Faceless

by Rob Ashman

  Kray crept to the door and peered around the corner. It was definitely Jackson, she could hear him moving around in his office. Then the thought hit her. I can’t fucking go, the picture is on the printer! Kray hurried to the incident room and creaked the door open. Across the office, against the wall, sat a bank of printers, she crouched down and scuttled over.

  Where the hell is the printout?

  She checked each of the document trays, but they were empty.

  How the fuck?

  Then she saw the red flashing LED: it had run out of paper.

  Kray cursed under her breath, gently levered opened the tray of the nearest printer and lifted out a wad of paper. She fed it into the machine with the blinking LED and pressed reset. The machine whirred and spat the printout into the tray at the back.

  The printer next to her began spooling out paper.

  Jackson must be printing something out too! Kray heard him coming down the hallway. Shit!

  She grabbed her sheet of paper and ran into the corner of the room, disappearing under a desk just as the fluorescent lights came on. Her heart was thumping so hard in her chest she was sure he could hear it. She could sense him in the room but was too scared to take a peek.

  After a while Kray heard the handle on the door and it all went dark. She crumpled onto the carpet and breathed deeply. From her crouched position she negotiated her way around the furniture and reached the door. She cracked it open to listen. Wacko could be heard talking to himself, like he was rehearsing a speech.

  What the fuck is he saying? Kray’s curiosity was burning a hole in her, but this was not the time or place to indulge her curiosity. She scurried down the hallway and out of the station. In her pocket was a balled-up sheet of paper.

  She had no idea how he knew her or why he had shared a cell with Rampton. But she did know that his face was narrow, with high cheek bones and big eyes set slightly wide apart.

  His name was Jason Strickland. He was going to kill her.

  ‘Do I have a shit load of news for you.’ Kray shivered as the wind cut through her jacket. She wrapped it tight around herself. Pale wisps of pink trailed across the sky as the sun woke up the clouds. Her feet were soaked from walking through the grass, wet from the morning dew. She stamped them on the ground.

  ‘I got into a fight at work with Wacko and Mrs Blobby and came off worse. The fuckers wanted me gone so they could claim my arrest and get some good news in the papers. I can’t blame them I suppose, because it’s not me that has to stand up in front of the cameras spouting the usual drivel. No hang on, what am I saying, of course I can – fucking tossers. But anyway, that’s not all …’ Kray reached into her pocket and pulled out the ball of paper. She unwrapped it and flattened out the creases against her chest. ‘I reckon this is him: Jason Strickland. I know it’s mad, isn’t it? I think this is the bastard that killed those people and there is no one I can tell. Here I am holding the mugshot of a serial killer and not a single soul will take me seriously. How frustrating is that?’ Kray knelt down and put her hand onto the cold marble. ‘Ha, but who am I trying to kid? I’m coming up with theories that are so fantastic even I’m struggling to get my head around them. So I can’t really blame people for thinking I’ve gone bat-shit crazy. And the other bombshell is, I think Strickland convinced Rampton that I had set him up and persuaded him to attack me. Rampton failed and now he’s coming after me. See, I told you I was losing it.’

  She traced her finger around the lettering that spelled out Joe’s name. She felt him close. His warm breath on the back of her neck. His arms holding her tight. The touch of his mouth on her cheek.

  ‘I’m scared. What should I do?’

  A gust of wind blew through her jacket and in an instant, he was gone. Kray screwed up the sheet of paper and replaced it in her pocket. The time for indulgence was over.

  She knew exactly what she had to do.

  Back home the first thing Kray did was eat toast. She needed to slow down her thought processes and eat something. This was never going to work if her blood sugars were at rock bottom and her head was in the shed. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate food that hadn’t been handed to her over a counter in a brown paper bag, and she was pretty sure chocolate and wine didn’t count as a balanced diet. Kray was starving.

  The bread popped out of the toaster and she layered on butter, she would have to give the jam a miss because of the mould. The first slice disappeared in minutes to be followed by another, washed down with strong black coffee. There was a loud knock at the door.

  Kray opened up to see a white van parked outside her house.

  ‘Bloody hell you boys don’t mess about. I haven’t long called.’

  ‘That’s us, lady. I have a job card here but why don’t you talk me through what you want.’

  Soon the house was filled with the sound of banging and drilling. Kray made more coffee and offered a cup to the man with a van.

  ‘Christ!’ he said taking a sip.

  ‘Yeah sorry, I like it strong.’

  ‘There’s strong and then there’s suicide strength. I’ll be awake until the weekend drinking this.’ Kray smiled at him, he was a welcome distraction. ‘Are you sure you want these fitting as well?’ he asked.

  ‘Yup, front and back please. Not too high up, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘Okay, you’re the boss.’ He beavered away for the hour and she watched as he put the finishing touches to the back door. ‘That’s your lot.’

  ‘Thank you. They gave me a rough quote on the phone, do I pay you?’

  ‘No, we will send you an invoice. Gone are the days when we were paid on completion of the job. Some unscrupulous tradesmen used to bump up the price and ask for it in cash. I’m sure you can guess the rest.’

  ‘Okay, well thank you for coming out promptly.’

  ‘These are for the front …’ he handed Kray a set of brand new keys, ‘… and back. Those dead bolts are going to be a little stiff to start but they will loosen up in time.’

  Kray waved him off as the van pulled away. She went out to her car and came back with an assortment of plastic bags, but this was anything but her usual weekly shop. She emptied them into the middle of the lounge floor and sorted through her purchases. She picked up three of the items and went upstairs. In each of the bedrooms she left a hammer under the bed and on returning downstairs she deposited another in the cloakroom and one in the living room. She looked at the pickaxe handle laying on the lounge floor and wondered where to put it. She also wondered what made her buy it. She shook her head and walked into the hallway, she could figure that one out later.

  Kray tested one of the bright shiny keys in the lock - it turned perfectly. Then she closed the front door, reached up and grasped the heavy dead bolt. It wouldn’t budge. She gripped it with two hands and heaved it across. It slammed into place with a thud.

  Kray nodded her head in approval.

  Now try to get in, you fucker.

  57

  Kray could see the house looming up on the right. It stood out like a sore thumb. A 1940s bay fronted, semi-detached property with a small front garden. While the other properties in the road could be described in much the same way, this one was noticeably different. Largely because it looked as though it had remained untouched since Thatcher disposed of it in the great council house sell-off. While other houses sported new windows, swanky front doors and paint jobs, this one had the appearance of requiring scaffolding to stop it falling down.

  Kray passed the house and pulled over to the kerb on the opposite side of the road. She pressed the button in her armrest and the wing mirror swivelled out until the place was in view. The street was quiet but for a couple of young mums walking with prams and an older resident pottering in his garden. Nothing moved at number eighty-six Spring Bank Way - the last known address of Jason Strickland.

  Kray settled back with her eyes firmly fixed on the mirror. In the passenger footwell was the last of her purchases — a small c
rowbar — bought at the third hardware shop of the morning because they had run out of hammers. It was for protection only, this was going to be a stake-out. Or at least that’s what she kept telling herself over and over. It wasn’t really working.

  Kray looked at the clock on the dashboard, nothing had stirred for the past fifty minutes. She was getting itchy feet.

  ‘Stay calm, stay focussed,’ she said to herself. ‘Let’s get the lay of the land before diving in.’

  The minutes ticked by. She turned on the radio and scanned the dial, all the commercial radio stations seemed to be synchronising their playlists to broadcast back-to-back adverts. She switched it off. Then Kray reached for the crowbar from the foot well and weighed it in her hand.

  She turned on the radio again and listened to music this time, who would have thought of that? Music being played on a radio station? The song finished and another bout of ads kicked in.

  Fuck it.

  Kray shoved the crowbar up her sleeve and stepped out of the car. Stake-out my arse. She passed number eighty-six on her left and kept walking. There was no sign of an alarm box and the back garden butted up against the one behind. She reached the end of the road, turned, and retraced her steps. When she was level with the house she bent down to tie her shoelace. The house was still, it looked like no one was home. She darted up the path and skirted around the side to the back. All was quiet.

  Kray reached the back door. It was timber-framed with frosted glass panels, to the right was the kitchen window. The frames were so rotten a child could stab their fingers through the wood. She peered over the window ledge; the room beyond was empty. She rapped on the window, it rattled. It was better to know if Strickland was at home and beat a hasty retreat, rather than bump into him in the house. No one came to the door.

  Kray levered the edge of the crowbar between the doorframe and the door and pushed. The wood splintered and the lock jumped out of its recess, the back door creaked open. She entered the kitchen, closing the door behind her, and listened. Nothing. There were dirty dishes in the sink and a frying pan sat on the gas hob. She stepped on the peddle bin to reveal several ready meal trays and an empty milk carton. The kettle was cool to the touch.

  Kray sniffed the air, it smelled like something had gone off. Then it dawned on her – the house smelled old. Like one of those frozen in time museums you can visit where they show how people lived in a bygone age.

  She crossed into the hallway and eased open the living room door. Her knuckles were white from gripping the crowbar. This too was like stepping back to the early eighties, a big brown Draylon sofa and two arm chairs filled the room. A wooden coffee table that had long since lost its varnish dominated the centre of a threadbare rug. The wallpaper was patterned with raised orange flowers set against a cream background. The room smelled as if it hadn’t had the windows open in thirty years. She scanned around and moved on.

  The stairs creaked as the treads bore her weight, and the landing had a giant white paper ball for a lamp shade. She opened the door to the left: it was the bathroom, kitted out with a chunky, green avocado suite. Kray checked above the wash basin – there was one toothbrush. The next room was a bedroom with a single bed against the wall in the corner. It had the feel of not having been lived in, there was not an item out of place. She opened a drawer and found it full of neatly folded men’s clothes. The bed was made up with sheets and blankets, it looked odd without a continental quilt. Kray was so fixated with the bedspread she almost missed it. On the wall above the bed hung a poster of a man smiling for the camera, holding a baseball bat. He wore a cap with an oversized peak, and above the peak was an emblem – a bird’s head set in a blue circle.

  A jolt went through Kray like she’d been shot. Her fingers curled tightly around the crowbar.

  The next room along was another bedroom. This time with a double bed covered in a brightly coloured throw. This room did at least show signs of life. A large dressing table sat in the bay window with enough make-up and brushes to run a salon. She opened the wardrobe door to find a row of dresses and tops. Then a picture sitting on the bedside table caught her eye, and she picked it up. It showed a couple sitting in a bar posing for the camera. They were both tanned and smiling broadly.

  Kray almost dropped it. Staring out of the picture was a woman with a thin face, high cheek bones and big eyes set a little too wide apart.

  Fucking hell.

  She had seen enough. Kray crept back down the stairs into the hallway, making her way to the kitchen, but stopped in her tracks. There was a door leading under the stairs. She opened it to find rows of coats and jackets hanging on rails, while others hung from hooks. She sifted through them, some were new but others looked old and worn. Kray put her hands into the pockets, they were empty. As one of the coats parted to one side Kray saw a heavy metal dead bolt with a padlock. She moved the coat further to reveal a door set into the wall at the back. The key was sticking out of the lock. Kray tucked the crowbar under her arm and turned it, the padlock sprung open with a click. She removed the hasp, slid back the bolt and the door swung towards her. She removed the coats from the back and opened it wide. A set of stairs ran from the cloakroom down into a cellar. She could see the first five steps and then no more as the blackness engulfed whatever was below. Kray reached around the doorframe groping for a light switch, there was nothing, just bare brickwork.

  Kray heard a noise behind her.

  Two fists struck her square in the back and she tumbled forwards into the abyss. Her hands flew out in front of her to break her fall, but she grasped at nothing. She hit the first few steps on the way down with a thud, then there was half a second of silence, followed by a sickening splat as she landed on the concrete floor below.

  I knew there was a good reason why I never replaced that handrail.

  58

  Kray felt like she was floating down a lazy river, bobbing gently on the waves while meandering her way through a sea of loveliness. Warm and woozy. Her consciousness rose to the surface only to bob back down into the darkness. She flicked open her eyes, all she saw was the colour grey. She slipped back under.

  She came back again and was aware of an acrid taste in her mouth and her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her eyes opened and she realised the grey that filled her vision was a concrete floor. She was lying on her side with her head on the ground.

  Kray fought to stay conscious. The room spun and she felt sick. Her head hurt and she was fast becoming aware of a sharp pain in her right leg. In fact, she was fast becoming aware that she was in agony.

  Kray tried to sit up but couldn’t move her arms or legs, they were stretched out in front of her. She rocked from side to side, levered herself onto one elbow and finally righted herself. She was sitting on the floor, bent forward at the waist with her legs stretched out in front of her. Her wrists and ankles were bound together with four thick black cable ties that were secured to an eyebolt set into the floor. Her right arm felt like it had been ripped from its socket while a bloody mat of hair stuck to the side of her head. Her stomach heaved and she vomited down her front.

  ‘That could be concussion,’ a voice said from the other side of the room. Kray looked around trying to locate the sound. The pain in her leg was unbearable. A figure came into view, dressed in a floral slip with long black hair that framed her face. ‘You took a bump to the head and fell heavily onto your side. It’s gonna hurt like a bastard.’

  Kray shuffled herself forwards towards the eyebolt and bent her legs to take the strain off her muscles. She looked up and tried to focus on the face. She could hear the words clearly but the figure in front of her was blurred.

  ‘You had a nasty fall down the stairs. I keep meaning to replace the banisters but you know how it is. I just can’t seem to find the time.’ The voice was soft and melodic. Kray screwed up her eyes and shook her head. The fog was clearing.

  ‘Who are you?’ she croaked.

  ‘I’m surprised you need to ask t
hat. You tracked me down, broke into my house and fell into my basement. You must know who I am …’ The figure knelt down and smiled. The wig and make-up were professionally done but the face was unmistakeable. Kray felt a knot of panic twist at her guts when she realised she was staring at Strickland.

  ‘Well this is a turn up,’ he said getting to his feet. ‘Here am I concocting all sorts of elaborate plans on how best to deal with you and … hey presto … you show up at my house. What an absolute delight.’ Strickland strutted around the room, the hem of his dress making a swishing sound as he moved. ‘You see there is an advantage to being pathologically paranoid. I know every car that parks in our road so when you turned up, it rang alarm bells. Then I see you get out and walk in the direction of my house, well there was only going to be one outcome. You were going to break in with the intention of arresting me, or whatever you had in mind.’

  Kray looked down to see that blood had seeped through the knee of her jeans. The right side of her body throbbed in time with the pain in her head. Strickland stepped forward and placed a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits on the floor at her feet.

  ‘You need to drink water and you’re bound to be hungry.’

  Kray didn’t move. ‘The police will be here soon, they know my movements, so when I fail to report in they’ll be smashing down your door.’

  ‘I’m not sure they will, you know. I’m not sure they are looking for you at all. They haven’t up to now anyway.’

  ‘They’re on their way and then we will put you away for a long time.’

  ‘How long do you think you’ve been here?’

  Kray didn’t answer.

  ‘Go on. Take a guess, how long do you think you’ve been here?’

  Again she said nothing.

  ‘You have already been here for a day and a half and I haven’t had Mr Plod bashing down my door to find you. You see the fall down the stairs rendered you unconscious, but it was the application of a strong sedative that ensured you stayed that way. At least until I was ready.’