“Whose bank account?”
“It’s under the name of Spencer,” Lauler said. “Same name as the lease. The rent gets paid on time every month, we don’t get any complaints from the neighbors, so we’ve no call to be coming round asking questions.”
“Until now,” Lennon said.
“Quite,” Lauler said. “Here we are.”
He inserted the key and turned it. The door swung inward.
Lennon stepped past him. “Looks like there was a party,” he said.
A dozen empty beer cans lay scattered on a glass coffee table along with a half-full bottle of Buckfast fortified wine, loose tobacco, and cigarette papers. A poorly decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner, a few strands of tinsel clung to the fake fireplace.
Lauler tut-tutted at the mess.
“Stay there,” Lennon told him.
He walked to the kitchenette, followed by Connolly. The hob looked like it had never been used, but crumbs dusted the toaster, and spilled water pooled around the kettle. A drawer stood open. A bundle of black plastic bin bags lay by the sink, a roll of adhesive tape beside them.
“Shit,” Lennon said.
“What?” Connolly asked. He looked at the items, followed Lennon’s thoughts, and said, “Ah.”
Lennon opened more drawers, all of them empty, except for one. There, he found a brown envelope containing several hundred pounds in cash and an employment contract.
And a passport.
He lifted it from the drawer. The green cover said LIETUVOS RESPUBLIKA, the Republic of Lithuania. He had seen others like it. This was an older passport, not bearing the burgundy cover now required by European law, and not biometric as all new passports were. He opened it to the data page.
Issued in 2005, it said, to Niele Gimbutiene, born in 1988. He looked at the image. A pretty, young woman, blonde hair, fine features. He flicked through the rest of the pages, searching for immigration stamps. There were none. It had never travelled outside the European Union.
“This might be the girl they were keeping here,” Lennon said. He held the passport up for Connolly to see.
“A prostitute?” Lauler asked from the doorway.
“Why else would they keep a place like this?”
“I can assure you,” Lauler said, “the agency has no knowledge of any illegal—”
“So where is she now?” Connolly asked.
Lennon didn’t answer. He examined the employment contract next. It bore a logo saying EUROPEAN PEOPLE MANAGEMENT. Each paragraph was printed in three languages: English, French, and what Lennon assumed to be Lithuanian. It bore two signatures, one resembling that on the passport, the other a name Lennon couldn’t make out. It listed a Brussels address as the company’s head office.
He returned the contract to the envelope, but tucked the passport into his pocket.
“Excuse me,” Lauler called.
Lennon stepped out of the kitchenette and looked closer at the living area’s wooden laminate flooring. Lauler went to move from the doorway, but Lennon held his hand up.
“I said stay there,” he said.
“Listen, you can’t take a tenant’s property from—”
“I need the photograph,” Lennon said. “It’ll be returned along with everything else we gather.”
“But—”
“Shut up,” Lennon said.
He let his gaze wander the floor until he found it. There, a red streak, running away from one of the doors. Lennon pointed.
“I see it,” Connolly said.
“See what?” Lauler asked.
Lennon said, “Sergeant, can you please show Mr. Lauler outside?”
The officer from C District took Lauler’s arm and guided him to the corridor.
Lennon walked to the door, watching where he put his feet, and opened it. The metal smell, insistent, pushed him back a step. Beneath it lay something not quite rotten, something that would be foul before too long.
Connolly coughed. “Is that … ?”
“Yes,” Lennon said.
He moved into the room, his shoes clicking on the linoleum-covered floor, his breath shallow. The dark pool spread beyond the bed, touching the far wall. It had thickened in the hours since the blood had spilled. What appeared to be vomit had splashed nearby. Red footprints wandered around the room, gathered in a huddle by the pile of stained sheets where they’d cleaned their shoes. A track like a long brushstroke arced toward the foot of the bed.
“Jesus,” Connolly said. “So Tomas Strazdas was killed here, and whoever did it took Sam Mawhinney and the foreign fella to the other side of the city?”
“Maybe,” Lennon said. “Or maybe Sam and the foreigner killed Tomas, and someone else took exception to that and held them to account.”
“Tit for tat?”
“Just like the good old days,” Lennon said.
A glint of reflected light caught his attention. He advanced as far as he could without treading in the blood. A shard of mirrored glass lay in the red, one end wrapped in torn cloth. A makeshift dagger, perfect for opening a man’s throat. He’d seen such a thing before, three years ago, when an informant behind bars had his face slashed to ribbons by another inmate. It was a prison weapon. Used by a prisoner.
Lennon’s hand went to his pocket.
“You think there’ll be more?” Connolly asked.
“Hmm?” He felt the hard shape of the passport.
“More killings,” Connolly said.
“I hope not. I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy spending Christmas looking at shit like this. One good thing might come out of it, though.”
Connolly stepped into the room. “What’s that?”
Lennon took his phone from his pocket and began dialling DCI Ferguson’s number. “Sam Mawhinney and his mate were killed in D District. We found Tomas in our patch, B District, but he was killed in C. With a bit of luck, it’ll be given to one of the other districts’ MITs, and we can go home.”
Even as he spoke, Lennon held little optimism that things would work out that way. But he could hope.
21
HERKUS DROVE TO Rugby Road, near Botanic Gardens, where Rasa’s flat occupied the upper floor of a terraced house. A professional couple lived below. He had learned this part of town was called the Holylands, but he did not know why. He couldn’t see anything holy about it, but there were some good restaurants, and an excellent bookstore. Not that he read much, let alone in English, but he enjoyed the shop’s warm soft light, the sight of books stacked on shelves. It reminded him of his school days.
Rasa looked tired and harried when she answered the front door. It was probably an early start for her. She was lucky she got any sleep at all; he’d been running the length and breadth of the city since yesterday morning with no sign of it letting up. And now this damned snow on top of everything else.
He rarely indulged, but he thought he might allow himself a little of the boss’s goods for himself once he purchased them from Rasa’s contact. Just enough to give him a boost and get through the morning.
Herkus followed her upstairs and into her flat. The place smelled of cigarettes laced with the aroma of incense from a joss stick that burned on the coffee table. Clothes and fashion magazines lay strewn on the furniture and floor. A tailor’s dummy stood in the corner, fabric draped around it.
“Did you have to do that to Darius?” Rasa asked as she sat at the small table by the window. Spools of
