Stolen Souls (9 page)

Marie never left that house, and until now, Lennon was sure the Traveller hadn’t made it out either.

Of course he hadn’t, Lennon told himself. They’d scoured the place, found more than half a dozen bodies in the smoking ruin. There was no way the Traveller could have gotten out of there alive.

A hoax, there was no other explanation, perhaps another of Dan Hewitt’s connivances.

Lennon’s mobile rang, and he said a silent thank you for the interruption before answering.

It was Sergeant Darren Moffat, the duty officer. “Just wanted to give you word on something,” he said. “Two bodies found in a lockup in D District, near Newtownabbey, about forty-five minutes ago. An officer at the scene recognized one of them straight away. A real likely lad called Sam Mawhinney.”

Lennon tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder and tore the card into small pieces. Susan watched as he stood and dropped the scraps into the bin.

“And what’s this got to do with me?” he asked, willing himself to forget about the card and concentrate on Moffat’s information. He retook his seat and pressed his fingertips against his forehead in an attempt to rub away the ache of fatigue.

“The name rang a bell,” Moffat said. “Took me a few minutes to figure it out. I’d been pulling information for Sergeant Connolly this morning, the arrest records for that Lithuanian fella that got killed last night.”

Lennon tensed. “And?”

“Sam Mawhinney, and his brother Mark, were arrested along with Mr. Tomas Strazdas on one occasion. An assault in that wee park by the cinema on Dublin Road.”

“Christ,” Lennon said.

“Quite a coincidence, eh?”

“Yep,” Lennon said. “Anyone ID the other body?”

“Not yet.”

“Who’s the senior investigating officer on this?”

“That’ll be DCI Keith Ferguson. You want him to give you a call?”

“Yep.” Lennon hung up.

Susan sat down opposite. “Trouble?”

Lennon nodded over his coffee mug.

“Will it wait until you get some sleep?”

“Probably not,” Lennon said.

A movement at the window caught his attention. Snowflakes, drifting slow and lazy in the darkness beyond the glass. Susan turned her head to follow his gaze.

“Think it’ll lie?” she asked.

“Should do,” he said. “It’s dry out.”

He pictured the fat flakes settling on the cold upturned face of Tomas Strazdas, even though the body now lay under the translucent roof of a forensics tent.

Susan reached across the table and rested her hand on his. “Why don’t you go and lie on my bed for a while? Just rest your eyes for a bit.”

“Okay,” he said. He squeezed her fingers between his and then left her there.

He knew where to go, having slept in her bed on several occasions.

“Just ignore the knickers on the floor,” Susan called after him.

Lennon kicked his shoes off and collapsed onto her unmade bed. It smelled of perfume and fabric softener. He closed his eyes and let his weight sink into the mattress. Sleep took him before long, bringing dreams of a man emerging from flames, hate in his eyes. A short time later, he was disturbed by another body settling beside his own. He felt Susan’s shoulder press against his, and did not protest.

* * *

W
HEN
L
ENNON WOKE
, Susan was gone. He felt the mattress beside him: still warm.

Physically, he and Susan had never ventured further than kissing and touching, though she had often tried to guide his hands to the places he most desired them to be. But he had resisted, sure in his heart that he would eventually hurt her and destroy their friendship if he crossed that line. Even so, they had both taken comfort from having a warm body to sleep beside when they needed it.

A cold blue light slipped through the window, the snow heavier in the stillness outside. He sat up on the bed, wondering how long he’d slept. His phone sat on the bedside table. It rang as he reached for it to check the time. He answered it. “DCI Ferguson for you,” Moffat the duty officer said.

“Thanks.”

“Jack Lennon?” a voice asked.

“That’s me,” Lennon said, trying to sound awake.

“Keith Ferguson here. We met a while back at Roger Gordon’s funeral.”

“I remember,” Lennon said, though he wished he didn’t. Gordon’s widow had glared at him across the grave. He knew she blamed him for her husband’s death.

“This Mawhinney lad in Newtownabbey,” Ferguson said. “He was a bad’un. It looks like he crossed the wrong people this time. We don’t know who the other body is yet, but he looks foreign. Sergeant Moffat tells me there might be a link to the chap you’ve got over at the docks.”

“Maybe,” Lennon said. “Him and the Mawhinney brothers were arrested together on an assault case.”

“Hmm. Sounds like this boy, all right.”

“You know him?”

“Only too well,” Ferguson said. “Him and his brother. They’ve been up to their necks in trouble since they were off their mother’s teats.”

Lennon grimaced.

“Drugs, smuggled cigarettes, bootleg DVDs, you name it, they were into it. Last I heard, they were dabbling in prostitution. They have a few flats, two in Carrick, one in Bangor, that we’ll be having a look at later today.”

“Bangor,” Lennon said. “That’s the same side of the Lough we found Strazdas’s body.”

“True,” Ferguson said. “If you want to take that one, feel free. Just clear it with C District.”

“Will do,” Lennon said.

“Here, you’re part of DCI Thompson’s team, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“So how come I’m talking to you?” Ferguson asked. “Thompson should be the senior investigating officer.”

“He likes to delegate,” Lennon said.

“Hmm. Well, let’s keep in touch on this. And hope it’s not the start of something.”

17

H
ERKUS HELPED HIMSELF
to a vodka from the minibar. He felt he deserved it after such a long night. Only queers weakened their drinks with cola and such, so he sucked it neat from the tiny bottle. It warmed his throat and chest as it went down.

Arturas paced circles around him. Herkus had considered calling him to see if he wanted to question Darius personally, but he knew there would be no point. The boss wouldn’t leave his suite. If he could help it, he never stepped outside at all. He had been pale-faced and jittery when Herkus arrived. White powder dusted the glass tabletop.

Herkus measured each word and movement carefully.

“Drink, boss?” he asked.

“No,” Arturas said.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Herkus asked. “Maybe order some breakfast?”

“No,” Arturas said. “No food. You got anymore … ?”

He pointed to his reddened nostrils.

Herkus shook his head. “Later, boss. Sit down a while, all right?”

Arturas sighed and sat down on the couch. “All right, I’m sitting.”

Herkus crossed the floor and took a seat facing the boss. “Darius told me everything,” he said.

“I want all of it,” Arturas said.

“You sure?” Herkus asked.

“I’m sure,” Arturas said.

Herkus sighed and nodded. He began.

* * *

D
ARIUS SPILLED IT
all, his voice trembling, words scrambling through the terror. He wept as he spoke, already mourning himself. Darius was big and slow, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew he would die. It was merely a question of how badly.

Darius said he and Tomas had been drinking since early afternoon. Nothing unusual about that. Tomas was in good spirits, talking, talking, always talking. Eyeing up the women, grabbing at them. Three times Darius had to grab his skinny frame, swallow him up in a bear hug, laugh and kiss his cheek, just to get him away from trouble.

Darius thought of Tomas as a brother, which meant he hated and loved him in equal measure. Sometimes he wanted to tear the little prick’s head off, other times the scrawny shit made him laugh so hard his big belly hurt.

Today, it had been mostly laughter, but it went wrong as soon as they entered the bar near Belfast’s City Hall. They had drunk there many times before. Some of the girls who waited the tables were Lithuanians, and they had both enjoyed flirting with them. But this evening was different. More men than usual, with just a few cackling women hanging on the arms of effeminate male friends who hooted and cooed at each other.

Darius understood straight away and tried to steer Tomas out onto the street again. But there was no turning him, and he shouldered his way to the bar. It wasn’t until he reached it, money already in his extended hand, that Tomas realized something wasn’t quite right. He stopped, turned a circle, his eyes wide.

“This place is full of queers,” he said.

“Is it?” Darius asked, feigning surprise. “Let’s go, then, before one of these poofs takes a shine to you.”

“No,” Tomas said, swatting Darius’s hand away. “We’ve come here before and it’s been all right. Now it’s full of queers.”

Darius put a big arm around Tomas’s slight shoulder. “So they have a queer night once a week, lots of places do that. We’ll just go somewhere else, eh? How about The Fly? Get a look at some of those little student girls, eh? We’ll call Herkus, he’ll drive us up there.”

“No, no,” Tomas said, twisting away from Darius’s reach. “I won’t leave a place because some queers think it belongs to them. The fucking queers should get out. Not me. I’m not the fucking pervert. I’m not the freak.”

Before Darius could stop him, Tomas seized the arm of one of the men leaning against the bar, spun him around, and swung a clumsy right hook at him. The blow glanced off the man’s lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, but not with enough force behind it to do any real damage.

All around them, homosexuals screamed.

“Fucking freaks!” Tomas roared, though none of the wide-eyed onlookers understood his Lithuanian.

Darius swept Tomas up in his thick arms and dragged him toward the door. “Easy, easy,” he whispered in his friend’s ear.

As soon as they were outside and a street away, Darius called Herkus.

“Fucking queers,” Tomas said as they walked through the crisp, cold evening. Christmas shoppers stepped onto the road to avoid them. “Think they can take over a place just like that. Perverts, all of them. Fucking perverts.”

“Perverts,” Darius agreed. “How about The Fly, eh? Plenty of girls there.”

“No,” Tomas said. He stopped. “What about that whore Rasa brought up from the South? We could go and see her.”

And so they had gone to the flat to the east of the city. Darius and Sam had sat drinking in the lounge while Tomas went to the bedroom and locked the door.

Darius felt bubbling unease in his gut. Perhaps Tomas would take his anger out on the girl. Well, no matter. If worse came to worst, if the girl was marked so badly she was left unsaleable, Darius would ask Herkus for the money to reimburse the brothers, and everything would be forgotten.

When they heard Tomas’s raised voice, they thought little of it. Tomas often got worked up over matters of sex. It was when his voice stopped dead that Darius and Sam exchanged uneasy glances.

* * *

H
ERKUS MASSAGED HIS
temples with his fingertips, willing the headache to dissipate. It would not go. He considered taking another vodka, or perhaps a gin, from the minibar, but thought better of it.

“She got away from them,” he said.

“How?” Arturas asked.

“They were squabbling amongst themselves. Darius said he looked up and she was running.”

Arturas stood. “They would have dumped Tomas in the water.”

“Seems that way,” Herkus said.

Rage burned beneath the boss’s skin, barely concealed. “They would have dumped him like an animal.”

“Yes, boss,” Herkus said.

Arturas nodded. “It’s good that you killed them. Better than they deserve.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Now you’ll kill the whore.”

Herkus moistened his lips and shifted in his seat. “Like I said, boss, she got away.”

Arturas leaned over him. “And you will find her.”

“In this city? She could be anywhere by now.”

“You will find her.”

“Sure, I’ll look for her, but—”

Arturas punched the armchair’s cushioned headrest hard enough to make Herkus’s head bounce. “You will find her!”

Herkus got to his feet. “Yes, boss.”

Arturas stood back. “Good. Thank you.”

Herkus went for the door, opened it, and stepped through to the corridor. As he went to close it, Arturas called, “Herkus?”

He stopped, opened the door, looked back into the suite. “Yes, boss?”

Arturas pointed to his reddened nostrils again. “Bring me something, all right?”

Herkus sighed. “Yes, boss.”

18

G
ALYA WATCHED AS
Billy Crawford set a tall glass on the Formica-topped table before her. He half filled it with something that was not quite milk, then topped it up with lemonade.

“Buttermilk shandy,” he said. He lifted the glass and held it out to her.

She caught its sickly sour-sweet odor and turned her head away.

He laughed. “It’s an acquired taste,” he said. He took a long swallow and placed the glass back on the table. White liquid clung to his whiskers. “Coffee?” he asked.

Galya nodded and pulled the blanket tight around herself.

He went to the worktop by the sink and clicked on the electric kettle. The jar of instant coffee he took from the cupboard looked old and seldom opened.

“I don’t know how fresh it is,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. He dropped a spoonful into a mug. “How do you take it?”

“Black,” she said.

The kitchen looked like Mama’s back home, cupboards with old sliding doors, cracked tiles on the floor, an aging cooker in the corner. The refrigerator hummed next to a top-loading washing machine. The wallpaper bore faded green flowers. It peeled at the corners.

Galya watched him work. He was a short man, no taller than she, but he was bull-shouldered with a thick neck. Muscles bunched and flexed beneath his shirt. He had short, graceless fingers, with dirt under his nails. His shoes were good quality, but heavily worn.