The Faceless (4 page)

Where was she now? Marshall Street. Turn left here. Then right onto Kenborough Lane. Behind her, still, the click, click, click of her follower’s boots. She should have gone for the main road after all. Stupid. He wasn’t following her.

A crossroads. Straight over for Stangrove Wood. To the right, traffic sounds came from the main road. She stopped to look both ways. Behind her, the footsteps stopped.

Anna looked behind her. Nothing to see; just mist and a cone of blurred orange streetlight. Click, went a bootheel on the cold damp pavement. Click, click, click. The streetlight flickered. Someone was moving deliberately round its edges, not venturing into plain view.

She turned off the backstreets towards the gathering noise of passing cars on the main road; the sound had never been so welcome. She thought she heard the footsteps following, but they were soon lost in the traffic and when she looked back, she saw nothing.

A
T
S
TANGROVE
W
OOD,
Anna punched in the flat number on the keypad by the door.

“Who’s that?”

“Anna.”

The door buzzed open. The community lounge was empty; the Christmas tree’s lights had been switched off. Anna had a spare key to Nan’s first-floor flat; she let herself in. “Nan?”

“In here, love.” As if she’d be anywhere else this time of day. Anna passed the framed photos in the hallway – Nan as a young woman, Dad as a boy, Mum and Dad, her and Martyn as kids, Martyn and Eva with Mary – and went on into the living room.

“Oh hullo there, darling.” Nan’s throaty Welsh-accented voice – she’d smoked well into her seventies – always made Anna think of a rusty squeezebox. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Anna kissed her cheek – old, wrinkled, and softly furred with a light down – and caught the scent of the Imperial Leather soap Nan had always used. “D’you want a cup of tea, Nan?”

“Oh, go on, then. If you know where to find everything.”

She always said that, as if she regularly swapped everything around to keep Anna on her toes. “Yes, Nan. You just stay there.”

Tea for Nan, coffee for Anna with half a spoonful of sugar. Well, a girl had to have some indulgences. She pulled off her gloves and coat.

T
HINGS FOLLOWED THE
usual pattern after that. They talked a little, put the TV on. Nan drowsed off in her chair and snored softly, arms folded, head bowed. Her hearing aids made thin piping and squeaking sounds, like far-off whale music. The TV murmured; subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

The TV murmured. Nan gave a small muffled grunt and shifted in her sleep; the hearing aids squeaked softly. Anna slipped a sheaf of print-outs from her bag; a chapter from her book. She crossing out a word, scribbled a note in the margins. Slow work; she’d precious little writing time these days. But she’d do what she could, when she could. If it helped keep her sane.

Time passed. Anna rubbed her eyes and looked up, studying the mantelpiece above the fireplace. There were Christmas cards from her, Mary, a few of the home’s other residents; there was the card from Buckingham Palace, hand-delivered two years ago on Nan’s hundredth birthday. A photograph of Grandpa, in his army uniform; another of him with Nan on her wedding day.

And Nan’s father. Here he was in puttees and webbing belt. It was from 1918, after he’d been wounded; his face was slack, eyes staring off past the edge of the frame, seeing god knew what. There was one of him at Nan’s wedding too, his daughter on his arm, all in white. Nan had married in her mid-thirties, quite late for those times, but even allowing for the twenty-five years that had passed, Anna would never have guessed it was the same man if she hadn’t known. His face had creased and thickened, eyes sinking deep in their sockets as if in retreat from what they might see, and while he was trying to smile, it was a weak shadow of a thing.

Shot at the battle of Passchendaele, wounded in the chest and arm. The arm amputated at the elbow. And yet he could tie his shoelaces unaided, fasten his tie. Not that there’d been much choice. No welfare state back then, no safety net. You provided for your family or watched them starve, that or scrape by on a means-tested pittance. The changes he must have seen; he’d fought in one world war, seen out not only its successor but a whole world, a way of life. There must have been almost nothing left, at the end, he could recognise.

Time passed. Anna glanced at the clock. Christ, the time. Had the mist thinned out? Let it clear up tomorrow; she hated driving in conditions like that.

Nan grunted again, stirred awake, blinked sleep-small eyes and fumbled for her glasses. Her hair had faded over the years from a dark grey, when Anna had been little, to near-pure white, and she’d shrunk, grown smaller and thinner. She couldn’t walk without a frame. But her vitality hadn’t ebbed. Despite it all, she was often taken to be in her eighties, at most. Some people were only convinced when shown the card from the Queen.

“Faffing round with that book of yours again?”

“Yes, Nan.”

“Wish you’d leave it. No-one wants to hear about that horrible bloody place.”

Old argument; no point repeating it now. “I’ll have to go in a minute, Nan.”

“What’s that?” Nan blinked and squinted.

“I said, I’m going to have to go, Nan.”

“Alright, love. Ooh, Anna?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you do me a favour?”

“’Course I can. What is it?”

“As long as it’s no trouble.”

“’Course not.”

“You going to the Garden of Rest this week?”

“Can do.”

“If I give you some money, could you get some flowers for your dad?”

“’Course.”

Nan counted out change. “Wish I could go myself.”

“It’s OK.”

“I’d go if I could.”

“I know.” Nan had always cherished her independence; precious little now remained.

“Thank you, love. You’re too good to everyone, you know, Anna. I do feel bad sometimes, making you run errands for me all the time.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“You should have a life of your own.”

“Do my best.”

“I know, love, but I do worry sometimes.”

Anna embraced the thin body, kissed the papery cheek. “Love you, Nan.”

Nan squeezed her back. “Love you too.” It’d become a ritual of late; at Nan’s age, you could never be completely sure she’d still be there next time.

“He was here before, you know.”

Anna turned. “Sorry?”

Nan nodded towards the mantelpiece. “Before you got here. I saw him. At the window.”

“Who?” On the mantelpiece the only pictures – the Queen aside – were of the dead. Nan didn’t answer at first. They’d never really talked religion; as far as Anna knew Nan still had the simple, straightforward Welsh Methodist faith of her childhood. Anna didn’t share it, but it had got Nan through the last century, so fair enough. But Nan had never claimed to see the dead. Assuming that was what she meant. “Who?” She felt foolish just asking. “Grandpa?”

Nan shook her head. Her eyes glistened and just for once, her age seemed to show in full. “My father,” she said at last. “Outside. I saw him.” Anna bit her lip. “It’s alright. Don’t worry about me, dear. But I did see him. Always had a bit of the second sight, you know. Runs in our family. I always thought–”

“What?”

“You might have a touch of it, too.”

Anna kissed Nan’s downy cheek again and let herself out. She went fast. The night was very dark all of a sudden, the mist very deep.

She didn’t think about what Nan had said. Couldn’t. Eva dead, Martyn damaged and healing only slowly, if at all. And most of all, Mary. The fear she couldn’t protect the child; the vow that she would. And now Nan, seeing a father dead for over sixty years. Let it just be the tail-end of a dream, half-remembered on waking. Let Nan not be going mad. There was only so much Anna could shoulder. Not that she could talk about sanity.
You might have a touch of it, too
. Thanks, Nan. What would be worse: seeing things that weren’t there, or things that were?

On she trudged. Home now, then bed. Too late to write anything else; she had to be up early, make sure Mary got to school. Maybe a few pages of
The Brothers Karamazov
before she slept – she was determinedly struggling through it – as long as neither Martyn nor Mary had more pressing needs. And then sleep.

This was her life now.

Your family, lass. Your family
.

So on she walked, and told herself the only footsteps echoing in the mist were her own.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thursday 19
^th
December

B
RIDGE
S
TREET,
M
ANCHESTER.
Christmas lights glittering on the lampposts; shoppers weaving like columns of ants to and from the shops up on Deansgate. The River Irwell shining like mirrorglass. And Renwick on the courthouse –
Justice Centre
– steps, sipping coffee, breathing crisp cold air, checking mobile messages and praying the jury reached a verdict today.

Two weeks’ leave, starting tomorrow. Enough sleep and maybe Julie Baldwin’s accusing ghost would fade.
You were supposed to keep me safe.

First message:

“Joan? Dad. Just wondered... your plans for Christmas. I know we...” A pause, a sigh. “Be good to see you. Invite’s still open. You
and
Nick. Both welcome. Got the spare room all made up. Just... even if you’re not coming, let us know, eh? Alright. Lots of love.”

Next message:

“Joan? Nick. Wanted to let you know: last of my stuff’s moved out. Left the key on the kitchen table. That should be it now. All done.” Pause. “Bye.”

Last message.

“Joan? Detective Chief Superintendent Banstead. Assume you’re still in court. I’m calling from home. Call me when you’re done. The number’s–”

She replayed the message, jotted it down. Only a select few got the Bedstead’s home number. Now she was one of them. Which might be good news or bad.

“Detective Chief Inspector?” She turned. “Jury are coming back in.”

She breathed out; one prayer answered, anyway.

E
VER SINCE HE’D
been arrested, Tom Baldwin had worn the same pious, martyred look. He’d kept it through the trial; it didn’t change when they read the verdict out.

“Thomas Baldwin, you have been found guilty...”

Got you, you bastard
.

Baldwin looked up at the public gallery as if he’d heard her thought.

“... of the rape and murder of your daughter, Julie Baldwin...”

He met her eyes, pursed his lips, sighed and shook his head.
Joan, Joan, why persecutest thou me?

“... the culmination of years of abuse, practised against your own child...”

For a second Renwick wished she had a gun. She turned and walked out fast.

S
HE STOPPED INTO
Waterstone’s to get a book for the journey. No crime fiction; good old-fashioned sword-and-sorcery. Life wasn’t that simple, but it was nice to pretend.

As well as all the Christmas shoppers, she saw several large black-and-white pictures of a fortyish man with dark, silver-sprinkled hair, immaculate teeth and a phoney grin. She knew the face. Then she saw the book’s title:
The Realm Of Spirit
by Allen Cowell. Christ –
him
. She’d seen his TV show; how could anyone take him seriously for even five minutes? But people did, if they were scared, bereft, battered by fate, looking for meaning. She didn’t mock or judge them. It was all too easy for that to happen. She paid for her book and cleared out fast.

On the train, she called the Bedstead. The phone rang; the reception was terrible. And there was a crossed line; she could hear other voices mumbling under the static’s hiss.

“Joan. How was Manchester?”

“Pleasant enough, from what I saw of it, sir.”

“Did we get a result?”

“Guilty, sir. Unanimous verdict. Any luck and his Honour will throw the book at the bastard.”

“Good. Good. Excellent.” Banstead let out a harsh coughing fit. “Christ. Sorry. Down with this bloody flu.”

The Bedstead, off sick? “It’s going around, then?”

“Vicious strain of it too. Got half the force laid out up here. We’re critically short-staffed. I know you’re due some leave–”

Shit. “Sir?”

“There’s a case. Well, two. Missing persons. One’s a two-year-old child. Got Stakowski on that one, but I want you in charge.”

Shit shit shit. “Is there a problem with Mike, sir?”

“Not at all. Fine officer. You know that. But I want someone more senior in charge. Two cases, possibly connected. Plus... well, talk to Stakowski when you get back. And DS McAdams as well, he’s handling the other one.”

The train rattled. Static hissed. The distant voices mumbled. “OK, sir.”

“Thank you. Appreciated. Good luck.”

The phone went dead. Renwick speed-dialled Stakowski’s number.

K
EMPFORTH WAS TWENTY
miles from Manchester and nearly three hundred feet higher; Renwick glimpsed boxy industrial estates and huddled grey towns clumped together in the rain from the window before mist engulfed the train. When she stepped out onto the cobbles outside the station the air was ice cold and white mist blanketed Dunwich Road. Traffic growled; pale blurred foglights swam back and forth. A car pulled up.

“How do.”

“Mike.” She could’ve hugged him. Best not.

“Been pining for me, then?”

“Oh yeah, you old buzzard. Absolutely.”

Stakowski frowned. “You OK, lass?”

“I’m fine.” Lie. “Long trial, that’s all.”

Stakowski held the car door open for her. “How was Manchester?”

“Bright lights, big city.”

“And the trial?”

“Guilty.”

“Good work.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She flopped back in her seat.

“Shall I book a table at the Good Luck?”

“Once you’ve briefed me, yeah.”

“The missing kid? Roseanne Trevor. Got the interview with her mam on video. You want to see it?”