The Faceless Read Online Free PDF Page B

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?”
    “What do you think?”
     
     
    A THIN WOMAN in her early twenties: narrow face, small dark eyes. Gold hoop earrings, fake tan, bleach-blonde hair. Too much makeup, streaked down her face by tears. She scrubbed her cheek with a tissue; the skin beneath was sallow.
    Stakowski froze the image. “Stacey Trevor. Twenty-one, no steady partner. The dad’s called Andy Kirkland. Did a runner when he heard Stacey was pregnant.”
    “Real prince among men.”
    “Aye. Lives in Bradford now. Local fuzz picked him up.”
    “And?”
    “Clear alibi. Plus he’s shown no interest in the kiddie since she were born. Still checking, but doesn’t look like he were involved.” Stakowski pressed play.
    “Took our Roseanne down Dunwich Park.” Stacey Trevor’s voice; sullen even through the grief. All coppers are bastards . “She’d been acting up. Pushed her on swings a bit, then she wanted to go on roundabout. So I let her.” Her lips wobbled. “Could hear her laughing. All’s I did... all’s I did were get me Take A Break out for a second. Just a minute. I kept glancing up to look at her.” She was crying again. “I’m not some slag. I’m not a shit mum. Just wanted a minute to meself, just that. Could hear her laughing. Kept looking up. Then I heard summat, behind us. Bushes. Rustling. Looked round. Case it were a Spindly. There were someone . Fuckin’ swear, mam’s life. Then they were gone. But there was someone. Fuckin’ tellin’ tha.” Her voice had risen. Now it faltered. “And then... took us a couple of secs to realise. Couldn’t hear Roseanne.” Her breath hitched, became sobs; she flapped her hands to ward the camera off. “Looked. Roundabout was still spinning, but our Roseanne were gone. Screamed for her. Ran round an’ round that fuckin’ park. But there were nothin’. Nothin’.” She pursed her mouth, stuck out her unformed chin. “So – rang you lot and here we are.” A muffled keening, then her mouth buckled, her face crumpled and the keening became a wail that raised the hairs on Renwick’s arms.
    “Christ, Mike.”
    “Soz.” Stakowski switched the video