Stolen Souls

45

LENNON EXITED THE lift and rapped his knuckles hard on Susan’s door. It had only been a few hours since he’d left her flat, but it felt like days. He had his hand raised to knock again when she answered it.

“Jesus, don’t kick my door in,” she scolded. “What’s wrong?”

Lennon looked past her into the flat. He heard the girls’ voices, a disagreement of some kind.

“Nothing,” he said.

“You’re lying,” she said, stepping back. “But come in anyway. You might remember you have a daughter.”

Lennon closed the door behind him. “Yeah, I’m sorry. It’s been a bad day.”

“It’s been worse for some people, going by the news. Any closer to getting it wrapped up?”

“A little,” he said.

Susan went to enter the living room, but Lennon took her elbow.

“What?” she asked, a line of concern at the center of her forehead. “What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s just—”

She pulled away from him. “For Christ’s sake, don’t string me along. I’m not one of those slappers you used to trawl the bars for. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“All right,” he said, putting his hands on her upper arms. “Has there been anyone around today? Anyone looking for me? Or anyone unusual, anyone you wouldn’t expect to see around the apartments?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No one. Why?”

“Any phone calls?”

“Just Ellen’s aunt about five times.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Tell me why you’re so worried about visitors and phone calls.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Lennon said.

“But it might be something.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”

Susan took a step away, her face hardening against him. “Look, Jack, I do a lot for you. I’ve never once complained, I’ve never said no unless I couldn’t help it. I’ve helped you raise that wee girl for more than a year now, and all the thanks I ever got were a kiss and a fumble. I did it because I like you, and I like Ellen.”

Lennon reached for her arms again, but she slapped his hands away.

“Now listen to me, Jack. If there’s the slightest possibility that you’ve brought trouble to my door, then you bloody well tell me. If there’s reason for me to fear for the safety of my daughter, then I want to know right now, or you can fuck off.”

He put his hands in his pockets, leaned his back against the wall, and let the air and anger out of his lungs.

“There might be someone out there with a grudge against me,” Lennon said.

“Who?”

“I don’t know his name. I don’t know anything about him. He’s the one who took Ellen and her mother.”

“Christ,” she said, the anger leaving her.

“I was sure he was dead. I thought the fire had got him. Then I got a card this morning. Signed with just one letter: a T. I tore it up and threw it away.”

“Where was it sent from?”

“The postmark said Finglas, but he probably had someone else send it for him. He could be anywhere, abroad most likely, but he must have contacts, people he can send messages through.”

“So he might not even be in Ireland,” Susan said.

Lennon studied the tasteful pattern on her carpet. “I got a phone call from him a few minutes ago. He made some threats, nothing specific, but he mentioned Ellen.”

Susan bit on her fingernail. “You think he’ll come for her?” “No, not now,” Lennon said. “I don’t think so. If he was going to make a move, he’d just make it. He wouldn’t give me advance warning. He just wants to make me squirm. To scare me.”

“Did he succeed?”

Lennon looked through the crack in the door to see Ellen grab a crayon from Lucy’s hand.

“Yes,” he said.

Susan’s fingertips brushed his cheek. Lennon shivered.

“It’s okay to be scared,” she said. “You might be Big Bad Jack to all the scum you lock up, but I know you better than you think.”

She followed his gaze into the living room with her own eyes. “It’s only when you have something of real value that you know what fear really feels like. They’re so fragile. I’ve always got this little ball of terror inside me, that I’m going to lose my Lucy. I don’t think it’ll ever go away.”

She put her palm flat on his chest, over his heart. “Welcome to humanity,” she said. “Now, why don’t you go and say hello to your daughter?”

Lennon did as he was told.

Ellen looked up from her drawing, went to speak, then changed her mind. She turned her attention back to the sheet of paper on the coffee table. Lucy, apparently affronted by the loss of her crayon, had flounced off and was busy pulling toys from the box they’d been tidied into.

“Hiya, sweetheart,” he said.

“Mm,” she said.

“What you doing?” he asked, sitting on the couch opposite her.

“Drawing,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”

“At work,” he said.

“You said you’d be off today,” Ellen said without looking up.

“I know. I’m sorry. But there’s been lots of stuff happening.”

“Are you going back to work?”

Lennon scratched his chin, realized he needed a shave. “Yes,” he said.

Ellen did not reply.

“But I’ll be back tonight,” he said. “Maybe in time to tuck you in. If not, then I’ll be here when you get up in the morning. When you see what Santa’s brought you.”

“Auntie Bernie’s been phoning,” Ellen said.

Lennon brought his hands together, wrapped the fingers of his left hand tight around the fist of his right. “I know,” he said.

“She wants me to go to her house for Christmas.”

He swallowed. “Do you want to go to Auntie Bernie’s? Or do you want to stay here with me and Susan and Lucy?”

Ellen thought about it for a few seconds. “Will you be here for Santa coming?”

“Yes,” Lennon said.

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart,” Lennon said, making two slashes across his chest.

“Say the rest.”

“And hope to die.”

“Okay,” Ellen said. “I’ll stay here.”

“Thank you,” Lennon said.

He slipped off the couch and onto the floor, crawled around the table to Ellen’s side.

“What are you drawing?” he asked.

“My dreams,” Ellen said.

He pointed to the picture of a girl with yellow hair. “Is that you?” he asked.

Ellen shook her head.

He traced the line of reddish-brown footprints across the page. “Did she walk in mud?”

“No,” Ellen said.

The image of the girl stood at one side of the page. At the other stood what looked like an elderly lady with her arms outstretched, as if beckoning the girl to her. Between them stood a dark figure, drawn in mad swirls and jagged angles.

“Who’s he?” Lennon asked.

“Don’t know,” Ellen said. “He smells like milk.”

He looked again at the figure of the girl. For some reason he couldn’t quite grasp, he thought of the passport in his pocket, and the picture of a young woman who looked something like the one he sought.

Before he could question Ellen further, his phone rang. He looked up and saw Susan watching him from the kitchenette. The display said the number was blocked, just as it had before. He pressed the green button, brought the phone to his ear, and said nothing.

After a while, a confused voice said, “Hello?”

“Connolly?” Lennon asked.

“Sir?”

“Sorry, I thought you might be … someone else. You got anything for me?”

“Might have,” Connolly said. “I’ve been through the ViSOR database, like you said.”

“Okay,” Lennon said. The Violent and Sex Offender Register listed all those convicted of a sexual offense for anything from five years to life, and some who were merely suspected of being a risk.

“I didn’t find anyone local,” Connolly said. “Nobody that looked anything like that sketch you sent, and nothing for assaults involving prostitutes. But there was one bloke stood out.”

Lennon smoothed Ellen’s hair, bent down and kissed the crown of her head, and moved out of her hearing. “Go on,” he said.

“A fella called Edwin Paynter, P-A-Y-N-T-E-R, from Salford, Greater Manchester. He was done seven years ago for assault and imprisonment of a street girl, served about eighteen months. Seems he was caught with this woman tied up in the back of his van during a routine traffic stop. God knows what he was going to do with her.”

“Jesus,” Lennon said.

“Anyway, going by the database, he registered in Salford and the local police kept tabs on him for two years, then he decided he was moving to Belfast to live with an aunt of his, make a new start, I suppose.”

Susan handed Lennon a steaming mug of tea. He nodded his thanks and took a sip.

“So he registers over here,” Connolly continued. “But after about a year, he drops off the radar. He’s not been heard of for more than two years now.”

“You got a photo of him? And an address for the aunt?” Lennon asked.

“Yes, but—”

“E-mail all the info to me. I can pick it up on my phone.”

“But I don’t think we’re supposed to send any data from ViSOR outside the network.”

“Just do it,” Lennon said. “I’ll take responsibility.”

As he hung up, Susan asked, “Did something come up?”

“Possibly,” Lennon said. “We’ll see.”

“Do you have time for something to eat? A sandwich?”

“Okay,” he said, taking a seat on the couch. “Thanks.”

She set about gathering the ingredients, layering bread, freshly cooked ham, and salad. His stomach rumbled as he watched her work. To distract himself, he took the envelope from his pocket and studied the sketch. He noted the flow of the pen strokes, the way they cut and slashed the paper until they took the form of a rounded face. His gaze went to the jumbled lines at the center of Ellen’s drawing, the madness of the shape.

An idea edged into his mind, but he swept it away before it could take root.

Susan brought a plate to the coffee table and set it next to his mug of tea.

His phoned chimed as he took the first bite of his sandwich.