The Faceless

by Simon Bestwick

  Renwick laughed. Stakowski chuckled; after a moment, Ashraf smiled too.

  “A dealer and junkie,” she said. “Bit of luck, we can ID him off fingerprints.”

  “Bloke in the kitchen had grey hair,” said Stakowski, “head and chest. The Ben Rawlinson I know’s only twenty-odd.”

  “That matches the neighbours’ description,” said Ashraf. “Hardacre’s in his forties, with long hair. Big man.”

  “Most likely him, then.” Stakowski leant back against the wall.

  “Let’s get a formal ID first. You know what they say about assumptions.”

  “The mother of all fuckups, ma’am. I do believe it was me taught you that.”

  Renwick raised two fingers. “So what’s the connection to Roseanne Trevor?”

  “Or Tahira Khalid,” said Stakowski. Renwick gave him a long look; he held her gaze.

  “Or Tahira Khalid,” she said at last.

  Ashraf stubbed his cigarette out on the window frame, pocketed the dimp. “Did you see the flat door?”

  “Solid steel,” Renwick nodded. “Standard dealer issue. Gives you enough time to flush your stash before the old dibble get in.”

  “‘Old dibble’, ma’am?”

  “Shut up, Stakowski.”

  “The neighbours called us when they heard screaming and crashing around,” Ashraf said. “That’s something in itself – most people here would cut their own arms off before ringing the police. The old man next door had his eye to the spyhole all the time – he says nobody left. We had to break the door down.”

  “They’d have to go past his flat to reach the staircase?”

  “Absolutely. There’s no other way.”

  “In which case,” Stakowski said, “where did they go? Out of the window?”

  “It’s the only other way out.”

  “And the windows were shut,” said Renwick. “And then what? Abseil down? Climb in through a window below? They get picked up in a helicopter? What?”

  “I think a helicopter would have been noticed,” said Ashraf.

  “With two hostages,” Stakowski said, “both presumably doped up. And the big question: why kidnap these two to begin with?”

  “Locked-room mystery,” said Renwick. “Bloody hate them. So two people vanish into thin air and a third hacks his own face off with steak knives. Anything else? Raining frogs? Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?”

  “There was one other thing,” said Ashraf. “Might not be relevant.”

  “What?”

  “Residents report seeing the Spindly Men in the forecourt outside, before this happened.”

  Renwick took a deep breath, let it out again. “OK. Anything you find, copy us in on. Forward it to DC Crosbie.”

  “You think it’s connected, then?”

  “Think so. But god knows how.”

  “Speak frankly, ma’am?”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “We’re overstretched already. You’ve got seven officers – including you, me and Dave – overseeing two investigations. Now you want to make it three?”

  “It’s Ashraf’s investigation, Mike. We’re pooling information, that’s all.”

  “Boss, they’re not convinced we’re going in the right direction as it stands.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  “No. Janson was gobbing off about having to do the Khalid case all by herself.”

  “What you’d expect.”

  “Aye, but that’s a point too. She’s easily the weakest officer on the team, and she’s all Dave’s got to work with in the field.”

  “Yeah, I just–”

  “Didn’t want her messing up the Trevor case?”

  Renwick didn’t answer.

  “We’re overstretched as it is. Add this case to the load, you’ll make it worse.”

  “I can handle Janson.”

  “Sod Janson. It’s Banstead I’m thinking of. He gets a sniff there’s trouble at t’mill, he’ll throw you to the wolves. You know that.”

  “Wanna know something, Mike?”

  “Alright.”

  “I don’t give a shit, as long as we find Roseanne Trevor alive.”

  “And Tahira Khalid?”

  “Yes, her too.”

  “But Roseanne Trevor most of all.”

  “Yes! Alright?”

  “Is it though, boss? Alright, I mean?”

  “What do you want from me, Mike?”

  He was silent.

  “I can’t handle another Julie Baldwin, Mike. Just can’t.”

  “Boss–”

  “I know. I’m supposed to be objective. I’m being as objective as I can. But there is a link. I’m sure of that.”

  “Well... not me you’ve got to convince.”

  “You’re not happy, Mike, put in for a transfer. Or tell Banstead to pull me off the case.”

  “Don’t talk wet.” He was silent for a while. “Anyroad. Cracked the whip on Janson back at the station. Told her you knew what you were doing and to shut up and get on with the job.”

  Pause. “Thanks, Mike.”

  “Any time.”

  “No. Thank you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MANCHESTER, SEVEN-THIRTY PM. The city centre was almost quiet; a lull between tides. The office workers had gone (except those who’d gone straight to the pub from work) and the late-night revellers were yet to arrive in force. The closest Vera came to liking the bastard North was times like this, when it seemed no-one was there.

  Outside the Opera House, Christmas lights glowing all along Quay Street, she smoked a cigarette and yearned for home; the house on the Downs, where nobody spoke with a Lancashire burr or said thee or thou. That was home now. Not here.

  In a few hours there’d be men bellowing threats at each other in the street; girls crying on steps, vomiting in gutters. Bestial: drink, fuck, fight, puke. The bastard North. The black sun.

  For an instant the hand that held the cigarette looked like a bird’s claw. She blinked, and it was a hand again. But she could see the skin drawn tight across the bones, the veins raised. Age always showed in the throat and hands, the wrists. God. How many years left? Morbid thoughts. It was coming back here that did it. This place. Everything she’d fled from was here; she could gladly turn her back on it, never return. But for Allen it was different. He came back, always, year on year.

  “Got to do it, sis,” he’d say. “Our bread and butter, this neck of the woods.” And yes, the pickings up here were rich, every time. But that wasn’t it, not really. He was like a moth, circling a lamp. Or a tongue probing a wound, unable to leave it alone to heal as best it might. They’d go to Manchester, to Liverpool – even, once, to Blackburn. But never to the heart of it; never to Shackleton Street and Adrian Walsh. Never to the Dunwich. Never to Kempforth. Orbiting the black sun, never flying into it. She could live with that. She thought.

  There was a steel box on the wall for spent cigarettes. Vera ground out the last of her Sobranie, dropped the extinguished stub into the box and went back inside. Tiny embers danced in the air, died before they touched the ground.

  TEN TO EIGHT. Backstage. Everything was ready. Vera heard the murmuring from the stalls. They loved him here. All those cow’s eyes, pleading. Tell me. About my mother, my father. My brother, my sister. My daughter, my son. She could feel the force of their need even from here. On stage it must be like a wind, dragging you every way at once, threatening to tear you apart.

  Best go check on Allen. No. Not best go. Better go. She’d taken the elocution lessons too, even though she didn’t perform for audiences. She’d just wanted it gone from every part of her – Kempforth, the Dunwich, the bastard North. She tapped on the dressing-room door.

  “Who is it?” High and choked with panic.

  “Vera.”

  “Come in.”

  Inside, Allen was staring at his reflection. He wore a light blue suit jacket and trousers, a white roll-neck sweater. A difficult colour to wear, but it gave the right image. B
esides, he worked out, ran every day, ate right. Vera made sure of it. A small gold cross at his throat. A thin gold bracelet on his wrist. Black hair with little traces of silvery-grey.

  His forehead gleamed. She picked up a powder puff; he flinched away. “Don’t fuss, woman.” A trace of Lancashire in his voice too. Always was, when he was stressed. Stage fright. Christ, if only that was all it was.

  “Just making sure you look right.”

  “I’m fine, for Christ’s sake. Fussing over me like a bloody mother hen.” His breathing was ragged. She took his hand; he pulled away. She took it again, stroked the back of it with her thumb.

  “You’ll be OK.”

  “Don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he whispered.

  He said it every time, but it always sent a twinge through her. This was all they had, why they had the house on the Downs, the Bentley, the Land Rover, the servants – servants, for two Dunwich kids like them. Lose it, and what remained?

  “You’ll be fine,” she said. And he would. His breathing had slowed and deepened. His forehead was dry now. He was calming.

  They had money in bank accounts. A share portfolio. Gold in a safe at home. It could all be lost, this way or that. Starting as low as they had, could she ever be sure of not falling back? Could they ever be high enough for that? Vera closed her eyes, squeezed his hand hard; perhaps for her there could never be enough distance. She was killing him, for money.

  “I’ll be right there,” she said. “I’ve got us a table booked later. Or back to the hotel. Whichever you want.”

  One day, perhaps, he could stop. Maybe. Before this killed him. When she was sure they were safe. Then they could rest, enjoy the fruits of their labours. The best care for him, to help him heal. Until then, this had to carry on. Nights like this. The fear and the calming. The nightmares and the comfort. Binding him tighter to the killing wheel.

  But then, it wasn’t just her binding him there. So many thought him a liar and a fraud. And sometimes – even often – he was. But not always. And that, even more than her, wouldn’t let him rest.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Nah.” Then he grinned. “But what the hell, let’s crack on anyway, eh?”

  She laughed softly, and kissed the back of his hand.

  IN THE LIGHTING box, she watched. A couple of the lighting techies glanced her way, then looked back at the stage below.

  “Thank you – all of you – for coming here tonight. I know why you’ve come. Why you all come. You’re looking for answers...”

  She tried to relax; her part was done. She handled publicity photos and press releases, tax returns, website updates and investments; this part was Allen’s.

  “First,” he said, “there’s no such thing as death. If you’ve come to one of these before you’ll know that. If it’s your first time, that’s what you have to understand. All that happens when we ‘die’ is that we abandon a garment. That’s all our physical bodies are. What we are – what we truly are – can never die, only change form. We’re all sparks; sparks of divine light. That’s what we truly are, and death frees us to exist wholly at that level. And that level is the world... of spirit.” He smiled. “When you come down to it, it’s just a change of address.”

  Laughter. Vera scanned the audience for potential hecklers: militant atheists or religious maniacs, come to brand Allen a fake or the Devil’s spawn. And the biggest fear, of course – the one who’d come to wound with more than words.

  He’s a fucking angel, you bastards. If you knew what he’d suffered, how damaged he still is. You bastards. You want to send us back to that, or never have left it. You’re no better than Fitton or Walsh, or the copper, or that fucking priest.

  “We can’t see the world of spirit,” Allen said, “but we can’t see infra-red or ultra-violet light. Or radio waves. Are they any less real? Of course not. They just exist on a frequency beyond our normal aural or visual range. My only talent is that I can hear – sometimes see – slightly higher, or lower, frequencies than most people. That’s all it is. And because of that, the departed will come to me, at times such as this, because they’re aware of my gift, and know their loved ones are here too, seeking knowledge and reassurance.”

  Vera bit her lip, pressed a knuckle to her chin.

  Allen closed his eyes; his ragged breathing echoed through the theatre, amplified by the microphone on his lapel. His eyes, Vera knew from past experience, would be rolling under their lids. And then he began to speak.

  AFTER THE SHOW, the round of autographs and book signings. Requests for private readings went to Vera, who explained the pay rates, checked the diary and made the appointments. It took up time; it was close to eleven when they were done, which was why she’d booked the restaurant for that time.

  “Still want to eat?” she asked.

  Allen grinned. “Thought you’d never ask. Bloody starving.”

  They ate at Savjani’s in Rusholme, on the Curry Mile; it offered both discretion and an upstairs room for privacy. Vera picked over her chicken biryani while Allen shovelled down lamb madras, pilau rice, and two garlic naans.

  “Gym for you tomorrow, my lad,” she said.

  He laughed, but the charge was already ebbing out of him. By half-twelve he was flagging, eyelids starting to sag. She called a taxi and steered him to it.

  The performances often did this to him; euphoric at first, then crashing suddenly into sheer exhaustion. Performances, yes; of course none of it was real, and thank Christ for that. Tonight it had all been an act; a spectacular piece of improvisation, nothing more. Vera had seen the real thing; seen it, and what it did to him. She and only she knew it when she saw it; even Allen didn’t seem to anymore. He believed his own lies. And that couldn’t be healthy either. He needed to get out of this, to retire and rest. Everything pointed to that. And he would. He would. She promised he would, and soon. Just not yet. Not quite yet.

  Back at the hotel, she helped him to their twin room. She helped Allen off with shoes and trousers, jacket and shirt, unclipped his watch and bracelet and put them on the bedside table. Allen’s eyes were closed already, but still she took her nightdress into the bathroom to change for bed; they’d known one another all their lives, and shared a home throughout, but still, there was decorum to observe.

  SUDDENLY, ALLEN’S WIDE awake. He blinks. The room is silent. That’s not right. It’s Friday night in Manchester; something should be filtering in from outside, however faint and distant. But he hears nothing. Not even Vera’s snores. He looks: yes, she’s there, in the opposite bed. Asleep and snoring, but he can’t hear her, not now.

  The digital clock at his bedside gives the time as zero. The red numbers on its screen don’t blink; it hasn’t reset after a power cut. They’re frozen at zero, not moving at all.

  And so he knows. He did already, of course. That thick smothering silence always means the same thing.

  The boys are back in town.

  A half-smile dies on his lips. It isn’t funny. It’s never funny. Mark and Sam and Johnny aren’t funny. None of it is. None of it was.

  Nothing dies. Nothing. And sometimes that’s no comfort to anybody.

  They’re waiting, patiently, as they always do, for him to look; for him to see.

  This is the price; this is the toll. The Sight’s lifted him out of poverty, given him wealth and comfort. But this is the price.

  Allen rolls onto his back, closes his eyes. The covers make no sound. He releases a deep breath that no-one hears. Then he sits up and opens his eyes.

  They stand at the foot of the bed, red tear-marks on their pale cheeks. They cried a lot, before they died. All of them.

  Sam speaks first. Sam was nine. Wiry and brown-haired, jug-eared, but with that cocky, cheeky look to him. Some of Walsh’s punters had liked that. Sam had been the cunning one; he knew how to please the punters, make them happy. He’d shielded the other kids sometimes, but at others he’d let them get the worst of it, to save himself pain. They
didn’t judge him for that. And it hadn’t saved him, anyway, in the end.

  Sam’s lips move. There’s no sound, but Allen hears, feels it; the words seem to print themselves, in dully burning red, on the fuzzy darkness of the small-hours room: You abandoned us. You left us to die.

  Allen shakes his head. He’d been a child. A child.

  Johnny speaks next. Johnny was the posh lad – a little bookworm in his glasses – and the eldest after Allen, ten years old at his death. He still wears his glasses. The lenses are cracked. He was the quiet one. Tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. Part of the fun for Walsh and his friends was proving to him it was.

  Johnny’s lips move. So were we. And you left us to the Shrike.

  Hours seem to pass as he sits there without any answer. In the morning, in the light, he’ll tell himself over and over how he lives to put what happened right, to atone for his failure, until he believes it. But no donations to the NSPCC, to Save The Children will save him from the times like this, when the years fall away and he’s one of them again; four boys, naked, bound and gagged in a cold, reeking cellar while the Shrike circles round them in the darkness, whispering.

  This is how they were, before. There’s that much mercy, at least. He’s seen them as they looked after death – hours, weeks or months later. But tonight, he knows, looking from face to bleak, solemn face, there are worse things than them to see.

  Mark speaks last of all. Mark was the littlest, at eight years old. Fair hair, large blue eyes. They’d all tried to shield him, when they could. Of all of them, he’d been most like Allen himself – no defences, none of Sam’s cunning or Johnny’s ability to wish himself away; everything exposed, an open wound walking, but younger. A delight to the likes of Fitton. Walsh. The masked copper. Father Joe. Always popular, Mark; always in demand.

  Mark’s lips move. We have something to show you, he says, and turns his back. They all do. Facing the far wall, where the shadows have thickened and Allen sees only formless black.