Stolen Souls Read online

  Lennon took the lawyer’s card from the coffee table and stood. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I have no doubt of that.” Rainey stood back to allow Lennon to pass, then showed him out to the corridor.

  “Inspector,” he called as Lennon was about to walk to the lift.

  Lennon turned.

  “I won’t tolerate any harassment of my client.” Rainey gave his best, sternest glare.

  Lennon walked back to him, came right up close. “And I won’t tolerate a fucking gang war on Christmas Eve. I count four dead in less than twenty-four hours. As far as I can tell, it’s been nothing but scumbags going after each other, but a young police officer is in hospital over this. Whatever’s going on, it better stop. One more body turns up, and your client is the first on my list for questioning. Understood?”

  “If you wish to interview my client again, you’ll need to do so under caution,” Rainey said, folding his arms across his shallow chest.

  Lennon said, “That can be arranged.”

  29

  STRAZDAS SAT QUITE still while he waited for Rainey to return. He closed his eyes and listened to the blood in his ears. It did not drown out the voice of his mother’s hate. A movement of air and the hissing of expensive soles on thick carpet stirred him.

  “You’ll have to be careful,” the lawyer said as he closed the door. “Anything else happens, you’ll be in the firing line.”

  “It’s under control,” Strazdas said.

  He did not like lawyers, but they were an essential part of doing business. Particularly at times like these.

  “Under control?” Rainey snorted. “Four dead, he told me. You said to me there was only your brother and the two that did for him. Arturas, my friend, you pay well, but not well enough to stand that kind of heat.”

  Strazdas said, “Then I’ll pay you more.”

  “I’m not a criminal lawyer, for a start.” Rainey sat down in the armchair opposite. “Patsy Toner would’ve been your man for this sort of thing, but he’s dead now. If I were you, I’d be on the first flight back to Brussels, get out of the spotlight, lie low for a while.”

  “You’re the second person to tell me that today,” Strazdas said. “But I’m staying here until the job is done.”

  Rainey sat forward in his chair. “Until what job is done?” Before Strazdas could answer, he held a hand up and said, “No, don’t tell me.”

  The lawyer reached into his pocket and took out a small glass vial filled with white powder. A tiny silver spoon was attached to it by a fine chain.

  He asked, “Do you mind? To settle my nerves.”

  Strazdas licked his lips and sniffed. “I don’t mind at all,” he said.

  PART TWO

  HERKUS

  30

  HERKUS PICKED UP one thousand pounds in cash from the safe hidden beneath the kitchen sink in his apartment before making his way to the east of the city.

  Anger still churned in his gut, but he knew how to control it. Anger at Arturas for not seeing sense and getting out. Anger at the whore for cutting Tomas’s throat. Anger at those idiot brothers for letting this all happen.

  The Mawhinneys were low-ranking members of a Loyalist faction headed by Rodney Crozier. Crozier was still in a bad state after being knifed just over a year ago by a rival, yet he managed to keep a firm hold on his people. But Herkus doubted the attempt on his life had been sanctioned by him or any of those who ran his operation while he was laid up. Men like Crozier knew the difference between business and a personal vendetta. If they’d authorized it, they would have sent someone who knew what he was doing.

  And Herkus would be dead.

  That thought caused Herkus’s mouth to dry. Twenty, ten, or even five years ago, the idea of death had not bothered him. He was young, strong, quick, and brave. Perhaps even foolhardy. If life were to end, it would simply be another adventure, like stepping off the edge of the world.

  But then he began to notice the deepening lines on his face, and how his muscular bulk was slowly softening and sagging. How sometimes it hurt his knees to climb stairs, and his lungs had to work harder the higher he climbed.

  One night he dreamed of Agne, the wife he had left behind in Lithuania. He awoke with his throat raw and hoarse from screaming. They had married not long after he came out of the army and rented a flat in Vilnius. She talked about children all the time, never stopped, always babies, what she would name them, whether they would be male or female, until it stopped him from performing properly. Every time he mounted her, every time he felt his climax approach, he would see the distant look in her eyes as she thought of the child he would give her. And then he would withdraw, shrunken and defeated, and she would weep as if the child were stillborn.

  The day before he boarded the plane for Brussels, they talked about their new life together, away from the grayness of their own country. He promised he would send her a ticket just as soon as he had earned the money. An old friend had told him the businessman Strazdas could offer them a new start in Belgium.

  To celebrate, they filled a basket with wine, beer, and good things to eat, and drove out of the city to the forests that surrounded the Neris River. He’d dug the hole a week before, hidden in the dark channels between the trees. She died with a quiet acceptance, didn’t even cry out when he struck her that first time, and he supposed she’d always known it would end this way.

  He had liked Belfast at first, but now it grated on him. The rain, the small-mindedness, the damned pompous self-importance of its people who thought their petty little war was more important than anyone else’s. He cursed the city’s inhabitants as he drove, watching them stream along the pavements, in and out of betting shops, pubs, and run-down electrical and clothing stores. None of the big chains that had colonized the city center had ventured out here among the flags, graffiti, and painted paving stones.

  The Maxie’s Taxis premises stood sandwiched between Indian and Chinese takeaways on the Holywood Road. Officially, the business was owned by Brian Maxwell. In reality, his brother Gordie ran the place from an upstairs office. He also orchestrated other ventures from the tiny workspace, though none of them generated any paperwork.

  Gordie Maxwell did not stand when Herkus entered. He remained on the other side of his chipboard desk, feet up, chair tipped back. His belly stretched his shirt, making it gape between the buttons. Herkus saw the wisps of graying hair, smelled the bitter tang of body odor.

  “There was no call to do Sam Mawhinney,” Maxwell said. “All right, him and his brother were stupid cunts, wee boys playing the big boys’ game, but Sam didn’t deserve that.”

  Herkus sat down. “He let a whore kill my boss’s brother.” “Your boss’s brother was a big-mouthed ignorant fucker,” Maxwell said. “He put one of my drivers in the hospital for no good reason. There’s not many’ll be sorry to see the back of him.”

  “If Arturas hears you say these things, he will be very angry.” “That’s his tough shit,” Maxwell said. “And now I hear Mark Mawhinney had a wee accident this morning.”

  Herkus did not respond.

  Maxwell shook his head. “A few people were asking around, looking to know where you were. Friends of the Mawhinneys. I would’ve told them you were coming here, only I hate those bags of shite even more than I hate you and your fucking boss.”

  “You are a kind man,” Herkus said. Sarcasm was the closest he ever came to humor. “Do you have what I wanted?”

  Maxwell picked at his teeth, studied whatever he’d retrieved. “Aye,” he said. He opened a drawer, pulled a large padded envelope from it, and dropped it on the desktop.

  Herkus reached for it and poured the contents out onto a newspaper. A dozen nine-millimeter rounds rolled across the inky paper. The plastic bag full of white powder fell between them.

  “Not often I’d let anyone pick stuff up from here,” Maxwell said. “That’s what the taxis is for. And I got it quick, too. You understand why I had to charge so much.”

&nbs
p; “Yes,” Herkus said. With a gloved hand, he took the roll of notes from his pocket and tossed them across the desk. Maxwell caught them and started counting.

  Herkus took the Glock 17 from his waistband.

  Maxwell stopped counting.

  “Is that a cop’s gun?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Herkus said.

  “If I’d known it was for a peeler’s gun, I wouldn’t have got you them bullets. Where’d you get it?”

  Herkus popped the pistol’s magazine and replaced the two rounds he’d used that morning.

  “All right, none of my business,” Maxwell said.

  Herkus scooped up loose ammunition and dropped it into his pockets, along with the bag of cocaine. He left the pistol on the desktop, muzzle staring at Maxwell.

  “I’m looking for a man,” Herkus said.

  “Oh, aye?”

  “He uses whores.”

  “I know a lot of men uses whores,” Maxwell said. He pronounced it hooers.

  Herkus produced the envelope with the sketch and passed it across. “This man,” he said.

  Maxwell held it at arm’s length. He moistened his lips with his tongue. “Who is he?”

  “Just a man,” Herkus said. “But I pay money for him.”

  Maxwell shot him a look, licked his lips again.

  “Chases whores, you say?”

  “Yes,” Herkus said.

  “You think he has something to do with this girl that did your man Tomas in?”

  “Yes.”

  Maxwell stood and went to a small photocopier. “Do you mind?”

  Herkus shrugged.

  Maxwell slipped the envelope onto the copier’s glass and made a duplicate. “I’ll pass some copies round my drivers, see if the picture rings any bells. All right?”

  Herkus nodded.

  “And you be careful with that gun,” Maxwell said. “You get caught with them bullets or that coke, you didn’t get them from me, right?”

  “Right,” Herkus said.

  He stood and went to the door, opened it, was almost through when Maxwell called after him.

  “If I turn this fella up for you, how much money are we talking?”

  Herkus stopped and looked back into the office. “Good money,” he said. “Buy you a shirt that fits.”

  31

  GALYA HAD LISTENED to him sing for at least an hour before she fell asleep again. She heard words like “Jesus,” “savior,” and “almighty” creeping up through the floor, while occasionally the other voice, the animal voice from above, provided a skewed harmony as it wailed.

  She had crawled back into the bed, wrapped herself in the blankets, and prayed to Mama. Sleep took her as she mouthed the words against the pillow.

  A sound awoke her: the slamming of a door. She sat up, listened. The metallic sound of a lock. Galya squeezed her eyes shut and strained the limits of her hearing. There, maybe, the noise of an engine first clattering into life, then dissolving into the surrounding quiet.

  It had been so faint, she couldn’t be sure if she’d heard anything after the door being locked. It could have been her own sleep-addled imagination.

  The painted-out window only allowed the thinnest slivers of light into the room, but Galya could tell by the movement of the shadows that some time had passed. Her temples pulsed, and her tongue rasped the roof of her mouth. She pushed the blankets back, and the air crept cold and damp around her. Her breath misted. She smelled the decaying blood on her clothes, like metal and ripe meat.

  The wailing from above had stopped. Quiet hung over the place, the world heavy with silence. Was she alone in this house? Had Billy Crawford, if that was really his name, left her here?

  She climbed out of the bed and picked her way through the remnants of the drawer she had smashed. Once more, she pressed her ear against the door and listened.

  Galya leaned her forehead against the smooth paint and commanded herself to think. Not panic like before, not cry in fear, but think until she found a way out.

  She stepped back from the door and surveyed the room. The bed, the chest of drawers, a closet in the far corner, and the cheap carpet. Nothing else. She went from wall to wall, tapping each with her knuckles. All solid.

  The pieces of the smashed drawer lay scattered at her feet. She dropped to her knees and peered under the bed. Dust scratched at her lungs and nasal passages. She reached for the drawer front, its handle still attached. It felt solid in her hands. She got back to her feet and dropped it on the bed.

  A single painted door sealed the closet. She opened it. Empty, save for the spiders and their webs. It was perhaps sixty centimeters wide, and the same in depth, with bare floorboards at its bottom. She stepped inside, felt the rough wood on her feet.

  The smell in here was different. Cleaner.

  No, not cleaner. Newer. She smelled paint, not brand new, but not long applied.

  She ran her fingertips over the surfaces of the walls, felt the almost imperceptible ripples left by a paintbrush. If the rest of the room was so old and worn, why paint the interior of a closet?

  Galya explored further with her hands, letting them skim the walls and up into the darkness over her head. She couldn’t reach the ceiling, but her fingers found something hard and cold.

  A hook.

  She stretched up until she found the chain it hung from, pulled, and found it fixed solid to the closet’s ceiling. It was strong enough to support her weight, her toes skittering across the floorboards until her knees hit the rear wall with a hollow thud.

  Hollow?

  She released the hook, let her feet settle on the floor. With one knuckle, she tapped the left wall.

  Solid.

  The right wall.

  Solid.

  The back wall.

  Hollow.

  Again, Galya tapped, exploring the surface, listening as she went. She worked left to right, an inch at a time. Every gentle knock resonated until she got halfway. A solid part, perhaps two inches wide, then hollow again all the way across.

  She stepped out of the closet and lifted the drawer front from the floor. Its corners were blunted from being rammed against the glass, but it was all she had. She moved back into the closet and raised the drawer front to shoulder height. Putting her weight behind it, she drove the wood into the rear wall.

  The torn animal voice rose somewhere above. Galya closed her eyes and prayed once more to Mama’s spirit.

  Again, she struck the wall. A sprinkling of dust fell away. The voice called in response.

  Another strike, all her strength channeled through her shoulders, and a small square of plaster fell away to reveal thin wooden slats.

  “Thank you, Mama,” Galya whispered.

  32

  LENNON FOUND ROSCOE PATTERSON playing pool in a social club off Sandy Row. Roscoe didn’t look up as Lennon entered. He took his shot, potted the purple stripe, and lined up his next.

  “A word,” Lennon said, kicking snow from his shoes.

  “Fuck off,” Roscoe said. The yellow stripe went down.

  His pool opponent glared. The half-dozen fellow drinkers watched from the shaded corners of the bar.

  “That’s not nice,” Lennon said, keeping his tone as friendly as he could manage, given the surroundings. “C’mon, just a word. It’ll only take a minute, then you can get back to beating your friend here.”

  Roscoe looked up at his compatriot, but didn’t spare Lennon a glance. He placed the cue on the table and walked past Lennon toward the door, keeping his jaw firm and his eyes averted all the way. He grabbed a coat from a hook by the exit. Lennon followed him out to the patch of waste ground that served as a car park.

  “You know better than to come round here,” Roscoe said as he fished a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket. “What makes you think I’ve got anything to say to you? You’re lucky I didn’t have your fucking brains blown out after that last time you came asking questions.”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures,�
�� Lennon said. He pointed to Roscoe’s cigarettes. “Can you spare one?” “Not for you,” Roscoe said. He cupped his hand around the flame from his lighter until the cigarette caught.

  Lennon plucked the cigarette from his lips and brought it to his own. He inhaled the heat.

  “Cheeky cunt,” Roscoe said, taking another from the packet. “Charming as ever,” Lennon said. “This won’t take long. Help me out, and I’ll piss off. Don’t, and I’ll be round to your house for my Christmas dinner.”

  Roscoe lit his cigarette and put the packet away. Snow settled on his shaven scalp. He pulled his hood up.

  “Fuck, you don’t want Christmas dinner at my house. My missus wouldn’t know a turkey from a turd.” He took the cigarette from his mouth long enough to spit in the snow. “So what do you want?”

  “Sam and Mark Mawhinney,” Lennon said.

  Roscoe smirked. “Them two? They had it coming. Pair of scumbags. They used to do the odd wee bit for me, but they dipped their hands one time too many. I gave them a beating and told them to fuck off. They got tied up with Rodney Crozier’s lot, so they were in good company.”

  “Running prostitutes?” Lennon asked.

  Roscoe’s smirk turned to a grin. “You should know,” he said. Lennon felt his face redden, hot against the icy breeze. “Watch your mouth,” he said. He couldn’t hold Roscoe’s stare. “I don’t do that anymore.”

  Roscoe raised his eyebrows, his grin widening.

  Lennon and Roscoe once had an understanding. Lennon visited some of the apartments Roscoe ran his girls from, took advantage of the services at no charge, and in return none of them got raided. It worked out for everyone. Roscoe ran a clean business, or as clean as such an enterprise could be, and he always had an ear to the ground. Anything worth knowing was on his radar.

  That understanding ended over a year ago when Roscoe let Dan Hewitt know that Marie and Ellen were hidden in one of his places. The betrayal earned Roscoe a beating. Had he not been so useful to Lennon, he would have gotten worse. “A tiger can’t change its spots,” Roscoe said.