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

by HELEN H. DURRANT

  “Meet me here tomorrow afternoon, same time and place, and bring whatever you’ve got with you. It checks out, I’ll hand over the cash.”

  “And then you’ll leave me alone?” Her voice was shaking. The man had a knife and Thea knew he wouldn’t hesitate.

  “Of course. We’ve made a deal, haven’t we?”

  Chapter Thirty

  “How long has he been dead?” Harry asked as soon as Melanie appeared in the doorway of Roebuck’s flat.

  Pulling the mask from her face, she said, “You’re all the same, demanding instant answers you know I can’t give you. I’d say no longer than forty-eight hours, but I’ll only be certain after the PM. Like the others, a stab wound to the heart killed him, but there is more this time. The place is a right mess. Judging from the overturned furniture, I reckon they had a fight. There are grazes and bruising to Roebuck’s knuckles, so he must have done his attacker some damage. There is plenty of blood. If we’re lucky, and he didn’t wear gloves, we might get a trace of the killer’s blood too. But the scene will take time to process, so you’ll just have to be patient, Harry.”

  “A fight. That’s a departure from the norm. Anything else?”

  Melanie nodded. “There’s blood all over the floor and plenty of footprints. I reckon one set belongs to our killer. I’ll check, but it looks to me like the same tread as at the boating lake. Then there’s another set, a smaller foot, trainers I’d say.”

  “There was someone else here?”

  “I’d say so,” Melanie said. “Whether that person witnessed the killing is another matter. They may have come inside after Roebuck had been killed and stood in the blood. See,” she pointed, “the prints lead outside, there’s faint marks on the concrete there.”

  “I wonder if anything is missing. Someone sees an opportunity and robs the man as he lies dead.”

  “We have no proof of that. But we’ll give the flat a thorough going over, take swabs, look for any evidence.”

  Harry nodded. Melanie was good at her job. If there were any clues here, she’d find them.

  “Shame we didn’t find him sooner,” Jess said as they went back to the car.

  “We didn’t know who we were looking for,” Harry said.

  “Lana is safe, Roebuck is dead, that just leaves the faceless man. What do we do about him?”

  “How can we do anything?” Harry asked. “We have nothing to go on. He could be anyone.”

  “Well, he’s either connected to Calvert or that Scottish villain Weeks was going on about,” Jess said.

  “I hope not.”

  “I spoke to Isla Stewart last night,” Jess said. “She collared me when I was about to go home.”

  Harry sighed. This was what he’d been afraid of, Isla filling his partner’s head with rubbish. “What did she tell you?”

  “About the car crash, Josh Salton’s death and plans for the robbery. She said that’s why the villain is after you — she believes the passenger in that car was you, not your twin. She also said Salton reckons whoever was in that car should not have let Josh drive that night, shouldn’t have walked away after the crash, leaving him to die.”

  “She’s wrong, about all of it. I discussed it with Paul. There wasn’t anything he could’ve done. Josh Salton was an idiot, but a dangerous one — cross him, stop him having his own way and he’d do you serious harm. That night Josh was bladdered and full of heroin. Mungo Salton refuses to see what’s staring him in the face — that his son was just no good. Mind you, Paul wasn’t much better either. No way should he have thrown in his lot with Salton and then gone to the police. That was just asking for trouble. I don’t know where Isla got hold of the idea that I’m Paul but she’s wasting her time.”

  “I agree, and I told her I didn’t believe a word of it.” Jess took his arm and squeezed it. “You’re a good detective, Harry Lennox. There’s no way you’re really a painter and decorator, it makes no sense. Anyway, everything about you on the database checks out. I told her that too.”

  Harry was surprised. So, finally, he’d turned Jess around and she was on his side. “Thanks. I appreciate your support. Did Isla say whether she was going home?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. To be honest, the woman annoyed me. I don’t know what she hopes to gain by trying to tarnish your name like this.”

  “Perhaps Salton has paid her to find me. Or maybe he threatened her. Yeah, that would make sense.”

  “Be careful, Harry. We’re up against one vicious killer already, without adding another to the mix.”

  He grinned. “Don’t worry about me. I’m used to dodging Salton.”

  “Col did well today, finding Roebuck,” she said, changing the subject.

  “He’s turning out to be an asset to our little team. But I’m not sure I can continue living at his for much longer. I’m thinking of taking your advice and looking for a place of my own.”

  “Finally seen sense, eh? A good decision. Tomorrow I’ll fill you in about areas to avoid and all that. There are still a few houses left in the development my new place is on. We could be neighbours.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Day Six

  The following day, Brian Isherwood caught up with Harry just as he was going into the station. “I’ve got the photos you wanted,” he said, holding out an envelope.

  There had been so much going on that Harry had forgotten about them.

  “I’ve put them all on a SD disk — the ones from me, June and Maggie.”

  Harry glanced at him and noticed the cuts and scratches. “What happened to your face? You look as if you’ve been in a fight.”

  Isherwood laughed. “Nothing like that. I was walking the dog on the bridlepath yesterday and fell down an embankment. Missed my footing and rolled all the way to the fence at the bottom. I’m lucky I got away with this little lot. Could have been worse.”

  Harry recalled Melanie saying she thought Roebuck had tackled his killer and they had fought. Now Isherwood turns up looking the part. “Could I have a word while you’re here, please? I’ve got a few more questions.”

  “Look, I was on my way to work. I just popped in to give you the disk.”

  “I won’t keep you long,” Harry said.

  A quick word with the desk sergeant and Isherwood was shown to an interview room to wait. “Give him a coffee, keep him sweet — I won’t be long.”

  Harry bounded up the stairs to the first floor and the main office. He passed the envelope with the disk to Colin. “Check those out, Col, they’re Isherwood’s photos. If you find anything interesting, I’m with him in interview room one.”

  “Why?” asked Jess.

  “Because his face is covered in fresh scratches. He told me he fell down an embankment when he was walking the dog, but he could have been in a fight. I’m thinking Roebuck. Jess, you can join me.”

  The phone rang while Harry was talking to Jess. Colin, who had taken the call, turned to the two of them. “That was Hettie. They found a bottle of expensive whisky in Roebuck’s sitting room. It was still in the box and appeared to be unopened. She says it’s been drugged — a tranquilliser. She reckons there was enough there to knock him out for hours.”

  Harry looked at Jess. “That’s a departure from his usual method. I wonder what made him do it.”

  “Roebuck was a big bloke. Perhaps the killer thought he needed an advantage,” she said.

  “His neighbour said Roebuck was handy with his fists,” Col added. “Our assassin didn’t fancy the odds so he shortened them.”

  “She’s texted me some pictures. Looks expensive, that whisky. Find out the brand, Col, then see if you can trace where it came from and who it was sold to. But since we’ve got Isherwood downstairs, prioritise the photos — see if there’s anything I need to ask him about.”

  * * *

  Isherwood was pacing the interview room, looking annoyed. “Well? Why am I here, Inspector? I do have a job to go to, you know.”

  Harry smiled at him. �
��We’ll try not to keep you. I believe you know my colleague, DS Wilde?”

  “Just get on with it,” Isherwood snapped.

  “Fine. Where were you the night before last?”

  Isherwood slumped onto a seat. “Why? What does it matter?”

  “Just answer the question,” Harry said.

  “Maggie had a bad day, so June spent most of her time with her. When I returned from work, I made us all some tea and sorted out the photos I’ve just given you. It cheered Maggie up a bit, she actually smiled at some of them. It was gone midnight before me and Maggie went home.”

  “And you didn’t go out again?” Harry asked.

  “It was dark, cold, and anyway where would I go at that time of night?” His tone had a distinct edge. “Look, it’s gone nine. You said this wouldn’t take long and now I’m late for work.”

  “Those marks on your face, tell me again how you got them,” Harry said.

  “I fell down the bloody embankment on the bridlepath.”

  “Where on the bridlepath exactly?” Harry said.

  “By the bowling green. It’s steep just there. The dog had disappeared into the undergrowth and I slipped looking for him. I tumbled most of the way. Want to see the bruises on my shins too?”

  There was a knock on the door. Col. Jess went to see what he’d got.

  “There’s dozens of photos,” Col whispered. “It’ll take ages to do them justice but nothing’s jumped out yet.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell him.”

  Jess returned to her seat. “Col needs more time,” she told Harry.

  “Right, Mr Isherwood, that’ll do for now,” Harry said, “but I will want to talk to you again. Don’t take any holidays without checking with me first.”

  His face like thunder, Brian Isherwood got up from his chair and made for the door. “This is bloody harassment. I intend to complain. You’ve hounded me since day one. You’ve got this totally wrong, there’s no way I’d have harmed Dean.”

  They waited until he’d stormed off down the corridor.

  “What d’you think?” Harry asked.

  “There’s plenty about him and his situation that fits the bill, but we’ve got nothing concrete,” Jess said.

  “Let’s take a wander up that bridlepath, see if there’s any evidence of someone falling,” Harry suggested.

  “You really don’t like the man, do you?”

  “It’s not a question of liking, Jess. But it’s clutching at straws time. Unless Hettie or Melanie come up with something from Roebuck’s flat, straws are all we’ve got.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The whisky was a single malt from a distillery in the Highlands. Colin spent the next hour on the phone ringing all the off-licences and pubs in Ryebridge, asking if they stocked it. But there was no guarantee the killer had bought it locally. For all he knew, the man could have been to the distillery in Scotland and bought it there or even bought it online.

  But he was in luck. A shop in the indoor market told him they sold it. Ryebridge market hall had been given a facelift in recent times, the idea being to attract more businesses and shoppers to the area. The Victorian building had been divided out into what the developers hoped would become specialist shops and in the main, that’s what had happened. ‘Highland Fare’ was one of these. It had only been trading for a few months and wasn’t yet that well known. The owner, Ray McDonald, said he was happy to see Colin that morning.

  Hettie was still processing the bottle itself and its contents, but Colin had a selection of photos of it on his mobile, which he’d printed out in readiness. He was hoping Ray McDonald would be able to tell him who he’d sold it to.

  The market hall had just opened when Colin went to look for ‘Highland Fare’. He gazed at the freshly painted ironwork pillars holding up the roof. “It’s a lovely building. I wasn’t even aware the place existed.”

  “We’re doing our best to advertise it and drag in trade from the surrounding areas,” Ray McDonald said. “We mostly sell the more expensive end, and folk round here are generally broke.”

  Colin set out the photos on the counter. “D’you recall selling a bottle of this recently?”

  McDonald took an account book from a shelf under the counter and studied it. “That is one I sell. I acquired two bottles on a trip to the Highlands last year. One was bought by Councillor Jones at Christmas — likes his whisky that one, I reckon he’s tried every malt we have. The other . . .” Ray McDonald looked up at his shelves. “It’s not up there but I can’t find a record of it being sold.”

  “That would be useful,” said Colin.

  “I jot down the date, too. That particular malt is special. I need to know if a brand sells and if it’s worth ordering more. The one you’re interested in cost me over fifty quid to buy.”

  “D’you employ anyone else?” Colin asked.

  “Can’t afford to.”

  “Could a bottle have been stolen?”

  But McDonald wasn’t listening, he was busy flicking through his account book. “I’ve found it,” he said, reading the entry. “One bottle, a week ago.” He thought for a moment or two. “He was a well-dressed chap, not local, that’s all I can recall I’m afraid.”

  Colin was fed up with getting nowhere at every turn. “Mr McDonald, this is a murder investigation. A bottle of this brand of whisky was found at the scene and it could have come from your shop. Please, rack your brains. We could do with a more detailed description.”

  “Look, I get busy in here. I can’t be expected to remember every customer.”

  Colin was pissed off. This case was one dead end after another. “We’ll need your fingerprints. There’s every chance that if the whisky did come from here, yours are also on the bottle.”

  * * *

  “How far to the bowling club?” Harry asked.

  “Round this bend and take the left-hand path. Exactly what d’you expect to find?” Jess asked.

  “Something to suggest Isherwood had the fall he claims he had. He’s everywhere in this case — Scotland, he knew Dean, he was friendly with the family. We know Roebuck fought with his killer and now Isherwood is covered in cuts to his face. You can’t blame me for being suspicious. Right now, the man is a strong contender.”

  “He doesn’t seem the type to me,” Jess said.

  “What type does an assassin have to be?” Harry said.

  “Isherwood strikes me as liking the comfortable, settled life,” Jess said. “Bet our killer doesn’t live like that. He’ll be a loner, go missing for days on end and he won’t interact much with the people who live around him.”

  Harry chuckled. “Quite the little psychologist, aren’t you?”

  Jess pointed to a large wooden building with a veranda. “There you are — Ryebridge bowling club.”

  The two of them stood looking down a steep grassy slope to the barbed wire fence at the bottom.

  “Do yourself some harm falling down there,” Harry said.

  “And he did, according to what he told us,” Jess said. “And look, the grass is flat over there and smeared with mud.”

  Harry half-slithered down the slope to a small tree, where he grasped the trunk to steady himself. “There’s blood here,” he shouted back. “On these blades of grass. There’s some thorny branches on this tree. If someone did slip, they could easy get caught up in them.”

  Harry plucked a few blades of grass and put them in an evidence bag. “I’ll get Hettie to run some tests, see if it’s a match for Isherwood’s DNA.”

  “And if it is, what then?”

  “Unless our friends at the Reid come up with something else, Jessie, we’re back to square one.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Thea Connor couldn’t believe how involved she’d got. She’d met with a killer and he’d threatened her, held a knife to her body the entire time they’d spoken. As if that wasn’t dangerous enough, she, Thea, was blackmailing the man, and actually demanding that he pay over money in exchange for he
r silence. Given what she knew, how stupid was that!

  It had seemed so easy in the beginning. Dean was the one dealing with him, he was going to blackmail the killer and get him to pay over a fortune. He’d agreed to share it with her, and Thea had become a willing accomplice. She thought Dean had died because he was careless and that it was his own fault. Not anymore. He’d been stupid to take on the killer, and so had she. The problem now — how to stay alive.

  Thea knew that if she went ahead and met the killer as arranged, he wasn’t going to let her walk away this time. Despite agreeing to her terms, he wouldn’t risk her talking. This man was no amateur, he’d take what evidence she had to offer, weigh up the risks and leave her dead on that bench. Thea had to do something, get herself out of this mess, but how? She picked up her mobile and found her dad’s number. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she needed his help.

  “I’ve got myself in a fix,” she began. “I need to talk to you, now, this morning. Can you come home?”

  He hesitated before replying, not a good sign. “I’ve got clients to see, Thea. You know clients, they pay the bills. I can’t just rearrange my day to suit you. What is it now — not done your homework? Problem with some boy?”

  Just like him. He never had any time for her, his clients always came first. “Nothing like that. I’m in trouble, dad, serious trouble.”

  “Bloody hell, Thea, you’re not pregnant, are you? Anything else I can cope with, but not that.”

  Thea finished the call. What was the use? Her dad wasn’t going to help. She was on her own, so if she wanted to live, there was just one choice left. She took the stolen burner phone Dean had given to her for safe-keeping, plus his third laptop and put them into her school bag. Decision made. She would speak to the police, tell them what she knew and hand over the evidence in exchange for keeping her safe. But she daren’t risk going to them — for all she knew the killer was watching her house.

  She remembered the card DI Lennox had given her. She took it from her dressing table and keyed in the number, tapping her foot. It was several seconds before he answered.