The Faceless by Simon Bestwick

Author:Simon Bestwick
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Horror
ISBN: 9781907992742
Publisher: Solaris
Published: 2012-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

LIKE STAKOWSKI, BANSTEAD lived in a converted farmhouse in the hills above the town. In the dark, in the fog, the drive had been a nightmare, but now they were here.

His living room was cold despite the log fire lighting it. The stone-flagged floor didn’t help. Spartan, too; there were crosses and religious icons on the walls, not much else. No Christmas decorations, even. No photographs of Mrs Banstead either; she’d left years before.

Banstead huddled in his armchair in dressing-gown and pyjamas, hot water bottle hugged to his chest. He was in his fifties. A shaved head to hide baldness; pasty skin and pale, bulbous eyes. Cheeks becoming jowls, a pursed smug mouth. He looked diminished. Sat in the opposite armchair, Renwick thought of the Great Oz, finally unmasked as a shabby old man.

“Sorry to have to disturb you, sir,” she lied. “But the phones were still down and as you can see, there’ve been developments.”

“Yes.” Banstead looked up at the ceiling. “Give me a moment.”

“Sir.” Renwick waited. Banstead coughed hard. She glanced at Stakowski, stood by the sofa, then back to Banstead. He looked up, gave a weak, insincere smile.

“My confidence in you clearly wasn’t misplaced,” he said at last.

Renwick kept a straight face somehow, waited.

“So. As well as the four previous mispers, we’ve now evidence that the kidnappers have claimed other victims.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And have been operating in Kempforth far longer than we thought.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“And indeed, these... Spindly Men are linked to the case. And Ash Fell.” He shook his head. “That place.”

“You’d heard of Ash Fell, sir?”

“Of course I’d heard of it, Chief Inspector–” a renewed bout of coughing “–but even I thought the place had been demolished. There’ll be hell to pay with someone at the council over this.” Banstead got up and shuffled to the drinks cabinet. “A drink, Joan?”

“Just a small one, sir.”

“Sergeant?”

“Designated driver, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Ah well.” Banstead handed Renwick a glass. “Very fine single malt, this. Well... you were right, I was wrong. Let’s say no more about it.”

“Of course, sir. Ash Fell’s a big place. We don’t know how many people we’ll be dealing with and we’re short-staffed. So I’d be tempted to request outside support.”

Banstead’s face twitched. Direct hit on his raw nerve.

“But on the other hand, I’m loath to delay. We still don’t know exactly what the Spindlies want the kidnap victims for. And there’s the risk they might abandon Ash Fell if we don’t move quickly.”

Banstead licked his lips. “Yes, I see.”

“So my plan’s this. Get as many qualified AFOs together as we can, draw firearms and get out to Ash Fell first thing tomorrow. At the same time – if comms aren’t restored – I’ll send officers out by road, request some additional bodies from one of the neighbouring forces. With your permission, of course.”

“It’s your investigation, Chief Inspector. I trust your judgement.”

Translation: it’s still your neck if it goes wrong. But she could live with that if it stopped Roseanne Trevor becoming another Julie Baldwin. Renwick sipped her whisky; it tasted like burning earth.

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