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

by HELEN H. DURRANT

  Parked in the shadows, the killer was watching the flat. He was counting on Roebuck not being able to resist, and that within a couple of hours he’d be lying comatose on the sofa.

  The killer waited. He had to give Roebuck ample opportunity to drink from that bottle. Because of the crime and the perpetual trouble with teenagers, this wasn’t a popular area even in daylight, and at night it was worse. The killer hunkered down and listened to engines scream as hyped-up adolescents raced each other around the dark streets in any car they could get their hands on. Most were stolen, he guessed, or illegal, and in any case, what was the betting not one of these joyriding kids was actually old enough to drive?

  He listened with a wry smile, recalling his own adolescence. He’d been the model son. Private school had taught him manners which, combined with his good looks, made him popular, particularly with the girls. In another life he might have married the perfect woman and settled down to raise the perfect family. But domesticity, comfort, wasn’t for him. No thanks. He played the part, maintained a relationship and held down a job of sorts for the sake of appearances, but that’s all it was — appearances. He’d learned early on that women weren’t worth the hassle of long term commitment. He enjoyed his work too much. A wife would ask questions, make demands, and he couldn’t have that. He valued his solitude. And killing for a living was a much more exciting option.

  She blended well with the surroundings, so he didn’t notice her watching him. Dressed in dark clothing, she sat chatting with a couple of others in a gap between a row of garages. Just a group of bored kids waiting for their next fix.

  How wrong he was.

  Time to move. The killer got out of his car and went to Roebuck’s door. As usual, Roebuck had gone in and left it unlocked. The hallway was in darkness — so far so good, but he could see light spilling from what he assumed to be the sitting room. The television was blaring away but there was no sign of Roebuck. A half-empty bottle of whisky stood open on the coffee table. It wasn’t the one he’d delivered.

  “Who the ’ell are you?” The gruff voice coming from behind him made him freeze for a second. “What you doin’ in my ’ouse?”

  Regaining his composure, he thought quickly. He smiled. “I’m a neighbour. A woman in the flat above thought she heard a scream. We were worried you’d hurt yourself.”

  But this cut no ice with Roebuck.

  “It’s the bloody telly — stupid mare.” Roebuck squinted at the man. “Get out! Go on, and don’t you dare come in ’ere again.”

  “Sorry. We just thought you might need help, that’s all.” The killer turned and took a step towards the door. He’d come back later when Roebuck had gone to bed. This man was tall and heavily built, and his mood was sour after a night’s drinking.

  Roebuck moved towards the killer and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “Rubbish. You’re in ’ere chancing your luck. Now get out before I do you some serious harm.”

  The killer smiled. “I wouldn’t if I was you.”

  Angered, Roebuck snarled, an animal about to pounce. He pulled the killer round and punched him hard in the face, knocking the cap from his head. Roebuck then threw him across the room. The killer groaned. He’d fallen backwards and didn’t have time to find his feet before Roebuck hauled him upright and propelled him forcibly towards the living room door. Someone in the flat upstairs shouted and banged on the floor. He had to finish this now.

  “Stop! You’re making a mistake,” he yelled.

  Roebuck spun the killer round and pulled his right arm up behind his back. It felt as if it might break. “No mistake. Not me, mate. No one gets in ’ere without my say so.”

  He didn’t have long. This would be messy, but it had to be done now. With his free hand, the killer reached for the blade tucked away in an inside pocket of his leather jacket. Roebuck was behind him, so he struck out blindly, missing the heart and stabbing him in the stomach. Roebuck released his hold and fell. But he wasn’t dead.

  The killer stood over him, smiling.

  “Bad move that. Taking me on was a big mistake.” Roebuck was bleeding heavily but he was still alive. “Goodbye, friend. Sorry to cause you pain. I’d hoped to make it easy, but never mind. It’s over now.”

  He thrust the knife in between the ribs, going in deep and twisting the blade. Roebuck was dead. Snatching his cap from the floor, the killer left, closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  Thea Connor was a pretty hard cookie but going back into Roebuck’s flat was one of the worst things she’d ever had to do. She’d never seen a dead body before, not even tidied up for a funeral, and the sight of Roebuck lying in a pool of dark, sticky blood made her want to be sick. His face was grey, his eyes wide open, staring, as if in surprise.

  She’d waited until about an hour ago, when she’d seen a dark shape leaving the flat. This had to be the killer. Time to make her move, quickly, while there was no one about — no neighbours, and best of all, no police. With luck, it would be tomorrow before the killing was reported.

  Thea went round the rooms collecting the three cameras, which she put in her bag. There was every chance she’d have something. The one she’d placed in the living room was pointed straight towards where Roebuck lay.

  Job done, she took one last look at the body. She could have stopped this, gone to the police, told them what she knew. But where was the fun or the profit in that? “Sorry you had to die,” she whispered, stepping over Roebuck on her way out.

  Aware that the killer might still be around, Thea tagged along with a group of youths walking her way. Safety in numbers. It took her twenty minutes to reach her house. There was only her and her dad since her mum had left. He was in bed when she entered and didn’t even call down. Thea was elated, she was about to become a rich woman, well able to live an independent life. A quick drink of juice from the fridge, then she grabbed her bag and went up to her room. There was work to do.

  But Thea was in for a shock. The SD cards were not in the cameras. Unable to believe it or work out how that had happened, she grabbed the bag and tipped the contents onto her bed, frantically searching through the items. No luck. She’d set the cameras up herself and there was no way the cards could have fallen out. Her stomach flipped. Someone had taken them.

  Thea stood up, went to the window and stared out into the blackness. This was down to him, the killer, but how? She’d made a real cock-up. This was serious. Somehow, she must have made him aware of what she was doing, and for all she knew he could be out there now, planning to kill her, like he’d killed Dean.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Day Four

  “Smart place, the city nick,” Jess said when they pulled into the car park. “Purpose built, no doubt the heating works too. Lucky buggers. I bet this is a palace compared to what we have to work in.”

  But Harry wasn’t impressed. He’d no ambition to work at a high-profile station. Ryebridge was no picnic, but the teams here had the Manchester villainy to deal with. There was no way Harry wanted that. Above all, he wanted to keep a low profile, so the forgotten, old-fashioned backwater of Ryebridge suited him just fine.

  “I could easily work here,” Jess went on, gazing around as she climbed out of the car. “Bet promotion’s a lot easier to get too.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Harry warned. “Your next step is DI, and you know what that brings with it.” She could do it too, Jess oozed ambition, and she was liked. She was an attractive young woman who got along with almost everyone. If she applied for promotion, she’d be encouraged. No doubt about it.

  She smiled at him. “You seem to manage, after a fashion.”

  But Harry wasn’t in the mood. He was concerned about the forthcoming meeting with Weeks. He didn’t want to hand the case over, but if the man insisted, and Rodders backed him up, there’d be no option.

  “Don’t you want to climb the ladder?” Jess asked him.

  He shrugged. “One day, perhaps, if I last that long.�
��

  “I don’t get you, Harry Lennox. At times I wonder what you’re doing in the job.”

  She wasn’t alone, but he could hardly tell her the truth, and for the same reason, he couldn’t come clean to Isla either.

  Superintendent Joe Weeks had them shown up to the main office. The large open-plan space was busy, with about twenty CID officers working away at their desks. On one of the walls there were three incident boards, covered in photos and notes.

  Harry went forward to take a closer look. It took him a minute or so to take in what he was seeing. In some respects the boards were similar to Dean’s. Nadir Nazir was there, and the man who was on Dean’s board with Lana and the faceless man. The middle board had six faces on it, two were from the Galashiels killings. But it was the heading above the boards that made him gasp. Two words that all the officers in the Greater Manchester area had been familiar with for months.

  “This is ‘Operation Songbird!’” he exclaimed. “Is that what we’ve stumbled into?”

  “That’s right,” Weeks said from behind him.

  Harry should have realised. Songbird was very much the territory of the Manchester force.

  Songbird was an investigation into a number of murders that had taken place over the last couple of years. Particulars sent to all the stations stated that the killings were thought to be drug related. Harry had skimmed the updates, particularly the bit about the killings being linked to organised crime and had left it at that. Not for one moment had he considered linking Songbird to their own current case.

  “Let’s take this somewhere quieter.” Weeks led them to a smaller office where a second man was waiting for them. “This is DI Jack Parkinson,” Weeks said. “He’s been on Songbird since last year.”

  Harry smiled in greeting. The DI simply nodded, his expression surly. This obviously wasn’t suiting Parkinson any more than it was him.

  “We’re all hunting a killer who’s far too successful for comfort,” Weeks began once they’d sat down. “Therefore it’s important we share the information we’ve gathered so far.”

  “Is that what Songbird is, the search for this killer?” Jess asked.

  “Partly, but the operation is rather more complex than that.”

  This intrigued Harry. As far as he was concerned, their part was simple — they had a killer to catch. What was Weeks looking for out of this?

  “Your team are new to the case. You’ve done well, but there’s no sense in you going over groundwork we’ve already covered. In return, you will share with us your findings so far.”

  That seemed fair enough, at least Weeks hadn’t asked them to hand the case over. Given that Songbird was so high profile, that surprised him.

  “I’ve read some information on Songbird. I’m aware it’s thought to be big-time drug dealing run by organised crime. But that’s not how I see the case we’re working on,” Harry said. “So far there hasn’t been a hint of anything related to drugs.”

  “But it is related. You’ll see when I tell you what we have so far,” Weeks said. “You’ve asked the usual questions, spoken to the families, and looked for links between the victims. Am I right?”

  Harry nodded. “There are links between at least two of the victims — Nadia Nasir and Lana Midani. They’re sisters, and we’re working on the others.”

  “And the man, Roebuck,” Parkinson said, “because he’s also linked to Ms Nasir and possibly her sister.”

  Harry’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t recognise the name. “Roebuck? We don’t know about him.”

  “Oh yes, you do,” Weeks said. “His photo is up on your board. Fair impressed me that did.”

  “Is he the man on the same board as Lana and the faceless man?”

  “Yes, and like you we reckon they are the killer’s next victims.”

  “We might have his photo but until now we didn’t know his name,” Harry explained. “And you’re sure this Roebuck was known to Nadia and Lana?”

  “He was known to Nasir, there is no doubt about that,” Weeks said. “Roebuck delivers laundry to the hotel she worked in, the Commodore.”

  “The two Scottish victims. Where do they fit in?” Harry asked.

  “As far as we’re aware, they have nothing to do with Nasir or the people the killer is still after. We believe they’re a different job but still connected to Songbird.”

  “The people responsible for the killings operate countrywide then?” Jess asked.

  “We believe so. The man who killed all the victims you know about has gained himself a fearful reputation, which is why those who run Songbird use him.”

  “Does he have a name?” Jess asked.

  “We don’t know who he is, which makes him very useful to them. He could be anyone — a neighbour, a businessman, we have no idea.” He paused while Harry and Jess took this in.

  “We are aware that he knows his stuff. He’s giving the forensic team we use a right headache,” Jess said.

  “That’s what I’d expect,” Weeks said. “This killer is not a serial killer with some weird motive for what he does. This man is told who to target and he’s paid extremely well for getting it right. It’s his job, and he’s good at it. The man you’re after is a paid assassin.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Harry and Jess looked at each other. The shock sank in.

  “We’ve been on this case for months and have built up quite a body of knowledge,” Weeks continued. “We have a shrewd idea who the assassin does most of his work for locally. The Scottish killings took us by surprise. All we know is that they were drug related too, and we’re still investigating the connection.”

  “And you’re sure about this?” Harry asked, still getting his head around it.

  “Definitely. An assassin who’s paid for every hit and is an expert at his craft. The link you’re after for the killings has nothing to do with the victims or even the assassin, but rather the man who employs him, and that’s where the big-time drug-running comes in. Catching the killer is a priority of course, but it’s even more important to get the man at the top.”

  Parkinson addressed Harry. “You’re Scottish, transferred from Glasgow within the last few years. D’you recall any of the villains you dealt with back home who might fit the bill?”

  It was logical that he should ask the question. No doubt Parkinson had looked up his history. Nevertheless, the question put Harry on edge, made him wonder exactly what he knew, and who he’d been talking to. He smiled. “The usual motley of dealers and thugs. After a while they all melt into one.”

  “Not all of them. There’s at least one who’s very enterprising, runs his own empire,” Parkinson said. “We think he is responsible for the Galashiels killings. We don’t know much, other than that he’s a big-time Glasgow gangster, but we’ll have a name soon I’m sure. I had hoped you’d be able to offer us some possibilities.”

  Harry saw the look on Jess’s face. She knew how hard he tried to conceal his Scottish past and she was concerned he’d flip.

  “Glasgow villains?” Harry queried evenly. Jess looked surprised. “Perhaps we should leave them to the force up there. They know better than us what’s going on.”

  “True,” said Parkinson, “but it was our assassin who carried out the murders. So he has at least one more connection than we thought. The more we know about him the better.” Parkinson smiled. “Our colleagues north of the border will share what they know, and we will reciprocate.”

  A killer on his patch who wasn’t averse to doing a Scottish villain’s dirty work. That wasn’t good. “How d’you know the local killings and those in Scotland are linked?” Harry strongly suspected they were — they had Dean’s wall to work with — but it wasn’t proven. Yet.

  “Good detective work,” Parkinson replied, a smug look on his face. “Much the same as how you found out about the next batch of victims. We’ve cooperated with the Scottish forces, and they’ve shared certain information about the nature of the deaths.”

 
“What information?” Harry asked. “If it’s pertinent to the case, we need to know.”

  “How the victims were killed, type of knife used, that’s all,” Weeks said. “He uses the same knife for every kill. Think of it as his trademark if you like. We know the length and width of the blade and that it’s double edged.”

  That was what Melanie had told them. “Okay, who is this local man that does the hiring?” Harry asked.

  Parkinson looked at Weeks, who nodded. “He’s the biggest distributer of drugs in Greater Manchester.”

  “Does he have a name, this villain?” Harry persisted.

  Weeks had a thick file on the table in front of him. He passed it to Harry. “That’s a copy of everything we know. I want you to understand that the information in there wasn’t got easily. My team worked tirelessly to assemble it.”

  Jess eyed the file. “So, why not arrest him? You look to have plenty in there.”

  Ignoring this, Weeks returned to Harry’s question. “We strongly suspect our man is one Ricky Calvert,” he paused, “but that’s not yet proven.” He smiled at Jess. “If it was, we’d have him behind bars, believe me. The problem is finding proof. Calvert is good, he covers his tracks. What we need is someone close to him to talk to us. Unless you are — close to him, that is — you’d never know he was anything other than what he appears to be.”

  “And what’s that?” Jess asked.

  “A respectable businessman,” Weeks said. “He owns a number of bars and hotels around the area. But what we need is evidence linking him to his other interests. Those are mainly drugs, with moneylending as a side-line. There isn’t a dealer in Manchester who could operate without going through Calvert. He is vital to the trade. Ms Nasir worked for Calvert, quite legitimately, in one of his hotels — the Commodore in the city centre. She absconded with a fortune in heroin, hence the vendetta.”

  “You said Calvert owns hotels,” Harry asked. “Is the Metropole one of his?”

  Weeks looked at him and raised his eyebrows. “And that’s in your neck of the woods.”