The Faceless (17 page)

Renwick put a hand on his arm, waved back the sister with the other.

Stakowski pulled away. Christ. What kind of a copper are you? But of course he knew.
Laney. Marshall
. He wasn’t fit to hold the warrant card, wear the uniform. He blundered to the door, wrenched it open, ran out.

R
ENWICK FOUND
S
TAKOWSKI
sat on the concrete steps outside the station’s side entrance, shoulders slumped, head bowed forward, a cigarette smoked almost to the filter. For the first time, he really did look old.

She waited. Not long; it was cold. “Mike.”

“How do, lass.” She could barely hear him. He didn’t look up.

“Do you want to tell me what just happened there?”

He dropped the cigarette stub, lit a fresh one. “You saw.”

“Yeah. Believing it’s another matter.”

Silence. “Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll tell you.”

She sat beside him.

“Laney were a paramedic here in Kempforth. Met her back in ’94, when I were a probationer – got called out to a bad RTA. Not exactly the stuff of romance, picking up body parts and cutting survivors out of the wreckage. But, her and me hit it off. One thing led to another. Got married in ’96. Same year I transferred to CID.”

“You were married? You never said anything about–”

“Not summat I like dwelling on, lass.” His voice was a whisper.

“What happened?”

“Early ’98, she tells me she’s up duff.” A half-smile. “Bloody shat a brick at first. But after that – aye, I were happy with it. And then two weeks later, some bastard junkie stabs her six times. Eighteen bastard hours they tried to save her. They didn’t manage.”

“Mike–”

“She was always the one said folk like that were sick, needed help. I’d always just thought they were scumbags. Sell their own kids to a bloody paedo for the next fix. Laney taught me different. But then you see the damage fuckers like that do.”

“When... when did this happen?”

“Oh, April 15
^th
, just like he said. Wherever he gets his info from, he’s good.”

Renwick almost asked about the baby. Didn’t.

“Went off the rails after that. Drink, mostly. Lower than I’d been in my whole bloody life. Even worse than when mam died.” He chain-lit another cigarette. “I started going to Spiritualist meetings. I were raised Catholic, but I’d lapsed years ago. Just wanted... just wanted to speak to her.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway. Couple of mediums got a lot of money out of me with ‘private sessions’ before I cottoned onto them. Parasites, bloody lot of them. Bleed folk white when they’re grieving and vulnerable. There’s not much lower than that. So I know Cowell’s sort, and I bloody hate the bastards. He’s so bastard fake you can clock it a mile off, but folk still think he’s for real–”

“What about the other date?”

“You sure you want to know?”

“Mike.”

“I’m trusting you, Joan.”

“Tell me.”

“Alright.” He trod his cigarette out half-smoked. “Paul Marshall.”

“Was he
–
?”

“Guess.”

“The junkie.”

“Gold star.”

“And July 12
^th
1999?” Stakowski didn’t answer. “If he was caught and charged at the time–”

“He was.”

“He’d have been sentenced by then.”

“They got it down to manslaughter. Can you believe that? Not responsible for his actions. Reduced sentence. Wasn’t even double figures. Think that’s what did it. Or maybe nowt would’ve been enough. I had... a friend. In the prison service.”

“Mike–”

“You asked. I’m telling you. He’s dead now, anyway. But he let me know that if I felt the sentence handed down to Paul Marshall was... unequal to the gravity of the crime... something could be done about it. An accident could be arranged. If I just said the word.”

“And did you?”

“Laney meant everything to me. And then there was the kid.” Stakowski half-withdrew another cigarette, put it back. “If I had it do all over again... I dunno. But you can’t take it back, once it’s done.”

“So he had an accident?”

“On July 12
^th
, 1999. Nasty one, too. Didn’t die particularly fast, or so I understand. Great loss to humanity, I’m sure. Would’ve found a cure for cancer and everything.” He glanced her way. “I know. Not the point.”

“No.” The wind blew.

Stakowski stared at the ground. “So what happens now?” She could barely hear him.

“Well, you can start by making me a brew, you old goat.” He looked up. “You don’t get out of putting the kettle on that easily.”

“Slavedriver.”

“Yep.” She took his hand. It was leathery, knuckly and cold.

“Aye. Come on. Get piles sitting here.”

She held the door for him. “You gonna be OK?”

“I’ll make it. Probably best not go back in there, though.”

“Happen, sarge.”

“Taking piss?”

“Aye.”

Stakowski laughed.

“Mike?” Sergeant Graham called as they reached reception. “You alright, mate?” She looked from him to Renwick and back again.

“I’m fine, Joyce.”

“You sure?”

“Aye, love, I’m alright.”

Graham bit her lip. “Boss? Someone else asking for you.”

“Oh?” She turned, saw a thin blonde woman. “Ms Mason.” And some big lummox with her–

“Mr Griffiths,” said Stakowski.

“Hi.” She was pale, but determined too, in a way she hadn’t been before. Angry, almost. “I’ve got some information you might find helpful.”

“Mike, can you–?”

“Of course.” He pulled himself up, breathed out. “You can rely on me.”

“I know.”

He smiled, turned. “This way, Ms Mason.”

T
HE INTERVIEW ROOM
had breezeblock walls and a wiry green carpet. They sat at a chipped, scored table; Stakowski passed out cups of tea. “Here we go.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Now then. Fire away.”

“There’s a lot of information.” She took the file from her shoulderbag. “Not really sure where to start.”

“Tell him about–”

“Let’s give your sister room to breathe here, Mr Griffiths. How about we start at the beginning?”

She took two photographs from the file, pushed them across the desk. “Do these look at all familiar?”

He went utterly still. “Aye, lass. They do. So just what the hell are they?”

She wasn’t nervous anymore; she was calm, even euphoric. She leant forward, fingers steepled, and began to speak.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“A
NYTHING
?” R
ENWICK ASKED.

Cowell put the Shackleton Street photo back down on the desk. “Standard publicity photo,” he said. “Send out dozens of these every week.”

“No way to trace an individual one?”

“Sorry. These symbols, though...”

“What about them?”

“They’re occult in origin. That’s a pentacle, there, five-pointed star. And this one...” he tapped a symbol composed of five zig-zag lines radiating from a central point, “is a old pagan religious symbol. It’s called the Black Sun.”

“Miss Latimer?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? You looked–”

“Fine.” Vera stared back at Renwick. At least she wasn’t smirking anymore; she had been ever since Cowell had driven Stakowski out. Crosbie looked from one of them to the other.

“I think it’s a kind of charm,” Cowell said at last. “Meant to draw me there somehow.”

“To Kempforth, or to that house?”

“The choice of location’s hardly accidental.”

“Sorry?”

“We grew up there,” said Vera. “In that exact
house
. And no, Chief Inspector. Our childhood was not happy.”

“They said...” Cowell began. “I was told to ask to see the things you found at Shackleton Street.”

“What
things
are those, Mr Cowell?”

“I don’t know. I was told only to ask to see them.”

“By whom, Mr Cowell?”

“My spirit guides.”

Crosbie sighed.

“Your spirit guides,” said Renwick. “Of course. Forgot.”

“I’m sure Sergeant Stakowski could testify to their accuracy.”

Renwick really didn’t want to think of Mike right now. “I suggest you leave Sergeant Stakowski out of this.”

“He went to hit Allen,” said Vera.

Who bloody deserved it, Renwick wanted to say, but couldn’t. And if they wanted to complain there wasn’t much she could do.
Oh Christ, Mike, I didn’t want to know this
. Cowell smiled. “I’m quite prepared to forget what happened before, Chief Inspector.”

“Glad to hear it. So that was your spirit guides, was it, told you that before?”

“About the Sergeant’s wife? Yes.”

“Tell me a bit more about your spirit guides then, Mr Cowell.”

“They’re called Johnny, Mark and Sam. Three boys I knew when I was little. They’re dead now.”

“What happened to them?”

“They–”

“No.” Vera was shaking. “Enough. I won’t... I won’t be put through that again. I won’t.”

Cowell looked at her, then Renwick. “How relevant is this, Chief Inspector?”

“That’s what I’m trying to determine, Mr Cowell. OK. We’ll leave that part. For now.”

Vera sank back into her chair, shaking.

“Do you know what ‘psychometry’ is, Chief Inspector?”

“Enlighten me.”

“The ability to obtain information about an object by holding it. Who it belonged to, where it came from. It’s quite impressionistic – isolated names, images, and so forth. Can be confusing sometimes. But if I can handle the objects you found at Shackleton Street, perhaps I can find out who’s taken the child, and where.”

The child
. That was what it came down to. If it got out she was taking anything Cowell said seriously... Christ, Banstead’d have an orgasm. She’d be finished. But she was anyway, unless she found Roseanne. Maybe even then. But that didn’t matter, if the child was found. She’d nothing else left.

“If –
if
– I allowed that, those items stay in their evidence bags.”

“Of course. That should be fine.”

“Should be?”

“It’s hard to be exact. Varies from case to case.”

“Uh-huh.” She glanced at Crosbie. Would he phone Banstead the first chance he got?

Judgement call. Down to her.

“Constable?”

“Ma’am?”

“Get hold of Constable Brock. Tell him we’ll need his help.” She didn’t take her eyes off Cowell. “And just so we’re clear, Mr Cowell, lives are at risk here. So if this
does
turn out to be a publicity stunt, I will personally ensure you’ll be holding your next sÉance at Strangeways Prison. Have I made myself clear?”

Vera looked furious. Cowell sighed. “I’m sorry you doubt me. But I suppose it’s inevitable.” He brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve; his fingers shook slightly. “Shall we go?”

THE TESTAMENT OF SERGEANT EDWARD HOWIE CONTINUED aye that could no be seen by any surgeon patient exhibited hysterical paralysis of the legs also violent reaction to any sight of blood referred to dr yealland at london hospital for course of treatment with electricity dr yealland aye i remember that bastard applyin electrodes in dose after dose to ma legs talkin to me as if i wasnt there as if i was not human he considered me degenerate i must recover he said an return to the front and serve my country that the times did not allow for coddling of such as i the greater good must be considered an he applied jolt after jolt of electricity to ma legs to force response an in a long long session an endless day he forced me to walk again an i was weeping torn between hatred of him an shame at my weakness for what else could i call it my mind would not allow my legs to move for i was terrified of death an some word or another of it got back to emma in glasgow for she wrote to me breakin off our engagement since i was a madman or a coward or both an she would have neither an so i returned to the front without demur

T
HE EVIDENCE ROOM
was at the back of the station, long, narrow and breezeblock-walled. Ranks of tall steel shelves on either side made it narrower still. In the space between the entrance and the shelves, Renwick, Crosbie, Cowell and Vera waited.

The evidence room was Brock’s domain. His father – also a copper – had got him a job, but nothing could remedy Brock’s lack of ambition. He’d spent his career as a uniformed constable, the last ten years in the evidence room, but he was happy enough with that; he was far happier dealing with things rather than people. He lived alone, had modest savings; in a couple of years he’d retire. That was enough for him.

Wheels squeaked; Brock pushed a trolley slowly into view. He was stick-thin – cadaverous was the word – but slow and ponderous, like a much heavier man. Greasy, tangled black hair with streaks of grey. On the trolley was one of the plaster faces from Shackleton Street and the painted mask. Brock halted, stepped back.

Stark striplighting flickered above them.

“Is that enough for you to get started?” Renwick asked.

Cowell nodded, pale under the striplights. “Oh, yes. More than enough.”

“Well then. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Alright.” Cowell brushed at his lapels. His fingers shook; his face was grey.

He went round the side of the trolley and faced them. A showman’s gesture; probably didn’t even realise he’d done it. He began breathing deeply, in and out. Brock leant back against the wall beside Renwick, arms folded; he reeked of stale sweat and cheap spray-on deodorant. Crosbie shifted impatiently; Vera hugged herself, bit her lip.

Cowell’s fingers, shaking, settled on the plaster face. He closed his eyes. Brock sniggered. Cowell opened his eyes, blinked; Vera glared.

“Constable,” said Renwick, sharper than she’d meant.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

Cowell breathed deep. He looked afraid – of finding something, or maybe not finding it. His eyes closed again; his hands crept over the face. Its eyes were closed, the mouth agape, or what should have been a mouth. Below the upper lip there was just a gaping hole extending out into the cheek, down into the chin. Cowell sucked breath through his teeth. “Something institutional,” he said. “I’m getting a hospital. No, not a hospital exactly. I...” His eyes flickered under the lids. His lips twitched, pulled back from the teeth. He sucked in another breath, this one vast; it seemed to pull the air and light from the evidence room. His head fell forward.