The Faceless Read Online Free PDF

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