The Faceless (21 page)

“Fair point. But I don’t like bringing civvies into this. There’s any number of ways it could go tits-up.”

“This isn’t a normal case, ma’am.”

“I had noticed. My priority’s getting Roseanne Trevor out of there.”

“If she’s alive.”

“If she’s alive.”

“And Tahira Khalid.”

“Yes.”

“And Danielle Morton, and–”

“Yeah, OK Mike, thanks.”

“We might also consider bringing Cowell’s sister along.”

“Why not just print invitations?”

“She knows how to handle Cowell. God knows we don’t need him getting any flakier than he already is.”

“I must be going as mental as you. It’s making sense.” To hell with everything else; everything but getting the child out alive. “You’re going to suggest we bring Griffiths as well.”

“A: could come in handy if we find any of the women from the college. B: he’ll want to come. And C: frankly, better he’s up there with us than shooting his mouth off down here.”

Renwick released a long breath. “Alright. We’ll do it. But they keep to the rear, and out of our way.”

“T
HE ORIGINAL PLANS
for the building are lost – no-one’s exactly sure when. But these are the individual floor plans.” Anna handed more papers to Renwick. “One set for Warbeck, another for each individual block.”

“Thanks. OK... DC Crosbie will run you back home. If you can make your way to the Station Hotel for 7.30 am tomorrow, that will be appreciated. And Mr Cowell, Miss Latimer, if you can be ready to go by then.”

“I will be,” said Cowell. “Believe me, I will. Don’t worry, Chief Inspector. I won’t let you down.”

“OK. Everyone else? Good.”

“Come on, Allen,” Vera said.

“Alastair, if you can run them back? Thanks.”

Alone with Stakowski, Renwick went to the kettle. “Tea, two sugars?”

“You’re brewing up?” His smile was shaky. “I might faint. Aye, go on.”

Renwick filled the kettle.

“So what’s the plan, boss?”

“Leave as little to chance as we can. Go over the floor plans, work out our approach. And we draw firearms... whatever Cowell says, those things are solid enough to snatch people.”

“With you on that. If you want me, I mean.”

Renwick got the milk from the fridge. “What did you find out about Cowell?”

“All about contacts, police work. You know that. So I rang a mate of mine.”

“You have
friends
?”

“Ha-ha. Ben Hardman – he’s retired now, but he were a beat copper round Dunwich and the Polar back in the ’80s.”

“And?”

“Cowell’s a stage name. He were born Alan Latimer.”

“Latimer, like his sister.”

“Aye. Anyroad. Father died when he were eight – late ’70s, this’d be. Shortly after that a new feller came along, one Adrian Walsh. Which is where things get interesting.”

“Go on.”

“Their mother died not long after marrying Walsh. She were already on Valium – looks like she upped the dosage, or someone upped it for her. And one night she took too many.”

“But nothing anyone could prove?”

“’Course not. Ben also gave me the number for a lass who were a social worker at the time. There were suspicions, apparently. Stuff that’d ring alarm bells in a flash these days. Both kids were quiet and withdrawn. Unexplained bruises. That kind of thing.”

Renwick handed him his cup. “Left the teabag in. Never get it strong enough for you.”

“I’m not happy till I can creosote the fence with it.”

“So, there were suspicions.”

“Nowt they ever proved. But... fast-forward to 1985 and a little thing called Operation Clean Sweep.” Stakowski poked the teabag with a spoon. “Remember the other day, we were talking ’bout a suspected paedophile ring in Kempforth, back in the ’80s? Not that they’d’ve called it that back then, but that were what it was.”

“Yeah.”

“I were still in the army when that were going on. But guess which case files I were reading before Cowell turned up?”

“You can read?”

“Bog off. Ma’am.”

“S
TATION
H
OTEL,
”
SAID
Crosbie.

In the passenger seat, Anna glanced into the back of the car. Cowell gazed out of one window; Vera looked out of the other, eyes lost and distant. Martyn was squeezed between them, shoulders hunched in, scowling. Anna managed not to smile.

Vera got out without speaking, slammed the door. Crosbie caught Anna’s eye, raised his eyebrows. She gave a little smile in return, then took a deep breath.

“Actually,” she said, “can you let me out here?”

“Eh?” Martyn stared at her.

“I need some time to myself.” She couldn’t believe she was saying it. “I’ll get a cab back, or book a room if it’s late.”

“But Mary–”

“Yes, Mary. One of us should be there when she wakes up. And it should be you.”

“But–”

“Martyn, you’re her father. And I’m never going to be her mum.”

Crosbie climbed out, opened the passenger door. “Ma’am.”

Was he flirting? “Thank you.”

Vera opened the other rear door. Cowell sagged sideways. “Allen?”

“Tired. So tired.” The energy of a few minutes before was gone; he looked old, raddled, an ageing drag-queen whose makeup had started to run. Vera released a long breath and helped him stand.

“Way past someone’s bedtime,” Crosbie murmured.

“Thanks for the lift,” Anna said.

“See you the morrow, then.”

“Yeah. See you, Martyn.”

“Yeah.”

The car pulled out; its foglights faded into the dirty mist.

Anna followed Vera and Allen into the hotel. The lobby was empty; a couple of battery-powered lanterns had been hung up for lighting.“Best ring the bell,” Vera said.

“Yes.” They studied each other, until Anna looked down. She shrugged. “Sometimes you just need a bit of time off from your family.”

“Yeah. I know.” The yellow eyes lingered on hers. “See you later.”

Vera shepherded her brother to the stairs; Anna wondered if there’d been hints and hidden meanings there, too, of a kind she’d welcome more. Vera was definitely her type, and there was that sense of strength; coiled, catlike. Dangerous, but exciting too.

She shook her head. No time for daydreaming. Getting carried away there. Her grip on reality still wasn’t perfect.

You might have a touch of it too
.
Might
wasn’t good enough, not anymore. She needed better answers than that.

She shook her head, chasing away an afterimage of yellow, catlike eyes. Even if Vera
was
gay, that didn’t mean she was interested. She rang the bell on the reception desk and waited.

S
TAKOWSKI CRUSHED THE
last flavour from the teabag, flicked it into the bin. “Like I said, nowt were ever proved, but rumour was Adrian Walsh wasn’t just a kiddie-fiddler, but a pimp into the bargain.”

“The paedophile ring.”

“Oh aye. Equal opportunities – boys
and
girls. Late ’70s, early ’80s, about a dozen kids went missing round Kempforth way. Ben reckoned most of them were down to Walsh and co.”

“Where did all this information come from?”

“A burglar, would you believe? Trying to trade information for softer treatment.”

“And how did
he
know about them?”

“An old schoolmate, name of Tom Yolland. They were both ’bout eighteen, nineteen years old. Went drinking occasionally.”

“How did Yolland come into it?”

“He were one of them. Sort of. One of the – alleged – members were a local butcher, ran a shop on Station Road. Name of George Fitton. Yolland worked in the shop. Lived above it, too, with Fitton. Anyroad, Yolland used to be one of the victims, and when he got too old for them, Fitton took a shine to him, for whatever reason, and kept him on. According to Ben’s informant, Yolland got sledged one night and it all spilled out. He’d begun... participating in the ring’s activities. Fairly full of self-loathing about it. He were a bit backward, apparently. Under Fitton’s thumb, too, or so folk thought.” Stakowski sighed. “There’s some you hate, and some you pity.”

“How many were involved?”

“Apart from Fitton and Walsh, Yolland mentioned three others. Father Joseph Sykes – parish priest at St Matthias’ R.C. Church. Another one – you’ll love this – according to Yolland, were a copper. Never substantiated, of course. No names. Yolland claimed he were obsessed wi’ keeping his identity secret, so he always wore a mask when he were with a kid. Only Walsh knew who he was. Another reason they got away with it for so long. Never any lead on who this copper might be.”

“If he ever existed.”

“True.”

“And the last one?”

“The last one wasn’t what you’d call full-time; came from out of town every October. They called him the Shrike. No name, no description. Special kind of punter. Didn’t just rape them.”

“Killed them too?”

“Child predator. Worst kind of paedo there is, and they’re all bloody bad enough.”

Renwick shook her head. “And I thought Tom Baldwin was bad. But nothing ever came of this?”

“Nowt.”

“Why not? Got as far as them mounting an operation.”

“Well, first off, Walsh died – heart attack at Shackleton Street.”

“Natural causes?”

“In a way.”

“Spit it out, Mike.”

“He wasn’t alone.”

“Who else was there?”

“Vera Latimer. Nineteen years old. She said she were upstairs in bed – women’s troubles – and didn’t hear owt. Even though he crashed around, pulled a drawer out. She came down an hour or so later to put kettle on and there he was.”

“Think she knew something?”

“Ben said they found a fag butt in the kitchen ashtray, just one. Had her lipstick all over it. Could never prove it, but he reckoned she were there when it happened. And she just... watched.”

“Jesus.”

“Well, I’d not shed any tears for Adrian Walsh,” said Stakowski. “Bear in mind he’d probably raped them both. And Christ knows how many others.”

“You
are
Old Testament, aren’t you, sarge?” Stakowski looked away. “Sorry.”

“Probably looked like divine punishment, from where she were standing. Never seems to happen early enough, though, does it? And here’s a thing. Vera Latimer took her little brother and scarpered out of town sharpish after that.”

“How old was he, back then?”

“Fourteen, fifteen. My guess would be she tapped one of Walsh’s cronies for money to skip town with. Fitton, most likely; he made a big withdrawal from his bank that day.”

“Why would he pay out?”

“CID searched Walsh’s house afterward – found cameras and unexposed film, but no sign of his porn stash. He’d have had one. You know these bastards as well as I do.”

“You think she blackmailed him? A nineteen-year-old girl?”

“Stranger things have happened. If Fitton were in any of those pictures, she’d’ve had him over a barrel.”

“Why didn’t this masked copper step in?”

“Only Walsh knew who he was, remember? He were safest staying out of it.”

“So what about Fitton and the priest? No-one try bringing them in?”

“Didn’t get the chance. Remember Tom Yolland? George Fitton kept a twelve-bore in the house; same night Vera Latimer did a flit, Yolland got hold of it and gave the bastard – sorry,
alleged
bastard – both barrels. One in the bollocks, one in the face. Then he drove Fitton’s van out to St. Matthias’, waited for Father Sykes to show and redecorated the church with
him
.”

“Jesus. And what happened to Yolland?”

“Drove out of town, to an abandoned farmhouse on Dunwich Lane. Place’s still there now. Only a bit charred – he emptied two cans of petrol over hisself and struck a match.”

“Fuck.”

“And guess where the farmhouse is next to?”

“No way.”

“Yup. Ash Fell. Tell you summat else too – those spirit guides of Cowell’s?”

“Sam, Johnny and Mark?”

“Three lads, few years younger than Cowell, went missing round the same time Walsh died. Ben reckoned they were the ring’s last victims. Samuel Morrison, John Kiley, Mark Danes.”

“The Shrike?”

“It were October. About time for his annual visit. You saw how Vera Latimer reacted when I asked about them. She acted like she had summat to be guilty about.”

“Like what?”

“If they’d come to us, we might have been able to save those kids.”

“Or they might have been dead already.”

“True.”

“And if one of the ring
was
a copper...”

“True.”

“And that kind of thing, you feel guilty whether you should or not.”

“And that’s true too.” Silence. “Anyroad, she buggered off to the big bad city – Manchester, then London. Made whatever living she could till Alan – Al
len
– started his medium act. She’s a hard woman, Vera Latimer; like bloody nails. But you can understand why. And if there is one thing she cares about, it’s her kid brother.” Stakowski drained his tea. “So, what happens now?”

Renwick leant back in her chair. “You’re an Authorised Firearms Officer, right?”

“Aye. You?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure you want me along?”

“Why wouldn’t I, Mike?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t know any reason why I shouldn’t be able to rely on you as I always have. Do you?”

A pause. “No ma’am.”

Renwick smiled. “I’m glad.”

“Me too, boss.”

“OK. So, we get a team together, go up there soon as it’s light.”

“Sounds about right. Best take a look at this place’s layout, then.”

“Later.”

“Why later?”

“First of all I’m going to brave the elements and see Banstead.”

“The hell for? You can authorise use of firearms yourself.”

“As far as he’s concerned, I’m off the case and Sherwood’s taking over. I don’t need that gumming up the works. So I need to get at least one day’s grace out of him.” Renwick pulled her jacket on.

“You’re going now?”

“Damn right. He’s still full of the flu, remember? If I get him out of bed, I’ll bet you any money he’ll be sick, confused and not thinking straight. Which is exactly how I want the bald-headed bastard.”