Stolen Souls jli-3

by Stuart Neville

  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

  THE 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.

  Galya sat up in the bed, but the pain followed her movement, shifting inside her skull. She brought her palms to her temples.

  When the pulsing in her ears abated, she held her breath and listened to the house.

  Quiet, not even the ticking of a clock.

  She pushed the blankets away and lowered her bare feet to the floor. The coarse fibers of the carpet tugged on her tender skin, and the sting caused her to hiss through her teeth.

  In the dimness, she picked out the features of the room. Decades-old floral wallpaper, peeling at the corners. A cheap chest of drawers against the wall. The air smelled of damp and something lower, something faded.

  Galya pushed upward, got to her feet, and fell against the chest of drawers. She leaned against it for a time, allowing her balance to return, before going to the window and pulling aside the thin curtain.

  A single pane with no handle. Black paint coated the inside of the glass. Tiny gaps at the edges of the pane let in a small amount of light. Here and there, the paint had been scraped by what looked like fingernails. Without thinking, Galya touched those places, tested the paint’s consistency with her own nail.

  Who would paint out a window? Why?

  Someone with things to hide, she thought.

  Fear rose inside her, a small bubble of it, but growing.

  Galya crossed the room, using the wall to support herself. She knew before she tried it that the door would be locked. It stood solid in its frame, not even a millimeter of give. She ran her fingertips along its edge, felt the scratches in the thick paint.

  She put her ear to the cold, slick surface and listened again. Still and silent beyond the door.

  Galya took a breath, held it in a moment of indecision, then called, “Hello?”

  Quiet like a graveyard, not even the sound of traffic in the distance.

  She placed a palm against the painted wood, held it there as if she might feel the heartbeat of the house, then pulled it back and slapped the door twice.

  “Hello?” she called again, more strength behind it.

  Something answered.

  Galya stepped back from the door.

  The howl came from somewhere above, the sound of a wounded dog, or a beast awaiting its turn in the abattoir.

  Galya did not call again.

  Instead, she returned to the bed and sat on its edge. She chewed her thumbnail as she thought, fighting to keep the fear down in her belly, not letting it climb to her mind where it would drive all reason from her.

  This man, Billy Crawford, did not mean to help her, that much was obvious. So what was his intention? The scratches on the windowpane and the door—someone had been locked in here before. Someone had clawed at the paintwork trying to find a way out.

  And what had happened to that person?

  Galya remembered what the man had told her at the table as he gave her bitter coffee to drink.

  “I am the sixth,” she said.

  Her hand went to her mouth, but it was too late, the idea had already escaped her.

  Tears stung her eyes as the fear crept up from her breast into her throat. Five had come before her, five had scratched the door and the window, five had sat where Galya sat. Had they wept? Had they screamed?

  She would not weep.

  She would not scream.

  Whatever this man intended for her, whatever desires made him lock her in this room, she would not submit to fear. Instead, she would act.

  Galya rubbed the tears away with the heel of her hand, stood, and went to the chest of drawers. She opened the first one, looking for something, anything hard enough to break glass. It was empty save for a sheet of old newspaper lining the bottom. So were the second and third drawers.

  She pulled the top drawer out as far as it would go, felt the bump as the runners reached the farthest extent of their travel. She lifted and pulled again, freeing the drawer from the chest.

  It was poor quality, but solid and heavy. She went to the window. The curtain came away with one tug and fell to the floor. She gripped the drawer by the corners and held it up to shoulder height. With her body’s weight behind it, she rammed it into the windowpane.

  The glass held.

  Galya pulled the drawer back, once again slammed it into the glass. Still the window stayed intact.

  The howling from above resumed, a voice cracked by pain and sorrow.

  She struck the glass again and again, every bit of her strength channeled through it, until the drawer split and fell apart in her hands. The glass stood firm. The voice above rose and fell like a siren. Galya collapsed to her knees among the fragments of wood and offered up her own cries.

  27

  BILLY CRAWFORD SAT on the threadbare couch in his living room, his back straight, his hands on his knees, listening to the muffled wails above his head. He’d been in prayer for over an hour now. He had neither a clock to tell him so, nor a watch on his wrist. He’d always had an innate sense of time. He went to bed at the same hour every night, and awoke at the same time every morning, had done since he was a boy
. Never been late in his life, people would say about Billy Crawford, if they ever talked about him.

  The crying and howling from above continued.

  It didn’t worry him. No one would hear. The old threestory semi stood well away from any other buildings, just off the Cavehill Road, on the outskirts of the city. It backed on to waste ground, and the adjoining house had been derelict for years. It had changed hands several times as property prices rose and fell, but as yet no developer had tried to turn it back into a home. With the state of the economy now, it would be years before anyone would look at it again.

  In addition to replacing all his windows with tempered double glazing, he had insulated the wall cavities. Little or no noise could enter or leave the house.

  Let the girl cry all she wanted.

  The first girl had cried a lot.

  They all had.

  He had drowned them out by singing unto the Lord.

  “What a friend we have in Jesus,” he sang, his voice resonating deep in his barrel chest, “all our sins and griefs to bear.”

  He closed his eyes and felt the shape of the words on his tongue. “What a privilege to carry,” he sang, “everything to God in prayer.”

  The wailing from above grew stronger, but his voice swelled, filling the house, blotting out all else until it was the only sound in the whole wide world.

  28

  LENNON KNOCKED ON the door and waited. A Do Not Disturb card hung from the handle. A maid smiled as she pushed a trolley laden with sheets and towels past.

  He knocked again.

  A smartly dressed man of early middle age emerged from the elevator along the corridor. A briefcase in one hand, he studied the signs indicating the layout of the floor, evidently searching for a room number, before approaching the door at which Lennon waited. The suited man rapped the door twice with his knuckles. It opened instantly and he stepped inside.

  “Excuse me,” Lennon said.

  The door closed in his face. He didn’t see who had opened it, only caught a glimpse of the suite beyond, including leather armchairs and a huge flat-screen television.

  He hammered the door with his fist.

  The suited man opened it. “Can I help you?”

  Lennon peered over his shoulder. “I’m Detective Inspector Jack Lennon, PSNI. I need to speak with Mr. Strazdas.”

  The man blocked the doorway with his body. “Identification.”

  Lennon smelled a lawyer. He produced his wallet and showed his ID.

  “I’m David Rainey,” the man said. “I represent Mr. Strazdas. Maybe I can help you?”

  “It’s a personal matter.” Lennon leaned forward, trying to see more of the room.

  Rainey straightened his back, using what height he had to obscure Lennon’s view. “I have Mr Strazdas’s complete confidence.”

  “Even so, I’d like to speak to Mr. Strazdas in person. I’m afraid I have some bad news for him.”

  “Very well.” Rainey stood back. “Please come in.”

  Lennon stepped into the suite’s living area, all high ceilings and opulent upholstery. Arturas Strazdas sat at the center of a couch, his legs crossed, his arms draped across the back. He watched Lennon with cold blue eyes set in a pale face beneath his thick eyebrows. Perspiration formed a sheen on his forehead. Dark circles weighted his eyes. Raw red skin edged his nostrils.

  “Nice suite,” Lennon said. “I don’t think I’ve ever set foot in a place like this. In my line of work, it tends to be the dumps you get called to.”

  “No one called you here,”

  Strazdas said, his accent thick. “No,” Lennon said. “Can I sit down?”

  Strazdas did not reply. Lennon looked to Rainey, who extended a hand toward an armchair on the other side of the coffee table from his client.

  As Lennon sat down, he said, “I have some very bad news for you, Mr. Strazdas.”

  “Go on,” Strazdas said.

  “Your brother is Tomas Strazdas, correct?” Lennon watched his eyes.

  “Correct,” Strazdas said.

  “I regret to inform you that Tomas was found dead last night at Dufferin Road, in the Harbour Estate. He was identifiable by a Lithuanian driver’s licence in his wallet.”

  Strazdas didn’t flinch, didn’t draw breath, didn’t react in any way.

  “Pending confirmation by a postmortem to be carried out by the State Pathologist’s Department, we believe Tomas was murdered. Most likely he was killed elsewhere, we suspect at an apartment on the outskirts of Bangor, then his body was moved to where it was found. We believe his killer, or killers, intended to dump his body in the water, but they were disturbed by an officer of the Harbour Police, whom they assaulted before making their escape.”

  Strazdas stared ahead. His tongue slipped from between his lips, moistened them, then retreated.

  Rainey cleared his throat. “That is indeed very sad news, Inspector. Mr. Strazdas thanks you for bringing it to him. Now, if you don’t mind, he would like some time to take it in.”

  He took a business card from his pocket and brought it to Lennon. “If you would like to speak to Mr. Strazdas further, please call this number and I’ll ensure that he cooperates fully with your investigation.”

  Lennon took the card and dropped it on the coffee table. “Thank you. I have a few questions now, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Rainey leaned in close and spoke in a hushed tone. “Mr. Strazdas needs some peace to absorb this terrible news. Now, I really must ask you to—”

  “Mr. Rainey, I’m sure you understand that in a murder investigation like this, time is of the essence. The sooner Mr. Strazdas answers my questions, the sooner we can find who killed his brother. You wouldn’t want you or your client to appear to have been obstructive to the investigation, would you?”

  Rainey straightened and looked to Strazdas.

  Strazdas gave a nod so small, Lennon wasn’t sure he’d seen it at all.

  “All right,” Rainey said. “Make it quick. And when I say it’s over, it’s over. Agreed?”

  “Okay,” Lennon said.

  Rainey retreated to the corner.

  Lennon took his notepad and pen from his pocket. “Mr. Strazdas, what was your brother doing in Northern Ireland at the time of his death?”

  “Tomas was a citizen of the European Union,” Strazdas said. “He was entitled to travel and reside anywhere within the EU without hindrance. As am I.”

  “Of course,” Lennon said. “But that wasn’t my question. What was Tomas doing here? Work? Pleasure?”

  “I have an interest in investing in this city.” Strazdas waved a hand at the window as if the buildings beyond were his for the taking. “That’s why I flew in last night. Tomas had been here for some time, looking at various properties on my behalf, some for potential development, and one as a possible site for an office for my main business.”

  “Your main business,” Lennon said. “I understand that’s running a labor agency. Supplying migrant workers to local businesses.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So, Tomas will have been in touch with commercial estate agents and so on? Who might have he been talking to?”

  “I can confirm that,” Rainey said from the corner. “I visited several properties around the city with him. I can give you a list of agents, if needed.”

  Lennon ignored him. “Did Tomas know two brothers called Sam and Mark Mawhinney?”

  Strazdas shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “What was Tomas’s involvement with Loyalist paramilitary groups in Belfast?”

  Rainey said, “None that we are aware of. Inspector, if this line of questioning continues, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  “Tomas has been arrested several times for public order offenses,” Lennon said. “He was a fighter.”

  “Tomas was quick-tempered.” Strazdas showed no anger at the smearing of his brother’s character. “He took after our father that way. Sometimes it got him into trouble.”
<
br />   “Perhaps he picked a fight with the wrong person last night.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Did Tomas work for you supplying trafficked women to the local sex trade?”

  Silence for long seconds.

  Rainey walked across the room, extended a hand toward the door, and smiled. “Thank you, Inspector, that will be all.”

  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.”