up.
“Fuck, you don’t want Christmas dinner at my house. My missus wouldn’t know a turkey from a turd.” He took the cigarette from his mouth long enough to spit in the snow. “So what do you want?”
“Sam and Mark Mawhinney,” Lennon said.
Roscoe smirked. “Them two? They had it coming. Pair of scumbags. They used to do the odd wee bit for me, but they dipped their hands one time too many. I gave them a beating and told them to fuck off. They got tied up with Rodney Crozier’s lot, so they were in good company.”
“Running prostitutes?” Lennon asked.
Roscoe’s smirk turned to a grin. “You should know,” he said. Lennon felt his face redden, hot against the icy breeze. “Watch your mouth,” he said. He couldn’t hold Roscoe’s stare. “I don’t do that anymore.”
Roscoe raised his eyebrows, his grin widening.
Lennon and Roscoe once had an understanding. Lennon visited some of the apartments Roscoe ran his girls from, took advantage of the services at no charge, and in return none of them got raided. It worked out for everyone. Roscoe ran a clean business, or as clean as such an enterprise could be, and he always had an ear to the ground. Anything worth knowing was on his radar.
That understanding ended over a year ago when Roscoe let Dan Hewitt know that Marie and Ellen were hidden in one of his places. The betrayal earned Roscoe a beating. Had he not been so useful to Lennon, he would have gotten worse. “A tiger can’t change its spots,” Roscoe said.
“You mean a leopard.”
“Aye, whatever you say. Anyway, yeah, the Mawhinneys took to running whores.”
“What kind?” Lennon asked. “Trafficked?”
“Aye,” Roscoe said. “Dirty fuckers. I don’t hold with that carry-on. It’s a dodgy business, full of dodgy boys. Like I said, they had it coming.”
“These dodgy boys,” Lennon said. “Would they be Lithuanians?”
“That’s right.”
“One of them was Tomas Strazdas,” Lennon said. “You ever come across him?”
“A couple of times. Mouthy bastard, quick with his fists. Not anymore, though.”
“Not anymore,” Lennon echoed. “Sam Mawhinney cut his throat, so someone blew his brains out.”
“No he didn’t,” Roscoe said.
“What?”
“Sam Mawhinney didn’t cut your man’s throat,” Roscoe said. “Some girl did.”
“Some girl?” Lennon leaned close. “A prostitute?”
“Aye, some whore,” Roscoe said. “She cut your man’s throat and got away. The Liths held Sam responsible, so they popped him. Then Mark Mawhinney tries to get the Liths back for his brother. I heard he got his neck broke for his trouble.”
Roscoe stopped talking and started laughing. “Fuck me, you really don’t know shite, do you?”
“No,” Lennon said, not sharing his amusement. “Enlighten me.”
“Mark was mouthing all round the place he was going to get even. His mate Jim Pollock let him know that big fella was going to come over to buy some gear. Seems Mark wasn’t up to the job, so the big fella gave him a doing and got away.”
“Big fella?”
“Herkel or Hercules or something like that. Big fucker, looks like he could hammer you into the ground. Works for the dead fella’s brother.”
“Herkus,” Lennon said, remembering his conversation with Dan Hewitt.
“Aye, maybe. Anyway, he’s going mad looking for this girl. He’s put the word out through Gordie Maxwell, offering money and everything.”
“Any word on where she is?”
“They think she might be with some bloke who uses whores regular.” Roscoe smiled. “Maybe that’s you.”
Lennon ignored the jibe and dropped his cigarette in the snow to fizzle out. “I’d consider it a personal favor if you give me a shout as soon as you hear anything new.”
“Might do,” Roscoe said. “What’s in it for me?”
“I don’t tell your missus what you said about her cooking.”
Roscoe grinned. “Arsehole.”
“Keep in touch,” Lennon said as he trudged through the snow back to his car.
“Away and shite,” Roscoe called after him.
Lennon unlocked the Audi and climbed in. He inserted the key into the ignition, turned it, and flicked on the wipers to clear the snow that had settled on the windshield.
The dashboard clock read coming up on one o’clock. He had intended on calling back to Susan’s flat for lunch so he could see Ellen. But Gordie Maxwell’s office was all the way across town.
A girl, Roscoe had said. All this caused by a prostitute who escaped her captors. Lennon took the passport from his pocket and studied the photograph, even though he knew it was unlikely to be her. Was she still in the city? How close was Herkus to finding her?
He dialed the front desk at his station. Moffat answered.
“I need you to put a call out,” Lennon said. “Tell everyone to keep an eye out for Herkus Katilius. You can scare up the registration number on his car.”
“What do I tell them it’s about?” Moffat asked.
“Nothing, for the moment,” Lennon said. “Just tell them if they spot him, find some other reason to give him a tug. If anyone detains him, give me a call and I’ll go to them. And warn them he’s dangerous.”
“Will do,” Moffat said. “By the way, I heard some rumblings from the higher-ups. No press release, nothing official just yet, but they’re treating all four killings as one case.”
“That’s no surprise,” Lennon said.
“There’s more,” Moffat said. “Looks like it’s falling to DCI Thompson’s MIT.”
Lennon cursed. “Which means it falls to me,” he said.
“Merry Christmas,” Moffat said.
Lennon hung up and started the engine.
33
BILLY CRAWFORD WALKED directly to the trade section of the hardware superstore where they stocked building supplies. He hadn’t expected the girl to call so quickly or he would have been better prepared. Normally it took a week or two of abuse at the hands of their captors to make them desperate enough to find a way to call him.
But this girl was different.
If he’d known, he wouldn’t have made the contact so close to Christmas. Thankfully, it had occurred to him to double-check his tools before it was too late. On inspection, he realized he needed blades for his twelve-inch hacksaw, a new chisel bit for his handheld pneumatic drill, and ballast for mixing concrete.
The cellar of his house had a linoleum-covered floor beneath the toolbox and the few pieces of furniture that lay there. If a person were to remove those items, then pull back the linoleum, he would find a concrete surface. And if that person looked carefully, he would see five patches, each roughly a meter square, that had been dug up and filled in again.
There was room for perhaps five more such excavations. Once those were filled, he always had the backyard. Plenty of room.
The cellar’s concrete floor was only two to three inches thick, laid over packed earth. The first time he’d had to remove a square of the flooring, he’d used a concrete saw, but it had been difficult to work with in such an enclosed space, and far too powerful for what turned out to be a reasonably straightforward job. The second time, he simply used his pneumatic drill with a good chisel bit to cut the shape of a square, then set about breaking it. By the third occasion, it took less than an hour’s work to clear a patch of earth. Another couple of hours’ digging, and he was done. All that remained was to mix the concrete and refill the hole and its contents.
