Stolen Souls (13 page)

“DI Lennon calling for DCI Hewitt,” he said.

He listened to bland hold music and swallowed his own disgust at going to Hewitt for help. The most Lennon’s former friend suffered for his betrayals was a bullet in his leg, courtesy of a madman called Gerry Fegan.

Fegan was dead now, along with many others. Dan Hewitt had as much blood on his hands as those he investigated, and that knowledge gave Lennon a little leverage over his former friend. He had only used it once before, during the inquiry into the events that took Marie’s life. Lennon would hold Hewitt to account one day, but for now, he was useful, as much as it made his skin crawl to deal with him.

The hold music stopped.

“What do you want?” Hewitt asked.

“How are you, Dan?”

“Fuck you, that’s how I am,” Hewitt said. “What do you want?”

“Just a little guidance,” Lennon said. “You know about the killings of Tomas Strazdas and Sam Mawhinney, along with another unidentified male.”

“We’re monitoring the situation, yes.”

“And another death in Sydenham,” Lennon said. “Mark Mawhinney. Call me crazy, but I’ve a notion they’re related.”

“We’ve considered that possibility,” Hewitt said. “But you’re getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you? Once the link between the killings has been formally acknowledged, an MIT will be assigned. Right now, Tomas Strazdas is the only case you’re involved with.”

“You do keep tabs on things, don’t you, Dan?”

“It’s my job to be well-informed,” Hewitt said. “For instance, I know that the man found with Sam Mawhinney will be identified as Darius Banys, an associate of young Tomas. His babysitter, really.”

“Babysitter?”

“Tomas couldn’t keep himself out of trouble,” Hewitt said. “Darius’s job was mostly to keep an eye on him, stop him from doing too much damage to himself or anyone else.”

“What was the relationship between the brothers and Tomas?”

Hewitt sighed. “Why don’t you do your own detective work, Jack?”

“Because you and your mates in C3 are always one step ahead of the rest of us,” Lennon said. “And you owe me.”

“I owe you nothing,” Hewitt said.

“You want to test that in front of the Police Ombudsman?”

“Fuck you.”

“Then call it a favor to an old friend. It’s a secure line. Nobody’s listening.”

Lennon heard the change in Hewitt’s breathing and reached for a pen.

“All right,” Hewitt said. “The Mawhinney brothers branched into prostitution over the last year or so, buying girls from a Lithuanian woman called Rasa Kairyte., girls she helped traffic from the Republic into the North. She worked mostly with Tomas Strazdas.”

“Spell that name,” Lennon said.

Hewitt recited the letters as Lennon scribbled on his notepad.

“What’s European People Management?” Lennon asked.

Hewitt paused. “How do you know about that?”

“I saw an employment contract,” Lennon said. “It was in a drawer at the flat, along with a passport.”

“What passport?”

“It belongs to a Lithuanian girl,” Lennon said. “I’m guessing she’s the prostitute the Mawhinneys were keeping there.”

“Maybe,” Hewitt said.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Lennon said. “The employment contract was between the girl and this company called European People Management. You know something about it. I could tell by your voice.”

“Maybe you should put in a request through the proper channels,” Hewitt said. “I’m sure you’ll get all the info you need for your case.”

“That’ll take weeks,” Lennon said. “Why bother with that when I can go straight to the source?”

“All right,” Hewitt said. “European People Management is the Strazdas family business.”

“Family business?”

“Tomas was the younger brother of a man called Arturas Strazdas, owner of a number of labor agencies, ostensibly supplying migrant workers to factories, mushroom farms, cleaning companies, that sort of thing. But we’ve had an eye on him for a long time now, at the behest of our European counterparts. We believe he’s been using the agencies as a way of supplying paperwork for women trafficked into prostitution all around Britain and Ireland.”

“How does that work?” Lennon asked.

“One passport will be used to travel back and forth between Dublin and places like Vilnius, or sometimes Brussels, where he’s based. The same passport might be used for a return journey once every couple of weeks, but often the immigration people don’t look that closely at the photograph. One dark-haired girl with an Eastern European accent is hard to tell from another dark-haired girl with an Eastern European accent if you’re not paying strict attention.”

Lennon reached for the passport and opened it to the data page. Maybe this blonde girl in the photograph wasn’t the prostitute who’d worked at the flat, but rather someone very like her. Had she been there of her own free will? He thought of some of the women he’d visited in the night in the not-so-distant past. He swallowed.

“Tell you what,” Lennon said. “I’ll run a theory past you. You tell me if it fits with what you know about the situation.” A pause, then Hewitt said, “All right.”

Lennon began, sorting his thoughts as he spoke. “I think Tomas, this Darius bloke, and Sam Mawhinney were having some friendly Christmas drinks in that flat out in Bangor, possibly along with a prostitute they were running out of there, but they had a little bit of a tiff. That wound up with Tomas getting his throat cut. The other two stuck Tomas in their car and drove him down to the docks, meaning to dump him in the water, but they were disturbed by the harbor cop.

“But Tomas’s people weren’t best pleased about this, and they took Sam and his Lithuanian friend out to Newtownabbey, blew their brains out, and burnt the car. Sound okay so far?”

“It seems a reasonable train of thought,” Hewitt said. “But that doesn’t explain Mark Mawhinney.”

“No,” Lennon said. “Any witnesses to that?”

“Too early to tell,” Hewitt said. “DCI Quinn’s MIT have only been down there an hour.”

“Okay,” Lennon said. “So if I wanted to talk to someone who grieved the passing of Tomas Strazdas, where would I start?”

“You could start with the Kairyte. woman. She has a flat in the Holylands. Or there’s the driver, Herkus Katilius. Big lad, hard bastard, ex-military. But there’s a better option.”

“What’s that?” Lennon asked.

“Arturas Strazdas, Tomas’s brother.”

“You said he was based in Brussels.”

“He is,” Hewitt said. “But he flew into the International Airport last night. We, and several other organizations, keep tabs on Mr. Strazdas. He always stays in the same hotel.”

Lennon scribbled down the name on his pad. An expensive place, good clientele, near the Waterfront theater.

“That’s unusually forthcoming of you, Dan. What’s your angle?”

“No angle,” Hewitt said. “You would’ve tracked him down anyway. It’s your job to chase next of kin in a case like this, inform them of their loved one’s death.”

“A good reason to call with him,” Lennon said.

“True. But Jack?”

“What?”

“Tread lightly,” Hewitt said. “Strazdas is dangerous. I won’t shed a tear if you come to harm because you got yourself in over your head, but you could balls up several live investigations in the process. I’ve told you more than I should, so I don’t want it coming back to bite me in the arse.”

“I’ll be a model of discretion,” Lennon said, not caring in the least what might bite Dan Hewitt’s arse.

“I’m counting on it,” Hewitt said.

25

A
RTURAS
S
TRAZDAS LAY
staring at the ceiling when his mobile phone rang. The cracked display said “number withheld.” He hit the answer button and asked in English, “Who is this?”

“You know.”

“Yes,” Strazdas said. He sat upright on the bed.

“My condolences on the passing of your brother.”

“Thank you. What do you want?”

“To give you a warning. A police officer will call on you before long. Detective Inspector Jack Lennon. Be careful with him.”

“How does he know I’m here?” Strazdas asked.

“He’s a smart cop, that’s how. He has many sources. He might cause you some problems.”

“Might he?”

“Very likely. But I can help you out. Run interference. Keep you informed of what he’s up to. But I would expect to be compensated accordingly.”

“Of course,” Strazdas said.

“Are we agreed, then?”

A knock at the hotel suite’s door.

“Hold on,” Strazdas said.

He went to the living area, put his eye against the peephole, and saw the distorted shape of Herkus waiting in the corridor. His nostrils tingled in anticipation. He opened the door, and Herkus rushed inside.

Strazdas brought the phone back to his ear.

Silence.

“Hello?” he said.

Nothing. He stared at the display for a second before remembering that Herkus had entered the room.

“That idiot brother of Sam’s tried to take me,” Herkus said, pacing.

“What?”

“I went to get your stuff from Rasa’s dealer, but Mark Mawhinney was waiting for me. He fucked it up, so I finished him. Rasa’s dealer must have set me up.”

“Where’s my coke?” Strazdas asked.

Herkus stopped pacing. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“Yes, I heard,” Strazdas said. “Someone tried to hurt you. Where’s my coke?”

Herkus stood with his mouth open, his arms wide.

Strazdas threw the phone at him, shouted, “Where’s my coke? I sent you to do one thing for me, just one—”

He would never have believed Herkus could move so fast had he not seen it before. Strazdas’s feet left the floor, his throat gripped in the big man’s thick fingers, his back slammed into the wall.

“Listen to me,” Herkus said, his breath hot on Strazdas’s face. “I almost got my fucking guts sliced open by one of the morons you do business with while I was trying to get your coke. Do you think it’s going to stop there? Those brothers had friends. Those friends aren’t going to let it go. And sooner or later someone’s going to mention your name to the cops. This thing has gotten out of hand. We need to get out of this shit-hole of a city right now. You can have all the coke you can snort when we get to Brussels, but right now, we need to get away from here. Do you understand?”

Strazdas tried to pry Herkus’s fingers from his throat, but they were too strong, like stone. He croaked, and Herkus loosened his grip.

“Get your hands off me,” Strazdas said.

Herkus let go and backed off.

“Sorry, boss, but we need to get out of here.”

Strazdas coughed and walked to the couch. “Did you find the girl?”

“No,” Herkus said.

“Then we don’t go anywhere.” Strazdas sat down. “When she’s dead, then we can go.”

“Forget about her, she’s—”

“I promised my mother,” Strazdas said. “I keep my promises. You should do the same. You promised to bring me some coke.”

Herkus shook his head. “Christ, listen to yourself. Four people are dead and all you can think about is your coke?”

Strazdas wanted to say yes, all he could think of was the coke, but his right mind held the words back. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry for the deaths. All the more reason to track down the girl. It’s her fault. She caused all this.”

Herkus took a piece of paper from his pocket and dropped it in Strazdas’s lap. It was an envelope bearing a sketch of a bearded man.

“What’s this?” Strazdas asked.

“He was the last one to talk to the girl,” Herkus said, taking a vodka from the minibar. “Rasa told me he visited her yesterday morning, but the girl said he only wanted to talk. He gave her a necklace with a cross on it.”

“You think he knows something?”

Herkus downed the vodka in one gulp and hissed. “Maybe. Maybe not. But he’s all we’ve got to go on.”

“Then find him,” Strazdas said. He held the envelope out. Herkus took the paper. “Boss, I’ll do whatever you want, you know that.”

Strazdas did not answer.

“Anything you say, I’ll do it. But please, at least think about it. If the cops don’t come for you, the Loyalists will. If I’m out looking for this girl, I can’t protect you. You’ve got to get out of here. I’ll stay and look for her, but you go to the airport, get the first plane to Brussels you can.”

“No,” Strazdas said.

“Think about it.”

“No.”

Herkus nodded. “All right,” he said. He studied the sketch. “If this man visited the whorehouse in Bangor, he’ll have visited others. I’ll ask around, but I have to be careful. There’s one man I can trust. I’ll go see him.”

He turned and walked for the door.

“Herkus,” Strazdas called.

Herkus stopped, his shoulders slumped. He looked back. “Yes, boss?”

Strazdas touched his nose.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Herkus said.

26

T
HE ACHE EBBED
and flowed behind Galya’s eyes. At times it felt like the heavy blankets held her down, at others like they carried her aloft on some warm updraft. Her consciousness came and went this way for what seemed like days. Deep in the waking part of her mind, she knew it must have only been a few hours.

When at last she could lift her eyelids, they let in a painful sliver of weak light. She closed them again, but not before she took in a little of her surroundings.

A darkened bedroom, but not the one she had been held in for almost a week. This was somewhere different. But where?

Then she remembered.

The hot blood on her hands, fleeing through the night, cold tarmac tearing at the soles of her feet, the white van and its strange, kind driver coming for her.

The coffee and the sour-sweet smell of the buttermilk shandy. Galya’s stomach flexed at the memory of the odor, and she rolled to the edge of the bed, the blankets knotting around her legs. She retched, bringing up only thin splashes of a dark and bitter liquid.

The coffee he had given her.

Had it been drugged? Or had she simply been so tired that she could remain awake no longer? She was still fully clothed, save for the shoes she had stolen, so she hoped he hadn’t touched her.