by Rob Ashman
Faceless
Rob Ashman
Contents
Also By Rob Ashman
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Those That Reman
In Your Name
Pay The Penance
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2018 Rob Ashman
The right of Rob Ashman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Praise for Rob Ashman
"I think I have just found myself a new crime thriller author and series that will be going straight on my “must read authors list”." Lorraine Rugman - The Book Review Cafe
"I really enjoyed this terrifying, clever thriller that is probably one of the best crime/ police thrillers that I have read." Joanna Park - Over The Rainbow Book Blog
"This is a very gripping psychological thriller that has the reader turning page after page." Jill Burkinshaw - Books n All
"Those That Remain is a blood curdling, terrifying rollercoaster ride that is just too damn good, I don’t think any review I write would give it enough justice!!!" Laura Turner - PageTurnersNook
"The writing has such a natural style so you aren’t thinking about what may happen in the story you just savour every moment as you read it." Susan Hampson - Books From Dusk Till Dawn
"In Your Name is full of non-stop twist and turns that I dare anyone to predict." M.A. Comley - NY Times best-selling author
"It is extremely gripping to witness the events in this spellbinding thriller with its occasional glint of dark humour – and I’m dying to get my hands on the next instalment!" Caroline Vincent - Bits About Books
"This is a brilliant follow on from the first book Those That Remain. I loved it!" Gemma Myers - Between The Pages Book Club
"This is storytelling that will stay with you...Chilled me to the core..Moran is one of the best characters ever...Love love loved this series..Brilliant.." Livia Sbarbo - Goodreads
"OMG. What a read. Absolutely fantastic with brilliant characters." Susan Angela Wallace - Goodreads
"For me the three Mechanic books have been some of the best that I have read so far in 2017 and I cannot recommend them highly enough!" Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Blog
"This has been an amazing trilogy and I am sad to see the end of it." Dee Williams - Goodreads
Also By Rob Ashman
The Mechanic Trilogy
Those That Remain ( Book 1)
In Your Name ( Book 2)
Pay The Penance ( Book 3)
For Karen, who gave me the courage to write this book when the demons in my head told me to play it safe.
Preface
‘Being psycho doesn’t make you bad, being bad makes you bad. Being psycho and bad makes you dangerous. That’s what my school report should have said but it didn’t, and now the consequences of that oversight are everywhere.
‘I killed for pleasure, now I kill out of a sense of duty. You understand that, right? Not sure which one I prefer more.
‘No wait … I do know … killing family is best. You get to stick around and watch the fallout.
‘This is not my fault.
‘As the next few weeks play out, I want you to remember, it’s not my fault.
‘It’s yours.’
1
Detective Inspector Rosalind Kray lifted the flap of the letterbox and the stench of death hit her full in the face. The type of stench that lodges itself in your memory long after it has left your senses. The type of stench that lives with you forever.
She recoiled back into the cramped corridor and nodded to the young uniformed officer standing next to her. He removed his hat, donned a pair of heavy duty gloves and picked up the red thirty-five-pound steel bar with handles at either end. He steadied his stance and took a practice swing. The bar crunched into the moulded plastic surround of the lock. The frame flexed under the impact, holding the door stubbornly in place. The second blow shattered the screws from their mountings and the door shuddered open.
It struck the mound of unopened mail piled up on the hallway floor. As the door swung ajar they both stepped back with their hands covering their noses and mouths. Kray was sure she heard the officer gag as the smell of putrid flesh wafted around them. She glanced at the tall young man, the colour draining from his face. That’s all I need - a degree-qualified high flyer to compromise the scene with his own vomit.
Kray pulled on a set of blue surgical gloves, threw a second pair for the officer and removed a perfumed handkerchief from her pocket. She stepped inside. The underside of the front door swept the larger letters into a heap against the wall as she edged it open.
‘Hello!’ she called out. ‘Any one at home?’
Her voice echoed in the confines of the darkness. She tried the light switch – nothing.
Kray flicked on a torch and the beam cut shards of light across the inside of the flat. Her rubber-soled shoes squeaked against the laminate flooring as she made her way down the hallway. It was long and narrow with a door at the far end, the light from outside gradually faded as she made her way along. The walls were adorned with a collage of pictures and photographs, snapshots of happier times.
She could hear the officer behind her regain his composure and step across the threshold, his heavy boots crushing what was left of the paper under foot. Even through the scented fabric, the still air reeked of something bad. Kray guessed her fresh-faced colleague must be holding his breath. Brilliant! Now he’s going to
vomit, then pass out.
The door at the end was cracked open and she could hear a faint buzzing sound coming from the room beyond. The beam of light danced across the wood veneer and frosted glass. She eased it open onto a lounge and groped around the wall for a light switch – click – nothing. The room contained a three-seater sofa and an iron coffee table sitting in front of the TV. It was neat and tidy, and the curtains were closed. Kray motioned to the officer to take a look at the cups sitting on coasters on the table. Brown and green mould was cultivating nicely at the bottom of the mugs. The buzzing grew louder.
Off to the left was a kitchen filled with modern appliances and a stack of unwashed dishes lay in the sink, growing their own type of fungus. The officer put his hand on Kray’s shoulder as his torch beam alighted on a closed door.
‘Over here, ma’am,’ he said, his words muffled against his hand pressed hard over his nose and mouth. He twisted the handle and it opened up onto a bathroom. But Kray wasn’t looking. She was standing outside a closed door in the corner, her head tilted to one side, listening. The buzzing was coming from the other side.
She twisted the handle and the lock disengaged. As the door cracked open the buzzing grew louder, and the stench penetrated straight through her perfumed defences. She heard the officer gag.
The door glided across the carpet to reveal a bedroom. A Laura Ashley quilt and scatter cushions decorated the double bed and the blinds were pulled shut across the window. She scanned around the room and became aware of two things: the sound of retching as the officer bolted for the front door in search of breathable air and the feeling of flying insects touching her face and neck. In the glare of the torchlight she caught sight of a twisting swirl of flies, the air in the room seemed to come alive as waves of them fogged around her. Kray flapped her arms in an attempt to carve herself a gap to move forward, circled the foot of the bed and found the source of the buzzing. The body of a woman lay on the floor, she was naked apart from the seething mass of insects, white maggots and pupae that had invaded her bloated carcass.
The heady stench of rotting pork mixed with cheap perfume was overwhelming. Kray held the handkerchief tight to her face. The woman’s flesh was marbled with blood vessels, and putrefied liquid pooled in the recesses of her body. More blow flies landed on Kray’s face and she struggled to swat them away. They were persistent little bastards.
She tore her eyes away from the corpse and scoured the room. A chair lay on its side in front of a large dressing table and several items of make-up were scattered across the floor. The rest of the room looked untouched. Eventually the gut-wrenching stink proved too much for Kray, she hurried from the bedroom and down the corridor to the waiting uniformed officer whose face was the colour of magnolia paint.
‘Sorry, I just couldn’t—’ Kray held up her hand to cut him off and inhaled deeply.
‘Fuck, you never get used to that,’ she said, gasping in air.
She fumbled around and pulled a phone from her pocket, hitting two keys.
‘Hi, it’s me. I’m at a flat seventeen, Dennison Heights, responding to a call from a neighbour who complained of a smell coming from the property.’
The metallic voice on the other end went into a monologue and Kray pulled the phone away from her head, cursing under her breath.
‘Yes, I understand that, but you know how short staffed we are and I was with uniform when the call came through. Yes, I know—’ The detached voice cut her off. ‘Fuck!’ She held the phone away from her and swore again, this time under her breath, spinning on the spot.
‘I know it’s not protocol but the officer was on his own, so I went along in support—’
The distant lecture continued.
‘Okay, okay, I get it. Look, that’s not why I called, we need a crime scene manager and SOCO down here, and if you can spare the time you should get here too.’
The voice protested.
‘Yes, I’m well aware of—’ Kray was interrupted again. ‘But you need to see this.’
The distant voice got louder.
‘With all due respect, sir, you have a choice: either you get in at the ground floor with this case or you can read it in my report and then be forced to get involved. Which do you want?’
Standing eight feet away the young officer could hear the bout of swearing taking place on the other end of the line.
It was Kray’s turn to interrupt.
‘There’s a dead woman in the flat, she’s been there for eight to ten days I reckon. The corpse has decayed badly and there are signs of a struggle.’
The voice on the other end sounded more reasonable.
‘She’s lying on the bedroom floor near an upturned chair and items of make-up have been knocked off the dressing table.’
The voice was calm and measured, putting forward an alternative view.
‘I agree, that could have happened. She could have fallen, knocking over the chair and scattering the make-up. That might be a possibility. But it didn’t happen that way.’
Kray cast her eyes up to the ceiling.
‘No, there are no blood spatters that I could see. But this is definitely a homicide.’
The voice continued to wind her up. Kray finally had enough of appeasing her dickhead of a boss.
‘You need to get here to see for yourself, and I can assure you I’m not overreacting. Whoever did this sliced off her face.’
2
Roz Kray sat at her desk staring into space while nursing a coffee and contemplating a rather unexpected start to the week. She was in her mid-thirties with the body of a fourteen-year-old girl and the face of a woman ten years older. The ravages of cigarettes and excess alcohol had carved lines in her complexion that piled on the years. Still, she had no one to look good for now, so what was the point of trying?
It was late and the images of the past three hours played in her head like a low budget B movie. She smoothed the creases out of her freshly dry-cleaned trouser suit and cursed her lack of self-confidence. What the hell was she thinking asking her boss to take a look at the body? She knew what to do, she knew the correct procedures to follow - Christ she’d been a DI long enough. But the last eight months had taken their toll, it felt like she was cycling with stabilisers on.
Thankfully he hadn’t shown up which had forced her to co-ordinate the crime scene herself. No doubt her moment of weakness would result in another pep talk from her fuckwit of a boss who was one rank her senior. Kray often wondered what it would be like to have him undermine her on purpose. Because since she’d returned to work he’d been making a damned good job of doing so under the guise of building her confidence. She’d been back in work a month and her working-muscles were still a little shaky. She didn’t need him pulling the rug from under her at every opportunity. She logged out of her desktop and gathered her things together to head home. She could have done the paperwork in the morning, but where’s the fun in sitting on your own, watching junk TV, next to a rapidly emptying wine bottle?
The phone rang.
Thirty minutes later Kray was kitted out in a blue mask, hairnet and over shoes, wearing a white coat made to fit someone twice her size. The mortuary was new, courtesy of an injection of funds into the Victoria Teaching Hospital. The place was bright and clinical with three stainless steel tables lined down the centre. Each table had a drain at one end and metal scales hung from the ceiling. Hoses and nozzles were connected to the frames and a set of shiny steel work surfaces and sinks ran around the walls. The room smelled of formaldehyde and rotting chicken.
The technician gestured for Kray to take a seat on a long bench that was bolted to the opposite wall, a precautionary installation for those medical students in danger of passing out. She held up her hand giving a ‘no thanks’ response.
Kray gazed at the sunken remains of the woman from the flat, lying face up on the middle table. The corpse had been washed clean of the infestation of white grubs, and the trademark Y-shaped scar that ran down the length of
her torso told Kray the worst was over.
‘Not seen one like this before.’ A tall man with a shaved head and steel rimmed spectacles appeared out of nowhere. ‘That’s why I called. My name is Harry Aldridge by the way.’ He looked every inch a Home Office Pathologist.
Kray snapped her thoughts away from the body. ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘No worries, I thought it might be good for you to see this first hand.’
He moved over to the table.
‘It must have been one sick son of a bitch to do this.’ Kray shuffled over to the corpse and pointed to the faceless head.
