The Faceless by Simon Bestwick Read Free Book Online Page A

greasy at the thought of him. But too tired. An excuse not to ring Dad, anyway. Tonight at least. Tomorrow is another day . She made her way to the bedroom, shucking off suit jacket, blouse, unfastening her belt.
    Nick had left the wardrobe doors open, showing all the gaps where his clothes had been.
    Renwick kicked away shoes, trousers. Peeling her socks off felt like too much effort, so she kept them on as she pitched onto the bed. She groped for the alarm clock, held it to her bleary face and set the time. “Think I’ll become a nun,” she muttered, and slept.

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
     
     
    Friday 20 th December .
     
    T HE MEETING ROOM at Mafeking Road. Scraggy ropes of tinsel hung glittering from the ceiling. Merry bloody Christmas . Renwick, Stakowski and McAdams – a fortyish Detective Sergeant with thinning ginger hair – facing a dozen journos: the Kempforth Chronicle , local rags from neighbouring towns, even – the big time – the Manchester Evening News and North-West Tonight . Cameras flashed. Renwick breathed deep; she’d only had ten minutes to talk to McAdams about the other missing person.
    “Tahira Khalid, aged seventeen, from the All Saints district of Kempforth.” A photograph; a soft-faced girl with wire-rimmed glasses, shyly smiling. “Last seen Monday afternoon, Kempforth High Street. A scream was heard around the time she was last seen. A handbag identified as Tahira’s was found near the War Memorial.”
    “Are the two cases being treated as connected, Chief Inspector?”
    “Could this be an honour killing?”
    “Is a paedophile ring operating in Kempforth?”
    “There’s no hard evidence either way at this point; we’ve two separate investigations that will share information. There’s no indication of that. There’s no evidence to support that view either.”
    “Then with respect, Chief Inspector, what information do you have?”
    “We have leads we are investigating. When we’ve got information to share with you, we will share it. Any further questions? Thank you.”
     
     
    T HE SQUAD ROOM, and Renwick viewed the rest of her team: four Detective Constables, all the flu outbreak and the usual pre-Christmas crime rise had left available.
    “So... Tahira Khalid. What do we know?”
    McAdams coughed. “She were working part-time as a shop assistant, doing a Theatre Studies A-level at Kempforth College before it burnt down.” A moment’s silence. Nearly all of them had seen the charred remains, mostly unidentifiable, carried from the college’s ruins. At least it’d happened at night; by day it’d have been ten times worse. “Went to Primrose Hill Secondary School after work most days, where they’ve been holding some of the college classes. Work colleagues were fairly non-committal about her.”
    “Non-committal?”
    “Nowt to say against her, but nowt particularly for her either. Fades into the background sort of thing. Nice enough lass, good worker, but distant, away with the fairies.”
    “Any boyfriends?” asked Tranter, the youngest – early twenties – of the detectives, in a smart suit a size too big. Pale grey eyes, dark frizzy hair; a receding chin and a prominent nose.
    “Gonna ask her out if we find her?” smirked Janson. Renwick winced – Janson’s volume always seemed to be set two notches too high. One of Renwick’s few female colleagues in Kempforth CID, God help her.
    “Sue,” said Renwick.
    “Sorry mum.” Janson blinked. Her eyes were small and too close-set; what little bone structure her face had was lost in pale, doughy flab.
    “Go on, Colin.” Tranter was painfully earnest – downright humourless at times – but capable.
    He flushed. “I was thinking exes, maybe. Rejected suitors.”
    “That occurred to me,” McAdams said. “So I asked DC Crosbie to speak to the family.”
    “Shot down,” Janson cat-called. Tranter went redder.
    “This isn’t the playground, Janson,” McAdams said.
    “Sarge.”
    “Alastair?”
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