The Faceless (18 page)

“This was... this was a real face.” His speech had thickened and slowed. His head twitched left, then right, then left again as he spoke. “A plaster cast. He had to lie there. Wait for it to harden. He’s still waiting. Pain. The pain. And the sorrow. Shame. Misery.” He sucked in another breath; his head went back. The striplights flickered. He released the cast, fumbled for the mask.

Renwick breathed out; it hung white in the air. So cold, suddenly. She glanced at the others; Crosbie had pulled his lapels closer together, while Brock’s arms were wrapped around himself. Vera’s hands covered her mouth.

“We are the dead.” Cowell’s voice was thicker still. “We are the d–”

And then he was cut off. He didn’t stop speaking.
We are the dead,
she saw him say, but she couldn’t hear it; couldn’t hear anything. Brock looked puzzled. Crosbie stuck his fingers in his ears, waggled them around. His mouth said
What?
but again she couldn’t hear it. Vera had sunk back against the wall. Her mouth hung open; her eyes stared upwards.

At the far end of the room, a striplight flickered out; blackness poured into the space like a flood of ink. And then the next striplight died too. And then the rest, all but the one lighting the space around the entrance; the dark rushed forward. The last striplight flickered above them and blazed bright; the dark’s forward surge halted.

Vera sank to her knees, face still in her hands. Brock kept mouthing the word
what?
He looked close to panic. Crosbie fumbled at his throat and mouth, repeating
what the fuck
over and over. He stared at Renwick. She tried to speak too; nothing happened.

The dark around them rippled and pulsed. It was alive. It would flood in and swallow them if it could. The remaining striplight was all that held it back. White mist streamed from her mouth with every breath.

She looked back towards Cowell. He was still clutching the mask, his head thrown back. His upper body kept jerking backwards. Over and over his lips formed the same words:
We are the dead. We are the dead
.

The striplight brightened; the glow spread. But the evidence room was gone. The breezeblock wall was still at their back, and the door too – Brock was wrenching at the handle, trying to get it open – but the narrow room and metal shelves were gone. Behind Cowell was an endless floor of cracked asphalt, mud, stagnant water. And then the light widened a little further, and showed someone standing there in a tattered black cape, head bowed.

Crosbie took a half-step forward, fists clenched; Vera’s hands had come away from her face and she was standing again, pressed back against the wall, eyes vast with fright. Brock was still trying to get the door open; Cowell just jerked back and forth, mouthing the same four words over and over.

The newcomer was tall and skeletally thin and wore a floppy black cap. Its head came up; a painted, immobile mask hid whatever face it had. If it had eyes, though, she couldn’t see them; just the black holes punched in its mask. When it looked at her, the purest cold seemed to stream from them.

It was the same kind of mask Cowell was holding, but a different shape. The uncovered part of the face was blurred, dark and writhing. She couldn’t focus on it properly, and didn’t want to. Even trying to do so
hurt
. She was grateful for the mask; if the whole face was exposed, she didn’t think she could bear the sight.

The light widened a little further; two more Spindly Men stood behind the first. One had a mask covering the top half of his face, with bright blue eyes painted on it; the other’s covered the left side of his. The three stepped towards Cowell. The light flickered again; the shadows around them thinned slightly for a moment, enough for her to glimpse more immobile faces just beneath the surface of the dark.

Mafeking Street, Kempforth itself, seemed an eternity away, the last fading echo of an old life, something from childhood, vitally important once but now irrelevant, belonging to another time, another place. Only this abyssal blackness remained, and the things that swarmed in it; the deep-sea predator fish, circling and closing around a diving bell and waiting for its protective walls to give way.

Was there any way back to the evidence room, the station – concepts already grown so vague she fought to picture them? She didn’t know. But if the light went out any chance would be gone. And now the first Spindly Man reached for Cowell.

She started forward, Vera too, but the other Spindly Men turned to them, the blue-eyed one staring at her, the other at Vera. So cold. Struggling to move. Like wading through treacle. The first Spindly’s hand falling, relentlessly, towards Cowell’s shoulder.

And then Brock flew past her, fell on his arse – the evidence room door was open, and the striplight flickered like a strobe, going wild. The scene was changing back and forth with each flash. One flash illuminated more ranks of Spindlies gathered on that endless field of mud and asphalt around them; the next lit the familiar shelves and walls of the evidence room.

A blur of motion – Stakowski. He vaulted over Brock, towards Cowell. Behind him Renwick saw the corridor, the striplights there flashing and flickering. Other people stood there – McAdams, Joyce Graham, Anna Mason and her brother coming out of the interview room.

Get the civilians out
, Renwick shouted at McAdams, but of course there was no sound.

Stakowski – she spun back. He’d shoved Vera aside, lunged for Cowell. The blue-eyed Spindly reached for him. Renwick leapt forward, trying to shout his name.

Stakowski tried to wrench the mask from Cowell’s hands, but it wouldn’t budge. The first Spindly’s hand was an inch from Cowell’s shoulder. Stakowski balled a fist, drew it back. No, he wouldn’t stand a chance against the Spindly Men–

But it was Cowell he was aiming for and he caught him smack on the chin, snapping his head back. Cowell’s grip broke; the mask fell.

Vera screamed silently as Cowell pitched back into the dark–

The striplight overhead exploded in a shower of sparks, heralding an inrush of returning sound – a striplight in the corridor blew out as well. McAdams jumped aside as its plastic casing smashed to the tiled floor. A last flicker and the lights came back on.

“You fucking bastard–”

The Spindly Men were gone. The evidence room was the evidence room again: the steel shelves, the narrow aisle between them. Brock sat huddled against the wall, shaking. Crosbie stood by the door, blinking and dazed.

“Get off, woman–”

Crosbie ran forward to help Stakowski, who was trying to fend off Vera Latimer’s blows. Renwick waded in, grabbed her wrists. “That’s enough.”

“He fucking hit Allen, the cunt–”

“You can take the girl out of Shackleton Street...” Crosbie muttered.

“And fuck you, Jock–”

“That is
enough
. Vera.
Vera
. Cool it. Now.”

Vera blinked and stared at her. A thin whimper slid out of her throat. Renwick released her wrists and she covered her mouth.

“I had to clock him. Only way to stop it. Brock, can you grab us a chair, please?” Stakowski helped Cowell to his feet. “Take it easy, Mr Cowell.
Brock
. A bloody chair.”

Brock nodded, stumbled off to get one.

“Allen–” Vera went to her brother.

Renwick took a deep breath. Questions like
what was that
could come later. She turned to Crosbie. “Go help DS McAdams. Dave?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Make sure the station’s secure, get the broken glass swept up. Joyce?”

“Boss?”

“Can you come take a look at Mr Cowell, please?” Christ, if Cowell was injured – Graham grabbed the first-aid kit and jogged down the corridor towards them. Behind her Anna Mason and her brother stood staring – Anna pale and shaken, Martyn bewildered with nothing to fight. “Alastair–”

“Ma’am?” called Crosbie.

“When you’ve a minute, can you arrange to get Mr Griffiths and Ms Mason home too?”

“Actually, ma’am–” Having installed Cowell in the requested chair, Stakowski stepped aside to let Graham through “–you might want a word with Ms Mason first. Think we might have a lead here.”

Laughter. Cowell. “You see?” he said. “You see?”

“Allen, are you alright?” Vera gripped her brother’s hand in both of hers. He patted hers. He was ashen, blood at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine. Better than fine. You all saw that. No-one can deny it. What we saw. That was real. It was real.” The laughter subsided slowly. “Chief Inspector?”

“Yes, Mr Cowell. You’re sure you’re OK?”

He’d stopped laughing, but he was still smiling. His eyes were bright. “I’ve never felt better in my life. I don’t think any medium ever provided such clear proof of the supernatural as just now.” A deep breath. “But I suggest we pool our resources. Share what information we have, and see where we go from there.”

Renwick felt utterly calm and ready to jump with excitement, all at once. “Let Constable Graham finish checking you over,” she said. “And then we’ll see.”

She headed out into the corridor. McAdams had found a dustpan and brush and was sweeping up the glass. “Take Mr Griffiths and Ms Mason to interview room one for the moment,” Renwick told Crosbie. “Just let’s keep them out of the way.” She met Anna Mason’s eyes. “If that’s OK?”

“No problem.” Anna shook her head. “I want to help. I’ll wait.”

Crosbie led her off; Martyn followed, dazed and dumb.

“Thanks, Mike,” Renwick murmured.

“Any time.”

“Good punch as well.”

“Had to be done, boss. Only way.”

“Not that you enjoyed it at all.”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t.”

His hand shook; before she could stop herself, she gripped it for a second, then quickly let go. “Let’s do this,” she said. “Find out what the hell’s going on.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A
NNA SAT WITH
Martyn in the interview room for nearly half an hour before they were taken up to the... squad room? Was that what the police called it, or was that only in America? It was on the first floor of the station and overlooked the misty street.

They pushed two desks together and sat around them. Eight in all: her and Martyn, Renwick and Stakowski, the big Detective Sergeant with the ginger hair and the Scottish one – Alastair, Renwick had called him. The man with the smart suit and expensive watch, pressing a cold flannel to his jaw. He looked familiar. An actor? The woman with him didn’t look familiar. His wife, maybe? Pity, she was tall and elegant, equally well-dressed. Older than Anna by a good few years, but handsome. Groomed. Short hair, but not mannish. Just her type.

“Alright,” said Renwick. “You all know who I am. I believe you all know Sergeant Stakowski as well. This is DS McAdams. DC Crosbie. This is Allen Cowell.” A brief pause. “The medium.”

Yes, of course. He had a TV series on one of the satellite channels. She’d seen it at Martyn and Eva’s once.

“Miss Latimer, Mr Cowell’s sister.”

Sister, then. Vera’s eyes met hers across the table. Light brown, almost yellow. Bright, clear, attractive. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Anna looked down.
Miss, though. Not married
.

“And this is Ms Mason, and her brother, Mr Griffiths.” Renwick took a deep breath. “Alright. Let’s begin. Mike, let’s talk about the house on Shackleton Street.”

Stakowski nodded. “We found various bits and pieces there, more about that in a mo. We also found the bodies of two women, which we’ve now identified as Elizabeth Fowler and–” he checked his notes “– Jayne Shore.”

“Jayne?” Anna nearly jumped; Martyn hadn’t spoken since they got here. “Jayne with a ‘y’? Shore like in sea-shore?”

“Yes, that’s right–”

“But she’s dead. Liz Fowler too. I mean, already. They were–”

“Mr Griffiths–”

“They were in my wife’s art class.”

“Art class?”

“They were killed with her. Night the college burned down.”

“Whoa. Hang on. Of course.” Stakowski rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, lad. Forgot. Eva Griffiths, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyroad, as you say, they were both listed presumed dead back in November after the fire.”

“Presumed?” asked Martyn. “I thought–”

“It were a bad fire, Mr Griffiths. We never found all the bodies. Just... parts. Nowt we could ID–”

“Mike,” said Renwick.

“Sorry.” Stakowski rubbed his eyes. Martyn looked down. “Anyroad, they both died in the last couple of days. Not sure what of yet. Wearing the same clothes they’d been last seen in. Looks like they were kept as prisoners. Why, we have no idea. No ransom demands; neither was what you’d call wealthy in any case. But it’s looking like the Spindly Men went to work round here a bit earlier than we thought. But the other stuff we found... no idea. Not till Miss Mason showed up. But anyway, Mr Cowell–”

“We’ll get back to Ms Mason in a moment.” Renwick turned to Cowell. “OK. Mr Cowell. What did you... see? In the evidence room. What can you tell us?”

Cowell inspected the damp cloth, folded it neatly and set it to one side. It was his moment; he was milking it. “It was different from the usual,” he said. “Johnny, Mark and Sam weren’t there.”

“Who’s that?” said Stakowski.

“My spirit guides. They weren’t there.”

“Johnny, Mark and... Sam, you said?”

“That’s right.” Vera put her hand on Cowell’s. Pride in her voice. “Read any of his books. He talks about them there.”

“I’ll order one off Amazon once t’internet’s up again.”

“If we could carry on?” said Renwick. “Are they usually there when you perform...”

“Psychometry? Yes. They usually are. But this time... I’m not sure exactly what I encountered. Something... it was something very
powerful
, certainly. Like a wave, almost, rolling over me. All I got were... impressions.”

“Impressions of what?”

“Rage. That was the first thing. This terrible sense of... rage. But suffering, too. Terrible suffering. I had images of... an institution of some kind. Corridors. Rooms. People wearing some sort of smock. The kind hospital patients wear.”

Renwick nodded.