The Face Stealer

by Robert Scott-Norton

  “Oh dear Lord. What's happened to her?” Payne felt bile rise in his throat. It wouldn’t have been unusual for there to be some damage to a body left out in the open, but Payne hadn't been expecting anything quite like this.

  The woman's face was coated with a layer of white residue, like frost, but being face down in the sand and water, some of this had washed away. Payne got a good look at what lay beneath, or rather what didn’t lie beneath. He felt light-headed, and for a terrible moment thought he was going to pass out.

  Reluctantly, Payne shuffled forward, taking the torch from Nixon and working it across the woman’s face, hoping it was all a strange trick of the light. But it wasn’t a trick of the light, or an excess of sand on the skin, or a side-effect of the tiredness he’d been feeling these last few days.

  The body had no face. No mouth, no eyes, no nose: no features of any kind. With the edge of his finger, Payne wiped away some of the residue from where the woman's mouth had once been. It was the eyes that were the most disturbing, thought Payne, unable to tear his gaze from where the eyes had been sealed over with fresh skin.

  “I did warn you,” Nixon said.

  They got to their feet and Payne pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly.

  “Who else knows?”

  “The paramedics. James attended from forensics. A couple of uniforms cordoned the area.”

  “But her head was face down. They might not have seen.”

  “True, so that leaves the two paramedics and James.”

  “Good. I want this under wraps until we know what impact it has on the investigation. Talk to the paramedics. Tell them I’ll arrest them for hindering an investigation if they talk about this. Get on the phone to James and tell him I’ll get him kicked back to Bootle if he breathes a word.”

  Nixon nodded and headed back for the ramp, leaving Payne alone under the pier. There had to be a rational explanation for this, something that would become immediately apparent when the sun came up.

  Payne heard voices and looked over to the ramp he’d used to get down to the beach. A small framed man was chatting to the uniform by the cordon entrance as he struggled into a crime scene suit.

  Payne smiled at the sight of the man.

  “Damn ungodly hour,” Charlie Harris said as he approached the detective.

  “Good to see you too,” Payne said, shaking the newcomer by the hand.

  “What's the story?” Charlie said as he placed his case on the ground. He whipped out a pair of gloves from a side pocket. “Accidental, suicidal, or the other?”

  “The other,” Payne replied, then before Charlie got down to examine the body felt compelled to interject. “Wait. There's something you should prepare yourself for.”

  “Don't worry about me Spencer, I've seen it all in my time—never lost my stomach yet.” And with that, Charlie Harris shone his torch to reveal the blank-faced victim.

  Charlie's back straightened. Payne thought he heard words muttered under his breath.

  “I told you to prepare yourself.”

  “Yes, it quite takes your breath away,” Charlie replied.

  Payne wasn't sure whether he was trying to make a joke.

  3

  A wet cloth touched his cheek and Max felt the first pull back towards consciousness. A voice he recognised muttered close by, but his waking brain couldn’t understand the words. Water dripped from his face and onto his shirt. When he tried to force his eyelids open, the bright light stung and a headache bloomed across his forehead like a bar fight behind his eyes. He shut them again and willed the pain away.

  Someone pressed a cup against his lips and delicious cold water spilled into his mouth. He gulped it down greedily, surprised at his thirst.

  Max tried once again to open his eyes and this time the pain was tolerable. An oval shape moved in front of his blurred vision and he blinked rapidly until the shape resolved itself into Cindy’s face.

  Immediately, he tried to stand but something tugged at his ankles and wrists and held him down.

  “It’s for your own good,” Cindy said phlegmatically.

  Panic fuelled by adrenaline made it easier to focus on the ropes tying him to the chair: his ankles too. Desperately, he tugged at the bindings but all he managed was to chafe his wrists.

  Cindy backed away and placed the wet flannel and glass of water on the kitchen table. She moved as in a trance, slowly and deliberately.

  “Let me go. Untie me and we can talk.” Max’s voice croaked like he’d just had his first cigarette of the day.

  “You laughed at me Max.” Her tone was as cold as the water soaking through Max's shirt and down his chest.

  “I need an ambulance.”

  “No, you’ll be fine. No ambulance.”

  “I’ve probably got concussion.”

  “You’ll live.”

  “Why am I tied up?”

  “I want to talk. I need a chance to explain before you leave me.”

  “I don’t want to listen to any explanations.”

  She reached behind her and a pair of scissors appeared in her hand. They were the mean looking scissors she used to chop up bacon and necks of lamb. Cindy sharpened them with zeal before every use.

  He suddenly felt very exposed.

  “You made me do it,” she said in a dull monotone, waving the scissors in his direction. “Just remember that whatever happens, this is down to you.”

  “What's down to me?”

  As she walked to the window, Max saw the tears in her eyes.

  The phone rang. Max spotted it on the work surface; Cindy had turned to look at it as well.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” Max asked.

  She glanced up and Max saw her ashen face, her hands gripping the work surface.

  “They’ll ring back.”

  The phone cut off.

  “I’m sorry for the way you found out. I swear I was going to tell you tonight but you didn’t give me the chance.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. “You’ve had plenty of chances. How long has it been going on?”

  “A year. Bit more maybe.”

  “And you love her?”

  “Yes,” he answered immediately, surprising himself with his confidence.

  The phone rang again. Cindy eyed it warily, then suddenly, she made a grab for the handset and thumbed the answer button.

  “I’m busy!” she yelled into the handset.

  Max took the moment’s distraction to test his bindings, and although tight he realised he could move his arms relatively freely; Cindy had only tied his wrists to each other and not to the back of the chair.

  “Sorry Mum. No, mum. I don’t need any help,” Cindy said then paused. “What would you know about it?” Another pause. “I can’t keep him from leaving. No. You’re wrong. He’s not like that. He just doesn’t realise what he’s doing a lot of the time. No, mum, I couldn’t do that.” She winked at Max then wandered out of the kitchen into the hall.

  Max felt like he’d been kicked in the balls. When Cindy acted like this, it was a good idea to get away, and stay away until she’d calmed down. He wriggled in his seat, testing the bindings again. The ropes on his wrists felt tough, but there was some give in them. He palmed his thumb and pulled tightly on his left hand. His skin burned with the friction but there was definitely movement, and with another few pulls it might come free. He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain in his wrist as he twisted it round for another attempt.

  But with all the pulling, he overbalanced and the chair screeched on the tiles. Max stopped what he was doing just as Cindy poked her head around the door, the phone still to her ear. Max stared blankly ahead, feigning ignorance until she ducked back out again, and then when she was out of sight, he braced himself for the pain and yanked hard. The rope slipped off—his hands were free.

  Quickly, he ducked down to untie his feet, then considered his options. The key was missing from the back door and wasn’t in its usual place in the bread bin.
Cindy’s voice carried in from the hall, more agitated than before, but he had no other option.

  He strode purposefully into the hall and Cindy’s face flared red when she saw him.

  “You’re not leaving.”

  “You’re not stopping me.”

  She dropped the phone, letting it bounce on the carpet, and barred Max’s path—the scissors in front of her.

  Max paused.

  “You’re not thinking clearly. Put them down.”

  “Mum said I should make you pay for cheating on me. She said I shouldn’t let you walk over me like Dad did to her.”

  “There’s been no walking over anyone. Look at yourself.” Max nodded at the scissors. “You’re not going to use those on me.”

  She sliced the air between them grinning, and Max had to step back quickly to avoid getting slashed.

  “So you’re not all that sure then are you? I thought you were going to leave.”

  Max hesitated but stayed silent. He was too busy staring at the scissors she held, watching as they caught glints of light. And there was that curious look in her eyes. For a moment an element of doubt entered Max’s mind. He’d seen his wife in a rage before and all he’d had to do was protect himself from a few flying fists. But, now, she looked so confident, like she was ready to cross the line.

  Cindy tilted her head to one side. “Come on Max, haven’t got all day.”

  “I’m not playing your stupid games anymore,” Max said and walked towards Cindy. A look of alarm crossed her face as he approached. “You’re not going to hurt me,” he said calmly.

  For a moment, he’d actually believed what he was telling her, as if telling a rabid dog to sit and stay would do any good.

  She swung the scissors towards him but Max grabbed her left wrist before they could become embedded in his arm. With a strength that surprised him, she pulled her arm free. The scissors arm swung again, swishing through the air in front of Max’s face. He raised his arm and batted hers aside, then grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her out of the way.

  “You’re not leaving!” She lunged and struck out with the scissors. A searing pain came from his shoulder. Without thinking, Max twisted and pushed her away. She stumbled backwards and almost fell, but she managed to catch her balance. She ran at Max, but he was ready, side-stepping her charge.

  Cindy fell and lay still, groaning.

  Max thought about just leaving her there. But he couldn’t.

  “Cindy, are you OK?”

  “Leave me alone. I don’t need you,” she said quietly.

  Max bent down and rolled her over, ready to help her to her feet, conscious that at any moment Cindy might just take the opportunity to strike. But all the fight had left Cindy, and she flopped to her side, her eyes staring off into the distance.

  Max saw why immediately.

  The scissors were now poking deep into Cindy's chest; she’d fallen on them. Cindy’s blood poured from her wound onto the hall carpet. She needed an ambulance, quickly.

  He heard a car pulling up outside the house, and then doors slammed and footsteps ran up the driveway. Max ran to the door before the visitors could ring the bell, thinking that whoever it was might be able to help until an ambulance arrived.

  On the other side of the door, a serious looking man held up a police warrant badge. “DI Payne, can we talk?”

  “Thank God. I need an ambulance.”

  The policeman peered into the house. “Get an ambulance,” he said to his colleague.

  “How did you know?” Max asked, confused.

  But the policeman didn’t answer. “Max Harding, I’m arresting you for the murder of Heather Hudson.”

  4

  DI Payne frowned. He sat behind the immaculately organised desk in his office, with his computer neatly off to the left and his in trays stacked over to the right. The screen was on but ignored. His email inbox listed a dozen unread messages, all marked important.

  A knock at the door and DS Nixon entered without being invited, his face pale, his eyes red. Nixon took the only spare chair in the office, looking uncomfortable as he lowered himself into the cushioned seat. He sat and tapped his fingertips together.

  Payne leaned back and ran his fingers through his short fine hair. “So what do you think?”

  “I dunno. It's not sunk in yet.”

  “Who's at the lab?”

  “PC Anders. He's on his own. I've told him to keep it that way.”

  “Good. I want to hear what Charlie has to say before we let word get out. Idle speculation never makes the force look good.”

  “Yeah. No problem. He won't say anything. Charlie said he'd call us when he's done. We should have his report by eleven.” Nixon yawned and moved his hand to cover it.

  Payne tried not to laugh at his colleague. He knew what it was like to be ambitious and full of the raw energy that drove you into their profession, only to have it slowly sucked out of you when the assignment came to Southport CID. But Nixon was bright, he wouldn't be here for much longer. Payne had heard on the grapevine that enquires had been made for vacancies at the Major Incident Team on Stanley Road.

  Payne got up from his chair and looked out the window where the clouds were forming in great grey masses.

  Nixon said, “Did we imagine all that this morning?”

  “I don't know how it's possible, just that I know what we saw.”

  “What did Taylor say?”

  “I haven't told him yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I want some answers to give him first.”

  “And the team out there?” Nixon waved his arm in the direction of the bodies moving around the newly established incident room.

  “Keep them busy. They'll be told soon enough. We wait for Charlie’s report.”

  Payne tucked the tail of his shirt back into his black trousers, noting as he did that he should probably get some new ones: these ones were hanging off him. “You need some caffeine,” Payne said and headed out into the operations room, Nixon followed like a well-trained gun dog.

  With the metal racks of box files lining the walls, and the storage boxes seemingly discarded at random sites around the room, spilling over with papers, the operations room felt more like a stock room than the heart of Southport CID. Payne had arranged for a few extra desks to be moved up from storage to help support the team that would be working out of here for the foreseeable future. It was going to be crowded.

  DC Sally Carter was busy on her computer but she managed a grim smile as Payne crossed the room. As far as Payne was concerned every office should have a Sally Carter. A smart girl, ambitious but respectful of her colleagues, and a sense of humour that would put most club comedians to shame. Sally stopped tapping at her keyboard and gave Payne her full attention.

  “What have forensics to say about Heather’s house?” Payne asked.

  “Definitely signs of a struggle. No signs of forced entry but the lounge was a mess. Max Harding’s prints are all over the place.”

  “So they knew each other?”

  “His number’s in her phone. There’s some men’s clothes in the bedroom, not enough to suggest anyone living there permanently, but enough to suggest a boyfriend.”

  “Max?”

  “It looks that way. Forensics say his prints are all over the house.”

  “Any idea what happened between the two of them? Anything unusual?”

  “Nothing that I saw. It looked a perfectly ordinary house. Homely apart from the scene of the struggle.”

  Nixon had picked up a giant cup of coffee from Carter’s desk and slurped from it. Carter gave him a disapproving glare then shook her head in mock disapproval.

  “Let’s get her dental records. Get them sent over to Charlie as soon as possible.”

  “Already on it Guv.”

  “I’m going over to the lab,” Payne murmured. “See if I can’t hurry Charlie along.”

  Payne glanced up at the ceiling, a fluttering in his belly. As he walke
d back to his office, the view from the window hadn’t changed, and the rain was coming down heavier than before.

  Payne waited for Charlie Harris to stop writing his notes. In front of them, on a steel examination table, was the naked body they'd pulled from the lake that morning. Payne looked at his feet.

  The heavens had opened on his short trip over from the station and without an umbrella he’d got drenched. Water dripped from him and on to the tiled floor. He smoothed a hand over his hair, trying to shape it into some semblance of order. The rain pelted the opaque windows and Payne felt uneasy.

  “In your own time Charlie,” Payne muttered.

  “I heard that,” Charlie said, placing his pen neatly beside his papers and picking up the file he'd just finished writing in.

  Charlie was wearing his usual green overalls. For a man in his fifties Charlie was looking after himself well. Still in good shape despite claiming never to do any exercise or watch what he ate; being around him always made Payne want to breathe in a bit. Payne's stomach rumbled and he shifted uncomfortably; the chocolate bar he'd grabbed for breakfast had barely touched his hunger and he was ravenous. Even the harsh sting of antiseptic hanging heavy in the air didn't put him off.

  “How is this possible Charlie?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I hoped at first that it was an artificial layer that had been grafted on to her face. But it’s not, it’s definitely skin. I can’t see any sign of surgery to suggest someone did this to her either. It’s like her skin has stretched over her features and fused together somehow, swallowing her up.”

  “Are you saying that this just happened?”

  “Nothing just happens. There’s always a cause if you dig deeply enough. What I am saying is that from this first examination, it doesn’t look like any foreign agents were used in making her this way. It’s like her own body turned against her.”

  “Well, we’ve got the boyfriend. He’s involved. We’ve got evidence. Even if he didn’t do this to her, he was involved in placing her under the pier. Hopefully, we’ll find out from him what happened to her. What are you listing as the cause of death?” Payne asked.