forward; the battle police waiting with cudgel and revolver if you fell back. There was courage in fighting that, too.

  But they’d had a sense of duty, those men. There’d been courage, a readiness to sacrifice for the common good. Even the mutinies had come about when that had been abused. Was that gone too; did only a choice between greed and selfishness or bigoted fanaticism remain?

  “It’s half-past,” said Cowell. He got up.

  Vera was waiting in reception. Stakowski came in. He had his anorak zipped up, but it didn’t quite hide the gun on his hip.

  “Ms Mason.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Right. We all here? OK. Before we go, we’re grateful to you all for your help, but this is a police operation. So we’re in charge. You do exactly as we instruct you. Wherever we go, we go in first, you follow. And if you’re told to get the hell out, you do exactly that. We clear?”

  “Absolutely,” said Anna.

  “Mr Cowell? Miss Latimer?”

  “Yes,” said Vera. Cowell nodded.

  “You OK, Mr Cowell?”

  “I’ll be fine, Sergeant.”

  “Alright, then. Appreciate this might not be easy for you, that’s all.”

  Allen smiled tautly. “Thank you.”

  “The jaw alright? I’m sorry about that.”

  “It was necessary.”

  “I...” Stakowski coughed. “... I might have given you a harder time than I should, last night.”

  “I’m used to it,” said Cowell. “But I appreciate...”

  “Aye.”

  “Yes.”

  A pause. Stakowski coughed again. “Right then. This way.”

  Outside, he held open the Land Rover’s door for her. “All aboard.” Renwick sat in the passenger seat. Martyn was in the back. Vera and Allen got in another car.

  “Is Mary OK?”

  “Aye. She’s next door.”

  “Mrs Marshall again?”

  “Aye.”

  “The woman’s a saint.”

  “Aye.” Martyn grinned, then stopped as he saw Anna’s face. “It’ll be alright, sis. Once we find her Mam, it’ll all be fine.”

  Oh Christ. “Martyn, we might. And even if we do–”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “Martyn–”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “Let’s go,” said Renwick.

  Stakowski started the engine and pulled out. On top of one building, a line of pigeons, ranked along the edge of the roof like crenellations on a battlement. As the cars passed, they scattered in a metallic clatter of wings.

  7.35 am.

  THE TESTAMENT OF LANCE-CORPORAL MELVYN STOKES CONTINUED german brutes animals jealous of us our power england the empire was threatened what care i for the stinking french or weaselly belgians look at the mess they made of the congo not that i care overmuch for a few niggers if a whip is what it takes so let it be they are not as we are i am proud proud proud of my country i am proud proud proud of the sacrifice i made i will bear it without flinching even if my mothers shrieks still ring in my ears that one time she was allowed to see what the bastard hun had made of me my mothers shrieks my fathers groans the tears tears tears i could not see their faces only picture them for i had no eyes but the german shell had not harmed my ears oh no i could still hear

  AT STANGROVE WOOD, Myfanwy pushed her walking frame to the window. Thin white mist drifted over the lawns; she couldn’t see the hills. A shame; they reminded her of the Welsh landscape of her childhood.

  The mist made things uncertain. The shadows beneath the willow tree halfway down the lawn, for instance; she couldn’t be sure if someone stood under it, staring up at her window.

  “Just keep her safe,” Myfanwy whispered. “You can do that, can’t you? It’s all I’ll ask. I’ll come with you without any trouble. I’m ready to go. But keep her safe.”

  Myfanwy waited, but there was no answer. Well; she’d done all she could. You did what you could and then you waited; you couldn’t do much else. She turned away. She’d make a cup of tea, and then she’d wait. For the phone, the doorbell, or her father; whichever came first.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  EARLY MORNING AND unable to sleep; Banstead shuffled into the kitchen in his dressing-gown, reached for the kettle.

  Engines growled. He parted the Venetian blinds; outside, four police Land Rovers passed. Silhouetted figures sat inside; he glimpsed a rifle’s barrel.

  Banstead smiled. “Godspeed.”

  He released the blind, switched the kettle on.

  ANNA PEERED THROUGH the window; the police were out of their cars and checking their weapons. Beyond, the woods were jagged and black; the trees were mostly evergreens, blocking the light out.

  “Christ,” muttered Martyn.

  “You OK?”

  “Fine. But... Jesus, this is real, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. With luck she’d be as certain of what was and what wasn’t by the day’s end. “Yeah, it is.”

  Stakowski opened the Land Rover’s door, smiled. “OK, folks–”

  Renwick stood waiting with Vera, Allen and an unsmiling uniformed sergeant.

  “This is Sergeant Skelton.”

  Anna caught Vera’s eye, smiled. Vera smiled back; it looked forced. Concentrate, Anna.

  “OK.” Skelton folded his arms. “My jo
b’s keeping you four in one piece. So, one: you all stay together so my men can protect you. There’ll be three spread out in front, three at the back so you’re covered from all angles. Effectively you’ll be encircled. You stay within that circle at all times. Two: I tell you to do something, you do it. That’s all. Ready when you are, ma’am.”

  Six officers – two uniforms with rifles, four with sub-machine guns – went into the woods; the others formed up around the civilians, and followed.

  A barely visible path wound through the trees. Twigs and pine needles cracked underfoot. The pines’ smell was fresh and sharp. Anna saw tiny flickers of motion in the corner of her eye – thin shapes ducking back behind the trees – but whenever she looked, there was nothing there.

  Stop it.

  “Hold up,” someone whispered.

  “What?” Skelton asked.

  “Fence.”

  “Jesus,” Stakowski murmured. A fine barbed-wire mesh stretched between twenty-five-foot concrete posts. “Meant business when they put this up.”

  “Get us in,” said Renwick.

  Crosbie and Wayland used cutters to snip a hole in the fence. Fresh movements off to each side, beyond the ring of armed officers; Anna forced herself not to look. Nothing’s there. You’re imagining things. How are you going to cope once you’re inside?

  They filed through the hole. The path through the trees was harder to find after that; no-one had come this way in years.

  “We’re here,” someone said.

  Ahead was an eighteen-foot-high red-brick wall topped with iron spikes, a small wrought-iron gate set into it, black and rust-pitted, with a weathered plaque saying ASH FELL VETERANS’ HOSPITAL AND SANITARIUM. A rusted chain and padlock secured it. Beyond it an asphalt path led through ranks of thin bare trees.

  Spindly trees could hide Spindly Men. So many things she might, at any moment, see, and no knowing which were real, which weren’t.

  Focus, Anna. You’re finally here; finally about to see this place for yourself. You wanted that. Now you have it. So pull yourself together.

  “Allen?”

  Allen was staring into the woods. Vera put a hand on his arm. He blinked, patted her hand. “I’m alright.” Anna wasn’t sure which of them he was trying to convince. He took a deep breath, let it out again.

  “Open it,” said Renwick.

  Wayland took the cutters to the chain, which snapped with a heavy chunk; Crosbie lifted chain and padlock free. The gate grated open; a low, moaning wind rose from nowhere and as abruptly fell, and the woods were still again.

  THE PATH BULGED and cracked where roots grew under it; the sky was visible through the branches now, although they snagged at Anna’s clothing. Allen snapped off a twig. “Rowans.”

  “AKA mountain ash,” Stakowski said. “Hence Ash Fell.” He winked at Anna. “Some of us paid attention. What about ’em?”

  “They’re also a traditional defence against witchcraft.”

  “Witchcraft?” Skelton’s eyebrows rose nearly two inches. McAdams and Crosbie exchanged glances; Wayland blew out a long breath and turned away. Ashraf looked from one of them to the other, glanced up the path towards Skelton’s men.

  “Meaning?” asked Renwick.

  “Maybe something. Maybe nothing.” Allen pocketed the twig. His fingers shook. “But a little extra protection can’t hurt.”

  There was a rowan branch inches from Anna’s face; she snapped off a twig, slipped it into her pocket beside Nan’s cross. The old faith on one side, the new on the other. Maybe one of them would help.

  THE TESTAMENT OF LANCE-CORPORAL MELVYN STOKES CONTINUED oh mamma mamma no shut up mummys boy stop your skriking be a man stand up like an englishman face it uncomplaining triumph and disaster impostors both but brutes though they are who was behind the germans dreams of empire who inspired them to overreach themselves but the jews the jews the sheenies the yids the kikes pinchprick bastards christ killers dragging war and strife with them wherever they go lower jaw shattered shell fragment utterly tore away upper mandible nasal cavity flesh of cheeks cheekbones eyes eye sockets partially destroyed but not dead christ not dead still alive

  THE WOODS GAVE way to open ground, and B Block came into Renwick’s view; a squat, flat, single-storey building, but with a small tower at each corner.

  “It’s mostly on one level because of all the missing-limb cases,” Anna said, “but that didn’t leave much of a view. Hence the observation towers.”

  “Not much good if you couldn’t walk,” Renwick noted.

  “There were lifts. But the idea was, if you could get up there yourself–”

  “You jolly well would.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Renwick half-smiled, then turned away. “Mike? Frank?”

  “Boss?” Stakowski approached, Skelton in tow.

  “Just had a cheery little thought about what lovely sniping positions those towers would make.”

  Stakowski nodded. “What d’you reckon, Frank? Keep the marksmen back here for cover, send an advance party to secure the entrance?”

  “It’ll do. Nice to know your army years weren’t completely wasted.”

  “The odd bit of information did stick in my head.”

  THE MAIN DOORS opened easily; inside, B Block was mostly a succession of individual rooms, many still housing stripped, rusty bedframes.

  The lifts were beyond use – ancient iron cages hanging from rusted cables – so they climbed the observation towers’ winding staircases to the top, but found only the pigeons’ leavings: feathers, dried excrement, scattered bones.

  But there were other rooms, too. In one, artificial limbs hung from hooks, waiting to be attached to stumps. After the last of the officers had filed out, leaving Renwick alone with them, they swayed slightly. No, that was the dim light playing tricks. There was no draught; the dust lay undisturbed. And that arm’s fingers couldn’t have moved; they were metal and terracotta, nothing more. They weren’t curling slowly into fists behind her back when she turned away. Enough. She had work to do.

  They found false legs, too, and perished rubber tubes and bags for the colostomised and emasculated. But no masks; not here. And no hostages, alive or dead. Only dust, long undisturbed.

  Renwick met Stakowski’s eyes; he bit his lip. The fear, now, that this was all they’d find. No. Banish emotion. Do your job if you want that child to live.

  “Boss?” Ashraf. “Wayland’s found something.”

  She found Wayland in one of the day rooms at the centre of the block, crouched over a familiar pattern etched on its dusty floor; five lightning zig-zag lines, connecting at a central point. The Black Sun, Cowell had called it. In its centre lay a small gold bracelet.

  Renwick held a hand out. “Evidence bag.” Stakowski passed her one. “Get a picture first.”

  “Ma’am.” Crosbie snapped half a dozen pictures from different angles with a digital camera. When he was done, Wayland picked the bracelet up with a pencil and dropped it in the bag.

  “Mr Cowell, can you tell us anything?”

  “I think you know as well as I do what that symbol is, Chief Inspector. As for this...” Allen took the evidence bag, held the bracelet through the plastic. “It belonged to...” he closed his eyes. “Tahira Khalid.”

  “Considering there’s a bit shaped into the name TAHIRA, I’d say we’re having a good day all round for deductive reasoning,” Stakowski said, and winked.

  Renwick stood up. “Let’s finish up here and move out. And stay alert.”

  Outside, it was lighter, the sun higher in the pale, clouded sky; it only made Renwick feel more exposed. At least it took her mind off what relic of Roseanne Trevor’s they might find, in the centre of a symbol scrawled on a dusty floor. Or what purpose it served.

  THE TESTAMENT OF LANCE-CORPORAL MELVYN STOKES CONTINUED unable to smell taste see even to eat pureed mush poured down my throat in a tube at least i didnt have to look on what they made of my face or the faces of the others here in t
his place this place this oubliette french word hate the french despise them but oubliette its a good word a place of forgetting an old cell hidden under castles in ancient times where you put folk you wanted forgotten about this place is one vast oubliette for people like me that nobody wants to be reminded of understandable as wars must still be fought and there are always faint hearts cowards communists anarchists and all their lily livered verminous kind seeking to sap our will to fight and what better fodder for their propaganda than such as i who stand mute witness to the sacrifice made and offered willingly for the glory of the nation the empire the race the land

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A BLOCK STOOD two storeys high. A curved roof; high windows. From its side, the long connecting corridor snaked off through the woods towards Warbeck.

  As before, once the advance party had reached the main entrance, the others crossed the overgrown lawns, ringed by Skelton’s men.

  Anna walked ahead of Vera, beside Martyn. She glanced behind her, smiled shyly. Vera smiled back, wished she’d tried harder last night, imagined kissing that thin mouth. Anna looked away.

  Renwick tried the double doors; they were locked. “Alright. Ready?” Ashraf nodded. “Then let’s go.”

  Ashraf and McAdams swung the ram between them; the doors flew wide with an echoing crash. Inside was only silence and dark. For a moment, Vera thought it would flow out to meet them.

  COLD DAMP AIR that smelt of rotten wood, like her old room at Shackleton Street. Moss and char, wet concrete dust, the ammoniac reek of animal piss. Vera imagined spores taking root in her lungs; she covered her nose and mouth with her chiffon scarf.