Stolen Souls

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 the 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.”

“Christ,” Lennon said.

“Anyway, I thought you’d want to know straight away.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Lennon said. “Here, listen.”

“Yeah?”

“I might be off work for a few days. Maybe longer.”

“What, now? But there’s—”

“You’ll know all about it tomorrow. Just do me a favor, all right?”

“What’s that?”

“Watch your back,” Lennon said. “Things could get tricky over this case. Just be careful what you say and who you say it to. Especially if anyone from Special Branch comes calling.”

“C3?” Connolly asked. “What’s Paynter got to do with them?”

“It’s complicated,” Lennon said. “Just keep your head down, all right?”

“All right,” Connolly said. “Listen, Inspector, are you okay? You’ve been good to me, so, you know, if there’s anything I can do for you, I will.”

“I’m fine,” Lennon said. “Don’t worry about me. Just look out for yourself.”

He hung up and dropped the phone into the car’s cup holder. Galya stirred in the seat next to him. She’d fallen asleep before the city had faded from around them. Now she watched him with confused and heavy eyes.

“Something has happened?” she asked.

He considered keeping it from her, but knew there was no point. She faced enough dangers. Knowing one of them had died couldn’t hurt her.

“Edwin Paynter,” he said. “The man who kept you in that house. He’s dead. He killed himself.”

She made the sign of the cross and stared straight ahead, no emotion on her face.

“He deserved to die,” Lennon said. “For what he did to you. And maybe some others.”

“No,” she said. “Only God makes to die. It’s not your thing to say. Not his thing. Only God’s.”

Lennon hadn’t the will to argue her point, so he put the Audi into gear and released the hand brake. Ten, fifteen minutes, he thought, and they’d be at the guesthouse. He set off into the fog, wishing he believed in her childish dream of justice.