“LEAST WE CAN have a brew. Thank god for the emergency generator.” Stakowski peered out of the window. “Looks like the whole town’s blacked out. You OK?”
“Yeah, but the phone’s still dead. Mobile network’s still down too.”
“Power cut wouldn’t do that.”
“No. Damn. Can’t call the Bedstead back now.”
“Never all bad.”
“Ha.” Tinsel hanging from the ceiling. The Christmas tree in the corner. Dad and Morwenna would have one set up in the front room. Perfect couple. Except she was half his age. Daddy, how could you? The message he’d left; the quiet, resigned tone. She knew the face that went with that: lined, melancholy, gentle. Like Stakowski’s. Love you, Daddy. Hate you, Daddy.
“Looks like it came at a good time.”
“What?”
“The blackout. What did the Bedstead want?”
“What’s the radio reception like?”
“Joan–”
“What’s it like?”
“Sounds like it’s going through a sack of tinsel. Well?”
“I’m to fill out a report for DI Sherwood so he can take over.”
“What?”
“No focus. Flailing about. No evidence to link the cases. Ashraf’s pissed off at me for nosing in on his investigation. The Spindly Men were the final straw.”
“Christ.”
She didn’t answer.
“What’s he said about me?”
“What?”
“He’s said summat.”
“No.”
Stakowski pulled up a chair. “How long we known each other?”
“Four years?”
“Try five. Have I ever not backed you up?”
She looked down.
“Do I brown-nose for promotions?”
“No.”
“Who warned you Banstead would try and fuck you over?”
“You.”
“Who told you Janson’d been stirring the shit?”
“You.”
“I know how that bastard works. Oldest trick in the book. Divide and conquer. Ashraf’s not got a problem with you. Just not used to taking orders off a woman, that’s all. But he’s a professional, gets on with his job. So come on, what was said?”
“Nothing. Nothing specific or direct.”
“What was it?”
“Does it matter?”
“Might. Was it to do wi’ the Spindlies?”
“Yeah. You getting that library book out.”
“Banstead’s style. Throw something into the mix, make you think I’d gone behind your back. But–” He closed his eyes. “Tranter. Wayland didn’t want to talk in front of him.”
“What?”
“When he told me about Janson, at Shackleton Street, Wayland called me aside so Tranter wouldn’t hear. Thought it was cos he doesn’t like telling tales, even on Janson’s sort. Wayland’s loyal to folk he serves with. One reason I’ve a lot of time for him when he’s not being a poseur. But then I asked if there were owt else.”
“And?”
“He said no.”
“But?”
“Hesitated.”
“That doesn’t prove–”
“Did you tell anyone about that library book?”
“No. You?”
“Haven’t told a soul. But Tranter knew; he drove me to the library.”
“Tranter? But why?”
“He’s young. Ambitious. Doesn’t want to spend his career in the sticks. Banstead’s never gonna worry about Tranter wanting his job. He’s after a posting to Manchester, or the Met. Little bastard.”
“So he tells Banstead about the library book.”
“And the Bedstead gets you wondering if you can trust me.” She couldn’t meet Stakowski’s eyes. “So, what now?”
“Bastard can whistle out his arse for his report. We go through everything we’ve got. See if we can find something to go on.”
“OK.”
“So what did you find out about the Spindly Men?”
“A bit. There’s what I told you, obviously. They came from Hell, according to the legend. And like I said, they had no faces. They wanted faces of their own more than owt else, so if you could give ’em one, they’d do whatever you told them.”
“Give ’em one?”
“If you made them a mask to wear, for example.”
“Interesting–”
“There’s more. According to the tale, if they touched you, you saw Hell. And if that happened you’d either kill yourself or die of fright.”
“Like Hardacre?”
“Aye.” Light flashed through the window. “Ey up. Visitors.”
Outside, a man helped a woman out of a minicab. “They look well-to-do.”
“Have to be, pay a cabbie to go out in this.”
Footsteps thumped along the corridor outside. “Boss?” Crosbie stuck his head round the door. “You’re never gonna believe who’s just turned up.”
“Let me guess,” said Stakowski. “Allen bloody Cowell.”
“Jesus, sarge, you’re the one who should be on the telly.”
Stakowski stared at Crosbie; Crosbie looked at Renwick. “And he’s asking to see you personally, ma’am.”
Renwick breathed out. “Give me five minutes.”
“Ma’am.”
AN INTERVIEW ROOM. Three officers: Renwick, Stakowski and Crosbie. Two interviewees: Allen Cowell and Vera Latimer.
Cowell had come in looking pale, shaken. Not anymore. He took a deep breath, composed himself. He had an audience now.
Stakowski looked down at his A4 pad. He hadn’t written on it; wasn’t likely to. But it beat looking at Cowell.
“I cancelled tonight’s show in Liverpool because I had a vision.”
“A vision,” said Renwick.
“A message, if you prefer. Do you know what a spirit guide is?”
“I watch television, Mr Cowell.”
“Then you’re familiar with my show.”
“Not my cup of tea.”
Crosbie chuckled. The sister glared at him. Hard bitch, that one. But you’ve read the case files, Mike. What they went through. Show some pity.
But he’d heard all the excuses in the world for being a bastard. Daddy never loved me; mummy locked me in the cellar. After a while you sickened of them. And besides, he couldn’t get past Laney. Couldn’t.
Well, try. Act like a bloody professional. He’s part of this somehow. Try and see how. For her if not yourself, or for the kiddie.
“But,” said Renwick, “I understand the concept.”
“Mine told me I had to come back here. When I arrived, they sent me to Shackleton Street. Which was where I experienced–”
“This ‘vision’,” Stakowski said.
Cowell sighed. He sounded bored, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “There are always sceptics. Very close-minded way of looking at the world. You need to open your mind, Sergeant.”
The sister smirked. Stakowski’s fists clenched beneath the table.
“All very well, Mr Cowell,” said Renwick. “But we do need evidence that can be used in a court of law.”
“I appreciate that, Inspector.”
“Chief Inspector.”
“But what if I could point you in the right direction? Show you where to look? Because you aren’t getting far at the moment, are you?”
“Oh, aren’t I?”
“Four missing persons. Tahira Khalid. Danielle Morton. Ben Rawlinson. And... ah, yes, Roseanne Trevor.”
Silence. Was she taking him seriously? Banstead would rip her apart if she did. Cowell was bad enough, but if he endangered her career–
“What if I told you something the general public hadn’t been told?”
Renwick folded her arms.
“The Spindly Men made Pete Hardacre tear his own eyes out before his heart burst.”
Renwick went still.
No, you bastard. You’ll not fleece her like your kind did me. Sod the case
files. Sod what happened to you. You won’t.
He clapped, slowly. “Not bad. Quite impressive. Who’d you pay off?”
“Mike,” said Renwick.
She had to see Cowell for the fake he was. “A copper? Someone in Forensics? Some poor gullible sod who’ll help you out if you give ’em a message from the dear departed? What’s the plan? Give your sales a boost?”
“Mike, that’s enough.”
Christ. Losing control. He was supposed to be a professional. Vera looked ready to fly at him. Take the girl out of Shackleton Street, but you’d never take Shackleton Street out of the girl.
Cowell’s face was twitching. Scared, close to panic. The sister leant forward, reached for him. Then his eyelids fluttered shut. His eyes rolled underneath. Cowell’s head dipped forward. Great. Here came the amateur dramatics.
“Mr Cowell–”
Cold, suddenly. Central heating must be on the blink.
White breath poured from Cowell’s mouth, and he spoke. “Elaine Rudleigh. She was a paramedic. You called her Laney.”
The moment where it mightn’t have been said; the moment where he realised it had been. The hollow feeling in his stomach. The roaring in his ears. Shock, disbelief. And then the rage.
“April 15th, 1998.” Cowell opened his eyes, smiled. He looked tired, relieved, and triumphant. “The baby would’ve been a girl.”
The next Stakowski knew, he was coming round the table, making for Cowell. Vera was on her feet. Renwick too – “Mike!” – but he wasn’t stopping, even for her. His fist went back. Cowell looked up at him and said: “Paul Marshall. July the 12th, 1999.”
The roaring in his ears became a wind. Any second it’d sweep him away. Nobody. Nobody alive knew that. He looked down at Cowell; Cowell looked up at him with a cold, flinty smile. You wanted a fight? You got one.
Renwick put a hand on his arm, waved back the sister with the other.
Stakowski pulled away. Christ. What kind of a copper are you? But of course he knew. Laney. Marshall. He wasn’t fit to hold the warrant card, wear the uniform. He blundered to the door, wrenched it open, ran out.
RENWICK FOUND STAKOWSKI sat on the concrete steps outside the station’s side entrance, shoulders slumped, head bowed forward, a cigarette smoked almost to the filter. For the first time, he really did look old.
She waited. Not long; it was cold. “Mike.”
“How do, lass.” She could barely hear him. He didn’t look up.
“Do you want to tell me what just happened there?”
He dropped the cigarette stub, lit a fresh one. “You saw.”
“Yeah. Believing it’s another matter.”
Silence. “Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll tell you.”
She sat beside him.
“Laney were a paramedic here in Kempforth. Met her back in ’94, when I were a probationer – got called out to a bad RTA. Not exactly the stuff of romance, picking up body parts and cutting survivors out of the wreckage. But, her and me hit it off. One thing led to another. Got married in ’96. Same year I transferred to CID.”
“You were married? You never said anything about–”
“Not summat I like dwelling on, lass.” His voice was a whisper.
“What happened?”
“Early ’98, she tells me she’s up duff.” A half-smile. “Bloody shat a brick at first. But after that – aye, I were happy with it. And then two weeks later, some bastard junkie stabs her six times. Eighteen bastard hours they tried to save her. They didn’t manage.”
“Mike–”
“She was always the one said folk like that were sick, needed help. I’d always just thought they were scumbags. Sell their own kids to a bloody paedo for the next fix. Laney taught me different. But then you see the damage fuckers like that do.”
“When... when did this happen?”
“Oh, April 15th, just like he said. Wherever he gets his info from, he’s good.”
Renwick almost asked about the baby. Didn’t.
“Went off the rails after that. Drink, mostly. Lower than I’d been in my whole bloody life. Even worse than when mam died.” He chain-lit another cigarette. “I started going to Spiritualist meetings. I were raised Catholic, but I’d lapsed years ago. Just wanted... just wanted to speak to her.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway. Couple of mediums got a lot of money out of me with ‘private sessions’ before I cottoned onto them. Parasites, bloody lot of them. Bleed folk white when they’re grieving and vulnerable. There’s not much lower than that. So I know Cowell’s sort, and I bloody hate the bastards. He’s so bastard fake you can clock it a mile off, but folk still think he’s for real–”
“What about the other date?”
“You sure you want to know?”
“Mike.”
“I’m trusting you, Joan.”
“Tell me.”
“Alright.” He trod his cigarette out half-smoked. “Paul Marshall.”
“Was he–?”
“Guess.”
“The junkie.”
“Gold star.”
“And July 12th 1999?” Stakowski didn’t answer. “If he was caught and charged at the time–”
“He was.”
“He’d have been sentenced by then.”
“They got it down to manslaughter. Can you believe that? Not responsible for his actions. Reduced sentence. Wasn’t even double figures. Think that’s what did it. Or maybe nowt would’ve been enough. I had... a friend. In the prison service.”
“Mike–”
“You asked. I’m telling you. He’s dead now, anyway. But he let me know that if I felt the sentence handed down to Paul Marshall was... unequal to the gravity of the crime... something could be done about it. An accident could be arranged. If I just said the word.”
“And did you?”
“Laney meant everything to me. And then there was the kid.” Stakowski half-withdrew another cigarette, put it back. “If I had it do all over again... I dunno. But you can’t take it back, once it’s done.”
“So he had an accident?”
“On July 12th, 1999. Nasty one, too. Didn’t die particularly fast, or so I understand. Great loss to humanity, I’m sure. Would’ve found a cure for cancer and everything.” He glanced her way. “I know. Not the point.”
“No.” The wind blew.
Stakowski stared at the ground. “So what happens now?” She could barely hear him.
“Well, you can start by making me a brew, you old goat.” He looked up. “You don’t get out of putting the kettle on that easily.”
“Slavedriver.”
“Yep.” She took his hand. It was leathery, knuckly and cold.
“Aye. Come on. Get piles sitting here.”
She held the door for him. “You gonna be OK?”
“I’ll make it. Probably best not go back in there, though.”
“Happen, sarge.”
“Taking piss?”
“Aye.”
Stakowski laughed.
“Mike?” Sergeant Graham called as they reached reception. “You alright, mate?” She looked from him to Renwick and back again.
“I’m fine, Joyce.”
“You sure?”
“Aye, love, I’m alright.”
Graham bit her lip. “Boss? Someone else asking for you.”
“Oh?” She turned, saw a thin blonde woman. “Ms Mason.” And some big lummox with her–
“Mr Griffiths,” said Stakowski.
“Hi.” She was pale, but determined too, in a way she hadn’t been before. Angry, almost. “I’ve got some information you might find helpful.”
“Mike, can you–?”
“Of course.” He pulled himself up, breathed out. “You can rely on me.”
“I know.”
He smiled, turned. “This way, Ms Mason.”
THE INTERVIEW ROOM had breezeblock walls and a wiry green carpet. They sat at a chipped, scored table; Stakowski passed out cups of tea. �
��Here we go.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Now then. Fire away.”
“There’s a lot of information.” She took the file from her shoulderbag. “Not really sure where to start.”
“Tell him about–”
“Let’s give your sister room to breathe here, Mr Griffiths. How about we start at the beginning?”
She took two photographs from the file, pushed them across the desk. “Do these look at all familiar?”
He went utterly still. “Aye, lass. They do. So just what the hell are they?”
She wasn’t nervous anymore; she was calm, even euphoric. She leant forward, fingers steepled, and began to speak.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“ANYTHING?” RENWICK ASKED.
Cowell put the Shackleton Street photo back down on the desk. “Standard publicity photo,” he said. “Send out dozens of these every week.”
“No way to trace an individual one?”
“Sorry. These symbols, though...”
“What about them?”
“They’re occult in origin. That’s a pentacle, there, five-pointed star. And this one...” he tapped a symbol composed of five zig-zag lines radiating from a central point, “is a old pagan religious symbol. It’s called the Black Sun.”
“Miss Latimer?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You looked–”
“Fine.” Vera stared back at Renwick. At least she wasn’t smirking anymore; she had been ever since Cowell had driven Stakowski out. Crosbie looked from one of them to the other.
“I think it’s a kind of charm,” Cowell said at last. “Meant to draw me there somehow.”
“To Kempforth, or to that house?”
“The choice of location’s hardly accidental.”
“Sorry?”
“We grew up there,” said Vera. “In that exact house. And no, Chief Inspector. Our childhood was not happy.”
“They said...” Cowell began. “I was told to ask to see the things you found at Shackleton Street.”
“What things are those, Mr Cowell?”
“I don’t know. I was told only to ask to see them.”
“By whom, Mr Cowell?”
“My spirit guides.”
Crosbie sighed.
“Your spirit guides,” said Renwick. “Of course. Forgot.”
“I’m sure Sergeant Stakowski could testify to their accuracy.”
The Faceless Page 13