The Faceless Ones. Derek Landy

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      Skulduggery nodded and Valkyrie followed him outside. Despite the grey skies, he slipped a pair of sunglasses into place above his scarf, hiding his eye sockets from passers-by. If there were any passers-by. The weather, it seemed, was keeping most sensible people indoors.

      “Four victims,” Skulduggery said. “All Teleporters. Why?”

      Valkyrie buttoned her coat, struggling a little. Her black clothes had saved her life more times than she wanted to count, but every move she made reminded her that she had grown since Ghastly Bespoke made them for her, and she wasn’t twelve any more. She’d had to throw away her boots because they’d gotten too small, and buy a regular pair in an ordinary, average shop. She needed Ghastly to change from a statue back to a man and make her a new outfit. Valkyrie allowed herself a moment to feel guilty about being so selfish then got back to business.

      “Maybe Cameron Light, along with the other Teleporters, did something to the killer and this is his – or her – revenge.”

      “That’s Theory One. Anything else?”

      “Maybe the killer needed something from them.”

      “Like what?”

      “I don’t know. Teleporter stuff.”

      “So why kill them?”

      “Maybe it’s one of those items where you have to kill the owner to use it, like the Sceptre of the Ancients.”

      “And so we have Theory Two.”

      “Or maybe the killer wanted something that one of them had, so he was just working his way through the Teleporters until he found whoever had it.”

      “Now that’s a possibility, and so becomes Theory Two, Variation B.”

      “I’m glad you’re not making this needlessly complicated or anything,” Valkyrie muttered.

      A black van pulled up beside them. The driver got out, looked up and down the street to make sure no one was watching, and slid open the side door. Two Cleavers stepped out and stood silently, dressed in grey, faces hidden behind visored helmets. They each held a very long scythe. The last occupant of the van emerged and stood between the Cleavers. Wearing slacks and a matching blazer, with a high forehead and a goatee beard pointing down in an effort to give himself a chin, Remus Crux observed Skulduggery and Valkyrie with a disdainful expression.

      “Oh,” he said, “it’s you.” He had a curious voice, like a spoiled cat whining for its dinner.

      Skulduggery nodded to the Cleavers on either side of him. “I see you’re going incognito today.”

      Immediately, Crux bristled. “I am the Sanctuary’s lead detective, Mr Pleasant. I have enemies and, as such, I need bodyguards.”

      “Do you really need them to stand in the middle of the street?” Valkyrie asked. “They look a little conspicuous.”

      Crux sneered. “That’s an awfully big word for a thirteen-year-old.”

      Valkyrie resisted the urge to hit him. “Actually, it’s not,” she replied. “It’s fairly standard. Also, I’m fourteen. Also, your beard’s stupid.”

      “Isn’t this fun?” Skulduggery said brightly. “The three of us getting along so well.”

      Crux glared at Valkyrie, then looked at Skulduggery. “What are you doing here?”

      “We were passing, we heard there’d been another murder and we thought we could get a peek at the crime scene. We just arrived actually. Is there any chance …?”

      “I’m sorry, Mr Pleasant,” Crux said stiffly. “Because of the international nature of these crimes and the attention they’re getting, the Grand Mage expects me to conduct myself with the utmost professionalism, and he has given me strict instructions as regards you and Miss Cain. He doesn’t want either of you anywhere near Sanctuary business.”

      “But this isn’t Sanctuary business,” Valkyrie pointed out. “It’s just a murder. Cameron Light didn’t even work for the Sanctuary.”

      “It is an official Sanctuary investigation, which makes it official Sanctuary business.”

      Skulduggery’s tone was friendly. “So how’s the investigation going? You’re probably under a lot of pressure to get results, right?”

      “It’s under control.”

      “Oh, I’m sure it is. And I’m sure the international community is offering help and pooling resources – this isn’t just an Irish problem after all. But if you need any unofficial help, we’ll be glad to—”

      “You may break the rules,” Crux interrupted, “but I don’t. You no longer have any authority here. You gave that away when you accused the Grand Mage of treason, remember?”

      “Vaguely …”

      “You want my advice, Pleasant?”

      “Not especially.”

      “Find a nice hole in the ground somewhere and lie in it. You’re finished as a detective. You’re done.”

      Wearing what he probably thought was a triumphant sneer, Crux and the two Cleavers entered the building.

      “I don’t like him,” Valkyrie decided.

      

      he Bentley parked in the rear of the closed-down Waxworks Museum and Valkyrie followed Skulduggery inside. A thick layer of dust had collected on the few remaining wax figures who stood in the darkness. Valkyrie waited while Skulduggery searched the wall for the panel that opened the hidden door.

      Idly, Valkyrie examined the wax figure of Phil Lynott, the lead singer from Thin Lizzy. It stood nearby, holding a guitar, and was actually a pretty good likeness. Her dad had been a big Thin Lizzy fan back in the 1970s, and whenever ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ came on the radio, he’d still sing along, albeit tunelessly.

      “The panel is gone,” Skulduggery announced. “The moment we left, they must have changed the locks on us. I don’t know whether to feel flattered or insulted.”

      “I get the feeling you’re going to decide on flattered.”

      He shrugged. “It’s a fuzzier feeling.”

      “So how do we get in?”

      Someone tapped Valkyrie on the shoulder and she yelped and leaped away.

      “I am sorry,” the wax figure of Phil Lynott said. “I did not mean to startle you.”

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