Stolen Souls (3 page)

Darius would not be placated. “You need take care your mouth, or you go in water also.”

Sam raised his hands.

Darius slapped them aside.

Galya ran.

4

A
RTURAS
S
TRAZDAS HUNG
up without leaving a message. He thought for a moment as the car sped along the motorway toward the city, the driver’s attention fixed on the road ahead. Tomas always answered his phone. It didn’t matter if he was in bed or at a funeral, he never left a call unanswered if his mobile was in reach. Many times Arturas had phoned his brother only to hear hard panting and moaning on the other end as he rutted with one of the whores.

Once, Tomas hospitalized a cinemagoer for complaining about the disturbance caused by his taking a call during a screening of some romantic comedy. It had taken several days, and some expense, to convince the victim they were mistaken in their identification of the attacker.

Tomas had always been trouble, but Strazdas had promised his mother he would care for his little brother, no matter what. He had repeated the promise just a few hours ago, before he left her in the Brussels apartment he’d bought for her and caught the flight to Belfast.

She had complained bitterly about being left alone at Christmas, but it could not be helped. There was business to attend to, and as much as he loved his little brother, Tomas could not be trusted with such a responsibility.

Strazdas had texted Tomas before he boarded the plane, reminded him to be ready for his arrival, that he needed him at the hotel that night. Now Tomas did not answer. Strazdas returned the mobile to his breast pocket and considered.

There were many reasons why Tomas might not have answered his phone, of course. But none were good enough for Strazdas. Clearly something was wrong.

“Herkus,” he called.

“Yes, boss?” The driver glanced back over his shoulder.

“When did you last see Tomas?”

“A few hours ago,” Herkus said. “He and Darius were drinking in town. I had to pick them up in a hurry. They’d gone into the wrong bar, some place for queers. You know how Tomas is about queers.”

Yes, Strazdas knew how Tomas felt about homosexuals. That particular foible had cost him some money over the years. Between bail and payoffs, caring for Tomas was like keeping an exotic animal. Its prey was expensive.

“How bad?” Strazdas asked.

“Not very bad.” Herkus shrugged. “Not much blood on his hands. Darius got him out of there before he did any real damage. I lifted them a few streets away.”

“And then?”

“Tomas said he wanted to break in that new whore. The Ukrainian girl. Being around queers always makes him want a whore.”

Strazdas watched the city lights draw near, buildings solidifying in the dark.

“Which Ukrainian girl?” he asked.

“The one Rasa took from the mushroom farm last week,” Herkus said. “The agency put her there, working under Steponas. She’d been there a month or six weeks, maybe, when Rasa spotted her. She was covered head to toe in horse shit, but Rasa can pick a looker out from a hundred meters. The Loyalists paid two thousand for her.”

“Good money,” Strazdas said.

“Like I said, she’s a looker. Darius told me. Young, skinny, nice mouth. Good tits. They were putting her to work for the first time today. Tomas said he was going to get her off to a good start.”

“Where are they keeping her?”

“Bangor direction,” Herkus said. “Northeast of the city, past the other airport.”

Strazdas retrieved his phone from his pocket. He looked up Darius’s number and dialed. It went straight to the answering service, didn’t even ring.

“After you leave me at the hotel, you go looking for Tomas and Darius,” he said.

“Okay,” Herkus said.

5

G
ALYA HAD BEEN
a runner ever since she was small. She’d been the fastest in her school district, winning every medal and trophy the regional championships had to offer. Mama displayed them in the old china cabinet she had inherited from her own grandmother forty years before.

As Galya reached her teens and her bones lengthened, she found the 5000 meters to be her best event. At fourteen, she trained three times a day, edging ever closer to running the distance in fifteen minutes. She remembered the cold early mornings, closing the door of Mama’s house behind her, jogging to the track in the village, listening to the sounds of the world awaking as she devoured lap after lap.

The coach had wanted to put her up for the athletic school, said she’d sail through the trials, they might even start grooming her for the Olympic team. But that would have meant going away and leaving Mama to work the few acres of land she owned all by herself. So Galya turned the chance down and ran purely for the heart-racing pleasure of it.

Now she ran for her life.

Her arms churned. Frosty tarmac chewed at the naked balls of her feet. Her lungs grabbed at cold air.

She had a twenty-meter start before they realized she had gone. Sam had tripped over the dead man in his panic to get after her. She heard him hit the ground and cry out in pain, leaving only Darius to pursue her, his footsteps heavy as he propelled his bulk forward.

Did they have guns? Galya did not believe so; she would have heard them boom by now, felt the bullets slam into her back. How would it feel?

She dismissed the thought.

Up ahead, an open gate, a dock beyond. Behind, running feet, lumbering, unable to close the distance. She did not look back. To do so would be to lose her balance and rhythm. Galya knew this was the essence of running. Balance and rhythm granted speed and minimized fatigue. If she lost those, she would lose ground to them. If she lost ground, she would die.

Breathe.

In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four …

She heard the ragged stabs of Darius’s breathing. He was not a sprinter, but had no endurance either. Not like Galya. If she could keep ahead of him long enough, keep out of his reach, his legs would give up, the muscles’ craving for oxygen too great to carry him any further.

In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four …

Galya heard him roar as he found a last reserve of speed. But she had more. Despite the pain as the salted ground tore the skin from her feet, she pushed harder. He was closer now, his desperate gasps gaining on her. He cried out again as his pace faltered.

In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four …

She spotted the ice in time to lengthen her stride, and she cleared it easily. Darius did not. She heard him slide, then the soggy thump of flesh meeting hard ground, and finally the wheeze of air knocked from his lungs.

The Lithuanian grunted and cursed behind her as he hauled himself to his feet. He was big and strong, but he was slow. She could outrun him, she had no doubt of that, but the pain dragged at her ankles and the chilled air spiked her lungs.

In, two, three …

Galya couldn’t hold it in her chest, it was too cold. Her rhythm skipped.

Out, two, three …

The breath hissed from between her teeth, her balance lost along with it. She commanded her mind to concentrate, her body to follow its lead, but the pain wouldn’t stay in her feet. It crept up her ankles to her calves, shortening her stride, speed deserting her.

The Lithuanian’s thudding footsteps drew closer. He huffed and gasped, but he held his pace.

The open gate stood only meters away. Inside the yard she could make out great black mounds against the city lights. Coal, maybe, or stones, and towering machines and low huts. Places to hide, if she could reach them.

But the pain and the cold. They stabbed at her legs, tightened around her chest.

The Lithuanian came closer still, so close he could touch her if he reached out.

Galya prayed as she ran.

Mama, help me, help me, make me faster, let me
—

Blinding light, a screech, a thump and a cry.

The car, a big four-wheel drive, came from a side road. She felt the displaced air as it missed her and hit the Lithuanian. She heard him hit the ground hard.

A door opened and a voice called, “Stop!”

Galya kept running, though her long strides had turned to lopsided lurches.

The voice called again, “Stop! Police!”

She slowed, spared a glance over her shoulder.

The car bore colored markings and had the words HARBOUR POLICE emblazoned on the side. Galya halted, her fear mixing with confusion.

“Don’t move,” the policeman said. He turned his attention to the man sprawled in front of the car. He spoke into a radio. “Bobby, we better get an ambulance down here.”

The radio crackled in reply.

“Because I just ran somebody over.”

A longer burst of static.

“I don’t know. He’s alive. He’s moving, like. Corner of Dufferin and Barnet Road.”

Galya fought the adrenalin, forced herself to be still, to wait.

The policeman noticed the car by the water, the plasticwrapped bundle on the embankment. He spoke into his radio again. “Better get some PSNI boys down here too.”

More crackling.

“That’s what I’m going to try to find out. I don’t like the look of it, whatever it is.’

He turned back to Galya. “Right, love. What’s happening here?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but remembered what she’d been told about the police in this country. The gangmasters had warned them all on the farm, and the workers remembered the stories they’d heard from others. The police hated immigrants, would arrest and beat them. The lucky ones got kicked out of the country; the rest went to gray prisons for years, abandoned to a system that would let them rot in the dank bowels of its detention centers.

Galya looked down at herself and saw blood had soaked through her clothing and coated her hands. She had killed a man not an hour before. If the police got her, she would be treated as a murderer. Did they still hang murderers here? She took a step backward.

The policeman extended a hand toward her. “Listen, love, no one’s going to hurt you. Just stay—”

An engine roared. He turned to see the old BMW accelerate toward him.

Darius got to his knees.

“What the fuck is going on?” the policeman asked. He reached for the pistol at his hip, but Darius grabbed his wrist. He looked into the policeman’s eyes as he rose to tower over him.

Once more, Galya ran.

6

F
OR THE SECOND
time tonight, a phone’s shrill call caught Lennon at the edge of slumber. He jerked awake, cold in his darkened office, and reached for the handset.

“Yes?”

“Call from Sergeant Connolly,” the duty officer said. “Sounds like a bad one.”

“Christ,” Lennon said, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “All right, put him through.”

Lennon listened to clicks and beeps while the call bounced down the wires before he heard Connolly’s strained breath. Sounded like he was fighting the cold. Connolly was a good officer, still young enough to remember why he joined up, but old enough to have had his eyes opened to the realities of the job. He’d made sergeant quicker than most, and was angling for detective. Lennon reckoned he’d have it sooner rather than later, but for now he was stuck on patrols.

“Go on,” Lennon said. He knew Connolly would give it to him matter-of-fact, no dressing it up.

“Me and Eddie McCrae took a call to come to the Harbour Estate,” Connolly said. McCrae, his partner, was still a constable despite being ten years older. “One man dead, confirmed by me, one man injured. We’ve an ambulance on the way. Eddie’s giving him first aid, but it looks bad. And here’s the thing: he’s a harbor cop. You’d better get down here.”

Lennon slumped in his chair. “All right, give me thirty minutes.”

He hung up and dialed an outside line. He listened to the tone for six rings before an alcohol-soaked voice answered.

Detective Chief Inspector Jim Thompson, the officer in charge of Lennon’s Major Investigation Team, yawned at the other end as he listened. When Lennon finished relaying Connolly’s words, Thompson said, “You could’ve told me all this in the morning. I’m having a get-together here.”

“You’re the head of my MIT,” Lennon said. “I’m supposed to report to you first.”

“And you’re the senior officer on duty. You took the call. You bloody deal with it.”

“I don’t have enough men to get a full team together.”

“It’s pitch black outside. There won’t be a proper examination of the scene until the morning anyway. Just get a medical officer down there, and anyone else you can get hold of. Make sure the scene’s secure, and everything’s done that needs doing. The ACC can take over tomorrow. I’m sure you’re capable of doing that, at least. Now, don’t call me again unless the sky’s falling in, understood?”

“Understood,” Lennon said.

He would never fathom how Jim Thompson had made detective chief inspector. Lennon had been on Thompson’s Major Investigation Team for four months now, and he’d yet to see his superior officer take responsibility for anything he didn’t absolutely have to. Thompson called it delegation. Lennon called it passing the buck.

Nevertheless, it was true that little could be done tonight other than secure the scene and have the medical officer certify death, and then the assistant chief constable would assign an investigation team in the morning. All Lennon had to do was make sure all the right boxes were ticked for now. Still, the idea that Thompson would happily carry on his Christmas festivities while a man lay dead by the water stuck in Lennon’s throat.

It seemed he had no luck with detective chief inspectors. He sat here tonight because of DCI Dan Hewitt. There was no way to prove that, and Lennon had to concede there was a fair chance the notion was only paranoia on his part. But it was a powerful notion when coupled with the knowledge that Hewitt had sold Lennon out more than a year ago, costing Marie McKenna her life, and almost done the same for Ellen.

Hewitt had many secrets, and Lennon had uncovered enough of them to make things difficult for his former friend if he ever chose to reveal them. For now, he kept the information filed away, some of it in his head, some on paper. For the last year he had scoured case files, looking for connections between Hewitt and cases that had failed to reach prosecution. There was precious little on record because his old friend was a member of the most secretive branch of the force, C3 Intelligence, their clandestine dealings rarely revealed outside of their own secure offices.