Stolen Souls

16

SUSAN STEPPED BACK to allow Lennon to enter her apartment. He held the envelopes he’d taken from the postman he’d intercepted downstairs.

“You look like shit,” she said.

“Thanks. Ellen up yet?”

“Half an hour ago,” Susan said, leading the way to her kitchenette. “She’s in Lucy’s room. I was just about to make breakfast for them. Coffee?”

“Please,” he said, taking a seat at the table.

He set the mail addressed to Susan to one side and opened his own. One bill, an overdue notice, and a card with an An Post stamp and a Finglas postmark.

Susan spooned instant granules into two mugs and poured boiling water over them. Without asking, she added two sugars to his, stirred, and set the mug in front of him.

“Take it easy for ten minutes,” she said. “Ellen’s happy playing anyway.”

Lennon smiled in thanks and took a sip.

The Christmas card was a cheap supermarket job, all gaudy colors and saccharine sentiment. He looked inside and felt his nerve endings jangle.

The only mark it bore was the letter T, two lines intersecting as if drawn by a child.

He stared at it, his mind racing through possibilities. A sick joke, maybe. Or perhaps he misunderstood, the shape etched on the card being nothing other than the pair of scrawled lines they appeared to be.

Susan hovered by his side, asked, “What’s wrong? You’re shaking.”

“Nothing,” he said. He closed the card, the image of the Traveller’s knowing grin burning in his mind.

Lennon had arrested him after a botched attempt at kidnapping Ellen at the Royal Victoria Hospital. He remembered the taunts, the cackling, the madness of him. The Traveller had escaped custody with, Lennon suspected, DCI Dan Hewitt’s help, and tried again. He succeeded, taking Ellen and Marie from a place Lennon thought was safe, and brought them to a house owned by a revenge-driven old man called Bull O’Kane.

Marie never left that house, and until now, Lennon was sure the Traveller hadn’t made it out either.

Of course he hadn’t, Lennon told himself. They’d scoured the place, found more than half a dozen bodies in the smoking ruin. There was no way the Traveller could have gotten out of there alive.

A hoax, there was no other explanation, perhaps another of Dan Hewitt’s connivances.

Lennon’s mobile rang, and he said a silent thank you for the interruption before answering.

It was Sergeant Darren Moffat, the duty officer. “Just wanted to give you word on something,” he said. “Two bodies found in a lockup in D District, near Newtownabbey, about forty-five minutes ago. An officer at the scene recognized one of them straight away. A real likely lad called Sam Mawhinney.”

Lennon tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder and tore the card into small pieces. Susan watched as he stood and dropped the scraps into the bin.

“And what’s this got to do with me?” he asked, willing himself to forget about the card and concentrate on Moffat’s information. He retook his seat and pressed his fingertips against his forehead in an attempt to rub away the ache of fatigue.

“The name rang a bell,” Moffat said. “Took me a few minutes to figure it out. I’d been pulling information for Sergeant Connolly this morning, the arrest records for that Lithuanian fella that got killed last night.”

Lennon tensed. “And?”

“Sam Mawhinney, and his brother Mark, were arrested along with Mr. Tomas Strazdas on one occasion. An assault in that wee park by the cinema on Dublin Road.”

“Christ,” Lennon said.

“Quite a coincidence, eh?”

“Yep,” Lennon said. “Anyone ID the other body?”

“Not yet.”

“Who’s the senior investigating officer on this?”

“That’ll be DCI Keith Ferguson. You want him to give you a call?”

“Yep.” Lennon hung up.

Susan sat down opposite. “Trouble?”

Lennon nodded over his coffee mug.

“Will it wait until you get some sleep?”

“Probably not,” Lennon said.

A movement at the window caught his attention. Snowflakes, drifting slow and lazy in the darkness beyond the glass. Susan turned her head to follow his gaze.

“Think it’ll lie?” she asked.

“Should do,” he said. “It’s dry out.”

He pictured the fat flakes settling on the cold upturned face of Tomas Strazdas, even though the body now lay under the translucent roof of a forensics tent.

Susan reached across the table and rested her hand on his. “Why don’t you go and lie on my bed for a while? Just rest your eyes for a bit.”

“Okay,” he said. He squeezed her fingers between his and then left her there.

He knew where to go, having slept in her bed on several occasions.

“Just ignore the knickers on the floor,” Susan called after him.

Lennon kicked his shoes off and collapsed onto her unmade bed. It smelled of perfume and fabric softener. He closed his eyes and let his weight sink into the mattress. Sleep took him before long, bringing dreams of a man emerging from flames, hate in his eyes. A short time later, he was disturbed by another body settling beside his own. He felt Susan’s shoulder press against his, and did not protest.

WHEN LENNON WOKE, Susan was gone. He felt the mattress beside him: still warm.

Physically, he and Susan had never ventured further than kissing and touching, though she had often tried to guide his hands to the places he most desired them to be. But he had resisted, sure in his heart that he would eventually hurt her and destroy their friendship if he crossed that line. Even so, they had both taken comfort from having a warm body to sleep beside when they needed it.

A cold blue light slipped through the window, the snow heavier in the stillness outside. He sat up on the bed, wondering how long he’d slept. His phone sat on the bedside table. It rang as he reached for it to check the time. He answered it. “DCI Ferguson for you,” Moffat the duty officer said.

“Thanks.”

“Jack Lennon?” a voice asked.

“That’s me,” Lennon said, trying to sound awake.

“Keith Ferguson here. We met a while back at Roger Gordon’s funeral.”

“I remember,” Lennon said, though he wished he didn’t. Gordon’s widow had glared at him across the grave. He knew she blamed him for her husband’s death.

“This Mawhinney lad in Newtownabbey,” Ferguson said. “He was a bad’un. It looks like he crossed the wrong people this time. We don’t know who the other body is yet, but he looks foreign. Sergeant Moffat tells me there might be a link to the chap you’ve got over at the docks.”

“Maybe,” Lennon said. “Him and the Mawhinney brothers were arrested together on an assault case.”

“Hmm. Sounds like this boy, all right.”

“You know him?”

“Only too well,” Ferguson said. “Him and his brother. They’ve been up to their necks in trouble since they were off their mother’s teats.”

Lennon grimaced.

“Drugs, smuggled cigarettes, bootleg DVDs, you name it, they were into it. Last I heard, they were dabbling in prostitution. They have a few flats, two in Carrick, one in Bangor, that we’ll be having a look at later today.”

“Bangor,” Lennon said. “That’s the same side of the Lough we found Strazdas’s body.”

“True,” Ferguson said. “If you want to take that one, feel free. Just clear it with C District.”

“Will do,” Lennon said.

“Here, you’re part of DCI Thompson’s team, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“So how come I’m talking to you?” Ferguson asked. “Thompson should be the senior investigating officer.”

“He likes to delegate,” Lennon said.

“Hmm. Well, let’s keep in touch on this. And hope it’s not the start of something.”