The Faceless

by Simon Bestwick

  At last he slept. He wouldn’t wake again now, not until morning. I need a drink. I need something. Disentangling herself from him was a slow, careful job, but she managed. She was damp with their mingled sweat, and other fluids too. She felt filthy. Fouled. What decent woman would ever want her, if she knew? The shower, she decided, wouldn’t wake him.

  DRESSED, ANNA APPLIED makeup, brushed her hair. She’d let it dry naturally. She studied her reflection, nodded. “You’ll do.”

  Go downstairs, have a drink. She doubted anything would happen. Not in Kempforth. Should have moved back to Manchester a long time ago. Well, there was nothing to stop her going at weekends, if she made it through tomorrow. Get the train or the bus. Even stay overnight, maybe. A hotel, or somewhere else if she got lucky...

  She picked up her handbag. Christ. At the end of the day, Anna, if you actually think having a drink in the hotel bar is adventurous, then god help you.

  A last glance in the mirror, and she went out.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LIKE STAKOWSKI, BANSTEAD lived in a converted farmhouse in the hills above the town. In the dark, in the fog, the drive had been a nightmare, but now they were here.

  His living room was cold despite the log fire lighting it. The stone-flagged floor didn’t help. Spartan, too; there were crosses and religious icons on the walls, not much else. No Christmas decorations, even. No photographs of Mrs Banstead either; she’d left years before.

  Banstead huddled in his armchair in dressing-gown and pyjamas, hot water bottle hugged to his chest. He was in his fifties. A shaved head to hide baldness; pasty skin and pale, bulbous eyes. Cheeks becoming jowls, a pursed smug mouth. He looked diminished. Sat in the opposite armchair, Renwick thought of the Great Oz, finally unmasked as a shabby old man.

  “Sorry to have to disturb you, sir,” she lied. “But the phones were still down and as you can see, there’ve been developments.”

  “Yes.” Banstead looked up at the ceiling. “Give me a moment.”

  “Sir.” Renwick waited. Banstead coughed hard. She glanced at Stakowski, stood by the sofa, then back to Banstead. He looked up, gave a weak, insincere smile.

  “My confidence in you clearly wasn’t misplaced,” he said at last.

  Renwick kept a straight face somehow, waited.

  “So. As well as the four previous mispers, we’ve now evidence that the kidnappers have claimed other victims.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And have been operating in Kempforth far longer than we thought.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “And indeed, these... Spindly Men are linked to the case. And Ash Fell.” He shook his head. “That place.”

  “You’d heard of Ash Fell, sir?”

  “Of course I’d heard of it, Chief Inspector–” a renewed bout of coughing “–but even I thought the place had been demolished. There’ll be hell to pay with someone at the council over this.” Banstead got up and shuffled to the drinks cabinet. “A drink, Joan?”

  “Just a small one, sir.”

  “Sergeant?”

  “Designated driver, I’m afraid, sir.”

  “Ah well.” Banstead handed Renwick a glass. “Very fine single malt, this. Well... you were right, I was wrong. Let’s say no more about it.”

  “Of course, sir. Ash Fell’s a big place. We don’t know how many people we’ll be dealing with and we’re short-staffed. So I’d be tempted to request outside support.”

  Banstead’s face twitched. Direct hit on his raw nerve.

  “But on the other hand, I’m loath to delay. We still don’t know exactly what the Spindlies want the kidnap victims for. And there’s the risk they might abandon Ash Fell if we don’t move quickly.”

  Banstead licked his lips. “Yes, I see.”

  “So my plan’s this. Get as many qualified AFOs together as we can, draw firearms and get out to Ash Fell first thing tomorrow. At the same time – if comms aren’t restored – I’ll send officers out by road, request some additional bodies from one of the neighbouring forces. With your permission, of course.”

  “It’s your investigation, Chief Inspector. I trust your judgement.”

  Translation: it’s still your neck if it goes wrong. But she could live with that if it stopped Roseanne Trevor becoming another Julie Baldwin. Renwick sipped her whisky; it tasted like burning earth. Definitely a male thing, she decided.

  “Hadn’t had a chance to speak to DI Sherwood about the investigation. Won’t be necessary now. Joan?”

  “Sir?”

  “This could be a damn good result, careerwise.”

  “Sir.”

  “Hate to lose you, but I suspect it’s only a matter of time. Promotional opportunities around here are thin on the ground.”

  We’ll see about that. “Sir.”

  THE HOTEL BAR was lit by candles on the tables, until about ten o’clock, when the lights came back on. The half-dozen guests still there blinked and squinted; the bar staff went table to table snuffing the candles out, although they were left in place for now. Outside, the Christmas lights swung from the lampposts in low gusts of wind.

  Anna had picked a quiet little table in the corner, good for people-watching. A couple had been cuddling in another corner, kissing occasionally. One had long hair, the other short. It was only now that she saw they were both women. The long-haired one was more self-conscious now. The more girlish of the two; the femme. The butch drew her close, kissed her mouth. Anna saw the fight in the femme’s body, between wanting to yield and the fear of being seen. Don’t let me stop you, girls. She tried not to look. But did.

  A woman came in. Tall, elegant. My type. She went to the bar. Anna looked back at the couple. They’d drawn apart now. The butch was frowning, hands on hips. The femme’s head was bowed. Arguing in low voices; she knew the sound. Don’t argue. Don’t fight. Don’t be afraid like I was. Am. Be happy. Show me the way. The butch’s eyes met hers. Look somewhere else. Anna glanced over at the bar.

  The tall woman was looking at her. Yellow, catlike eyes.

  Anna blinked. It was Vera Latimer.When had she seen Anna? And how much had she seen? Vera mimed taking a drink, raised her eyebrows. Anna nodded, mouthed dry white wine. Vera nodded back, turned to the barman.

  She’d had a glass already, drunk it too fast; she wasn’t used to drinking alone anymore. She’d have to make this one last longer. Too much, too quick. She’s just being friendly; she doesn’t know anyone here. Doesn’t mean she’s a dyke. Don’t make a fool of yourself.

  Anna blinked and looked down. When she looked up, Vera was coming over.

  VERA DIDN’T GET out much on the gay scene. It was acceptable now, but hadn’t been back then, not with Alan to take care of. Oh it had been legal, but she’d felt herself on thin ice as it were, a girl her age looking after Alan. If they’d known she was a lesbian, Social Services would have taken him off her in nothing flat. Put him in a home.

  Alan then; Allen now. Allen; always Allen.

  Or maybe not. Maybe she’d been paranoid about it. Old habits died hard. They still did: she rarely went out cruising for it. There was an escort agency she used; she couldn’t get into a relationship. Daren’t. Because of Allen. No-one else could know what went on between them. Keep everything separate. Strict little compartments. No-one getting too close.

  Alan then; Allen now. Allen; always Allen.

  Anyway, she had pretty good gaydar, knew another dyke when she saw one. Anna Mason hid it well, but Vera hadn’t had to see her eyeing up the two girls in the corner to know, although it had provided the final confirmation. They couldn’t go back to her room, of course, but they could to Anna’s. Well... see how things went.

  And if Allen woke alone in the dark tonight?

  Then just this once, sod him.

  “Hi.”

  “Hello.”

  “Couldn’t sleep either?” Anna asked. A weak smile. She looked better now. A little makeup, not much, just enough to make the differenc
e. Her hair was loose and had a shaggy look – she’d let it dry naturally.

  “Pretty much,” Vera said. Better than the truth.

  They sat in silence for a while. The two girls in the corner went out, holding hands. The butch tilted her chin up, looking round as if asking yes, and do you have a problem?; the femme looked down, shy, uncomfortable. Anna watched them go.

  “Something you didn’t used to see round here,” Vera said.

  Anna giggled, nervous. “Still don’t, much.”

  Vera smiled and studied her. Anna coloured, looked down.

  “Have you always lived here?”

  “Pretty much. Well, most of... actually, no.”

  “Make your mind up, woman.”

  A shy smile. “No. Just feels like forever sometimes. I grew up here.” Didn’t sound like it. The brother, though – he’d sounded Northern. Maybe this one had done better for herself. “Lived away when I was at University. And when I was married.”

  “You were married?”

  “Hard to believe?”

  “No. Not at all.” Vera looked very directly at her. A few long seconds of silence where Anna seemed to be nothing but two rather pretty, very wide hazel eyes. Rabbit in the headlights. Vera broke eye contact to put her out of her misery, picked up her wine glass.

  “I was at college with him.”

  “Studying what?”

  “History.”

  “Should’ve guessed.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Before. All the work you’d done on Ash Fell.”

  “Well, it’s, you know, very interesting.”

  Vera smiled, ran a fingertip around the rim of her glass. “Sorry, I interrupted you.”

  “Mm? Oh, Peter. My husband. Ex. Nice guy, really. We just... weren’t suited.”

  “So you came back here?”

  “About... God, about eight years now. Wasn’t supposed to last this long.”

  “What happened?” Let her talk; better discussing her past than Vera’s. Everyone had skeletons in the closet, but hers was more of an ossuary.

  “Well, after the divorce... Peter got a job overseas he’d been after for a while. Sold the house, split the money. All very amicable, really.”

  “Unusual, these days.”

  “Like I said, he was a good guy. We just weren’t–”

  “Right for each other.” Vera kept up eye contact. “You said.”

  Anna cleared her throat. “Afterwards I... moved back here. Stayed with Dad for a bit, then I got a little flat.”

  She’d missed something out, there. What?

  “It was just supposed to be for a few months, till I got back on my feet, decided what I’d do next. But – well – got stuck in a rut, I suppose. I’d hardly seen Martyn in years, he’d got married. And then there was Mary, my niece. She was about a year old when I turned up. She’s lovely.”

  “None of your own, then?”

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  “Anyway, I was planning to move. Back to Manchester. I’d studied there.”

  “Good gay scene there as well.”

  Another long silence, her eyes never leaving Anna’s.

  “Yes.” More silence. “My dad died.”

  “Oh.”

  “Heart attack. And suddenly there were all these things to deal with. The will, the probate. It hit Martyn hard. Mary too. And there was Nan to look after.”

  “Your Nan?”

  “Mm.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes. She’s still going. Hundred and two this year. But it was very hard on her, losing Dad. We were all very worried about her when that happened. There was lots to sort out, generally.”

  “So you stayed.”

  “Yes. And then... Martyn lost his job, and then Eva...”

  “So you’ve never quite run out of reasons to stay then?” Vera sipped her wine, looking at Anna over the glass.

  “I wouldn’t put it like that.”

  “No?” And was Vera any better? Really? “You should move,” she said. “When this is over. Get out of here, while you still can.”

  Too much said there, and she’d not even finished her first glass. They were on the cusp, here. It could go either way.

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  The wide hazel eyes; the thin, parted mouth. She’d be fierce, passionate, if all those years of pent-up longing were released. But a one-night stand wouldn’t be enough; she’d want more. And then it could get messy.

  Of course, Vera would be down south again soon. There’d be hundreds of miles between them. She could just gratify herself and walk away. But being a hard bitch was one thing; a brand of cruelty so like Walsh’s was another.

  She sighed, looked down, rubbed her eyes. “Think I’ll turn in.”

  “Yes,” said Anna. Was that relief in her voice? “Me too.”

  Vera went out, headed for the lift. If Anna followed... but she didn’t. Another opportunity passed over, because it never seemed to be the right time. Now and then she met someone like Anna; someone who’d be worth getting serious about under different circumstances. But there was Allen; always Allen. Perhaps soon she’d be able to consider herself before him. But not today.

  “WHAT’S THE COMMS situation?”

  “Phones are sort of working again, boss.”

  “Define ‘sort of’, Mike.”

  “They’re fine long as you don’t want to ring anyone outside Kempforth.”

  “What the hell’s been wrong with them?”

  “To be honest with you, ma’am, I don’t think any bugger’s quite sure.”

  “Internet?”

  “Nothing. Server malfunction, looks like.”

  “Radios?”

  “Interference is the worst I’ve ever heard. Some communication within the town, but even that’s touch and go.”

  “So we’re best sticking to our original plan of sending a couple of officers out in one of the Land Rovers to get a report to someone outside Kempforth.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Any thoughts on who?”

  “Funnily enough, I do believe two of our detectives aren’t AFO qualified.”

  “Aye. Tranter’s not been in the job long enough. And Janson–”

  “No-one in their right mind would trust her with a gun.”

  “You said it, boss, not me.”

  “OK. Get them on the road first thing.”

  “Is DS Ashraf a qualified AFO?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Let’s bring him in, then. It’s his case too.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Fancy a brew, Sarge?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You know where the kettle is.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Mike?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Thanks.”

  WHEN VERA HAD gone, Anna put her wine down. Had there really been a moment when something almost happened? She didn’t know; she might be getting better at telling what was real from what wasn’t, but some things were harder to be sure of.

  Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day. And perhaps it was for the best nothing had happened. Not with so much going on. There was always Manchester; there was always moving away. But the mist was thick outside and there was no knowing what might lurk in it. And beyond the mist, in the hills, was Ash Fell. Maybe she should have made a pass; there mightn’t be another chance. She raised the wineglass to her lips, drained it in a single gulp.

  THE TESTAMENT OF SERGEANT EDWARD HOWIE CONCLUDED like a lamb to the slaughter my only regret being i was no longer fit to lead dared not have men depend on me for their lives but there was no escape only the firing squad or another trip to dr yealland with his cold eyes an electrodes so when the bullet found my throat it was a relief as i fell back into the trench mud an saw the great red parabola of my life leave me rise up into the air an fall back into my face like a bitter rain an it was for this i gave my life this shitten worthless land where they have learnt nothin
g forgotten everything an lie like fat bloated maggots being fed so-called news blatant lies a wean could see through findin distraction watchin their fellow men and women debasin themselves masturbatin over obscene pornography buyin worthless trash and trinkets to maintain industries that would otherwise collapse on an on like dogs like pigs devourin their own filth an i judge i judge an i hate an i despise an i call them unworthy unworthy unworthy of our sacrifice unworthy of life

  WE ARE THE DEAD

  ‘D’ BLOCK

  A room with a rusted bedframe and its barred window overlooking the lawn; for a moment a figure can – almost – be seen sat on the restored bed, its corrupted profile limned in silhouette, light shining through the gap where nose, cheeks, eyes, jawbone should be. Slowly it turns to face us. It is impossible to tell if it weeps, or has anything to weep with.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sunday 22nd December.

  ANNA WOKE IN darkness and lay for nearly half an hour staring at the ceiling, wanting sleep again and not getting it, stomach clenching at the thought of what she’d committed herself to. Her eyes stung and felt damp; each breath sounded like a sob.

  Couldn’t go. Had to go. They were counting on her? Relying on her? They must be madder than she’d ever thought she was. Couldn’t go. Had to go. Oh god.

  Her mobile’s alarm shrilled. She turned on the light.

  5.00 am.

  She dressed, checked out, walked home. The mist had thinned; the streetlights turned it a sodden orange.

  At 5.30 am. she let herself quietly into her house, went upstairs. In the main bedroom, Martyn snored. She eased the spare room door open. Mary lay curled up on her side, stuffed toy clutched to her chest. Anna tiptoed over.

  Couldn’t go. Had to go. Had to, for her.

  Anna bent; her lips brushed the soft hair, the smooth forehead. Mary mumbled, shifted in her sleep. Anna went still, but the child didn’t wake.