Episode 2

Anna walked through London at night. The hem of the sheet snagged on the pavement, sweeping up grime as it went. People turned to look; some slowed, others began to whisper.

‘Where am I even going?’ she asked herself. The longer she walked, the more those eyes on her nerves. She crossed the road and slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings. Here the lamplight barely reached the ground and the city’s noise fell away to a muffled hum behind her. It was filthier, colder but easier to breathe.

Deeper in, a yellow wedge of light leaked from a narrow door beneath a sign: Makkeller. The back entrance to a bar. The smell of beer, tobacco and frying spilled out onto the street. Two lads were propped by the door.

Sam — mid-height, dark-haired stood with his arms folded. Chris — taller, fairer, a crumpled, drink-sodden face had one hand braced on the wall and the other clamped over his mouth, as if to physically hold his stomach down.

Swaying, Chris muttered that he felt rotten and was about to be sick, while boasting he could still put away three more pints and needed to go back in to kick some Noah bloke’s arse. Sam batted him down with lazy patience. Anna walked past them.

‘Sam! Look! A ghost.’

Anna turned her head, looked, and walked on without even slowing. The drunk lurched after her; Sam caught him by the sleeve and tried to haul him home.

“Oi, where the hell d’you think you’re off to?” he growled. “We’re going home. You’re pissed out of your skull, behaving like a complete twat.”

But Chris tore free, caught up to Anna in a few unsteady steps and put a hand on her shoulder. She stopped, jerked his fingers off, spun round, and for the first time in a long while a keen, cutting energy flared in her eyes. Anna stepped closer, seized his face and sank her long nails into his skin. He yelped, half-sober in an instant, and tried to prise her hand away.

“I hate it when pissed-up scum put their hands on me.”

“Let go, you psycho! I’ll smack you one!”

Anna didn’t answer at once. She studied him, weighing what in him grated more: the reek of beer, the smug face, or the fact he existed at all.

“Try it,” she said calmly.

“Wait, wait!” Sam cut in, stepping towards them with his hands raised. “You’ve got the wrong idea. We thought you needed help.” He was about to add something else, but then he actually looked at her face. Looked properly. And something inside him clicked. “You’re…”

Anna twitched an eyebrow but said nothing. Sam pointed a finger at her.

“Anna Lord?”

Anna’s fingers tightened on Chris’s face for a split second, then she snatched her hand away. His cheek was left striped. Chris rubbed at the scratches, hissing with pain.

Sam was looking only at Anna. She backed away. Turned. Then bolted. The two of them watched her go in silence for a while.

“How d’you know her?” Chris asked, his voice thick with drink.

Sam put his hands on his hips, drew a long breath, then covered his face with his hand. He remembered that the name Lord was known to everyone in the city who had even a passing grasp of politics, who watched the news or read true crime. It was like a codeword that made voices drop. Politics, the police, the courts — she lived somewhere in those overlaps. Sometimes she surfaced in the news, sometimes vanished for years, but she never truly went away.

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The Sleeping City.

London, Saturday, 6 October 2007.

Death of Anna Lord — the final chapter in the downfall of a powerful family.

The city is shaken by news of the mysterious death of Anna Lord, the sixteen-year-old daughter of former high-profile politician, philanthropist and mayoral candidate Gerald Lord. On Saturday morning her body was found in the bathroom of the “Starlight Motel” with no sign of violence, prompting questions about a possible suicide. However, sources report that the girl’s body bore the Faceless’s mark, though the police have yet to confirm this.

The Lord family’s string of tragedies began in 2003: Anna and her younger brother, Joseph, were abducted several months before the London mayoral election concluded. In January 2004, near the Thames, Anna was found emaciated, and the dismembered body of her younger brother, ten-year-old Joseph Lord, was recovered bearing the killer’s mark — leading to the conclusion that the children had fallen victim to the Faceless. These events dealt a blow to Gerald’s campaign and contributed to his defeat at the polls.

Months later, a fire broke out at the Lord family mansion, claiming six lives, including Gerald, his wife Margaret, their daughter Eileen, and three housekeepers. Only Ayden and Anna survived the horrific blaze. Ayden suffered severe third-degree burns. The investigation found the fire to be arson orchestrated by Anna, corroborated by traces of petrol at the scene and by Anna’s confession. The act sparked widespread debate and raised many questions about her mental state.

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The ongoing search for Olivia Johnson

While public attention is fixed on the death of Anna Lord, the police continue to search for missing Olivia Johnson. The fifteen-year-old disappeared a month ago. She was last seen in the Hyde Park area. Her father, in despair, is appealing to the public for help. The Metropolitan Police refuse to acknowledge a link between the disappearance of the north-London teenager and ten other girls who have gone missing since 2005, despite speculation that the Faceless is responsible. Families of the missing girls and young women, along with civic groups, are demanding that the police explain why the investigation has stalled.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Name: Olivia Johnson

Age: 15

Hair: Light brown with bleached streaks

Eye colour: Grey

Height: 162 cm

Weight: 52 kg

Missing since 4 September. Wears piercings (medusa, snake bites) and a jade pendant; three moles beneath the right collarbone forming a triangle.

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***

Hyde Park was now cordoned off from the rest of the world with yellow tape. By night it was only a patch of green with a couple of benches; now it was a crime scene, and every blade of grass mattered. The dew hadn’t yet burned off. On it lay a dead girl.

Vincent crouched beside the body. He wore gloves; inside them, his fingers moved slowly, precisely. A red-haired CSI, Lesley, stood nearby in a protective suit. Her hair was tied back; green eyes tracked his every move. The pathologist leaned closer to the victim’s throat.

“The cut to the neck is very rough. The implement was blunt, poorly sharpened. See the ragged edges?”

Vincent nodded without a word.

“There’s also a crudely cut mark on the back of the left hand.”

Vincent’s fingers lingered on the girl’s hand. His gaze moved to the ring on her fourth finger: “Was she engaged?”

Behind them, a detective was reporting: no documents on her, identity unconfirmed; a Makkeller bar card found in the jacket pocket.

“There are grounds to suspect a serial killer known as the Faceless.”

“Not his modus operandi,” Vincent said quietly, without looking up. “Even the victim’s age doesn’t fit.”

Lesley stepped closer.

“Wasn’t one of his victims an adult woman?”

Vincent turned his head slightly towards her. The picture in his mind arrived before words. Snow. A red ribbon tied in a bow around a cardboard box, like a present. And the way the blood slowly soaks the cardboard, climbing higher, deepening in colour.

Lesley kept talking, not noticing how his features had sharpened. She didn’t know what the truth really was.

“I couldn’t find the record of that case in the public domain. I wanted to read up properly, but never got access. Probably because I’m new.” She gave a small, self-mocking smile. “I heard it was a box of fake hands with the marks on them, and among them was a severed wrist from an adult woman. Apparently they still haven’t found her body.”

Vincent let his gaze return to the present victim.

“We’ve only one killer in this city who leaves marks like that,” Leslie concluded.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“What do you think? Does this look like his work?”

He rose, straightening. Hands on hips, he took in the whole scene.

Lesley rolled a shoulder, thoughtful.

“Why would anyone try to pass themselves off as the Faceless?”

“I don’t know. But if he’s attracting followers, we’ve got a problem.”

He looked again at the girl lying in the grass. There was something childlike in her face and, at the same time, already adult — spent.

“Most likely, it’s someone’s first kill.”

“There was a mark on Anna’s body too. But with no signs of violence at all — not really his style either,” Leslie said, uncertain.

Vincent lowered his head and kept silent. Behind them the CSIs were already starting to bag the body. The rustle of bags, the click of a camera, muted exchanges.

“Can you tell me why she didn’t cooperate with the police in catching the Faceless back then… after the abduction? She saw his face.”

Vincent peered into the deeper park, past the yellow tape.

“She lost the memory of it. And when Anna was finally diagnosed, it turned out she couldn’t recognise faces.”

Lesley stared at him, as if she hadn’t heard right.

“Wait… so she really had prosopagnosia?”

“Yes. The doctors said she could recognise those close to her by voice, by gait, by gestures. That’s why no one noticed for so long. But faces… to her, every face was a smudged, indeterminate blot. That’s why we called him the ‘Faceless’. You know, plenty of people believe he truly has no face — believe it so strongly it’s become an urban legend. The faceless spirit of the Thames steals children.”

Lesley frowned, and it wasn’t just the movement of her brows; it was an inward gesture, almost painful. Somewhere inside her, a familiar, unpleasant guilt stirred.

Because she remembered how it had been.

For years, the public moulded Anna into something convenient. Not a victim, but an accomplice. Not a child, but a witness who “knew too much”. They said she sheltered him. That she was in on it. That she obeyed him like a trained animal and kept quiet. That was why she didn’t give him up. That was why she survived.

The monster killed, and they spread the blame over her. Over a girl who had neither voice nor choice, nor any chance to explain. Her name was dragged through headlines, whispered over kitchen tables, argued over in comment threads; to many she wasn’t a person at all, just part of the case. A function. Something to be tidied into boxes and judged without consequence.

Worst of all, Lesley had been part of that chorus too. Quiet, almost invisible  but part of it all the same. Deep down, she had once thought: what if? What if Anna knew more than she said? What if her silence wasn’t fear, but a choice?

Now the thought brought shame. Real shame. A heavy knowledge of an old, inexcusable mistake. Lesley let out a slow breath, trying to push the past out of herself, but it was in no hurry to leave.

Anna had been judged long before any trial.

And Lesley however much she might want to deny it had once passed her own sentence. Just as she had on her father.

***

Streets gave way one after another. Kerbs, rubbish bins, the fronts of 24-hour shops, a basketball court. At the corner, Anna stopped. On the other side of the road a man was walking. His hair was black and just above shoulder-length. A leather jacket, a filthy black T-shirt. He was spattered with blood. He carried a knife. The blood on the blade had already darkened. He walked past without looking at her. Anna watched him go, almost indifferent.

Somewhere behind her, a siren began to wail. A police car burst into the junction, swerved aside, jumped a red light and vanished further down the street. She flinched and instinctively ducked into the nearest alleyway. She pressed herself to the cold brick wall and peered out. The car was already gone.

“Why am I even hiding? I haven’t done anything.”

“Or have you?” said someone behind her.

The voice was old, hoarse, yet firm. Anna whipped round. Deeper in the alleyway sat an old man with a beard like Gandalf’s. Beside him lay a beat-up sleeping bag and a pizza box, from which he lazily pulled a slice and took a bite. He was watching her closely.

“Stop wandering around aimlessly. It’s dangerous. Did you see that bloke with the knife?”

Without quite knowing why, Anna dropped into a crouch, then sat on the dirty tarmac. The sheet bunched around her legs. She gave a grin, but it came out tired.

“Worry about yourself. You’ve got a black eye over half your face.”

He dipped his chin. The shiner was hard to miss: the bruise had spread into a dark, blood-red blotch. In the light you could see it—his left eye a cloudy grey, as if filmed over; the right black, deep as oil. He glanced down at the pizza.

“Want some?” he said, lifting a slice.

Anna looked at it; her stomach grumbled in protest, but she shook her head. Food from strangers wasn’t an option—especially from someone sleeping rough.

The old man shrugged.

“You’d be better off going home. What are you doing here?”

She sighed.

“I don’t know where home is. I actually legged it from the mortuary, if you can believe it. And I can’t ask for help—feels like I’m not allowed. Long story short, you wouldn’t understand, old man. In this filthy, dodgy alley I feel safe. So… can I stay here a bit longer?”

She surprised herself, saying it out loud.

The old man arched a brow.

“Of course.”

“How did you end up on the streets?” Anna changed the subject.

The old man looked at her; something flared in his chest. A sliver of memory cut through. Family. Home. Bankruptcy. The street. A blow to the head. Emptiness. He brushed the images aside and his face settled back into calm.

“I don’t remember,” he said, his voice faintly shaking. “Same as you, Anna.” He paused. “Truth is, I’m here to help you.”

It hit her like a jolt of electricity. The old man rose slowly and came towards her. Sitting on the tarmac, she looked up at him.

***

Vincent parked by the police station and got out. By the entrance, right in front of a sign with a crossed-out cigarette, Chris was calmly smoking. Vincent stopped beside him and, after a look, said, “You can’t smoke here.”

“And where does it say that?!” Chris snapped, surly and disrespectful.

“Turn around.”

Chris turned. The sign was right behind him. He waved it off and headed down the steps, looking round for a bin. Vincent just shook his head and went inside. In the lobby, at the front desk, Sam stood there, wound tight.

“Just listen! I might be wrong, but you have to check what I’m telling you!”

The constable behind the desk regarded him with weary scepticism.

“You been drinking, son?”

“No! And what difference does it make?! I’m an adult!”

“Don’t you watch the news?”

“Even if it’s not her, that girl still needs help!”

Vincent stepped closer and quietly leaned on the edge of the counter, slipping into the conversation. Sam turned his head. In his eyes flickered a mix of hope and panic.

“Will you at least hear me out? My mate and I saw Anna Lord just now. She… she even scratched his face! I swear. It was either her or her double. The face was a dead ringer. Even the ears were the same—kind of elfin.”

Vincent’s eyes darkened for a moment. A picture surfaced. The lifeless body of his niece in a cheap motel.

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