‘So Fred Marshall had nothing to do with Aiden’s disappearance or Kenneth MacAuley’s murder?’
‘Why don’t you find him and ask him?’
‘You’ve worked for Sally MacAuley all these years, why haven’t you?’
‘Don’t think we haven’t tried.’ Hacker pulled a face. ‘Oh, the wee sod’s still out there somewhere — probably Manchester or Birmingham, keeping his head down, eking out a living as a low-level drug dealer or enforcer — but he must’ve changed his appearance and got himself a new alias, because no one out there recognises his picture or his name. Or maybe he’s slunk off to the continent?’ Hacker pointed with what was left of his biscuit. ‘You haven’t touched your tea.’
Logan stayed where he was. ‘If Fred Marshall didn’t have anything to do with the MacAuleys, why did he vanish?’
‘Well, if you were him, with his background, and your best mate’s telling everyone you abducted a wee boy and killed that wee boy’s dad, would you hang about waiting for the cops to fit you up?’
Ellie leaned her head back against the crate and rubbed the metal buckle thing across the bits of wood: scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump... Then did the same going the other way: scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump... Not that it did anything to undo the buckle, or loosen it, or get the big red rubber ball out of her mouth, but it made a noise. And that was something.
The trick was not to bite into the ball — that just made her jaw all achey — but to relax like Granny on the couch after Christmas dinner, with her mouth hanging open, teeth out, making noises like an angry piggy.
Scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump...
The spotty boy was crying again, all muffled and sniffing, cos he had a big red rubber ball in his mouth too. Hunched up in his crate, cos he wasn’t little like they were — he was a big boy with shiny-dotty-spots on his arms and chest. Ellie had seen them, because he only had jammie bottoms on. Cos he’d been naughty.
A warm gold-and-pink light dribbled through the dirty window, but the shadows were getting deeper and bluer. Stretching out behind all the stuff on the shelves and racks. Growing bigger and hungrier.
Someone, in one of the other crates, made an eeeeeping noise and Ellie scooted forward, pressing her eye to the gap. Over by the workbench, a teeny weenie hand wriggled between two of the wood bits, the fingers all reachy and dirty. Too far away.
The boy in the crate next to the hand turned away — Ellie could see the reflections in his eyes go out. He never ever cried. Never made a single sound. Just watched from the darkness of his wooden box. Like he wasn’t really there.
Then those teeny reaching fingers went all floppy and the hand disappeared inside again. Before a new set of sniffling sobs clicked and hushed through the Scary Room.
Four of them and eight crates. That meant there was still—
The Horrible Song crackled out of the speakers up by the roof and the sniffy crying stopped like someone had thrown a tea towel over a budgie:
‘Teddy bears and elephants went up the stairs to bed,
They’d had a lovely dinner of tomato soup and bread,’
The man was coming back. The man who didn’t have a face!
‘Their mummy made them custard and bananas for their tea,’
Ellie’s heart went thumpity in her chest, breaths spiky through her nose as she backed against the far wall of her crate and covered her face with her tied-together hands. Peering out through her fingers.
‘And read them lovely stories until they were all sleepy.’
The door opened and The Faceless Man walked into the Scary Room all squinted over sideways cos he was carrying a big plastic carrier thing in one hand — the kind with a grille door that people took kitty-cats to the animal doctor in. He grunted and heaved it onto the workbench in the corner.
‘Go up the stairs, you sleepy bears, it’s time to brush your teeth,’
Wiggled his fingers and wobbled his hand, cos whatever was in the big carrier had to be really heavy.
‘Then climb into your cosy beds and snuggle underneath,’
His face was a big flat slab of grey nothing. No nose, no mouth, and no eyes either — all he had were two thin holes with darkness behind them. Much worse than a monster, because monsters were made-believey-up and The Faceless Man was real.
‘You elephants must say your prayers and promise to be good,’
He unbolted one of the eight crates and thumped the lid open.
‘For Mummy and for Daddy just as every nice child should.’
The Faceless Man went over to the kitten-cat carrier and pulled out a small boy with shiny yellow hair, a red splodgy dirty bit on his face, and sticky tape hiding his mouth. Both hands tied together. The boy’s eyes were big as the moon as he tried to wriggle back inside, but The Faceless Man grabbed his arm and ripped the sticky tape off his mouth. Opened a drawer and pulled out a red ball thing like Ellie had on.
‘It’s time for dreams and sleepy times as you lie in your bunks,
You teddy bears without a care, you elephants with trunks,’
The boy squirmed. ‘Lemmego, lemmego, lemmego!’
But The Faceless Man pushed him down, stuffed the red ball into his mouth and buckled it behind his head. Then scooped him up, carried him over to the open crate and stuck him inside. Thumped the lid shut and clunked the fixy thing closed.
‘And Nanny will kiss you goodnight and wish you lovely sleep,
So close your eyes, my little ones, it’s time for counting sheep.’
The Faceless Man picked up the big carrier again.
‘Tomorrow is another day, what fun you’ll have, and how!’
He turned and looked at them with his empty slits. Waved.
‘But today is done and over, so let’s go to sleep for now,’
His voice was all kind and warm — like he’d stolen it from Ellie’s next-door neighbour, Mr Seafield, who always had sweeties in his pockets and a friendly smile and a doggy you could pat if you promised to wash your hands afterwards. ‘You all play nice now.’
‘God bless Mummy and Daddy, yes and God bless Nanny too,’
The Faceless Man took the kitten carrier out of the Scary Room, clunking the door shut behind him.
‘It’s sleepy time, oh loves of mine, and I will—’
The music stopped.
Ellie moved to the front of her crate as the silence got bigger and bigger and bigger.
Then the crying started again.
19
Fiery oranges and pinks glowed on the underside of the coal-coloured clouds, as if the whole sky was made of smouldering embers. Rain hissed against the pool car’s windscreen, thickening as they headed across Northfield.
The radio was on again, but at least this time Rennie had the decency to hum along instead of singing. ‘You want me to get a lookout request on the go for Freddy Marshall? Maybe try Manchester, Liverpool, and Birmingham? Ooh, and Brighton too.’
‘Hmmm...’ According to Cold Blood and Dark Granite Aiden’s photo and description had been circulated by the FBI, Interpol, and most of the world’s press.