question you under caution.”
Herkus returned his gaze to the distance. “English no good,” he said.
“I’ll ask you one more time,” Lennon said, not letting the frustration sharpen his voice. “Is there anything you can tell me about Tomas Strazdas’s death? Or the girl who caused it?”
“Like I say, I don’t know this girl,” Herkus said.
“You look tired,” Lennon said, returning the passport to his pocket.
“You also,” Herkus said.
“Well, I had a long night. I bet you did too.”
“Yes,” Herkus said. “Long night.”
“Probably chasing the same wild goose,” Lennon said.
Herkus’s brow creased. “Huh?”
“Never mind,” Lennon said. He leaned closer, lowered his voice. “Listen, I heard a whisper. Maybe you can tell me if it’s true or not.”
“Maybe.”
“The whisper said there was a man, a punter, talking to the girl before she killed poor Tomas. It said this punter might have some idea where the girl went. You hear any whispers like that?”
Herkus smiled. “I hear many whisper.”
“I also heard there was a sketch of this man being passed around certain people, that there was a reward being offered for his whereabouts. What about that whisper? Did you hear that one?”
Herkus let his gaze creep away, like a lizard crawling for cover. “Like I say, I hear many whisper.”
“I don’t suppose you happen to have a copy of that sketch on your person, do you?”
Snow settled in Herkus’s hair. “What is sketch?”
“A picture,” Lennon said. Cold slipped in through the folds of his coat, bringing weariness with it. “It’s on the back of an envelope. Photocopies are being distributed amongst taxi drivers.”
“You hear this whisper?” Herkus asked.
Lennon felt patience drain away. “Listen, let’s quit the fucking around, Mr. Katilius. I know Gordie Maxwell is handing out copies to his drivers. I know you have the original. Hand it over so we can get out of this cold.”
Herkus shook his head. “I no have picture.”
“Empty your pockets,” Lennon said.
“No,” Herkus said.
“I wasn’t asking,” Lennon said.
“You no have right.” Herkus tapped the side of his nose and winked. “I know these things.”
“You know sweet fuck all,” Lennon said. “Stop and search powers. You have traces of a white powder around your nostrils and your pupils are dilated. That’s grounds for a search. Empty your pockets.”
Lennon slapped the roof of the Mercedes. “On there,” he said.
Herkus stood still, his face expressionless.
“You want to come in? We can search the car too while we’re at it.”
Herkus’s tongue slipped from behind his teeth, wetted his lips. He cursed in Lithuanian and pulled a wad of notes, sterling and euro, from his trousers pocket, followed by keys, a wallet.
“Jacket too,” Lennon said.
Herkus cursed once more and placed folded papers, a cigarette packet, and a lighter on the car roof.
Lennon looked at each page in turn: hotel receipts, a printout of flights for Brussels, a statement from a local bank showing a balance of over fifteen grand.
But no sketch.
“Arms out,” Lennon said.
Herkus kept his big hands by his sides.
Lennon raised them up himself and lifted Herkus’s lapel to see the inner pocket. “You got any sharps on you?”
“I look like junkie?” Herkus asked.
Lennon wiped his thumb under the other man’s nose, showed him the white powder. “Yes,” he said. “You do. If I stick myself, this won’t end well. You understand?”
Herkus yawned.
Lennon slipped his hand into one pocket, empty, then the other. He felt paper.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Don’t know.”
Lennon withdrew the paper from Herkus’s pocket. A window envelope, torn open, its contents long gone. On the reverse, a crude sketch of a man with a round face, thick dark hair and a beard. Lennon held it in front of Herkus’s eyes.
“Is not mine.”
“So it just fell into your pocket?”
“Don’t know.”
“And I suppose you’ve no idea who this is a picture of?”
“Don’t know.”
“You won’t mind if I keep it, then.”
Herkus held his hand out. “Is mine now. You no right for take it.”
The bastard was quite correct. Lennon had no reason to take the envelope from him. Even under stop and search powers, there was no law against having a picture in your pocket. Lennon fished his mobile out of his coat and held the envelope in front of it. The phone sounded a synthetic whir and click as he took a photograph of the drawing. He handed the envelope back, along with a business card.
“If you should happen to realize you know something about your associate’s death, give us a shout.”
Herkus stowed the envelope and card away and started gathering up the rest of the scraps from the roof of the Mercedes. “I go now?” he asked.
“All right,” Lennon said. “But remember, we’ll be keeping an eye on you and your boss. I expect I’ll see you soon.”
Herkus walked around to the driver’s side of the car. “Happy Christmas,” he said, a smirk on his lips.
Lennon did not reply.
38
THE COPS WAVED Herkus through the traffic. This detective smelled of trouble. Herkus had known a policeman like him in Vilnius. He was buried in the woods not far from Herkus’s wife.
He dialed Arturas and said, “I’m on my way.”
“About time,” Arturas said.
“The cops pulled me over,” Herkus said. “They kept me there until a detective showed up. His name was Lennon.”
“Broad-shouldered, blond hair?”
“Yes,” Herkus said.
“He was here this morning.”
“He knows about the whore,” Herkus said. “He knows she killed Tomas, and he knows we’re looking for her.”
“He knows nothing,” Arturas said. “He’s just reaching.”
“He knows enough,” Herkus said. “He has the passport she used to travel here. There are two more flights to Brussels today. One from Belfast, one from Dublin. You should be on one of them, get out of here until this blows over.”
“I promised my mother,” Arturas said. “I promised her I’d find the whore. Do you want to tell her we ran away?”
Herkus thought about this for a moment. He had met Laima Strazdiene. only once. He had been in Belgium for less than a year, struggling with the French language when in Brussels, confounded by Flemish when he set foot outside the city.
