Strazdas opened the bag’s seal and poured a little of the powder onto the glass. Using the hotel’s key card, he divided and shaped the powder into three lines. He took a fifty-euro note from his pocket, rolled it into a tube, inserted one end into his left nostril, and inhaled.
The world snapped into focus.
He shivered as he exhaled, moved the rolled-up note to his other nostril, and inhaled the second line.
His head lightened.
Strazdas switched the note back to his left nostril and took the last line. He threw the note aside and bent down, licked the last of the powder from the glass. As his tongue slipped across the glossy surface, tingling from the cocaine, he opened his eyes and saw their reflection. He stood upright and stared at himself for a moment.
“Fuck you,” he said.
His wits sharpened, his heart beating harder, the air sweeter than it had been before. He grinned at the powderstreaked face in the glass. His phone chimed, and somewhere inside himself, he thought he might have sensed the coming call seconds before it sounded. Some might dismiss that as nonsense, but Arturas Strazdas was not an ordinary man. He was a great man. He could do anything.
Or perhaps that was the cocaine talking.
He sniffed hard and wiped his nose before crossing back to the desk and lifting his mobile. His soul withered a little when he saw the name on the display.
“Yes, Mother,” he answered.
“You didn’t call,” she said, her voice jagged like broken slate. “You said you’d call when you landed, and you didn’t. Why not?”
“I’ve been busy,” Strazdas said.
“Not so busy you couldn’t call your mother, let her know you got there safe.”
“No.”
“And how is Tomas?” she asked.
Strazdas closed his eyes. “Why are you up so late? It’s the middle of the night. You should be sleeping.”
“And so should you,” she said. “You didn’t answer my question. How is Tomas? I haven’t seen him since he went to that awful place.”
Strazdas had never been able to lie to his mother. “I haven’t spoken with him,” he said.
“Why not?” she asked, no attempt to disguise the worry in her voice. “Have you phoned him?”
He took a breath. “Yes. He didn’t answer.”
“But Tomas always answers his phone.”
“I know.”
“Even when he’s with one of his women, he answers his phone. There’ve been times I wish he hadn’t, but he always does.”
“I know.”
“Then find him,” she said. “Don’t dare talk to me again until you’ve found him.”
The phone died in his hand.
“I won’t,” he said.
8
GALYA DIDN’T KNOW how long she’d hidden in the shadows before making her way through the fenced-off yards to the rubble and steel of this building site. She had spared one glance over her shoulder to see the big Lithuanian slam his huge fist into the policeman’s head. She had heard the sickly slapping of fist on flesh as she ran, and for a short while, the policeman’s cries.
Lorries and cargo containers stood sentry outside a warehouse, along with piles of rusting machinery and giant sacks of concrete. She found the dark pools between them, immersed herself there where the orange streetlights couldn’t touch her.
Soon she heard the BMW’s engine rumble as it advanced along the road, nearing her hiding place. It came into view, only meters away. It stopped, a door opened, and the big Lithuanian climbed out. His breath plumed around him.
Galya clasped a hand over her mouth in case he saw the warm air seeping from her lungs.
He stood staring into the blackness. For a moment, she was certain he looked directly into her eyes. His body leaned forward as if he were about to take a step closer to her hiding place, but Sam called from inside the car, “We have to go.”
“She here,” the Lithuanian said.
“There’s no time. The cops will be on their way. They’ll be here any second. For fuck’s sake, come on.”
The Lithuanian turned to face him. “You no say me what do.”
“What?” Sam peered out at him, his face slack with disbelief. “I’m not having this out with you now, for Christ’s sake. Get in the car or I’m leaving you here.”
The Lithuanian’s shoulders slumped. He returned his gaze to the shadows. “I know you here,” he said. “I know you speak English. I not stupid like this man. You stay in dark. I find you, you dead. Tomas brother find you, you dead. Police find you, you dead.”
Galya shrank further into the black. The Lithuanian took one more step forward.
“Yes,” he said. “Arturas own police. Police give you to him. Then you dead. Arturas hurt you bad, hurt you long time. Then you dead.”
He drew a finger across his throat and grinned.
“Come on,” Sam said. “I’m not asking again.”
The Lithuanian climbed back into the BMW. Its tires skittered on the ice before he closed the door, and the car disappeared from her view.
How long ago had that been? How long had she hidden in the dark there? The shivering had become uncontrollable, her limbs jerking and bucking. She knew she had to move or the cold would get her. She had seen it before, how the hypothermia took old Vasyl on the neighboring farm. With no money for fuel, he had burrowed into a pile of rags at the bottom of a wardrobe to die. Like an animal, Mama had said, digging its own grave.
It was the arrival of another car saying Harbour Police on its flank that got her on her feet. Galya clung to the shadows as she fought to put one foot in front of the other, her arms and legs feeling like they belonged to a drunkard. The icy air robbed her of her balance as she tried to quicken her pace.
A foolish part of her almost welcomed the growing numbness in her feet, blocking the stinging pain, but then she remembered how Papa had lost parts of his own to frostbite. She wiggled her naked toes to keep the blood flowing to them.
Through the stacked sacks of concrete and lorry cabs, in the orange-lit distance, she saw the policeman kneel beside his fallen colleague. While his attention was on the stricken man, Galya emerged from the darkness to cut across the road and lose herself in the night.
She had half run, half walked perhaps a quarter of a mile or more, keeping the rumble of the motorway on her right, water on her left, when she heard the sirens. That was when she had come upon the stretch of steel skeletons, a row of buildings under construction.
Galya squeezed through a gap in the barrier that had been erected around the site. Four stories of girders rose up above her head. She kept to the edge of the site, her focus on the ground in case a hole might swallow her. For every step she took, she first explored the earth and stones with her toes. Her vision failed as she moved further into the site and away from the streetlights.
An old church stood adjacent, on the other side of the plywood wall, its arched windows showing no light from within. Galya skirted its perimeter until she reached the far side of the building site and found a hinged door secured by a padlock and chain. She pushed against it, opening a gap of only a few inches, and crouched down. Her slender shoulder fit through the opening beneath the chain, but her head jammed tight in the gap. Coarse wood scratched her cheek. She put all her weight against the barrier, and splinters dug at her ear as she squeezed her head through. A thin cry escaped her as she lost skin and hair to the wooden edges before she finally forced her other shoulder through. She fell to the ground and snaked her torso and hips between the panels. But for the stinging frost, she might have rested there a moment.
Instead, Galya fought her way upright. Her limbs were back under her control at last, the wild shivering spasms abated at least for now.
A fence, perhaps ten feet tall, stood opposite, a car park and new-looking apartment blocks beyond it. Lights shone in a few of them. Could she ring their doorbells, ask for the use of a phone? Possibly. But how would they react to a strange foreign girl dist
urbing them in the early hours? A pay phone would be better.
Day or night, he’d said.
The kind man.
Galya saw a car parked at the end of the street, its windows steamed up, its front wheels on the pavement, a streetlight shining down on it. Beyond that, an open gate.
Move, Galya told herself. If she kept still, the cold would start to gnaw at her again. She made for the gate. Her soles stung with every step. God only knew what kind of state they were in. Worry about that later, she thought. Get shelter, get help.
A bar stood at that end of the fenced-off street, the old building standing lonely and defiant against the new structures that sprouted up around it. A sign advertising Guinness hung over the door. No noise from within.
As she drew close to the car, she saw its nose had butted up against a junction box at the base of the light. Its rear passenger-side door looked like it had not quite found home. Was it open? Maybe she could slip inside, get out of the cold for a little while.
It was an old car, boxy and dented. The kind she used to see back home in her village, held together with rust and hope. Galya reached for the handle. Condensation obscured the interior. She swallowed, pulled, and stepped back.
A man lay snoring on the backseat, curled in a fetal position, a tall bottle clasped to his chest. Disturbed by the chill draft, he snorted and pulled a coat up to his nose. The stale smell of alcohol borne on warm air drifted from the car.
Galya guessed this man had emerged from the bar with the intention of driving home, and got no further than this. Defeated by his own stupor, he had climbed into the back to sleep it off. Short in stature as he was, he hadn’t needed to draw his legs up too much.
And he had small feet.
Galya regarded his trainers. Cheap, even a girl from Ukraine could tell. But better than raw bare feet on this icy ground. She took a breath, held it, and gripped one of the laces between her forefinger and thumb. It came loose with a gentle pull. She grabbed the heel and worked it free.
The man gasped and huffed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m up,” he said, his words sodden with sleep and drink.
Galya froze.
He did not open his eyes. Soon, his snoring resumed.
Galya exhaled. She undid the other lace and dislodged the remaining shoe.
The man’s eyes opened, focused on nothing. “Aye, aye, I’m coming, hold your horses.”
Again, he sank back into his slumber.
Galya slipped the shoes onto her feet, ignoring the odor from his socks. They were at least two sizes too big, but they would do. She flexed her toes in the sweaty warmth.
A glint caught her attention. There, in the footwell, a mobile phone and some loose coins. She leaned in and across the drunk. The bitter smell of him seeped in through her nose and mouth. The coins rattled against the phone as she scooped them up. The man’s eyes opened again, now staring directly into hers.
“Sure it’s early yet,” he said.
“Yes,” Galya said in English. “It’s early. Go back to sleep.”
9
HERKUS HAD CALLED at half a dozen bars that Tomas frequented. No one had seen Tomas or Darius, they said, and he believed them. People seldom lied to Herkus, even if they didn’t know who he worked for. He had one of those faces that inspired truth-telling. Only the very bravest, or most stupid, would consider lying. There were few brave men in the bars he had trawled over the last two hours, but plenty of them were stupid. Even so, he was satisfied they had been sincere when they told him Tomas had not darkened their doors that night.
With a heavy heart, Herkus drove to the last bar he could think of. This time of night, the doors would be closed, but if Tomas and Darius were in the mood for drinking, then the opening hours would be flexible.
He parked the Mercedes on Holywood High Street, directly opposite the Black Stove Bar & Grill. At first glance, the Black Stove seemed like an upmarket place in a well-to-do part of Greater Belfast. And to many a customer, it was exactly that, but its owner was far from respectable. Not that he was a criminal, at least not in the sense that Herkus understood. He was not a bad man, as such. Clifford Collins merely had certain tastes that only women of a particular profession could satisfy. So, now and again, Clifford played host to Tomas. If Clifford hinted that he might have liked payment for the food or drink served to Tomas and his friends, then he would be quietly reminded that Tomas would settle his bill by simply not calling Clifford’s wife and telling her the specifics of her husband’s more exotic pastimes.
Herkus crossed the street. The heavy outer door stood open. He tried the glass-paneled inner door, but it was locked. A dim glow burned within. He peered through the frosted pane, looking for hazy shapes that might pass for human. He could make nothing out but variations in light and darkness. Keeping his eyes to the glass, he rapped the door with his fat knuckles.
One of the dark shapes moved.
“I see you,” he said in English. “Open the door.”
He knocked again, harder.
“Just a minute,” a voice called. Herkus recognized it as the high whine of Clifford Collins.
“Open now,” Herkus said.
A shadow approached the other side of the glass. Locks snapped, and a chain jangled. The door opened four inches, Clifford peeping out through the gap.
“Tomas is here?” Herkus asked.
“No,” Clifford said. “I haven’t seen him since the weekend.” The little man’s voice quivered as he spoke, but his eyes said he was truthful. And relieved.
Why would he be relieved? Perhaps Herkus had asked the wrong question.
“Darius is here,” Herkus said. This time, it was a statement of fact, not a query.
Clifford shook his head from side to side, his mouth slack as he scrambled for the correct answer. Eventually he said, “No,” and the lie was plain to see.
Herkus didn’t hesitate. He took one step back and kicked the wood, his full weight behind it. Clifford squealed and backed away. The chain held. Herkus kicked again, then once more, and the door swung inward.
“Stay there,” Herkus said to Clifford as he entered.
Clifford nodded and sat at a table.
There at the back, huddled in a booth, Darius and one of the two moronic Irish brothers who ran whores from that flat toward Bangor. He believed this one went by the name of Sam.
But no Tomas.
Sam kept his hands on the table, his face pale, sweat glistening on his forehead. He looked very much like a man in fear.
Herkus spoke to Darius in Lithuanian. “Where is he?”
Darius stared at the granite tabletop. “Who?”
Herkus approached the table. “You know who.”
Darius gave a strained laugh. “You mean Tomas?”
Sam flinched at the name.
“Yes,” Herkus said. “I mean Tomas.”
“I don’t know,” Darius said.
“Look at me,” Herkus said, leaning over him. He smelled whiskey and terror.
Darius raised his eyes to meet Herkus’s.
“Where is he?”
Darius shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t know. I’m not his babysitter.”
“Yes you are,” Herkus said. He kept his voice calm and even, lest Sam realize the gravity of the situation. “I left him with you. You’re responsible. I’ll ask you once more. Don’t lie to me. Where is Tomas?”
“I took him to the flat in Bangor,” Darius said. “He wanted to try out the new girl. He decided to take her out somewhere. I don’t know where. That was around eleven. I haven’t seen him or her since.”
Herkus placed a hand on Darius’s shoulder. The muscles tensed beneath the leather. “You’re lying to me. I’ll have to call Arturas. He’ll be angry. You know how much he cares for his brother.”
Darius held his hands up. They betrayed the panic boiling beneath the forced calm. “That’s what happened. He took the girl. That’s all there is to it. What do you want me to say?”
“The truth,” H
erkus said. “And you will. Eventually.”
He turned his attention to Sam, noticed the grazing and dirt on his hands, as if he’d taken a fall.
“You,” he said in English. He spoke it better than Darius. “Where is Tomas?”
The moron looked up at him with drink-heavy eyes. He sneered. “Fucked if I know.”
Herkus grabbed as much cropped hair as he could and slammed the moron’s face into the tabletop. He felt more than heard the satisfying cracking of teeth.
Sam spat blood and tiny chips of enamel on the granite, lurched to his feet, and reached for something at the small of his back. Was the idiot going for a knife?
“Don’t,” Darius said.
The anger on Sam’s face turned to terror as he seemed to realize whatever he sought in his waistband was no longer there. He turned to look at the spot where his skinny arse had been just moments before.
“Don’t,” Darius said again, louder.
Sam reached for something on the seat. He brought it up to point at Herkus’s forehead. Or thereabouts. The pistol danced in his grip like a landed fish while blood dripped from his chin.
Herkus sighed. “You need to take the safety off.”
Sam stared for a moment before turning the pistol in his grip, looking for the catch.
In one smooth, quick sweep of his hand, Herkus snatched it from his grasp. Sam gaped at his own empty fingers.
“It’s a Glock,” Herkus said. “It has no safety catch. Sit down.”
Sam did as he was told while Herkus stashed the gun in his jacket pocket.
“I ask you again, where is Tomas?”
Sam spat again. “My hucking heeth!” he said, tears welling in his eyes. He brought his fingertips to his swelling lip.
Darius wiped red spots from his cheek and spoke in Lithuanian. “I told you already. We don’t know. He went off with the girl and didn’t come back.”
“All right.” Herkus smiled and spoke to Sam in English. “Let’s go for a drive.”
10
LENNON SHIVERED AS the attendants to the scene grew in number. First, the forensic medical officer arrived. Dr. Eoin Donaghy wore a raincoat over his pajamas. His sole duty here was to officially pronounce extinction of life. It took only a few seconds of examining the corpse for him to announce, with confidence, “Yep, he’s dead all right.”
Stolen Souls Page 4
