THE FACELESS MAN an absolutely gripping crime mystery with a massive twist (Detectives Lennox & Wilde Thrillers Book 2)

by HELEN H. DURRANT

  “This entire thing is still a puzzle,” Harry said. “Even if the killer was contacted through some sort of coded message in an advert, there are still the details to be got.”

  Sasha took a mug from a shelf. “Want one? We can thrash out the possibilities.”

  Harry shook his head. “Got to get back,” he said, and grinned. “Haven’t you drunk enough of that?”

  “It’s what keeps me going. I’ve got another twelve hours in this place to do yet.”

  “Twelve! You must like your work,” Harry said.

  “Oh, I do, and I want to see what else I can get from these.” She tapped the laptop again. Harry noticed that her nails were plain, short and unvarnished. Unusual these days.

  “I’ve interviewed a neighbour of Dean’s,” he said. “He had opportunity, motive too, if Dean was proving bothersome, plus they were close. He could be our man.”

  “Worth another chat?” she suggested.

  “Thanks, Sasha. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  She smiled at him. “Find that third laptop and I’ll be even more helpful.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Day Three

  The following morning Colin, who always left the flat before Harry, told him Lana Midani had been on the phone, asking for whoever was in charge. “She’s not happy, boss. Reckons hanging around in a run-down house at the back end of nowhere — her words not mine — is doing her head in.”

  “But she only spoke to the both of you yesterday. Couldn’t she have told you then?”

  Jess grinned. “Oh, we’re mere minions. Lana wants to divulge the big stuff to the boss.”

  “Big stuff?”

  “Despite the Nadia issue,” Jess said, “and being told her sister was murdered, she still doesn’t seem to understand the danger she’s in. A bit of plain speaking is what’s needed.”

  “Okay, point taken. Col and I will speak to her about Nadia and how they got into the country. While we’re gone, would you contact the Galashiels police and see if they can add anything to what we already know about the killings up there?”

  “You mean the big fat nothing, like all the other murders this guy is responsible for.”

  “We’ll get there,” Harry assured her. “It’s only a matter of time.” But he’d said this more to ease his own anxiety than anything else. This case was difficult. They were up against a cool-headed killer who wasn’t making mistakes.

  “Rodders has visitors,” Jess said. “I only caught a glimpse as they swept through the office, but they’ve been in there talking ever since.”

  “Did you catch what they wanted?” Harry asked.

  “No, but I got the impression Rodders knew one of them. Ray, who’s on the desk downstairs this morning, said he’s from the Greater Manchester Serious Crime Squad.”

  What did they want? It wasn’t unusual for the super to have visitors, even ones from a high-profile station like that, but Harry wondered why they were here now. It made him a little worried. The last thing he wanted was that lot sticking their noses into his case.

  “Grab your stuff, Col, we’ll get off.”

  “Want me to find out what they want?” Jess asked. “No guarantees, mind you. Rodders doesn’t usually confide in the likes of me.”

  “You mean a lowly DS,” Harry teased. “Don’t beat yourself up, he doesn’t tell me much either.”

  * * *

  “I should be back in London. I’ve got commitments,” Lana complained. “You say I’m not safe, but why would this man want to kill me? I haven’t done anything to him.”

  “You’re not safe, and we still have questions for you that need answers.”

  She folded her arms. “I can’t tell you anything.”

  “I think you can, Lana,” Harry said. “You can start with the reason why Nadia was murdered.”

  “I have no idea.”

  But her tone belied the look on her face. Harry was surer than ever that Lana was hiding something. “She wasn’t just murdered,” he told her, “someone tracked her down, researched her life, what she did, and then he struck when she was alone. Imagine how she must have felt — a young woman, terrified and with no one to help her.”

  Lana burst into tears. “Stop it! Stop torturing me. D’you imagine I don’t think about Nadia? It should never have happened. She should have been with me. I begged her to come to London. I would have given her a job, looked after her, she’d have been happy.”

  “Why didn’t she?” Col asked.

  “Nadia wanted to, but she couldn’t get away. She had to work. She owed some man a lot of money. I don’t know why, I asked but she wouldn’t tell me. She was terrified that if he found out about something she’d done, he’d kill her.”

  “Does this man have a name?” asked Harry.

  “She never told me, said the less I knew the better.”

  “Are you sure the name didn’t slip out in one of your conversations?” Harry said.

  Lana shook her head.

  “But she told him about you, Lana, didn’t she? She must have, or why is the killer now on your tail?”

  “That’s just guesswork,” she said.

  “It’s more than that. He kills Nadia, contacts you and demands that you pay what she owed him. He knows who you are and that you can well afford it. You refuse, so now you’re top of the hit list,” Harry said.

  “You should talk to us, Lana, tell us everything you know,” Colin added.

  She looked down. There had been doubt in her big dark eyes. Harry had seen it. “He sent me a note,” she admitted at last. “It didn’t come in the post but was hand delivered. I came home one night and there it was, slipped under the door.”

  “D’you still have it?” Colin asked.

  “No, I burned it.”

  “Can you recall what it said?”

  “He wanted money. The note said I must pay what Nadia owed or he would kill her.”

  “And you really have no idea who this man is?” Harry asked.

  “No. I said. Nadia wouldn’t tell me.”

  “When was this?”

  “Several weeks ago.”

  “And although you knew how frightened she was, you did nothing? You left your sister to suffer on her own?” Harry was amazed. “Didn’t you at least tell someone, advise Nadia to go to the police? Or even go to them yourself?”

  “I told Nadia to do that but she wouldn’t listen. I had no details, no names, and I didn’t even know where Nadia was working. The last time we spoke, Nadia said she was going to run away, hide at a friend’s place until I could go and get her. I’ve heard nothing since.”

  “D’you know who this friend is?” Harry asked.

  “No.”

  “You have different surnames. Why?” asked Harry.

  “I wanted something different, something glamorous that went with the work I do.”

  “Why can’t we find birth records for either of you?” Harry asked.

  “We were born in Syria. Our birth parents were refugees, they came to the UK when we were babies. They both died young, and after a succession of foster parents, Nadia and I were adopted by the Nasirs.”

  “Your parents weren’t illegals?” Colin asked.

  “No. Look again and you’ll find the paperwork. Our family name is Hakimi.”

  Harry handed Lana a notepad and pen. “Write down the last address Nadia lived at in Hulme.”

  Lana nodded. “If you find anything, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

  “That depends on what it is. Meanwhile, you must stay here and not risk trying to leave. Your life is in danger, Lana, you must do as we say.”

  They left and went back to the car.

  “Think we’ve got it all, boss?” Col asked.

  “Who knows with that one? But we’ve other stuff to think about. This man she spoke about, we need to find him, have him questioned. He may be our killer.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Colin drove them back to the station while Harry sat
and studied his notebook. The case was building. They had plenty to work with, but would it lead anywhere? Had Lana been honest? His instincts told him she had — up to a point, but she’d left out some important details. He’d go over everything she’d told them back at the office.

  Before he went upstairs to his office, Harry took a detour to the canteen. He’d eaten very little all day and wanted something to tide him over. He was going to the local curry house with Col and Hugh later and intended to do the menu proud.

  He’d just got a ham sandwich and coffee when Jess joined him. “I’d get up there if I was you. Rodders has been in and out of the office asking where you are, and that visitor of his is still with him.”

  He groaned and checked his mobile. He’d had it on silent while they spoke to Lana, so he’d missed the super’s calls. He grabbed the food and followed her up. He put the sandwich in his desk drawer and swilled down the coffee, burning his tongue. “Col will fill you in about what we got from Lana. A couple of things need checking out.”

  He ran his fingers through his blond hair and straightened his tie. He’d no idea who Rodders’s visitor was, but he had to be important.

  He knocked on the door and waited until he heard the super call out to him.

  “This is Superintendent Joe Weeks from Manchester Serious Crime Squad,” Rodders said.

  Harry nodded and shook the proffered hand, wondering what a super from that lot could possibly want at Ryebridge nick.

  “Your team have been busy,” Weeks said, clearing his throat. “Not done bad either. Turned up more than we have, and my lot have been at it for weeks.”

  He had to mean their multiple murder case. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’d like you to come to HQ in town first thing tomorrow. Bring whoever it is you work with, and we’ll go over a few things,” Weeks said.

  “That’d be DS Jess Wilde, sir.”

  “Well, make sure she knows and don’t be late. We’ve a lot to get through.”

  Having delivered his instruction, Weeks collected his coat and briefcase and left.

  “Hope he isn’t going to pinch our case, sir,” Harry said when he’d gone.

  “We’ll have to see. Weeks told me as much as he told you, so I’ve no idea what’s on his mind,” Rodders said. “But two of the murders are on our patch, and we’re not giving them up easily.”

  Harry returned to the main office where he told Jess about Weeks, and their visit the following day.

  “Is he going to stick his nose in?” she asked. “Take what we’ve got and tell us to butt out?”

  Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he did, but he didn’t want the team giving up. “I’ve no idea. We’ll have to wait and see. Want to pick me up about eight in the morning?”

  “Okay, but if this Superintendent Weeks bloke tries to steal our case, I won’t be happy. He must have given you some clue.”

  “From the little he said it sounds like his team are working the same case and have come up with very little. They probably just need a hand.” He chuckled.

  “They don’t have Dean Greenwood’s wall, do they?” she said.

  True, but how long before they demanded he hand it over? And even if he did, would they find the missing pieces to complete the puzzle?

  * * *

  Thea Connor reckoned her neat little know-nothing act had convinced the two detectives that she was clueless about the extent of Dean’s research. If only they knew . . . but they didn’t, and that gave her an advantage. Dean had planned to extort money from the killer. Dean was dead. Now it was her job.

  Thea was a clever girl. She’d worked it out. She had Dean’s third laptop, the one the police were hunting high and low for. Not that it was easy to work out, because it wasn’t — he’d written most of his notes in code. But Thea had managed to glean certain details, enough to know that a man called Ian Roebuck was next on the killer’s list. The hit was to be later that night.

  As well as Dean’s laptop, Thea also had three spy cameras he’d owned. Those little beauties were just what she needed for the next part of her plan. What she wanted was video, positive proof of the killer going about his business. Then she’d do what Dean had planned, use the video to make him pay up. He’d have no choice, otherwise she’d go to the police. She’d be smarter and more careful than Dean.

  Roebuck was a delivery driver for a local laundry company. He lived alone in a ground floor flat on the Baxendale. Thea had kept watch on his flat and asked a couple of the estate kids about Roebuck’s routine. They told her that he went to the pub most nights and usually returned home in the small hours, drunk. He was a large man, vicious and bad-tempered, so his neighbours steered well clear. Confident that no one would dare enter his flat when he wasn’t there, Roebuck had become sloppy. Thea had often seen him go out without even bothering to lock his front door. And when he did, he simply shoved the key under the mat.

  She smiled to herself. There was no reason why this shouldn’t go like clockwork. Her plan was to set the cameras up, wait until the killer had done his worst, then retrieve them and examine the footage. The killer wouldn’t know what hit him. When he got the text and the attached snippet of video, he’d pay up all right. He’d have no choice. The money would be in her possession within twenty-four hours. Thea had worked with Dean, helped him with his research and reckoned she deserved the pay-off.

  Back in the beginning, when Dean had told her about the killer and his plan to blackmail him, Thea had scoffed. She thought he was fantasising and questioned everything, but when she examined the evidence Dean had collected, she’d changed her mind. Dean was right. He had found a killer.

  The plan to put cameras inside Roebuck’s flat had been Dean’s idea. What if the killer struck outside, she asked, while Roebuck was either on his way to the pub or coming back home? Dean had said that wouldn’t happen. The killer had always struck indoors, where there were no witnesses and no CCTV. Ironic that Dean was the exception. She supposed it was his reward for pissing the killer off.

  The three spy cameras looked like air fresheners. Roebuck was always so drunk he was unlikely to notice them. They would do the trick. They worked independently of Wi-Fi, were battery operated and used an SD card to store data. The only drawback — it meant a second visit to collect them once the killer was done. Thea wasn’t looking forward to that part. It would be tricky, sneaking in and out before the police got wind of what had happened. Her timing would have to be spot on. And of course, there was the question of where to place the cameras. Thea reckoned one in the bedroom, another in the kitchen, and one that captured most of the living room.

  Chapter Twenty

  Harry was tired, but he wasn’t done for the day yet. Like it or not, he’d have to make sure he knew the case inside and out for when Weeks fired questions at him in the morning. He returned to Col’s flat with a pile of paperwork. He’d do the homework first and then chill with a couple of cans. Col was out again, meeting his sister who had some major panic on her hands, and would be late back.

  Harry got out of the lift. Isla Stewart was there, waiting for him. His stomach lurched. This wasn’t in the plan, and she had that familiar look on her face, the one that told him she’d stand for no nonsense. Isla wanted answers he couldn’t give, and he had no idea what to tell her. Not the truth, for certain. He began to panic.

  “I thought we’d have a chat,” she said firmly. “And I’m not going to be fobbed off.”

  She wouldn’t either. Isla was a skilled interrogator. She’d been a DS on the force in Glasgow and had sometimes worked with Harry. He showed her the files. “You can see how I’m fixed. Look at this lot. I’ve got to read through it all before tomorrow morning.”

  She didn’t look impressed. “Why won’t you talk to me? I know you. You’re hiding something and all this talk of work is simply delaying tactics.”

  “You’re wrong, Isla. The case we’re working currently is full on and I have to report to a senior officer in the morning. I don’
t know my stuff and it won’t go down well.”

  “You’re not fooling me. You’re even using the same stupid excuses. You were never one for hard work — the easy option, that’s your way.”

  “No, you’ve got it wrong. This is me. I’ve got a job to do, a killer to catch and that comes first.” But the sceptical look on her face remained where it was. He had to get rid of her, tonight he must work, and even Isla couldn’t be allowed to get in the way.

  “I know the truth, about what you did, why you ran, why you’re trying to change your life.” She looked into his eyes. “You’re running from Mungo Salton. This false trail you’ve laid, this story about you really being Harry won’t stop him. I know that’s rubbish and so will he.”

  “What if it isn’t rubbish, Isla? What if it’s the truth?”

  “In your dreams.”

  She spun on her heel and stalked off towards the lift. He was sorry to see her go like this, but there was no alternative. Isla Stewart was yet another sacrifice to his new life.

  * * *

  The killer had done his research. He knew that Ian Roebuck could handle himself. He’d learned that Roebuck had been a boxer in the army and was no pushover. So he’d worked out how to minimise the risks. A small departure from the normal routine, but it was necessary. The killer was running out of time. He had been given a deadline and he didn’t want to let the man who’d hired him down. The plan was to drug Roebuck and kill him while he slept. Sounded simple, but it still had its risks. There was no room for error. He’d get just one chance to incapacitate the man.

  Roebuck was a drunk with a taste for whisky. After spending most of the night in the pub, he regularly drank several glasses of his favourite tipple when he got home. Tonight, those drinks would be his downfall. The killer had laced the whisky with a tranquiliser.

  It was gone midnight when Roebuck returned and found the gift-wrapped bottle on his doorstep. Without looking round he scooped it up and took it inside.