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

by HELEN H. DURRANT

  “I move into my new house on Friday, or have you forgotten? I have to be back in time for that.”

  “If needs be, I’ll get a replacement then,” he said, “but for the moment, a familiar face will keep Thea on side.”

  “You make sure you keep me informed about everything,” she insisted. “No leaving me out of important breakthroughs. All right?”

  “Absolutely. You’re the one who updates the family, so no probs.” He grinned. “Before you go, would you do something else? Take Col and nip round to the Connors’ house and get them a few essentials.”

  Jess rolled her eyes. “You owe me, Harry Lennox.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  He parked at the end of the leafy road where the Connors lived, and waited. It was late but the house was dark, silent. There’d been no movement. Not even the girl’s dad, the solicitor, had returned home. Something was wrong — surely, he didn’t work this late? Then he saw a car pull up and two people get out. Not the Connors, but he did recognise them both, they worked with the DI in charge of this case.

  That could only mean one thing, the stupid girl had gone to the police.

  The assassin hunkered down and watched the house in his wing mirror. It was vital they didn’t see him. He was right, they had a key. That meant the police were protecting both Thea and her dad. That wasn’t good. The girl could describe him. As for the evidence she reckoned she had, he would have to take the risk.

  Fifteen minutes after they’d arrived the two detectives left, locking the front door behind them. Both were carrying suitcases — the Connors would no doubt be ensconced in a safe house, well out of his reach. He had to do something, get back control. The girl must be got rid of, and quick. But how? He smiled. Of course. There was a way. He knew exactly how to stop her. Thea Connor would not get the better of him.

  It was simple. Follow the suitcases.

  * * *

  Harry rang Sasha at the Reid. “I don’t have to tell you how urgent this is. We need everything you can find. Thea told us they used the buying-and-selling site we spoke about. Coded adverts. See what you can deduce. There’ll be information on the laptop that should help.”

  “I’m looking at it now,” she said. “The mobile was only used to call one number but it’s no longer active.”

  “I think that’s the killer’s number, used exclusively by Calvert.”

  “You’ll have to give me a bit longer with the laptop,” Sasha said. “You’ll be here tomorrow for Roebuck’s PM, won’t you? Pop in and I’ll give you what I’ve got then.”

  “Thanks, Sasha.”

  Harry finished the call and saw Rodders standing at the incident board. “I’ve had Weeks on,” Rodders said. “He wants everything we’ve got so far, particularly what we’ve gathered on Calvert.”

  “He’s a bit eager. We don’t know what we’ve got yet, Sasha is still working on it.”

  “Don’t squeeze him out, Harry. We need the man onside. He gets a whiff that we’re being cute and he’ll take the lot from under our noses.”

  “We just need a bit longer, sir. Just so we can collate what we’ve got so far and piece it together. Currently we’ve got more on the assassin than Calvert, so the case is still very much in our hands. If Weeks snatches it from us now, it could jeopardise the case. We’ve just got an important witness on board. She’s young, nervous, and it’s us she trusts. Hand her over to the City boys and she’ll clam up.”

  Rodders nodded and wandered off back to his office. Minutes later, the officer who’d done the photofit with Thea tapped on the door.

  “What d’you think, sir?”

  The image wasn’t particularly good. It showed a clean-shaven, dark-haired man wearing a baseball cap and with the neck of his polo sweater pulled up over his chin. “It’ll have to do. We’ll get it circulated to the press, the local TV, although I’m not holding my breath on anyone coming forward.”

  Good or not, the photofit would rattle the killer, make him realise how close they were. And Thea was safe, which was reassuring.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Day Seven

  First thing the following morning, Harry and Colin checked in with Melanie at the Reid. She’d already started the PM and had Roebuck on the table, his innards spread out across his lower belly.

  “There were two stab wounds using the same knife,” Melanie confirmed. “One struck his abdomen but didn’t kill him. Roebuck was a big man, plenty of blubber.” She grimaced. “The second wound penetrated the heart.” She held the dripping organ aloft. “This kill is different from the others, not so clean. It didn’t go to plan, the two men fought, and it got messy. Roebuck is bruised and cut about the face. It must have been quite a set to.”

  “It certainly was,” Hettie chimed in. “That flat was in a right state — broken ornaments, overturned furniture, plus Roebuck was no housekeeper, so it’s taken some sorting out. Still, we had one bit of luck.” She held out what looked like a tiny, creamy-coloured stone. “One of my people found this lying on the carpet, and it doesn’t belong to Roebuck. It’s part of a tooth,” she explained. “The tip of an adult canine to be precise.”

  “A what?”

  “One of those two pointy ones near the front.” She smiled. “With luck it’ll belong to our killer.”

  “Roebuck punches him in the mouth and that happens,” Harry said thoughtfully. “The killer must have noticed he’d lost half a tooth.”

  “It might not hurt but it’ll feel wrong, sharp — if he hasn’t looked in the mirror. It’s worth checking with the local dentists, see if anyone has needed a front tooth fixing.”

  Harry made a mental note to speak to Hugh. He was a dentist, perhaps he could put the word out. “Can you get DNA from it?”

  Hettie gave him a big grin. “Yep. And there’s more. The cuts on Roebuck’s face. I had hoped to get a trace of the killer’s blood. There wasn’t any, but there are tiny fibres in the wounds. I’m still doing some research, but it looks like they came from gloves — you know, those worn by your outdoorsy types who like all the gear when they go walking. If it’s the ones I’m thinking of, they’re expensive. They have full touchscreen compatibility so you can access your phone when you’re out walking or running.”

  “They’re usually leather, aren’t they?” Harry said.

  “So this guy likes to be different. Find the gloves and I’ll match the fibres — and don’t forget his boots while you’re at it. I took a cast of a print that was found in the mud by the boating lake.”

  While Harry had been talking to Hettie, Melanie had continued with the PM. “This man was a walking timebomb,” she said. “Coronary arteries are badly furred. He could have had a heart attack at any moment.”

  That’s as may be, but Roebuck had still been a force to reckon with. He was the only one of the killer’s victims who’d tried to fight back.

  “I’m doing a tox screen,” Hettie said. “The whisky was laced with diazepam — that’s a prescription drug. You’d have a job finding who it was prescribed to, and it might even have been bought online. If I get anything else that helps, I’ll be in touch. But basically, where the rest is concerned, find me a suspect and I should be able to rule him in or out.”

  This good news lightened Harry’s mood. “The blood on the grass — anything back on that?”

  “Blimey. Give me chance,” she chided. “But if it checks out with the sample of Isherwood’s DNA, you’ll be the first to know.”

  He left them to it and went to find Sasha. Not being permanent, she’d been put in the only space available, the basement. She’d done her best, turned the room into a makeshift lab and every surface was now covered in tech equipment.

  “Made it your own, I see.” Harry looked around, smiling. “Got anything?”

  Sasha returned the smile. “I think I might have. I’ve had a look at Dean’s third laptop. It was very informative. I found a hidden file where he’d described the code used to interpret the ads on that selling s
ite. A sort of ‘how to’ guide on decoding them. Look, I’ll show you.”

  She accessed the selling site and pointed to a particular advert.

  “It appears to be a chest of drawers for sale, but it actually contains all the information the killer needs on the latest victim, Roebuck. The seller states that he’s in Ryebridge. Now the killer knows where to find the target.” She pointed to the object that was supposedly for sale. “This bit here is a name.”

  Harry was lost. “I don’t see any name. All I see is a rather long and flowery description of a set of pine drawers.”

  “It needs to be that long to fit the whole code in. Dean’s instructions say to go through the letters in the ad, taking some out according to the formula he’d worked out.” Using the ad for the chest as an example, Sasha soon had the name ‘Joe Roebuck’ written on a scrap of paper. “It’s simple really. Whoever places the ad just has to ensure that the words in the description fit the formula.”

  “Could be tricky.”

  “Hasn’t been so far. I’ve found them all — Nadia, Lana, and a bloke killed a few months ago in Wilmslow. I’m still searching — there are some I haven’t found. Your faceless man for instance, but given I don’t know his real name, that’s not surprising. The faceless man and the others were listed in advance in the ad, along with a number to call. I presume the man who hires the killer makes a quick call or sends a text using that phone Dean found, and the kill is on. All the killer needs to know is the number. No doubt he’ll already have deciphered the ads and have the names.”

  It was a clever system. “It gives the killer time to do his research on the intended victims. One thing puzzles me, though,” Harry said. “How does the killer know which ads to look at? There are hundreds on that site.”

  “The relevant ones are all placed by the same user.” She pointed. “All the killer has to do is look for the username, ‘Songbird’.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Songbird. This had to be a joke, one huge giving of the finger. Songbird was the name of the operation Weeks was running on Ricky Calvert. Harry needed an urgent word with Rodders, he must tell him what he knew about Weeks and his crew.

  He drove back to the station. He missed Jess. He needed her take on this. One thing was certain, that username, Songbird, was no coincidence.

  “Jess rang in about an hour ago,” the desk sergeant told him. “She could do with a word.”

  “Likewise, but I’ve got to speak to Rodders first.” He hurried along the corridor to the super’s office and knocked on the door.

  “Got any news, Harry?” Rodders said at once. “I’ve had City on again — that man Parkinson, asking for a report.”

  “We have made a breakthrough, sir. We now know how Calvert contacted the killer.” He had to keep this simple, Rodders wasn’t particularly tech savvy. “They used one of those buy-and-sell sites on the internet. Setting up an account is easy and folk trade under usernames in the main.” He paused, wondering how he’d take the next bit. “Guess what Calvert’s username is?”

  Rodders held up a hand. “Sorry, Harry, this isn’t my area. Computers give me a headache. I don’t like the bloody things, never mind buying-and-selling on them. If I want to get rid of stuff, an ad in the good old local paper does for me. And as for those book-reading things—”

  “Songbird,” Harry said.

  That stopped Rodders in his tracks. “What?”

  “That’s Calvert’s username on the site,” Harry explained. “He’s bloody laughing at us!”

  “I wonder if Weeks knows,” said Rodders.

  Harry shrugged. “Well, Weeks has been at this a while.”

  “You’re thinking a leak, that someone at City is on Calvert’s payroll?”

  “I can’t see any other explanation, sir.”

  “I’ll have to tell Weeks, get his take on this. We don’t know enough about his team to give an opinion,” Rodders said.

  “Bloody Parkinson,” Harry said straight off. “I’ll stake my pension on it.”

  “Better not, lad, you could be mistaken. In the meantime, we’ll keep important stuff to ourselves, limit what we tell Weeks. We don’t want Calvert finding out what we know.”

  “I agree, sir. And we should hold back from putting stuff on the system until you’ve had that word.”

  Rodders nodded, much to Harry’s relief. His support on this would be important if Weeks started putting the pressure on about results.

  Harry went back to the main office and rang Jess. “How’s it going? Col dropped the stuff off?”

  “Yes, and then he was off home. Said he was meeting Hugh in the pub for a bite to eat, lucky sod. I’m stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with a man who wants to be anywhere but here, a sulky teen and two officers who are lost without their uniforms. Casual they were told. One of them is in a suit, complete with tie for goodness sake.”

  “We’ve got a problem,” Harry said, ignoring her prattle. “Sasha cracked the code for the selling site. She knows Calvert’s username. Guess what it is — go on.”

  “I’m not up to playing games, Harry. I’m too tired.”

  “Songbird.” He heard Jess catch her breath. “Calvert knows about the operation and I dread to think what else. He has to, it’s the only explanation.”

  “Tread carefully, Harry. Don’t go getting into something you can’t get out of.”

  * * *

  The killer followed the detectives’ car to Stockfield and a detached cottage on a quiet lane. The location was perfect — what bothered him was the number of people around. The girl, her father, the woman detective and two other officers in plain clothes. It was seven at night, the house was lit up and he could make out people moving around inside. He’d have to strike in the early hours and be very careful about it. He’d get one chance at this. There might be collateral damage but whatever happened, the girl must die.

  He decided to return to Ryebridge to think it through. He was about to set off when he received a text on his burner phone. It was Calvert. He said to forget Lana, Calvert would deal with her another way. He had a new job for him and had already placed the ad on the site. This time the fee was twice as much as usual. The target was high priority and needed to be taken out pronto. The killer was warned not to fail, he’d been getting sloppy of late. A warning? Sounded like it, and he knew what that meant. His usefulness was wearing thin. Calvert was losing trust.

  He’d kill the girl, do the new job and move on. Ryebridge and the surrounding area was becoming too dangerous. Thea Connor had all the information Dean had gathered on him, and the police weren’t stupid. It was only a matter of time before someone pointed the finger at either him or Calvert.

  As he drove, the killer considered his options. London, he decided. He had contacts there. One man in particular, who had money laundering down to a fine art, would hire him in a heartbeat.

  He was back home within twenty minutes. He planned to have a bite to eat, formulate a plan and then ready himself for the night ahead. He walked towards the door, reading the text again. The pay-off for the new job would be big — twice the usual fee was a huge amount. The target must be someone special, not that that bothered him. He slid the back off the phone, removed the sim card and dropped it down a drainage grill.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Jess never slept well on her first night in a strange bed and at two in the morning, she was still struggling. She’d be a wreck tomorrow and have to get by on strong coffee. Still, there wasn’t much to do here — watching Thea was about it. The killer didn’t know where she was, so how hard could it be?

  Jess wasn’t used to the countryside. Everything was deathly quiet, the only sounds were the rustle of branches in the wind and the odd hoot of an owl. As she lay trying to sleep, she went over the conversation with Harry again in her head. Weeks must have a dodgy officer, and Calvert was making a joke of all their hard work. He obviously felt safe, secure in the knowledge that no one could discover what was go
ing on. But he didn’t know how much information Dean had collected.

  She might have dropped off but a loud creaking broke the silence and had her on alert. It must be someone on the stairs, off to the kitchen to get a drink. This was an old cottage, creaky floorboards were to be expected. The owl hooted again, making her jump. Jess decided that life in the countryside definitely wouldn’t suit her. This was no use. Cutting her losses, she got up, intending to go down to the kitchen and join whoever was there in a pot of tea.

  But downstairs everything was in darkness, the kitchen empty. The blinds were open, allowing the moonlight to stream in. The back garden looked weird, full of grotesque shapes and menacing shadows. Jess shuddered. She wasn’t enjoying this. Suddenly the kitchen door slammed shut and she heard the key turn in the lock. Someone had just locked her in.

  Jess went across and tugged on the handle, but it was no use. She had no mobile with her either, it was lying on the cabinet next to her bed. But she had to alert the others, Thea’s life could depend on it. Jess had no idea how he’d found them, but this had to be the killer.

  Think, girl, think. There has to be a way. Noise. Wake them all up, hopefully before he finds Thea. Jess grabbed a broom that was standing in a corner, stood on a chair and banged hard on the ceiling. The two officers were in the room above, they had to hear her.

  Next came a series of loud thumps. Someone falling down the stairs? Jess screamed out, “I’m in the kitchen! Let me out.”

  “Sorry, Jess, he got away.” One of the officers opened the door. “He fell down the stairs and legged it through the front door. But I think he’s hurt. He fell awkwardly on his ankle.”