The Audi fishtailed as it fought for traction, and Lennon struggled to remember the driver training he’d received years ago when he joined the force. He steered into the slide, eased off the accelerator, and felt the car straighten. Every instinct screamed at him to jam the pedal into the carpet, but he kept control, concentrated on maintaining his course, not sacrificing grip for speed.
He guided the car onto King’s Bridge, used the straight to gain momentum, eased back when he felt the rear wheels skitter. As he neared the junction at the far end, he glanced in his rearview mirror. Through the reflection of the back window’s splintered glass, he saw headlights pierce the fog, one burning bright, the other dimmed by damage.
The traffic lights turned red as he crossed the junction on to Sunnyside Street, but Lennon ignored them. The Nissan’s lights drew closer, its four-wheel-drive clinging to the road better than the Audi could manage.
Lennon thought hard. Streets branched off Sunnyside to form warrens of residential roads, narrow and twisting. The Nissan might have better grip, but its advantage would be lost to the bulk its big wheels had to haul around the corners. Lennon pushed the accelerator as hard as he dared and climbed the shallow incline. The Nissan kept pace, and gained ground.
He slowed as he approached the corner of Deramore Avenue and turned the steering wheel, allowing the Audi to drift a little, before straightening and reapplying power. He barely missed the parked cars on either side of the avenue as he guided the Audi into the channel that ran between them. In the mirror he saw the Nissan follow behind, its body leaning as it skidded into the corner. It swiped one parked car, bounced across the street to glance off another, before righting itself. Alarms wailed in the night.
Barely a few feet separated the Nissan’s damaged front grille from the Audi’s rear bumper. Lennon pushed the car harder, fought the steering wheel as the back wheels danced on the ice. Up ahead, he saw the corner of Ailesbury Drive as vague shapes in the grey. Beyond that, he knew the hard right into Deramore Gardens would be near impossible, but he had to try.
Lennon offered a silent prayer that no one else would be stupid enough to be on the road on a night like this. He shifted down to third, then second, feeling the car lurch as the engine struggled against the chassis, slowing the Audi with its own weight instead of its brakes. The car juddered as its wheels lost and remade contact with the ice.
He let the Audi coast through the tight left bend under its own momentum, guiding it as best he could with the steering wheel. The nose wouldn’t turn in enough, and the wall at the other side of the narrow street loomed in the beam of his headlights. He sucked in air, ready to cry out, but instead the impact came from the rear where the Nissan nudged the back bumper, causing the Audi to veer away from the brickwork and toward the sharp right turn onto Deramore Gardens.
Again, Lennon quashed the urge to jerk the wheel to correct his course, and allowed the car to float until its nose pointed where he wanted it to go, then he gave the engine more fuel and felt its rear hunker down. He let the air out of his lungs as he made the corner and checked the mirror. The Nissan lurched and swayed as its driver battled the ice, until it skidded into Lennon’s wake. It bounced from one curb to the other, teetering as it swerved. Its front left quarter collided with a parked Toyota Celica, the sports car’s low hood crushed beneath its wheel, and the Nissan pitched to the side, its passenger side wheels spinning freely in the air.
Lennon watched as the gap between his Audi and the pursuer widened. The Nissan rolled on a few yards, its two earthbound wheels travelling in a drunken arc before it slammed down. Its weight continued to roll with the motion as it swerved on the ice, and its driver’s side wheels left the ground. The darkened windows erupted as it toppled onto its side. It screeched and skidded until a stationary Transit van halted it.
No one emerged as Lennon slowed and watched in his mirror. He decided against hanging around and turned off the avenue to find safety.
79
EDWIN PAYNTER FELT the time had come. When he closed his eyes, he heard the Angel of the Lord speak to him in whispers that would sound to anyone else like soft footsteps on the hospital floor, or water in the pipes, or the swishing of doors opening and closing. But to Paynter, they were commands, holy words, divine instructions.
Just as for the Apostle Peter two thousand years before him, the Angel of the Lord would guide his hand.
Almost twenty-four hours they’d kept him. Observation, the doctors had said, to ensure there were no complications caused by concussion. Paynter had lain there quietly throughout, first in triage, then in the corridor, then in the orthopedic room, then in the A&E bay, then in the admissions ward, hidden behind a thin plastic curtain from the miserable specimens who occupied the other beds.
But now they were releasing him from the hospital, and now was the time to free himself from the fools who believed they held him captive.
One of the police officers set about undoing the handcuffs that bound his left wrist to the bed. The other, at least ten years younger than his sour-faced partner, watched from the foot of the bed, one hand on the butt of his pistol. Paynter had been studying the weapons all day long, through three different pairs of policemen as they changed shifts. He was certain it was the same kind of gun he had fired the night before, and that he would be able to operate it. That would be the key to his freedom, the Angel of the Lord had told him, to seize the pistol and use it.
And after? That was a question only God above could answer.
The Angel of the Lord said, Begin.
“I don’t feel well,” Paynter said.
The policeman did not acknowledge the statement. “Sit up,” he said.
Paynter coughed and grimaced.
“I said sit up,” the policeman repeated, keeping a grip on the bracelet he’d removed from the bed. The other remained on Paynter’s wrist.
Paynter heaved his torso up from the bed. “I don’t feel well,” he said again. “Really, I don’t.”
He let his feet drop to the floor. He quickened his breathing. He swallowed hard.
“Don’t start,” the policeman said. “You can pish and whine all you want, but you’re coming with us.”
“Please,” Paynter said. “I need a doctor.”
“Shut your mouth and stand up.”
Paynter struggled to his feet, stumbled against the officer, groaned.
The policeman pushed him away, said, “Get to fuck.”
Paynter fell back against the bed, but kept his footing. He grabbed the officer’s arm with his free hand.
“I’m sick,” he said. “I need—”
“Turn around,” the officer said, jerking Paynter’s wrist with the handcuffs. He spoke to his colleague. “Give us a hand here, will you?”
The other policeman approached and took Paynter’s free arm in his hard hands.
Now, the Angel of the Lord said.
He rolled his eyes back, let his legs go loose, his weight taking the policemen by surprise. The bed rolled away on its casters, pushing aside the curtain that surrounded it. Paynter’s body followed as it sagged to the floor. The policemen’s hands grabbed at his clothing, slowing his fall, until he lay at their feet.
A nurse, attracted by the commotion, whipped aside the curtain and approached the scuffle.
The key to faking a seizure, Paynter had learned, was to concentrate the spasms on the stomach area, with all other movements radiating from that point. He ground his teeth together, forced his tongue to the back of his mouth, and bucked, his abdominal muscles tensing and relaxing, his legs kicking out.
“He’s taking the piss,” the older officer said.
“I don’t know,” the younger man said, crouching down beside Paynter. “He looks bad.”
The nurse tried to work her way between them. “Let me see,” she said. “Give me some room.”
Paynter intensified the movements, forcing air hard between his teeth, growling from deep in his throat. He kept his hands in fr
ont of his chest, the fingers hooked like claws. The older officer held onto the bracelet, tried to grab the other wrist, but lost his balance as Paynter rolled away from him.
Neither realized the younger officer had lost his pistol until Paynter’s seizure stopped dead and he shoved the older man back. He stood, the weapon held at his side, aimed at the floor.
The nurse screamed.
The younger officer scrambled back. “Jesus, he’s got my gun!”
The older officer hauled himself to his feet and snatched his own pistol from its holster. He raised it, aimed square at Paynter’s chest.
Patients and their visitors gasped and shrieked.
Paynter kept the gun aimed downward. They wouldn’t shoot if he didn’t point it at them. He had to gamble on that, if he was to be free.
“Fucking drop it,” the officer said.
Tell him no, the Angel of the Lord said.
“No,” Paynter said.
The officer realigned his aim on Paynter’s forehead. “Drop it or I’ll shoot.”
Tell him no.
“No,” Paynter said.
Slowly, bending his arm at the elbow, he raised the pistol, keeping its muzzle away from the policeman facing him, until it aimed at the ceiling.
“I’ll fucking shoot you,” the officer said.
No he won’t.
“No you won’t,” Paynter said.
Freedom was his, whether or not the policemen or any of the onlookers realized it. He had rehearsed this moment in his mind for almost twenty-four hours, practiced every movement, every word, guided by the whispering voices.
A warmth settled on his heart, something he perceived to be peace, as he remembered the words he had prepared.
Speak now, the Angel of the Lord said.
“My name is Edwin Alan Paynter,” he said. “I have delivered eight women to the Lord, three in Salford, five in Belfast.”
“For Christ’s sake, drop the gun,” the officer said.
Paynter ignored him, remembering what he’d watched the foreigner in his cellar do just hours ago. He brought his free hand to the pistol’s slide assembly, pulled it back, felt metal parts move and click into place, and said, “They will thank me when I see them in His arms.”
The officer took a step closer. “I will shoot you dead, do you hear me?”
“You cannot hold me,” Paynter said. “Your prisons cannot hold me. The Angel of the Lord will set me free.”
He did not hear the screams of those around him as he brought the muzzle to his lips, slipped it between his teeth, pressed it to the roof of his mouth.
He tasted oil and metal, felt the Angel of the Lord’s kiss upon his cheek.
He squeezed the trigger.
PART FOUR
JACK
80
GALYA WAITED IN the passenger seat as Lennon examined the car’s rear. Even with the coat wrapped tight around her, she felt the night’s cold, dark fingers creep in through the broken window behind her. She shivered through the fatigue that wracked her body. Too exhausted to be afraid, all she wanted now was sleep.
Lennon opened the driver’s door and lowered himself in. “It’s not that bad,” he said, his breath misting. “It’ll drive, anyway.”
They had toured the streets for half an hour, winding from one row of darkened houses to another, the policeman constantly watching his rearview mirror until he was certain they were not being followed. Only then did he stop to check the damage.
He restarted the engine and pulled away from the curb, once more picking his way through the frozen streets.
After several minutes of silence, Galya asked, “Who was that?”
“I don’t know,” Lennon said. “But I know who sent him.”
“Who?”
“Arturas Strazdas,” he said. “The brother of the man you killed.”
The woman at the hospital had explained the aftermath of Galya’s actions to her in a soft, sad voice. At the time, it seemed like a story, a tale about some other girl who had been brought to a strange city to be bought and sold.
“I didn’t want to kill that man,” Galya said. “I didn’t want these things to happen.”
“I know you didn’t,” Lennon said. “But I don’t think that matters to him.”
He turned left onto a roundabout, then exited to a long, straight road. Lennon slowed the car as they approached a cluster of buildings surrounded by a high wall. Floodlights cut through the fog that covered the site. Next to a closed pair of gates were emblazoned the words: LADAS DRIVE STATION, POLICE SERVICE OF NORTHER IRELAND.
Lennon stopped the car and shut the engine off. He stared at the building.
“Is this where you’re taking me?” Galya asked.
“Yes,” Lennon said. “It was, anyway.”
“Was?”
He sat silent for a moment, his forearms resting on the steering wheel, thinking, his breath misting the car’s windshield.
“Please, what is wrong?”
He did not answer.
“Out here, on the streets, it is not safe,” Galya said. “We should go in that place.”
“No,” Lennon said.
“Why?” Galya asked.
He took a mobile phone from his pocket and searched for a number.
81
THE TELEPHONE JARRED Strazdas from his bloodied dreams. He sat upright on the bed, still naked, still sweating and shivering. His heart hammered in his chest as his lungs tried to catch up. A splintering spear of pain shot from the center of his forehead to the base of his skull to dissipate through his neck and shoulders. He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow.
The phone rang again. Strazdas checked the clock: almost eleven. He had slept for less than an hour. That made no more than three hours out of the previous seventy-two.
He reached for the phone before it could tear at his nerves again with its shrill voice.
“Yes?”
“Good evening, Mr. Strazdas, reception calling. I have a Mr. Lennon on the line. Shall I put him through?”
Strazdas swallowed. “Yes.”
“Go ahead,” the receptionist said.
“You should hire some better help,” Lennon said.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Strazdas said.
“I mean whoever you sent to do your dirty work, they fucked it up.”
“I don’t know what you refer to.”
“We got away, the girl and me.”
“Which girl?”
“I’ve been thinking, though.”
“Mr. Lennon, perhaps you should talk to my—”
“How would he know I’d been called back to the station?” Lennon asked.
“You should talk to my lawyer, the gentleman you met—” “And how would he know what route I’d take?”
“Mr. Lennon, I am going to hang up now.”
“Is it Dan Hewitt? Is that who you’ve got inside? He sold me out before, and he’d do it ag—”
Strazdas returned the handset to its cradle and cursed the soul of his brother for getting himself killed in this wretched place.
82
LENNON RE TURNED THE phone to his coat pocket. As he did so, he felt the passport tucked in there. He withdrew it and opened it to the data page, the image of a girl looking back at him through the laminate. A girl who did not sit next to him in the Audi’s passenger seat. But she had those blue eyes, the almost unnaturally fine features, the high cheekbones, the yellow hair.
He turned his gaze to Galya, held the passport up close to her face so he could see them together.
“What do you look at?” she asked.
“It might be enough,” he said.
“What is enough?”
“That I’m a fucking idiot,” he said as he put the car into gear and drove past the gates of the police station, leaving it behind until the fog swallowed it.
* * *
HE TOOK THE Crumlin Road, then the Ligoniel Road, heading west into the countryside instead of north toward th
e motorway, stopping only once to use a cash point. The damaged car would attract traffic cops on the lookout for Christmas drunk drivers, and he couldn’t risk being pulled over.
The motorway would have been faster, better lit and with less ice, but the back roads carried less traffic. He kept his speed down, watched for ice, and studied road signs. Even on these roads, the journey should have been no more than forty to forty-five minutes, but the conditions meant they’d been travelling that long with no sign of their destination when Lennon’s mobile rang.
He checked the display. Sergeant Connolly’s number.
Why was he calling? He should have been at home with his family, enjoying Christmas like any other normal human.
“What’s up?” Lennon asked.
“Where are you?” Connolly asked.
“Driving,” Lennon said. He kept one hand on the wheel, his eyes on the fog-covered road.
“I called Ladas Drive, they said you were due there.”
“I didn’t make it that far yet,” Lennon said, avoiding the truth. “The weather.”
“Well, something’s come up,” Connolly said. “I got a call from a mate, a constable I was paired with when I came out of Garnerville. He was one of the boys watching Paynter at the hospital. I thought you’d want to know what he said.”
“Go on,” Lennon said.
“Paynter committed suicide.”
Lennon eased the Audi to the side of the road, slowed to a halt, flicked his hazard lights on.
“How?” he asked.
“He faked a seizure,” Connolly said. “In the commotion, he managed to grab an officer’s Glock. There was a standoff for a minute or two, at least that’s what I was told, and they thought he was going to make a break for it.”
“But he didn’t,” Lennon said.
“No,” Connolly said. “He announced that he’d killed eight women, and had no regrets about it. Then he put the gun in his mouth and blew his brains out.”
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